by Eric Flint
Jadu waved his guests to start, taking up a large piece of naan from the platter and spooning some steaming rice and delicious-smelling curry onto it.
“Course, the way some of these nobles operate, might as well be capos straight out of The Godfather,” Bobby said around a mouthful of food.
Ricky nodded agreement. “I think I remember Ms. Mailey saying something about their organization being straight medieval when she talked about how John Gotti got away with his crimes for so long.”
“Who is that?” Jadu asked.
“The boss of one of the Sicilian organized crime families…”
“Organized crime?” Jadu asked, spooning more rice onto his shrinking stretch of naan.
“Yes.”
“As opposed to unorganized?” Jadu asked, waggling his head.
“Exactly…”
“And?” Jadu asked.
“Probably need to unpack that some, Ricky,” Bobby said, wiping his mouth.
“Organized might not be the best term. Say, enterprise, maybe. Groups of people working criminal enterprises.” Ricky dredged his memory of history class, came up empty, and started explaining it as best he could anyway. “Some people left their homes in Europe for various reasons and came to the U.S. Most didn’t leave all their culture behind, and many didn’t have legitimate opportunities in their new country for a variety of reasons. Unable to make a living legitimately, some started operating businesses outside the law, either because those businesses weren’t legal at all or because they didn’t mind ignoring certain tax requirements, that kind of thing.” He glanced at Jadu to be sure he was following.
“I certainly understand wishing to avoid taxation,” Jadu said, smiling.
“Well, one such group to come to America was the Italians. Within that national group were the Sicilians, and they formed one of the longest-lasting, most successful criminal enterprises in the history of America. So successful, in fact, that there were a lot of shows on TV and film about them. That’s what we were referring to: the popular fiction versions of those criminal enterprises.”
“I…see…” Jadu said. Then, clearly puzzled, asked, “Were these criminal organizations not secret? Like the Thug?”
“Thug?”
“A criminal and religious organization here. Very notorious, but also very secretive as to their actual membership and methods. They are known only from camp tales.”
“But you believe they exist?”
“Well, certain cults count them as enemies, and the same god is worshipped by many others, even if their practices are wildly different and they claim the Thuggees are blasphemous…” He trailed off, and then smiled ruefully. “I suppose I just answered my own question about the Sicilians.”
“Kind of. In the States they were eventually hunted pretty hard by the feds. Ah, government.” Seventeenth-century Earth didn’t have anything like the FBI. “A lot of what we know about the way they handled business is from the investigations and trials of some of the families.”
“Ah, so it was courts that exposed them.”
“Sure. And that some turned in other members to escape prison, offering testimony to the court in exchange for freedom.”
“Oh.” Jadu shook his head, eyes distant.
“What?”
“As often as I think you up-timers are so different from us, I stumble into one of these conversations that proves that you are not. That which motivates all men in this time and place holds true throughout the ages and places where the wheel of Heaven intersects with the blood and sinew of men.”
The friends digested Jadu’s wisdom for a little while, finishing up their meal in thoughtful silence.
Bobby broke that silence: “Huh.”
“What?” Ricky asked.
“Just that bit about turning state’s evidence on a family member…”
“Go on.”
“How many kids has Asaf got, Jadu?”
“He has two sons, why?”
“I was just thinking that just because Jadu’s informants saw Asaf Khan’s men doesn’t mean they are about Asaf Khan’s business.”
Jadu sat up in his cushions. “Say on.”
“I mean, what if…with the fight between Dara and his brothers, there’s some kind of parallel revolt going on? Some of his men supporting one side or another and rebelling against Pops?”
Jadu’s eyes widened. “That might explain why they chose not to even try to prevail on the imperial officer for mounts. And why their attempts at secrecy are…uneven.”
“Do you think Asaf’s dead, then? That this is his subordinates fighting for their place?” Ricky asked.
“Dead?” Jadu thought for a moment, then said, “No, I can’t imagine he’s dead. It would be too hard to conceal…Ill, though?” He snapped his fingers. “Yes, that could very well be it.”
“So, what does this mean for us?”
A waggle of Jadu’s head. “That we have a lot of work ahead of us to confirm your very good supposition, and that we must be doubly careful about it.”
“Well, since we’ve got about all the dope we’re going to at a good price, we can focus on this…”
Jadu sniffed.
“What?” Ricky asked, half-smiling.
“Well, I have other trade to transact, and I’m not sure how you two can gather information. You don’t exactly look like locals.”
“We got eyes to look,” Bobby said, a little defensive. Understandably so, Ricky felt. Aside from the night of the attack, they hadn’t done much but learn a smattering of languages, do even less actual trade, be sick, and provide passable dining companions for the merchant. All this despite the fact the Mission had provided the impetus for the caravan in the first place.
“Yes, yes you do”—Jadu smiled—“and you can be seen, too.”
“Sorry?” Ricky began, indignant.
“Just thinking of ways we could use your presence to attract rumors to our ears. I mean, I could just continue my quiet trade. It is widely known among those that matter that the Mission is supporting Dara. Your presence here, should it become widely known, might bring people to ask precisely what it is you are doing here. Such questioners can be learned from. Indeed, much can be learned simply from the questions they ask.”
“Do we want that kind of attention? I mean, we haven’t been exactly low-profile, so I imagine that anyone who wanted to know about your caravan could easily find out about the two ferenghi with you.”
“Precisely. But, in and of myself”—he waggled his head—“I am of, at most, moderate interest to any trader, and of even less importance to the powerful umara and zamindars of the region. Unless we inform certain parties I know that you are here, and then see who comes calling…”
“All right, but what if they’ve declared for Shuja or Aurangzeb? They could just decide to kill a couple of Dara’s supporters and show their loyalty to Shuja or Aurangzeb or whoever they think will appreciate the killing.”
“It is a risk, I admit.” Jadu shook his head, looking thoughtful. “I will see what I can learn with another foray into town tomorrow, but I think we should consider my idea. I think it has merit, and may work more quickly than waiting for some rumor to find us.”
Chapter 18
Agra
Taj Mahal
The stone and marble had long since been cleaned of blood, but still Jahanara saw it—images in the mind that appeared in flashes behind closed eyelids, apparitions half-glimpsed out of the corner of the eye, like the ghosts of one of Smidha’s tales. She turned onto her back, silken shift protected from the earth by the mats laid down upon her decision to rest in the shade of the gardens dedicated to Mother and Father. She looked up through the shade of the mulberry trees she’d ordered transplanted here from…she could not recall where, and at the sharp blue sky.
Aside from sheltering her from the heat of the sun, there was little ease to be found in the gardens around the Taj. The trees, grass, even the nodding flowers had sat mute witnesses to t
he killings that had claimed her father and nearly claimed her. Mute to what they had seen, but witnesses all the same.
She preferred the garden’s mute witnesses to the visions of Father’s blood on stone steps.
Such visions were why she retired to the gardens and let her brother speak to Father’s architects and overseers without watching him. They both needed the break. He from supervision, if only for a brief moment—among men who had too much to lose should his secret come out; she from covering for his every mistake, from ensuring the secret of his condition never escaped to reach the wider world and destroy their collective future.
So much killing. And for what?
On edge, she heard the slightest jingle of Atisheh’s armor. Jahanara looked at the woman who had nearly given her life to defend those in her care, found the big warrior woman tracking something in the direction of the Taj.
Jahanara tipped her head up to see what had alerted her guardian, spied Nadira’s lovely form gliding across the grass toward her.
“Sister of my heart, peace be upon you,” Jahanara said, her own soul still far from the peace she craved.
“And upon you, sister,” Nadira answered, folding lovely legs beneath her while one hand reached for a goblet. A slave moved forward with a sweating silver pitcher and filled the empty goblet.
“How is he?” Jahanara asked as the slave retreated out of easy earshot.
“Well enough. But he has heard something, a rumor, that sorely vexes him.”
“Oh? Something new concerning Shuja or Aurangzeb?”
Nadira’s pretty eyes went to the southern horizon. “No. Nothing so distant, nor so important. Not yet, at least. It was a not-uncommon whisper among men, but he gives it more credence than it deserves, as close to his own heart as the subject is.”
“What, then?”
“The rumor…” She trailed off yet again.
These repeated hesitations were most unlike Nadira. “So you have said, sister,” she prompted.
“The rumor is about you, sister.”
Jahanara sighed, tightened abdominal muscles and drew herself to a sitting position without the use of her hands. That she found the movement harder than it was a few months ago—the result of much less time spent at dancing and yoga these days—was a lamented result of matters of state taking up too much of her free time to pursue the rigorous training regimen of her youth.
“More of the same drivel about how I run the harem without your consent?” she asked, anger sharpening the words. “We wen—”
“No,” Nadira said, looking at her again. The concern in that look stopped Jahanara as much as the word.
Dread stirred her heart to beat more strongly. “What is it this time, then?”
“This rumor is more personal, and more threatening.”
“Do not keep me in suspense, sister. Tell me.”
Nadira lowered her voice. “That you and Salim are sharing a bed.”
Jahanara could not prevent the sudden heat that colored her from chest to cheeks at the thought of Salim’s hard body against hers, swordsman’s hands in her hair, lips pressing against hers.
Nadira’s indrawn breath told Jahanara she’d seen the powerful reaction the words had summoned.
Her sister-in-law chuckled on the exhale and spoke quietly. “I can see your great beauty is enhanced by desire. But, for all our sakes, I hope you can restrain such displays in future.”
Jahanara opened her mouth to protest, but Nadira spoke over her. “I know you have yet to throw yourself at him, but really, that people are speaking of you meeting him alone is bad for us.” She paused, looking at Jahanara from beneath lowered lashes. “And actually meeting with him, however innocently, is a risk you should not be taking.”
“How did you know?” Jahanara asked, fear making her blood run cold despite the heat.
Another chuckle. “I didn’t. At least, not before seeing your reaction.” Nadira glanced at Jahanara’s guardian. “But that, coupled with the fact Atisheh, only just returned from her convalescence with the up-timers, was assigned to guard you through the night? You are not known to be a harsh taskmistress, and that raised suspicions.”
Atisheh’s weight shifted again, the faint chiming of her mail a mute version of I told you so.
“Whose suspicions?” Jahanara asked. “Rumors always persist about the women of the harem…”
“Mine. Your brother’s. He is worried that your protection of his secrets is taxing your good sense.” Nadira took Jahanara’s hand in hers, met her eyes. “I do not disagree with him, in principle. I worried—worry—you feel as if you are alone in fighting for us, that in that moment of feeling isolated, you might do something careless, if only to feel like you were doing something purely for yourself.”
Silenced by the painful accuracy of Nadira’s words, Jahanara brushed at the sudden tears welling at the corners of her eyes. That Nadira was so perceptive did not surprise her. It was her own lack of perception that made her heart ache.
Nadira, first-and-only-wife of the emperor, watched her through tears of her own. Wiping at them, she sniffed, said in a firm, even hard, voice, “I have told Dara that his concerns are unfounded, the rumors false. Informed him that you are a pillar of strength, and would not falter or fail him in such a way.”
Shame wrenched at Jahanara’s heart—that she’d believed Nadira had too much to deal with already, that she wouldn’t welcome some portion of those burdens Jahanara carried on behalf of her brother, that her loneliness would remain unrelieved if she were to open her heart to Nadira, that she’d considered approaching Roshanara!
All that and then to discover that Nadira had already taken on a burden she did not have to: defending her honor against rumors her own brother believed.
Jahanara stifled sobs, clutching Nadira in her arms. “I have not failed to protect Dara’s honor or mine. I have not given myself to Salim nor any other.” She swallowed against a knot in her throat. “You have not lied to Dara.” She dared not—could not—add: not yet, at least.
“That is good, sister of my heart…” Nadira lowered her voice to whisper her next words in Jahanara’s ear. “Though I would gladly do so in partial repayment of my many debts to you, Jahanara Begum.”
Startled again at Nadira’s perception of her inmost thoughts, Jahanara sat back. Smiling through her tears, she said, “I hope I am not so transparent to everyone as I am to you…”
Nadira’s smile was tender. “I should think your secrets safe, for now. No one else has my access to your doings, your brother, your plans, or your heart. Besides,” she said with a shrug of slender, silk-sheathed shoulders, “you need never ask for my aid, Jahanara. As long as I’m aware of your need, I am here to help.”
“Thank you, Nadira. Thank you. I promise I will ask for help rather than make you puzzle it out again.”
“I just want you to know”—a gentle squeeze of her hands—“deep in your bones, that you are not alone.”
Driven to tears again, Jahanara could only nod.
Nadira brushed her tears away with the hem of her sari and passed Jahanara her goblet.
The two had relaxed into a companionable silence over the drink, each enjoying the momentary quiet spent in company with the other.
Jahanara saw Prasad and the veil-swathed figure of Monique pass into the garden from the heavily guarded checkpoint.
Monique was readily identifiable—by the way she started removing the purdah-required veils as soon as possible—if not by her form and movements.
The most loyal of her eunuchs carried a bulging satchel, likely filled with correspondence, official and unofficial, that must be tended to with as much, if not more, care as the gardens surrounding them.
Even when she wasn’t exhausted, Jahanara often felt like a gardener forced to tend an unruly patch of ground that sprouted tangling briars and thorns far more often than flowers or sweet fruit.
She sighed, idly—and foolishly—wishing for the days when she’d had no res
ponsibilities and only dreamed of having power over her own fate.
Nadira glanced up at the sound. A delicate sniff as they watched the eunuch make his way toward them. “I assume you’ve already seen the reports from Shuja’s camp?”
“I have.”
“I was utterly surprised that Aurangzeb bowed before his brother.”
“As was I. None of our sources saw it coming. I suppose that should not have surprised me. He was always very careful with his trust. Even when a boy in the harem, he would not go to anyone, even Mother, with his thoughts, preferring to pray over his hurts, his concerns, his thoughts…”
“Strange that so admirable a trait should produce so odd an outcome.”
“Then you do not believe his pledges of allegiance to Shuja?”
A mirthless chuckle, then: “What was that colorful up-timer expression that Priscilla used? ‘Ox-shit’?”
“Bullshit, I think,” Jahanara said.
Atisheh’s quiet snort confirmed her recollection.
“Bull—or Ox—the pledge reeks of duplicity.”
“Shuja seems to be holding his nose quite well, even so.” Jahanara grinned, watching Monique divest herself of everything but the lightest, sheerest silk.
Jahanara smiled. Not so many months ago, the young ferenghi woman would have been uncomfortable showing so much skin to anyone. Now she was more practical, and much cooler for it.
“That’s because he thinks he can have it all, should he hold his nose long enough,” Nadira said.
On reflection, Monique was not the only one to have been changed. Jahanara acknowledged, if only to herself, that the young woman was her closest friend and confidant outside her family and those who served for decades, like Smidha and poor, sweating Prasad.
The heavyset eunuch bowed low and presented his satchel to Jahanara, who ordered him to rest and take refreshment.
“But what a performance!” Jahanara said as the eunuch withdrew.
“Indeed. What I don’t get is what angle Shuja saw in accepting the lies. I mean, I understand that their combined army is more powerful for not having battled, but now each has to watch the other for betrayal at every turn.”
