by Eric Flint
“When I was younger, I’d hoped a facial scar or two might make me look less a child, but none of the men I’ve fought with live steel have landed blows on my face. But then, I am here to complain of it and they are not.”
Ilsa’s smile made her glad of the veil, for once. “I know we were all so grateful for the skill at arms you and your sisters showed that day. I don’t know if I, personally, expressed my gratitude for your her—”
“Please, I only did my duty. And by one measure, failed, miserably.”
“But—”
“Oh,” Atisheh interrupted her, “I know I am not responsible. But, when one has dedicated one’s life to defending a man and all that he loves, it hurts to see him murdered, even if it happened beyond the reach of my sword.”
Ilsa nodded. “Understandable, that.”
Another chuckle.
“What is it?”
“The back of my neck heats as if my aunt had just slapped me.”
Ilsa looked a question at her.
“She had a habit of doing that when I would complain of how hard a lot in life I had or when I failed at some task she’d set for me. Which occurred, judging from the number of slaps I received, far too often for her liking.”
“Sounds as if you miss her a great deal.”
“Every single day.” Atisheh chuckled again, and waggled her head. “Though I have little desire to relive those stinging slaps.”
They rode the rest of the way to the city gates in a reflective, friendly silence. A mob of people were at the gate, most of them waiting for loved ones trying to get out of the city. The press of people was loud.
A richly dressed man Ilsa took to be the captain of the gate was standing on the rampart. He was looking down at them and shouting some query Ilsa couldn’t comprehend.
Atisheh must have understood him despite the crowd noise. Rather than shout back, she simply gave an exaggerated nod.
The man barked a command.
Men with long batons emerged from the gatehouse and started to push the crowd back from the gate with their staves. A few minutes of shouting and shoving opened a narrow passage to the gate and emptied the mouth of the gate itself.
Isla would have said something about the lack of care the men showed for the well-being of the people shoved aside, but her baby-sensitive stomach roiled at the smell of all those sweating people and their varied diets crammed together in so small a space.
The pair of riders approached the crowd, which Ilsa thought remained far calmer than any equivalent crowd of Germans would have been under similar circumstances. A small group of men escaped the cordon to one side of the gate, forming a knot in front of it. Atisheh rode slowly through them, seeming unconcerned by their presence.
Ilsa, not so sanguine about their presence, watched them closely. One of the men seemed to reach up at Atisheh as she passed into the shadow of the gate. She opened her mouth to shout a warning but the man withdrew his hand so quickly Ilsa doubted the evidence of her own eyes. By the time she managed to urge Flower up next to Atisheh, they were through the gate, past the crowds, and nearly home. Ilsa was going to say something then, but the city was too quiet, the silence oppressive in a way the heat alone could not explain. She wanted to mention that man, but opened her mouth only to clamp it closed as a light breeze assaulted her nostrils with a new stink. Instead she spent several minutes struggling to keep her lunch in its proper place, unable to answer when the Mission House guards challenged them.
Atisheh glanced at Ilsa and, no doubt observing how green her companion was, answered for them both.
John and Monique walked up as she dismounted in the inner court. He was dusty and looked worn out from the day’s work. Probably smelled a bit, too. Still, she loved the way he walked, broad shoulders and narrow hips moving in a way that never failed to catch her attention. Sure, most accomplished swordsmen had similar moves, but they also had the bandy legs of the born horsemen. She preferred her man’s straight legs.
“Hey, how are you?” he asked them both, leaning over for a kiss.
She pecked him on the cheek. He did smell: his own brand of healthy sweat and horse, which she didn’t find at all offensive.
“I am well, Mr. Ennis, Monique,” Atisheh said, nodding at the pair from the saddle.
Taking Atisheh’s horse by the bridle, Monique looked up at the warrior, thick curls bouncing. “Staying?”
“I must return,” Atisheh said.
“Thank you for escorting my wife, Atisheh,” John said.
“It was nothing. A pleasure,” the harem guard answered.
John nodded and looked at Ilsa. “Shall we?”
“Of course.”
As she and her husband walked Flower to the stable, Ilsa reflected how odd her pregnancy was. She remembered her mother claiming she’d been sick all the time whilst pregnant with Ilsa, but hadn’t mentioned what, in particular, had made her throw up. For her own part, Ilsa didn’t vomit very often, and then it was usually as a result of some everyday smell seeming ten times as powerful as it had been before her pregnancy.
And then, there’s the fact that when I’m around John, I’m randy as a stoat—not that I wasn’t before! Speaking of which…
Glancing over her shoulder to see the guards attending to their duty and looking out over the city, and Monique and Atisheh deep in conversation, she gave John’s muscular bottom a squeeze.
Surprise made him hop. He grinned down at her and placed his hand on her posterior as well.
So, so randy.
Chapter 32
Gwalior Fort
Aurangzeb’s camp
The Red Tent
“Carvalho, you are to proceed north once you have rested and the remainder of the artillery train has caught up,” Aurangzeb said. The heavy guns had a hard time keeping up with the army, and were only going to find it more difficult the longer the campaign continued.
“As you command, Sultan Al’Azam.” Carvalho’s answer was quick despite the expression of surprise that flashed across his face. And, among his officers, Carvalho had the most justification for that surprise: Aurangzeb’s artillery corps commander had lost more men at Burhanpur than anyone else, so he was naturally more concerned about committing to another siege, and certainly more so than the light cavalry commanders standing to either side of the ferenghi captain.
“The men here, they will not resist us?” Sidi Miftah Habash Khan inquired, gesturing at the massive defenses of Gwalior Fort.
Aurangzeb hid a smile by bowing his head. It boded well that even his trusted men could not foretell his actions. Of course, they did not have access to the sources of information that he and Nur had cultivated.
His good mood soured as he watched water drip from the edges of the awning set up before the Red Tent. His trusted umara attended him in an informal council of war while the first steady rain of the season offered liquid proof of how little time remained for the young emperor to bring Dara to battle and defeat him. The rains would not stop his army but they would slow it, and, more critically, greatly reduce the speed and efficiency of the banjari network transporting the necessary supplies from Bombay port. So much so that most of the fodder would rot or be eaten before arriving at the men and horses it was intended to serve. The relief he’d felt upon receiving the message last night had put him on his knees, driving him to offer fervent prayers of thanksgiving unto the Almighty for many hours. The grain stores of Gwalior, when emptied, would serve to keep his army fed and mobile for a month or more, despite the weather.
Aurangzeb decided he’d left the question unanswered for long enough. “To be sure, were I to offer them insult or the sword, they would deny us the fortress for months, if not years.”
“You bought another commander, Sultan Al’Azam?” Shahaji asked, grinning.
Aurangzeb leveled a sober stare at the man. “No, I did not.”
Shahaji’s smile faded only slightly, and Aurangzeb found himself forcing down a matching grin that threatened
from the corners of his own mouth. Such would be an unseemly public display.
He sniffed. “In fact, I had been much distressed with concerns over how we might take Gwalior without spending blood and treasure I can ill afford,” he admitted.
“Blood we would gladly spill for you, Sultan Al’Azam, for your cause has God’s favor,” Sidi Miftah said.
“Indeed. God, in His wisdom, did correct me in my doubts. He provided, as always. Ahmad Khan sent a messenger with an offer to capitulate. I accepted.”
Piratical grins greeted that news. From everyone but the Habshi, who tugged at his densely curled beard.
“What is it, Sidi Miftah Khan?” Aurangzeb asked.
“Forgive me, Sultan Al’Azam, but how can you trust this commander? Forgive me, but I do not even recognize the name you give us. Lacking that name recognition, I know this man cannot possess an honorable reputation to match Lahore Rathore, and therefore is not likely to be worthy of remaining in our rear without the necessary assurances.” He raised a brow in question. “Hostages and the like?”
“I will not take hostages from men whose only crime was to be loyal servants of the imperial court.”
Everyone seemed dismayed at this revelation, so Aurangzeb took great pleasure in revealing his next bit of news: “But he—and his entire garrison—will not remain here. They will ride north with us. I will install my own garrison there on the morrow,” he added, pointing at the citadel.
When Sidi Miftah looked unrelieved, Aurangzeb gestured for him to speak his concerns.
“Sultan Al’Azam, please forgive me any impertinence in questioning you, but why this sudden collapse of Dara’s support? I am thankful to Almighty God, of course, but it almost seems too good to be true.”
“As it did to me, before I had confirmation from other sources.”
“Confirmation of what, Sultan Al’Azam?” Sidi insisted.
“Thanks be to God,” Aurangzeb said, “Dara has removed his most powerful supporter from the court, exiling him.”
“Exiled?” Sidi Miftah asked, eyes wide in his handsome face.
“Indeed. My brother is so lost to morality he has allowed my sister, Jahanara, to have relations with the upstart Salim Gadh Yilmaz. And then, to add to his shame, only exiled the pig instead of killing the wretch as he…” Aurangzeb let the words trail away, pretending a pain he scarcely felt. The news was too good for his cause to truly feel regret. That his eldest sibling had been so lost to honor that she had tarnished the family image in such a way was…useful.
The gathered men’s shocked mutters stopped when Sidi Miftah went to his knees before his ruler.
“Sultan Al’Azam,” he said, “may I be the first to offer my blade to avenge your family honor? Let me seek this man out and kill him like the pig he is!”
Aurangzeb froze, surprised at the passion in his follower’s words. He found his voice after a moment’s consideration, and said, “If he should be so foolish as to come to us thinking to take service despite his transgressions, I will avail myself of your kind offer. As it is, I doubt very strongly we will be seeing him again. By all reports, he flees to Gujarat, and thence to Mecca.”
“You are certain? I would follow him to the ends of the earth to expunge this stain.”
“I am certain, Sidi Miftah,” Aurangzeb replied, though he did not feel half as certain as he tried to project.
“As you command, Sultan Al’Azam,” the Habshi said, reluctantly climbing to his feet.
Aurangzeb called for a drink, using the moment to assess the men’s response to his report. The other captains seemed content with both their companion’s offer and their commander’s response, but if the Habshi’s response would be paralleled—or even exceeded—among the common sowar serving him, was he missing a potential liability…or possibly an opportunity to either strengthen their ties to him?
“Sultan Al’Azam, may I ask a question?”
“Of course, Carvalho Khan,” Aurangzeb said.
“You have not told us what reason, specifically, the commander gave for his defection. I understand a certain level of fear, but the Afghan was only one man, not a proven general such as yourself, from a family of no great consequence.”
“You are correct, he was not a proven leader, but he was the man trusted to employ the technology of the up-timers to best effect. Then the common sowar see the explosion destroy the manufactory set up for the production of the advanced up-timer weapons. Each is seen as a possible foretelling of Dara’s failure in battle. Then we take Burhanpur, and Asirgarh capitulates far more quickly than anyone predicted. And now this last proof of Dara’s moral failures. While not weighty as a military matter, it proved the straw that broke the camel’s back, at least for the commander up there.” He pointed at the vast fortress. “Indeed, I am told that some who had been whispering that Dara’s cause might be cursed now speak openly of his personal failures and the obvious corollary: the imminent failure of his cause.”
Even as he offered the captains his assurances, Aurangzeb wondered, not for the first time, if he was not falling into some trap laid for him by the Adversary.
It would have helped to have someone to speak to candidly regarding his concerns. Other than God, of course, He was consulted at every opportunity. No, just someone to listen and offer commentary would be helpful.
Much to his surprise, he felt her absence was a detriment to his decision-making. Nur would have offered her opinions, but she had taken ill the night before last. Unsolicited as those opinions might be, Nur Jahan was the only person in the world with both the political acumen and sufficient awareness of his plans to comment with clarity on the repercussions of his decisions.
Suddenly irritated that he should have become reliant on anyone, let alone Nur, he turned his attention to the task at hand and rattled off the next day’s order of march.
The Red Tent
“Greetings, Sultan Al’Azam,” Methwold said, rising from his bow. He could hear De Jesus’ robes rustle as he climbed to his feet as well. Methwold hoped the priest would control himself at this, the first formal audience they’d had with Aurangzeb since he’d declared himself emperor of the Mughals.
“You requested an audience?” the emperor asked, entirely without preamble.
The gathered umara stirred, interest piqued. Supplicants were rarely admitted without the emperor knowing precisely what they wanted from him.
Feeling De Jesus tense behind him, Methwold quickly spoke: “Indeed, Sultan Al’Azam, we only wished to congratulate you on your victories. Surely the speed with which you have accomplished them is testament to the favor God shows you.”
Again he felt De Jesus stir, and again Methwold prayed silently—and without much hope—for the priest to keep silent. De Jesus had complained bitterly and at length that Methwold was not being assertive enough with their claims on the emperor before, and now that Aurangzeb had taken Gwalior and its vast food stores, the emperor was far less reliant on the Europeans for their maintenance. It had taken every bit of Methwold’s diplomatic skill and experience to talk the priest into allowing Methwold to take the lead in the audience.
“While I appreciate the sentiment, it is premature to offer such congratulations.” The emperor’s expression remained impassive as he spoke, though his gaze did slide from Methwold to the priest and back again.
“We pray God your victories will be repeated until your final triumph, Sultan Al’Azam.”
Again De Jesus stirred.
Damn the man’s religious intolerance.
The emperor had not missed the movement. “Your priest does not seem as certain of God’s will as you are.”
“I am not his—” De Jesus blurted.
Methwold spoke over his companion. “As you know, Sultan Al’Azam, Father De Jesus and I are not of the same church.”
An expressionless nod of the young man’s head. “I did know that, though it seems Father De Jesus wishes to speak for himself.”
“As he says, Presid
ent Methwold is…” De Jesus paused, “…not a member of the Mother Church. I will not vouch for the efficacy of his prayers for your cause…Sultan Al’Azam.”
Bloody hell!
Methwold thought he saw a hint of a smile playing at the edges of Aurangzeb’s mouth. Though what, exactly, he found humorous in the priest’s statement was beyond the merchant.
“What, then, brings you before me?”
“Sul—”
Aurangzeb’s raised hand stopped Methwold. “I would hear it from Father De Jesus.”
William Methwold closed his eyes and began a silent prayer.
“As President Methwold states, we are here to congratulate you”—Methwold dared hope, opening his eyes—“and to see you make good on the promises made to our patrons in exchange for their assistance!” De Jesus finished in a rush, too loudly to be ignored.
Methwold stifled a fearful groan.
Aurangzeb’s slow blink was disconcerting. “Have you not received our words on this matter?”
“We have—”
“Certainly, we have, and we are gr—” Methwold tried to interrupt, but Aurangzeb again raised his hand. “Do continue, Father,” he said, dropping the hand.
Oblivious to the trap he was setting foot into, De Jesus went on. “But that is all we have received, Sultan Al’Azam.”
His courtiers began to mutter angrily, but Methwold was made far more nervous by Aurangzeb’s seeming calm. By comparison, Shah Jahan had been an easy read. His son was cut from a different cloth altogether.
“And what would you have of me now, priest?”
De Jesus wasn’t stupid. He caught the change in the emperor’s address. He was, however, young and far more of a hothead than his superiors had thought.
“Simply that you grant the firmans promised in exchange for our support…As well as provide for the protection of priests traveling in your lands.”
“All are—or will be—protected on the emperor’s roads, so I do not see why it is you see fit to make a point of it.”
