by Eric Flint
“That makes sense, I guess. You know, back up-time I didn’t know much about Sikhs except for a vague notion they were some military-minded folks from India, but the other day Bidhi was telling me they only recently ‘took up the sword.’ Said they were driven to it by what he called ‘Mughal persecution.’ Said they were pacifist right up until the present guru came to power and decreed it was okay to protect themselves. Makes it easier to understand. That kind of history would motivate the hell out of me to learn all I could about fighting, just to make sure I wasn’t an easy mark for any old raja wanting to take my land.”
“Right. They do seem to apply themselves better to new martial practices than those who inherited the warrior ethos of their forebears.”
“The Rajputs, you mean?” John asked, watching as a crane rose from the riverbank and flew across their path. He made out a red throat or partial hood on the long neck, but John didn’t recognize the breed. The diversity of wildlife in India constantly amazed him. Game was more plentiful everywhere down-time, even in densely populated Europe, but India was in a league all its own.
“Them, too, but the Afghans and the rest of Dara’s sowar won’t get off their horses if they can help it, so they hardly make good candidates for infantry drill,” Bertram clarified, not in the least fascinated by the appearance of the bird. “Interestingly, the emperor said Bidhi Chand only converted to Sikhism a few years back.”
“Well, that explains his skill with the sword, then,” John said, watching the crane disappear into the cover along the next bend in the river.
“Oh?”
He looked back at the down-timer. “’Cause there’s no way Bidhi Chand just learned sword fighting since the guru said it was okay to defend oneself. If you watched him practice, you’d know better.”
“I haven’t seen that, b—”
John cut him off, shaking his head. “I mean, I’ve seen more swordwork than I could have ever wished since coming here, but that guy made Dara’s man look like he was wading in quicksand.”
Bertram continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted: “Dara said he was quite the scoundrel before converting. Made his living by the sword. Some kind of bandit chieftain.”
“No kidding?”
“N—” This time his reply was cut off by a thunderous explosion that made their horses rear and both men flinch.
John lost his seat. He watched, as if in slow motion, as Bertram, a far more accomplished horseman, stood in the stirrups and sawed at the reins, but lost sight of the other man as he went ass over teakettle and slammed into the ground.
Stunned by the impact, he could do nothing more than watch as his horse bolted for the stables.
Aware of the hooves of Bertram’s mount flashing close to his head, John rolled to one side and got to his feet as quickly as he could.
Bertram was still trying to control his horse and John staggered out from under the threat of the horse’s hooves. Once out of harm’s way enough to spare the attention, John looked toward the munitions factory: a great black smear of smoke was already rising from inside the berm just over a quarter mile away. Debris was still pattering to the ground, some within a few hundred yards of their position.
All along the river, on both sides, every single duck, goose, coot, and crane had taken to frightened flight, wings clattering and beaks or bills open to hoot, quack, or honk. It would have been deafening if his ears hadn’t already been ringing from the explosion.
“Jesus, the workers!” John barked. Turning to run, he staggered and almost fell, his bruised body refusing to follow the commands of his brain.
“Wait, John!” Bertram yelled.
John stopped, as much to let his legs steady as obey his friend’s command, and looked at Bertram. The eyes of the down-timer’s horse were rolling, but he had it under control.
“What if it’s sabotage?” Bertram asked, face pale and frightened above his horse’s head.
“So?! We still gotta get the workmen outta there!” The smoke was yellow beneath. Something was burning inside the compound.
“But what if the saboteurs are waiting for whoever shows up?”
Didn’t think of that, John, did you? Some military man you’re turning out to be.
Aloud, he said, “Ride back. I’m sure you’ll meet that patrol we passed or some other troop of riders sent to investigate. Send them on.”
“What about you?”
John spat. “I’ll wait and watch from that stand of trees over there. Go!” By the time he finished saying the words, Bertram had already turned his horse and was clapping his heels to its flanks.
Another, less violent explosion went off inside the compound as he reached the stand of trees between one estate and another. John threw himself flat, glad his horse had run off. One fall from horseback a day was more than enough for his abused posterior.
His eyes teared up as he looked at the factory. Something was burning very hot now, flames rising above the berm. Nothing could survive in there, least of all workmen already stunned by the explosions. No, least of all some supposed saboteurs waiting to mousetrap whoever responded to help.
John dragged himself up, started toward the fire, unsure what he could do for anyone in that furnace, but sure he had to try.
He’d covered half the distance before his stunned brain recovered enough to start assessing what this disaster would mean for the war effort.
“Shitshitshit!” he chanted, staggering into a run.
Outside the munitions factory
“There were no survivors, Salim,” Bertram said, visibly struggling to control his emotions as the last of the bodies they were able to recover were laid out beside the road. There were only fourteen of the hundred or so who were working within.
Salim nodded. He waved his entourage back and dismounted, walking to where John, Talawat, and Bertram stood with the patrol of horsemen that first responded. The manufactory was still smoking beyond the berms.
“What the hell was burning on the north side?” John was asking Talawat, wiping at his soot-blackened face with one hand and only succeeding in smearing the oily residue further. “Last time I was here, everything was covered in earthworks to prevent just this kind of thing.”
“There was a large store of supplies laid in that some workmen were using to expand the manufactory,” Talawat said quietly, wiping at his own soot-stained visage. “I believe the explosion was in the primer-cap manufactory and the secondary was the main powder store. It was muffled because it was covered in earth.”
“Jesus,” John said.
Talawat went on as if he’d not been interrupted. “The door to the main powder storage was off its hinges and several gaz from the entry. From the damage and its position, I can only imagine it was not closed when the first explosion occurred.”
“Why not?” Salim asked, deeply concerned about the possibility of sabotage.
Talawat waggled his head and explained in a leaden voice, “It may have been open in the course of obtaining powder for the day’s production of either shells or caps. Such would have been a bit late in the morning, but if there was powder left over from yesterday’s work, I require my people to finish what they had already taken on hand before sending for more from storage.”
“I am sorry for your losses, Talawat, but I need you to be more specific. Was this sabotage or an honest accident?”
“If it was sabotage, John and Bertram didn’t see anyone flee just as or after it happened, and none of the bodies show any sword strokes or the like…which doesn’t rule out the use of slow match, just makes it far less likely…The patrol that was first on the scene had also just come from here, so…” He trailed off, thoughtfully tugging at his beard.
“So, accident?” Salim pressed.
Talawat nodded, expression tight. “Much as I hate to admit it, yes. Most likely. I will investigate to confirm it, but yes, I think so.”
“I should have been more on top of site safety,” John said, looking at the row of bod
ies.
Talawat moved to interpose himself between John and the corpses. Once he had the up-timer’s attention, he straightened and looked him right in the eyes. Speaking slowly, and enunciating clearly to ensure the up-timer understood his every word: “My people are very experienced at working with gunpowder, John Ennis. Sometimes these things happen. They know—knew—the risks. Don’t think this is something you could have done anything about. I will be more careful in laying out the next manufactory in the future, given how this ended. I welcome your input and knowledge, but do not think to treat me or my people as children unused to the dangers of gunpowder and chemicals. We are not. We are Atishbaz!”
John winced at the hard edge in Talawat’s voice, but Salim fully supported every word Talawat said.
Salim wondered at the strength of the artisan’s character: that he was able to shoulder all the burdens of this disaster and still reach out and protect John from the up-timer’s frequently expressed propensity for taking responsibility for events he could not possibly have done anything about.
All the up-timers were soft in some ways, and this setback would be hard enough to overcome without John wallowing in guilt, as Salim had watched him do in the first weeks after Randy’s death. Perhaps it was their lack of faith that made them so attached to this life and its burdens.
Shaking his head clear of ideas that would, at the very least, offend John, Salim forced himself to consider the critical question at hand. The weapon Talawat had copied was only useful with the up-timer munitions, which could not be made by just any craftsman. The artisans working here could not be replaced, not for a generation, at least. Salim sat erect, trying to put on a brave front as another thought occurred: the remaining masters would be forced to stop production and train their inferiors or not only fail to meet Dara’s needs but also risk the loss of an entire generation’s acquired knowledge.
Unsure he wanted to hear his thoughts confirmed, Salim asked, “What does this mean for production of munitions for the new guns, Talawat?”
“Honestly, I don’t know that we will deliver all that we need, Wazir.”
“So, how much ammunition can we expect to see?” Salim insisted.
“Only about a quarter of what I promised, Wazir. There are simply too few full craftsmen to tra—”
Salim waved his protests down even as he mastered his own surge of angry disappointment. “I understand. I must inform the Sultan Al’Azam. Do what you can to salvage things here. I will be making a full, formal report to the Sultan Al’Azam as soon as you can give me an accurate assessment.”
“Yes, Wazir.”
John was muttering something, his eyes sliding to the corpses yet again.
Bertram was also staring at them, face drained of color.
“John, you and Bertram should ride back with me. The Mission will be concerned and there is nothing more for you to do here.” Salim left unsaid that he didn’t want either of them waylaid on the road, either. The specter of sabotage had also raised the possibility of assassination as well, and he decided to speak to Jahanara about assigning bodyguards to each of the Mission members, whether they wanted one or not.
“What? Oh. Okay,” John said. He walked over to one of the remounts Salim’s men had brought. Bertram went to another of the horses, his original having blown itself out carrying the young man after galloping for the patrol and then returning to the manufactory in an equal rush.
John mounted with great difficulty, bruised posterior and legs making him grunt with effort and no small amount of pain, no doubt.
Bertram mounted in silence, but Salim caught sight of the young man’s eyes, and was unsurprised by the smoldering anger he saw there.
Good. I fear we will need a great deal of anger and rage to carry the day against Dara’s rivals now.
He turned his horse and, out of deference to John’s infirmity, started at a slow trot for Red Fort. He felt time pressing on his spirits with the weight of mountains, and within moments he ordered them into a gallop.
Those guns were the single greatest technical advantage we had over the pretenders. Now, without enough ammunition to make a difference, they are only so much steel and wood—awkward clubs, really.
Dara—or Jahanara—must be brilliant, or all will be lost, because I am fresh out of ideas…
The Grape Garden, Red Fort
Jahanara hurried into the Grape Garden, her veils, the noonday heat and stress making sweat bead her brow. She saw Dara, or rather one of his nökör, rising from a full prostration before the white marble dais at the center of the four quarters of the garden. Her brother liked to rest there while enjoying the garden and whatever entertainments his wife had arranged for his pleasure.
Biting back an oath that Smidha, hurrying along in her wake, would surely reproach her for uttering, Jahanara hurried to join the cluster of women surrounding Dara.
Upon hearing the great explosion, she’d made arrangements to delay the messenger reaching Dara until she could get back from the diggings of the reflecting pool across from Mother and Father’s tomb, but it would be one thing to slow an imperial messenger at the entrance to the harem, quite another to prevent one of Dara’s nökör making his report to the emperor.
Jahanara watched him dismiss the bodyguard with a wave.
The jeweled pin in his turban caught the light filtering through the white silk pavilion as Dara turned his head to look at Nadira. His wife was speaking quietly in his ear, every line of her posture hard.
He did not like what she said, or was otherwise so overcome with anger that his face went purple red.
She hadn’t quite made it to the dais when he surged erect, pulling away from his wife’s white-knuckled grip.
His gaze fell on Jahanara as he cast about for something to break. The rage she saw in his eyes made her miss a step and stumble to a stop.
“Did you hear?!” he raged.
“Of course, Sultan Al’Azam,” Jahanara said with practiced calm, hoping the use of his title might recall him to self-control and some semblance of calm.
“I will have the culprits trampled by elephants, their skulls to adorn pillars like those of our ancestors!” he shouted, heedless of her attempt to remind him of listening ears.
He began pacing, balled fists shaking with rage.
“No, trampling will be too good for my brother! He has done this thing, destroyed our one and only hope!”
“It is not so, Sultan Al’Azam.”
“What?!” He rounded on her, pointing an accusing finger. “You claim he is not responsible?” he barked, face going more livid still, something she would not have thought possible.
“I make no such claims, Dara,” Jahanara said, unable to look him in the eyes. She looked at the marble at their feet and swallowed before continuing. “Sultan Al’Azam, I only wish to point out to you that we have other hopes, other chances, other play—”
His sudden collapse likewise brought her careful arguments crashing to dust and ruin. The seizure that followed made her wonder if Dara were not some sort of prophet, predicting their doom even as his damaged brain ensured the prophecy was self-fulfilling.
Somewhere amid the panic, guilt, and fear, she vowed to make the planned hospital still more grand and open to serve everyone, regardless of caste, religion, or privilege, if only God or some version of Heaven would see Dara recovered; vowed further that she would do all she could to improve the lot of the weak, the ill and the lame, the injured and the crippled.
Her vow must have been sufficient to appease, as Dara’s seizure subsided, leaving him exhausted and on the verge of unconsciousness.
Nadira held his larger hand clasped in both of hers, kissing the back of it. If Jahanara had been frightened by the seizure, Nadira was shaken to her very core, and needed every support.
Seeking control of the wild swing of her emotions, Jahanara took a deep, steadying breath. Employing the rest of the mental exercises learned from her mother and Mian Mir, she started to think more
clearly.
Snapping her fingers in front of Smidha’s stunned eyes, she commanded the servant to summon, in utmost secrecy, the up-timer physicians.
Once certain that what little physical aid she could offer had been secured, Jahanara knelt beside her brother and his wife, offering both all the love and support her unworthy heart contained.
Chapter 20
Burhanpur
South shore of the Tapti
Aurangzeb glared at the sluggish brown waters of the river as two of his finest subordinates rode up the near bank to join him. Half-remembered tales churned his mind. Tales Smidha—nursemaid and now advisor to Jahanara—sometimes told of the goddess who was the personification of the river. Sister to one of the gods of Death, the river goddess would carry those who died in her arms directly to her brother and a new place on the wheel or some such.
He’d never understood how the Hindu cosmology that so enraptured Dara and the Hindus at court worked, leading him, in moments of youthful weakness, to mock the odd turns their religion took and the actions those who followed it had to take in order to propitiate their false gods.
Now the Tapti mocked him in return. She was shallow in the dry season, but not so shallow that crossing her was without risk, especially for men afoot. Coming south they had used nearly a hundred wide, shallow draft boats to ferry men, horses, and material across, but whomever the general on the other side was, he’d withdrawn them all to points unknown. The elephants had simply waded.
A scouting force of his best light cavalry had made it across after a hard-fought and fast-moving skirmish, but they’d quickly been forced to retreat back across the river.
“Can’t be more than a few thousand,” Shahaji said as he and the other cavalry commander reined in before the prince. Water streamed from both horses and their riders, who’d been forced to hang from their saddles and be towed by their horses on both crossings. Shahaji’s mount was different from that which he’d gone across with. Aurangzeb had watched with awe as horse and rider went down when the man’s original mount took an arrow. Bare instants later and the man was up on another horse as if nothing had happened.
