by Eric Flint
He shut his eyes tight.
She was too angry to recognize the warning sign.
“It is not weakness, Sultan Al’Azam. It is only sensible—”
He cut her off once more, shaking her by the arm he held. “So you don’t deny that you have met with Salim, alone, and in secret?”
He must have taken the glance she cast at her hennaed toes for confirmation of his suspicions, because his next words struck cold fear deep in her heart: “I will send him away. Your willful disregard for how your wanton behavior would reflect on me might have cost me the throne, sister!”
“Wanton?” Jahanara protested. “I have done nothing—”
“Nothing?” he scoffed. “You have ruined m—”
“Dara!” Shouting his name stopped his tirade before it could truly begin, but she found her own tongue failing her, fearful of continuing, of what her anger might lead her to say. He’d always had difficulty with accepting that his thoughts on a matter might be incorrect, and woe to the man or woman who corrected him. There was much that might be used to wound him, and so little that would correct his mistaken impressions. He had not ordered her from his presence, yet, so there remained a chance to convince him. “I have done nothing to deserve such recriminations!”
He did not answer, only sat there, staring at her.
She could see his anger was so vast that it had stopped his ears, and tried again: “More importantly, your faithful friend and supporter, Salim Gadh Visa Yilmaz has only ever acted with all honor! He would never imperil your cause! These rumors are a poor reflection of what actually transpired.”
“And?” he asked at last, face so flushed and angry it dawned on her he might be on the verge of another fit.
“We did meet in secret,” she admitted, hoping to mollify his anger.
“Alone?” he demanded.
Jahanara nodded reluctantly but hurried on: “But only to ensure the secrecy of our discussions, Dara.”
He rolled his eyes and scoffed. “How could you be so stupid?! Can you not see how the appearance of impropriety is, for our purposes, as bad as the thing itself? No, I shall send him away and restrict your allowances…”
Knowing she must preserve Salim’s position at court, whatever the cost to herself, she pretended surrender. “I am sorry. I acted foolishly and dangerously. I will suffer whatever punishment you wish to levy upon me in silence, but do not banish Salim in our hour of need. It was I who organized the meeting between us, and did not tell him we would be alone. It is I who must be held responsible.”
His angry flush was, by now, impossibly dark. “And what was so important you could not discuss it with me…or even Nadira present?”
“Plans I hoped to keep from our enemies, Sultan Al’Azam.”
“You will make me ask again,” he said, eyes flashing dangerously as he pulled at her wrist.
“No, I—”
He struck her—or so she thought, at first. It was only as she was blinking away tears of pain that she began to understand what had happened. He was lying on the floor between his cushions, arms and legs spasming in what Priscilla termed a grand mal seizure. Her stunned brain working again, she realized his arm had twitched uncontrollably as the seizure began, savagely throwing the arm he’d held by the wrist into her face, striking her nose. She straightened, wishing she could check if the blow he’d struck her would leave a visible mark. After a single touch of her stinging nose, she put both pain and political concerns aside to order the nearest slave to fetch Rodney or Gervais.
Her brother’s seizure was already slowing by the time the woman, whose name escaped Jahanara, ran from the garden. While the woman was reliable, it would only require one moment’s slip of the tongue to unravel everything. She considered having the slave silenced, but had her hand stayed by the guilt she still carried over the murders she’d ordered in the first hours after Father’s death. She consoled herself with the knowledge that news of a falling out between the two of them was unlikely to be believed by their opponents, as long as Dara did not carry out his threat to order Salim into exile.
Hating the need, she sent another slave to fetch Nadira. His wife would not suffer Dara to commit such folly as he’d spoken of before collapsing.
She knelt next to Dara, praying for him, for herself, and, not for the first time, a change in the way that God saw fit to bind the threads of their lives together.
Red Fort, Vine Court
“I can scarce believe it, myself,” Roshanara mused, trusting the noise of the water splashing in the fountain where her sister had nearly drowned her to cover the words.
“I am sorry, Shehzadi?” Omid said, jowls bouncing as the eunuch’s nervous eyes traveled the rest of the Vine Court in yet another search for listeners.
She said nothing, but gestured for him to continue memorizing the poem she hoped would convey her news to Aurangzeb but conceal it from any who should intercept it.
The sweat pouring from beneath Omid’s pale blue turban dripped on the fine paper he held before him, making obvious the eunuch’s desperate desire to get away from her as quickly as possible.
Wishing Doctor Gradinego were present to advise her, Roshanara sighed.
The ruse they’d used to communicate had grown too thin a cover for the frequency of their meetings, so Doctor Gradinego had introduced her to Omid just two weeks past. But even if the harem guard were smarter than he looked, Omid was too fearful of discovery to even consider offering an assessment of the information she provided.
Left with nothing save the ferenghi’s assurances the eunuch was entirely Nur’s creature, and could be relied upon to pass information to him, she’d sought Omid out. Since then, she had made something of a show of making Omid and several of the other senior harem servants join her in a poetry competition, all to furnish reasons for contact with the guard.
Omid shifted his bulk from one foot to another.
“You have it memorized?” she asked, realizing she’d left him to ruminate too long.
“I believe so, Shehzadi.”
“Repeat it, then.”
The stammer that accompanied the first few lines retreated as Omid fought to recall the hastily composed poem rather than remaining focused on the peril they were in.
When Omid finished Roshanara nodded and gave what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “You have it. Go now to your rest, you have much to do over the next few days.”
“Yes, Shehzadi,” Omid said, scarcely concealing relief at being allowed to leave.
“Omid, please at least act as if you wish to participate, if not win the competition. It will make things easier.”
The harem guard glanced up at her, took a deep, steadying breath, and bowed.
She gestured permission to depart and turned back to her qulam and ink.
Omid left without another word, and with a grimace that was supposed to be a smile plastered on beardless cheeks.
Roshanara did not notice, already lost to the present trying to predict what future moves her sibling would make in response to the news.
Red Fort, west of Lahore Gate
“This is some fort, Talawat,” John said, slapping the sun-heated stone of the crenellation in front of him with an appreciative hand. He’d had about an afternoon’s worth of training on the state of the art in fortress-building back when he was inducted into the USE’s TacRail program, and they’d gone on at length about the uselessness of freestanding curtain walls that made up most medieval castles.
The advent of cannon powerful enough to knock down such outmoded defenses had been part of the demise of medieval fortifications, but the far greater factor had been an increase in the mobility of cannon of all sizes.
Military architects in Europe and under the Mughals had both adopted the construction of earth-backed walls in response to the power of gunpowder. The Mughals also liked them because such defenses were less prone to undermining or actual explosive mines placed against the base of a curtain wall.
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��Sure is,” Bertram agreed. “Geneva’s fortifications, built to defend that city from the papists over the last two generations, are the only ones I’ve seen that might be better, and that’s only because they create a brutal crossfire by building in a star shape…And those defenses certainly lack the visual appeal of this place.”
Talawat nodded but didn’t comment. Instead he led the others over to one of the cannon installed to defend Red Fort. Patting the big bronze piece, he dismissed the men working to rebore it.
Knowing Talawat wouldn’t speak about whatever he’d brought them here to discuss until they were alone, John looked Talawat over while the men left the parapet and Bertram bent to examine the steel borer the crew had been using on the barrel. To be honest, John was a little worried about the gunsmith. Dark rings around the Atishbaz’s dark eyes showed the long hours the man was putting in.
Red Fort had a lot of cannon and a lot of mortars, but very little standardization between pieces, so the accuracy of any one gun couldn’t be relied on for training on another cannon. The program to rebore some of the bronze barrels to a standard size went on despite the destruction of the munitions factory. John figured Salim had decided the work should continue as much to shore up morale as to improve the accuracy of the guns themselves.
“How many more do they have to get done?”
Talawat heaved a tired sigh. “A great many, I’m afraid. Dara’s enemies have a lot of cannon as well as mortars.”
“I thought they wouldn’t be able to bring them to bear,” Bertram said.
A shrug. “The largest weapons in their artillery park, the true siege guns, are incredibly heavy and difficult to transport. As their supply situation is less than generous, it is hoped they will attempt a storm before the big guns can be brought up and laid in to bring down our defenses.”
“An attempt to storm us doesn’t sound much better than a siege,” John said, leaning on the gun.
Talawat nodded. “They have the numbers tradition claims sufficient to overcome the fortress.”
“Shit. Three to one?”
“Closer to four to one.”
“They have eighty thousand men?”
“More or less. It is assumed they will lose a number of them as they reduce the fortresses to our south, but their eventual arrival is why I asked you to come up here with me.”
“What’s that?”
“I wished to, as you say, ‘pick your skulls’ for possible technologies and weapons we could utilize to even the numbers, even slightly.”
“Brains,” John corrected.
“What?” Talawat asked.
“‘Pick your brains’ is the proper term.” John smiled and, rather than explain further, returned to answering the question: “Can’t do mines…”
Talawat perked up. “Mines? How would undermining our def—”
“No,” John interrupted him, “not mines in the traditional sense. These are…a small explosive and shrapnel are placed just beneath the ground. When a man or vehicle walks over, they trigger the device, which either kills or maims them.”
“A pit trap that explodes…” Talawat said, seeking clarification.
“Kind of. But making the triggers would be another drain on your skilled manpower, so I don’t think it’s a good idea… Plus, they’re a nightmare to clean up afterward.”
Talawat shook his head. “Ah. The manpower issue is a greater problem in the short term.”
“Command detonated, though…” John mused, thinking about the time they’d had an explosives expert out to blow a landslide from one of the county roads he’d been trying to clear.
“Command detonated? What is this?”
John, knowing he lacked the language to convey his thoughts, looked at Bertram, who translated: “An electrical charge is generated all along a circuit. The charge ignites powder in the charges it comes into contact with, exploding it.”
“No triggers?”
“No. Well, kind of. But just one or two. And while the dynamos will need a lot of copper wire, they aren’t all that complex. Your people can spin wire faster than anyone else I’ve seen down-time, and I remember enough from the design TacRail was implementing for blasting to help out.”
“How big a charge can we set off?”
John shrugged. “Big as you want, I guess. Biggest problem is they’ll be one-shot weapons. Well, that and the farther you are from the dynamo and the more of charges you put on a circuit…Oh, and the longer you wait for lots of men to get into the area of effect, the more likely the wire might get cut or the circuit fail from something going wrong…”
“That’s a lot of ands…” Bertram said.
“And if any of those ‘ands’ happen?” Talawat asked.
“No boom,” John said, appreciating the man’s razor-sharp focus.
“Hmm…Shrapnel from the ground just becomes so much hard rain. Could we use something lighter?”
“Like what?”
A shrug. “Oil? Perhaps?”
“I guess so, but then you have to make sure it ignites.”
Talawat nodded thoughtfully but didn’t say anything more for almost a minute.
John, thinking the gunsmith was trying to figure out a way to tell him the idea sucked, said, “Talawat, I don’t know. It’s probably not worth the time and effort to experiment with it.”
Bertram waggled his head. “I don’t know, John. Might be a horrible surprise for an enemy, especially if placed at the base of the wall while men were trying to climb.”
John shrugged. “What do you think, Talawat?”
“Shit,” Talawat opined, in a near-perfect West Virginia accent that startled a laugh from both Bertram and John.
“Don’t—” John gasped, but another burst of laughter made him cut off.
“Don’t what?” Talawat asked, smiling impishly.
“Please don’t say that in front of Ilsa.” John shook his head, wiping away tears. “She’ll have my head.”
Talawat’s smile lost none of its brightness. “I will be sure to watch my language, John. In the meantime, do you think you could draw a diagram of this, what did you call it, ‘dynamo’?”
“That’s it, yes. And if you want me to, sure.”
“I do. Even if your exact idea does not work, I may be able to think of other uses for it.”
John nodded. “If anyone can, you will. You have to be one of the smartest people I’ve ever met.”
Talawat ducked his head, cheeks above his beard darkening as he looked at his feet. “You do me too much honor.”
“No, I do not, Talawat. Your work is outstanding, and if we are going to win, it’ll be because of you and your people.”
Talawat turned abruptly away. “My thanks, John.” Wiping his face, the gunsmith said over his shoulder, “I will go now. Please send the diagram on when you can.”
John looked at Bertram, who shrugged and turned to lean on the crenellations. “Will do, Talawat. Hope I helped.”
“More than you know, John, more than you know,” Talawat called.
John stood up and joined Bertram at the parapet. He leaned elbows on the hot stone and looked out over the plain to the south.
“Think we can win, Bertram?” he asked, watching a patrol ride south.
“I do, John,” Bertram said without taking his eyes off the horizon. “Why do you ask?”
“I guess I can’t help but think we’re in way over our heads.”
“Might be. But we have the tiger by the tail now, so there’s not much to do but hang on.”
“True enough.” John turned around and folded his arms across his chest. He watched Talawat walk from the shadow of the ramp that accessed the upper defenses. “Sure am glad that guy’s on our side.”
“Talawat?” Bertram asked.
“Yep.”
“You were right to compliment him,” Bertram said.
“Just telling the truth…”
“But it’s nice to hear someone say, anyway.”
John coc
ked his head. “Doesn’t seem too comfortable with compliments.”
“Perhaps not.” Bertram sniffed. “But comfort is one thing, appreciation another. He’s being worked rather hard.”
“Too hard, you think?”
“Oh, I doubt it!” Bertram chuckled. “I’ll wager he’s the happiest he’s ever been.”
“Happiest?”
“Look, back before the Ring of Fire, when I was at university, I had befriended an incredibly intelligent and accomplished fellow. The rest of the students, my other friends, we all knew he was destined for great things. He wasn’t wealthy, though, and needed a patron. Thing was, he hated the nobility and most other wealthy people generally struck him as grasping and lacking in vision. For these and other reasons, he was unable to find a patron. As a result, his ideas languished or failed for lack of money to fund his experiments.”
“Oh?” John asked, unsure where Bertram was going with this.
“The last thing he said to me was that he wished he’d found a king or duke or even a merchant to serve, so that he could use the wealth and access such a patron provided to follow through on the promise of his many ideas. To apply the full measure of one’s mind, experience, and skill upon problem after problem. To see the material results of one’s vision prosper, be given physical form?” The young down-timer shook his head. “Surely that is a reward unlike and greater than any other for a man with his gifts.”
“I’m sure all the cash Dara is throwing his way doesn’t hurt.”
Bertram laughed aloud. “There is that, my friend. He does pay well.”
“Sure does. You see the robe Talawat was wearing? All those gemstones?”
Bertram nodded, still chuckling, and added, “And the stone stuck in his turban would choke a horse.”
Hell, my own wardrobe is starting to look a lot more Liberace than The Man in Black.
The pair of men, far from home but still with loved ones near at hand, laughed long and hard.
