by Eric Flint
Monique snorted. “I do not ‘play down’ his virtues.” The words had a surprising edge to them, so much so the princess touched her friend’s hand in sudden concern.
The ferenghi covered her hand with her own. “It is nothing serious. I simply wish he could speak his heart the way he speaks his mind: freely, easily, and with the passion I see burning in him. Instead he acts like every other man: silent when he should speak, speaking when he should be silent, and seemingly deaf to how my heart beats for him.”
Jahanara shook her head in wonder. “I had little idea you were such a poet, dear friend.”
“Not generally…” She bit her lip rather prettily. “Then again, perhaps the burgeoning need to get a leg over has made my tongue more clever than is its habit.”
“A leg over?” Jahanara asked, puzzling over the phrase.
Monique colored, looked away, then back up at Jahanara with an insouciant grin and broad wink.
Such was Monique’s charisma that Jahanara found herself returning the grin even before she fully comprehended the foreigner’s turn of phrase, which only served to increase Jahanara’s embarrassment and deepen the flush that spread like fire across her skin upon fully realizing what Monique meant. As if the flush were truly flames, Jahanara felt a stab of pain that slaughtered the smile with its suddenness. Fighting a welter of tears, she struggled to keep the pain from finding expression.
She speaks so easily of…of…something I am never to have for myself, not with things the way they are. Not without crippling my brother’s already tottering regime.
Perceptive in the extreme, Monique’s smile was replaced with a look of concern. “I’m sorry, I should not have said anything.”
“No, my sweet friend, it is not your fault that our world is nothing like that of our up-timer friends,” Jahanara said, catching Monique’s hands in her own as the smaller woman smoothly interposed herself between Jahanara and any potential observer.
“At the very least, Shehzadi, it was thoughtless of me,” Monique said in quiet, soothing tones.
Jahanara managed a weak smile. “It is nothing, Monique,” she said. Hoping to quell any further unnecessary apologies, she hugged her friend.
Head on Monique’s shoulder, Jahanara had to look away, not just from Monique but also from Salim, which led her gaze to fall on Dara. The emperor had turned in their direction, likely intending to congratulate her on organizing the entertainment, and instead had seen her commiserating with Monique. Taking hold of her emotions, she smiled to see him beaming. It was an honest, almost pain-free smile the likes of which she had not seen in months.
Still, she cast about for some way to cover her expression as some passing fancy, and unable to resist tweaking Monique’s nose a little, said quietly, “Perhaps your lapse is yet another result of your needs not being met?”
A snort of laughter met her sally. Monique pushed herself out of Jahanara’s embrace, laughing.
If Dara had wished to, he might still have questioned her expression or the embrace, aware, as he often was, of the things that upset her, but just then Rodney and John closed in on the emperor and began speaking to him. She saw Bertram standing in Rodney and John’s wake, saw also the broad wink he gave her.
“I did not misspeak,” Jahanara whispered.
“Did not what?” Monique asked, laughing still.
“Misspeak.”
“Oh?”
She nodded at Bertram. “He is a treasure.”
Monique laughed harder, gasped out, “Please don’t let him know that! He’s already proud as a peacock!”
Feeling the tense, tearful sadness of a moment before retreating, Jahanara chuckled. Like the last clouds of the rainy season, tears might threaten still, but she knew they would soon disperse in the warm sunlight of friendship and chosen family.
With such friends and allies, surely we will overcome.
Red Fort, Gardens of the Harem
John didn’t particularly like the music that accompanied the big dance production Jahanara had staged for Dara’s amusement, but he had to admit the dance routine was impressive in the athleticism it demanded of the participants. So much so that it was almost possible to ignore the amount of flesh on display.
Almost.
He was thankful that Ilsa really enjoyed both the music and dancing. So much so that it seemed she didn’t mind him looking at the dancers. At least, not from the way she smiled beneath her nearly transparent veil.
This social visit-cum-meeting was a new one for him. Special arrangements had been made for the various women to attend, with the unmarried ladies wearing far more in the way of veils and concealing clothing than either Ilsa or Nadira. The way the silks worked, though, he could almost see through his wife’s, especially where it touched the skin. The effect made it easy to ignore the near nudity of the dancers, and from certain looks Isla had sent his way his attention to duty would be rewarded later tonight.
Her presence, while exciting, also calmed him. That he was worthy of such a fine woman’s interest made him more confident in himself, made him want to win.
His eyes went to the emperor, who was looking across at his sister and Monique, pensive expression on his face.
He’s a good guy, but he’s been hard to deal with since the factory explosion. Temperamental and angry, even with Salim, who’s been juggling everything to try and cover for him.
John’s eyes slid to Salim, who had also noticed where the emperor’s attention had fallen. Bertram stood beside him, and made a small gesture with his hand, asking John to intercede.
Rodney and John both moved to the emperor’s side, trying to figure out what to say.
Dara saw them coming, however, and smiled, the one side of his mouth slower to respond than the other.
“John, Rodney.” The emperor had taken to using their given names as a sign of his favor. It sometimes made John shake his head in wonder, the weirdness of life as an up-timer. “If you’ve had your refreshment and enjoyed sufficient entertainment, I would like progress reports on the readiness of our special armsmen”—he looked from John to Rodney—“and these ‘medics’ my sister insisted we train.”
John and Rodney bowed, not nearly as well as any courtier born to it, but close enough for government work.
“How goes the training of our specials, John?”
“Shehzada, I believe they are doing well, with the Sikhs in particular taking the drills very seriously. Your public rewards for their good performance during the last review proved useful in spurring the other contingents to take it more seriously”—the Rajput commander who had replaced Amar Singh Rathore had flogged his rasildars for failing to earn top spot in the review—“and so they apply themselves to the drills we’ve established.”
John carefully did not mention precisely why the men had found it difficult to take training with the new weapons seriously; by now, even the least sowar in Shuja’s distant army knew Dara’s up-timer ammunition factory was no more. Despite Talawat’s heroic efforts, the situation was unlikely to change.
“And my Servants of Vāyu?”
“Rodney put the volunteers through the eye exam, and we selected thirty candidates from that. They are being trained separate from the main body of troops. We’ll be testing them next week to get the best mix of spotter-shooter.”
“And the breakdown of the men?”
“Quite diverse,” Rodney supplied. “We had volunteers from every level of society, and that diversity is reflected in the men who passed the exam.”
They both knew from reading they’d done that one of the reasons the Allies had prevailed in World War II was the Axis powers’ insistence on using social elites to provide specialized soldiers like pilots, where the USA had screened everyone for raw ability and taken the cream off the top. So, when pilots started getting killed, the U.S. had far more replacements sitting on the bench than either the Japanese or the Germans.
So, when it came time to look at recruits, Rodney had insisted on
accepting volunteers from every caste. Mostly, they’d gotten the usual Muslims and warrior-caste folks, but there’d been one or two outsiders who’d applied, even passed. John wasn’t too sure it would serve to chip away at the caste system, or whether it was good for the unit they were establishing. There’d already been one barracks-room dustup he knew about, and he suspected there’d both been and would be a lot more unless they could find someone to run the unit who understood—yet could work around—the various cultural and religious landmines they were facing.
“And the ammunition?” Dara repeated, a tinge of impatience coloring his tone.
The question finally penetrating his funk, John answered: “Talawat tells me that since we don’t have that many of the rifles to begin with, and we skimp on the training I wanted to put them through, that we’ll have more than enough for any battle.”
“Well then,” Dara said with an air of satisfaction all out of order with the news, “at least in this we shall be as Bhima, and crash down upon the foe from beyond his reach with a violence undreamed of, in protection of our family.”
John saw the expressive eyes of the empress shift to her husband, her worried glance even more disconcerting than the behavior of the emperor.
Rodney shifted his weight, uncomfortable with the unreasoning, bloodthirsty glint in Dara’s eyes.
The movement of Rodney’s large frame must have drawn Dara’s attention from whatever fantasy of bloodletting he’d been having, as he asked, “And these field medics you are training, Rodney?”
Rodney bowed and said, “The volunteers are training up nicely. Everything Pris and I can remember, we’ve got on the syllabus, and the first graduates, the ones who will train everyone else, were as ready as we can make them. We are testing those recruits soon. Over the last months Shehzadi Jahanara has collected and issued us an enormous endowment of supplies: bandages, suture-quality thread, even opium. We are distributing them to the medics and stockpiling surplus for the field hospital.”
“And how goes that particular project?”
“Very well. The tents and other materiel your sister provided will all prove very useful, once we get our staffing situation sorted out.”
“From your tone, I gather there are issues?”
“Not for the general staff; orderlies, nurses, that sort of thing, no.”
Dara quirked a scarred eyebrow, inviting the man to continue.
“Well, while we’ve had a flood of physicians applying for positions, figuring out who is…” He trailed off, glancing at John for help.
“Qualified?” Dara said, before John could come to his friend’s aid. “According to your up-time standards, I mean?”
“You understand exactly. The interview process is…tedious and slow.”
Dara smiled. “Diplomatically put. I am sure they have strong opinions on the processes you require them to implement.”
Rodney returned the smile. “Exactly, Sultan Al’Azam.”
“And how they must have balked when they learned they would be instructed by a woman!” Dara chuckled.
Nadira, relaxing visibly, slid her arm through her husband’s, her eyes smiling now.
“The Jains were slightly better about it than the rest of them, but none of them were, well…” Rodney trailed off, perhaps realizing his words might have been insulting. Knowing that the emperor was okay with statements that might be seen as a dig against some ethnic or religious group Dara favored was one thing, knowing the mind of his wife quite another. He quickly qualified: “But most doctors are snobs when it comes to where they studied, or who they studied under, even back up-time. They certainly would’ve had a hard time listening to some paramedic, regardless of how much experience the paramedic had.”
“Really?” Nadira asked, one brow arched.
Rodney bowed again, uncertain of protocol when addressed by the empress.
John stepped in. “Oh, there was a definite pecking order, even among doctors with different specialties who went to the same school.”
“The smaller our differences, the more weight most people will place on that side of the scales, if only to mark themselves as better than the others,” Dara said.
Like the differences between you and your brothers? John had the good sense not to speak the thought aloud, but it still plagued him no end. There had been scant evidence he’d chosen the right prince to back, except for…His eyes slid to Jahanara, standing in the background, head together with Monique. Begum Sahib had suffered some loss of reputation with her brother since the explosion, but she was still the foremost of Dara’s inner circle, and, by all accounts, working hard to keep him on the throne.
Except for Begum Sahib…Just about every good turn we’ve done here has been done at her urging or as a result of her direct actions.
If only…
However pleasing the image, he deliberately turned away from the thought of Jahanara Begum ruling from the Peacock Throne. Closing his eyes, he stifled a rueful grin. He could almost hear his mother’s voice telling him, in no uncertain terms, “That’s right, you’re just a hillbilly from West Virginia, son, not any kind of king—or queen-maker.”
Chapter 24
Patna
House of Jadu Das
“What was that?” Bobby asked.
Ricky groaned, wakened from deep sleep to find his best friend standing at the foot of his bed. The barrel of the Remington 870 held in his hands gleamed dully in the silver moonlight coming from the balconies.
“Wake up, there’s something going on downstairs.” A crunching bang from the front of the house punctuated Bobby’s words.
“Wha?” Ricky mumbled, staggering out of bed only to enter into a battle with the entangling mosquito netting that wanted to drown him.
“Shhh—” Bobby’s attempt to silence him was cut short by the unmistakable sound of a musket being fired nearby. There were several angry shouts, none of which Ricky could understand.
“Fuck!” Ricky hissed, finally extricating himself from the netting.
Bobby chambered a shell and moved to cover the door.
Ricky paused, torn between arming himself or getting dressed. He put pants on, stuffed a few extra shells into his pocket and moved on bare feet to join Bobby on the other side of the doorway. The sound of several more bangs came from the front of the house as he moved.
“Ram on the front door?” Bobby asked.
“Must be,” Ricky said. “But who? And why?”
“Gentlemen?” Jadu’s low-voiced query issued from the shadows across the hall.
“Jadu!” both younger men said.
“What the hell is going on?” Ricky asked, chambering a shell into his own 870.
The merchant glided out of the gloom and slid between them, a wicked length of steel clutched in his right hand shining in the moonlight filtering in from the balconies. “It seems Vikram has fired upon someone attempting to invade our home.”
“But who?”
“I do not know.”
“Do we fight or run for it?” Bobby asked.
“I would normally counsel running, but we have committed no crime, and worse yet, have not prepared for flight. I cannot afford to lose my inve—” A splintering crash from the downstairs door as it collapsed under the repeated battering. A barely audible clatter came on its heels. Ricky identified the sound of a musket being dropped from nerveless fingers. Torchlight, presumably from the invaders, flickered up the landing. Shouts of pain and a series of dull thuds echoed from downstairs—Vikram catching a beating for having shot at the door-crashers.
Bobby raised his shotgun. “Top of the stairs?” he hissed.
“Yes,” Jadu said, “but please don’t start shooting right off. We may yet get out of this if we don’t kill anyone.”
All three of them took up positions overlooking the landing. Ricky rested his shotgun on the stone railing and whispered to Bobby, “I’ll fire a couple warning shots while they’re on the stairs. Cover me, but don’t shoot unless you
absolutely have to.”
“Right, you’re doing the shooting until I absolutely have to.”
“Stop your crying!” someone growled from below. “Where is your master?”
Ricky couldn’t understand the reply, and, judging from the meaty thuds of fists striking flesh, neither could the questioner.
“Find them!” The way the torchlight wavered and the sound of booted feet approaching, the command, delivered by a different, gravelly voice, was followed immediately.
The boots of three armed and armored men pounded across the foyer to the base of the stairs.
Two flights to climb. Not much.
“Hold!” Jadu shouted.
The men ignored him and mounted the stairs, holding shields above their heads. More followed behind them.
Ricky aimed and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Belatedly remembering to take the weapon off safe, he quickly did so and then pulled the trigger.
The gun boomed, report biting everyone’s ears. The tiles covering the landing shattered into dust as the deer shot bit, making the men hop and slow. One even yelped, perhaps catching tile fragments in his shins.
“Hold!” Jadu screamed again, as much at Ricky as the men below.
The men resumed their climb, rushing across the landing and lowering their shields to cover their vitals. Ricky glimpsed tense, bearded faces, swords clenched in armored fists.
These weren’t bandits, not from their dress or discipline.
He fired again, this time above their heads.
The man on the right stopped, the man behind crashing into him and making their still-advancing companion stumble.
“Hold!” Jadu shouted once more.
Ricky cycled the action and fired again, abused ears failing to register the shells falling this time.
“We can kill you all without reloading!” Jadu cried as Ricky chambered another shell.
The men gathered themselves to resume their rush, but Ricky could see any enthusiasm they might have had for it had vanished with proof he wouldn’t have to spend a moment reloading to kill them.
