by Eric Flint
“Vikram! I need Jadu to come take a look at Bobby.”
The slightly built servant bowed to Ricky. “I’m sorry, but Jadu Das has already departed for Shaista Khan’s tent. Is there anything I might do?”
“I don’t know, Vikram. Bobby is sick. Some kind of fever?”
“Is he throwing up or…?” Vikram asked, his normally sunny disposition clouding over with concern.
“No, he’s not having any kind of digestive problems,” Ricky said, feeling better just having somebody to tell his worries to.
“I will send word to Jadu Das and make sure that cold compresses are laid by when we camp this evening.”
Ricky nodded, wondering if they shouldn’t just camp now so Bobby could rest.
Vikram, sensing Ricky’s unease, said, “Or perhaps I will look at him now and have some icewater made up for him.”
“Thanks, Vikram,” Ricky said, meaning it. “I’m really worried about him.”
The servant delegated a few tasks to others and sent a messenger for Jadu, then organized the copper bowls for making cold water.
Ricky, relieved to have any help, didn’t mind waiting. The up-timer’s camp gear and equipment had been off-loaded on the upstream side of the landing, so it shouldn’t cause too much of a backup for the subsequent barge-loads of soldiers, livestock, and gear.
His anxiety spiked again when they got back to the piled goods Ricky had left Bobby sitting on. His momentary panic eased quickly enough when they found a shivering Bobby wrapped in a couple of blankets among the folded bulk of their tent.
“Jesus, Bobby. Should’ve told me you were feeling this bad.”
Bobby opened fever bright eyes. “C-c-couldn’t f-f-f-find you, R-r-r-andy,” he said through chattering teeth.
“Bobby, it’s me, Ricky.”
“F-F-fuck! Y-y-you d-d-d-d-ead too?” Bobby asked.
“We ain’t dead yet, Bobby. Just real uncomfortable. Man up and drink something,” Ricky said, quoting just one of their old Little League coach’s many oddly inspirational sayings.
Bobby’s smile nearly broke Ricky’s heart.
He looked up at Vikram and asked in a voice that sounded thick to his own ears, “When will that cold water be ready?”
“Just as soon as possible, Ricky. We must keep him cool if we can. I will order the tents raised.”
“You know what he has?” Ricky asked, annoyed at how scared he sounded.
Vikram shook his head. “Only that we should keep his temperature down. Otherwise, even if he survives the fever he might be addled.”
A barge full of armed men was just touching shore. They stared with disinterest at the sick man and his companions.
“Can you carry him?” Vikram asked, pointing with his chin at the soldiers. “We need to get out of their way.”
“I will.”
“Right, I’ll see to things and send you some men to set up camp and see to his comfort and yours.”
“Thanks, Vikram.”
The servant turned and left, quickly disappearing in the swirl of men on the shore.
Ricky stooped and picked up his friend, carrying him a little ways up the shore to a point where they might pitch the tents without being overrun by the rest of the column marching with Shaista Khan. He sat there shading Bobby for a little while. The servants Vikram sent arrived and quickly started to set the camp up around them. Vikram himself arrived with several cold compresses and the copper rig used to make more before the tents were fully erected.
West of Kanpur
The Mission’s tent
“Any idea what it is?” Ricky asked as Jadu stepped from the “bedroom” of the tent and into the common area.
“Not really, though I think the fever has peaked. You did well to cool him off.”
Ricky eyed the older man. Jadu looked tired and, for the first time in Ricky’s experience, anxious. “Rough day with Shaista Khan?” he asked. “Sorry, just worried, you know?” He gestured to a seat.
Jadu accepted a goblet of wine from Vikram, and then sat down. “I do indeed.” Jadu sighed. “Today was…difficult.”
“Oh?”
Jadu waved with his goblet. “You know where we are?”
“Sure: we’re just north of…I’m sure I’m not pronouncing it right, a place called Kanpur.”
“Correct. Is that name not familiar to you?”
Ricky thought a moment. “Can’t say that it is.”
“Did you get a chance to study any of the histories of India that came back with your town?”
“Sure,” Ricky said, nodding. It occurred to him to ask where Jadu had gotten access to the history that came back with Grantville but wanted to hear the local out before asking his own questions.
“India Britannica?” Jadu asked.
“No, but the title sounds familiar. I think someone checked it out and hadn’t returned it to the library. I remember because Ms. Mailey was super angry, muttering about the special hell that had to wait for people who check books out of the library and don’t return them.” He snapped his fingers. “Is that the book Salim used to… Holy shit, it is! That’s why Shah Jahan kicked the English out.”
Jadu was looking at him in the way that down-timers had when considering how to unpack a statement made that was so laden with up-timer lingo that it was hard to know where to begin. The merchant drank instead of asking Ricky to clarify, then asked another question: “Did you read about the Sepoy Rebellion?”
Ricky nodded. “Yeah, I remember the name even if I can’t remember much of the particulars. During the British Raj the governor or somebody pissed off the indigenous portion of his military and kicked off a mutiny. The mutiny got out of hand and became a rebellion. Lots of Brits got murdered and there was some kind of atrocity the English claimed was committed by their former soldiers.”
Jadu leaned forward. “And do you remember where the atrocity took place?”
Ricky had to think about it for a minute but eventually remembered some part of it. “Crawnpoor or some such?”
“Kanpur,” Jadu corrected, finishing his drink. “The fort on the hill overlooking the town,” he said, holding the glass up as Vikram entered with a fresh pitcher.
Ricky held his own out, not really thirsty but happy to have a distraction. Worrying about Bobby sweating out whatever sickness he’d caught made him feel helpless.
“That fort—or at least a future version of it—was where the mutineers slaughtered a great many Englishmen after a siege.”
Ricky considered that as Vikram refreshed their drinks, then said, “So how did that make today…?”
“Shaista Khan had word today that Aurangzeb has completed his siege lines and cut off Red Fort from all supply.”
“Shit,” Ricky said, suddenly feeling guilty that it seemed all his friends were facing danger while he sat here, healthy and safe, drinking wine.
“But that is not all.”
Jadu drank, then said, “Our friend Salim is somewhere in the Western Ghats, hopefully on his way somewhere safe.”
“Salim left Red Fort? Why?”
Jadu waggled his head. “The court is abuzz with rumors that he and Jahanara Begum had some kind of inappropriate contact. Dara exiled him. Things do not look good.”
Fearing for his friends both near and far, Ricky did something he very rarely did since leaving home: said an earnest, if silent, prayer for their well-being.
“Did Shaista agree to pick up the pace or anything?” he asked.
“The Khan was considering his options even as I was called here.” Jadu took another long drink and shrugged. “His army is certainly large enough to make a difference. It’s his political position that’s weak.
“That was the debate he was having: On the one hand it grows stronger with Dara the longer he delays. On the other, if he waits too long and Dara is defeated before he arrives, especially with little loss to Aurangzeb’s forces, he will have a great deal of explaining to do in order to justify his refusal to answer
Aurangzeb’s call.”
“But he already declared for Dara, didn’t he?”
Jadu nodded. “Indeed he did. The one thing any new-made Sultan Al’Azam cannot ignore from any of his subordinates is a failure to take sides with someone in the royal family.”
“Someone?” Ricky asked, then realized what it was Jadu was telling him. “Wait, I get it. Whoever wins will want to know why their nobles didn’t pick a side…”
“Almost,” Jadu said. “They will already know, in their hearts, why. It is well known that anyone who does not support one of the princes is planning to take power themselves, something the dynasty cannot and will not countenance.”
“Right.” Ricky felt a sudden need for more drink. When he’d refilled his cup he asked, “So, any idea which way he was leaning?”
“I believe the only sensible path open to him is to make better time, to hurry and support Dara. That is what I advised him to do.” He finished his wine again and shrugged. “But then he said my thinking was a victim of my own hopes in the matter.”
Sudden worry stabbed Ricky. “My calling for you here didn’t screw things up with Shaista Khan, did it?”
Jadu shook his head. “No, I’ve been kept waiting at least as much as I have been allowed in to see him. Though I suppose telling him one of you had fallen ill may not have been the best thing to do.”
“Why not?”
“In our previous conversations I put great stock in your up-timer technology, skill, and wisdom to shore up an image of Dara’s camp as stronger than it might otherwise appear. Specifically your medical acumen. I’m afraid I might have made you out to be signs of divine favor upon Dara’s cause.”
Ricky shook his head. “And it’s hard to look like a messenger from God if you’re sick.”
Jadu nodded. “I should not have said anything. I apologize. I’ve grown quite fond of both of you. The wine makes me morose and stains every word dark. The important thing is that Bobby get well. The rest of it is just politics and will work itself out, one way or another.”
“One way or another,” Ricky agreed.
Part Eight
September, 1637
All mounted on their shining chariots!
—The Rig Veda
Chapter 40
Agra
Red Fort, palace of Akbar
The lamps were burning low as John and Ilsa sat. Gervais had asked for the meeting, but their busy schedules had only left this after-hours window in which to meet. The palace was quiet. Even the servants had retired for the night, dismissed after setting up the chamber.
John was tired, wrung out in a way he’d rarely felt before. It had been a long evening spent in private counsel with Dara, where the emperor had dropped yet another bombshell on his closest advisors. The stress was enough to put him off his feed. Even the collection of fresh fruit and wine laid out for their refreshment held no appeal.
He tried not to grind his teeth as Bertram, Monique, and Gervais finally entered. He’d found it hard to accept that the people he’d trusted with not only his life, but Ilsa’s and that of their unborn child as well, had been lying to him.
Ilsa greeted them cordially. She’d always been better at hiding her anger. Then again, she’d said she was more disappointed than angry, when John had gone off about it. She’d expressed her disappointment, sure, but hadn’t shown one tenth the angry hurt he felt whenever he thought about it.
The trio looked around with fatigue-fogged interest before picking spots amongst the cushions in the center of the chamber. The Mission personnel had all been given quarters in what had been Aurangzeb’s palace, but John and Ilsa had been too busy and tired to investigate their new digs, and John assumed the same was true for the rest of them.
Preparations for the siege likewise hadn’t given them much time to think, let alone discuss recent events, and John had been on a slow boil the last few days, stress and anger eating at him.
“John, Ilsa,” Gervais said, nodding at each. He didn’t act like he was even aware the couple might have reason to be angry.
“Gervais,” Ilsa said, her light tone polite enough to make even John wonder if she was angry.
John was saved from having to respond when Priscilla and Rodney entered. Both of them looked like the walking dead. Priscilla stopped and yawned so hugely a hint of tears came to the corners of her closed eyes. Led by one of Rodney’s great mitts, she found a seat across from John and Ilsa.
Looking around, John saw the rest of the Mission were more or less equally divided between yawning or, like him, stifling one.
“Hey, all,” Rodney said.
Everyone’s responses were muted.
John felt Bertram looking at him but, not trusting his temper, refused to meet him eye to eye.
“Sorry this had to be so late, but I wanted to make sure we all had a chance to talk,” Gervais said.
“About what?” John said, barely restraining a snarl.
“I certainly hope we’re here to talk about the big fucking elephant in the room,” Ilsa said.
Everyone turned to stare at his wife, not least of all John.
Her smile was so lovely it made his heart stumble through a few beats. Ilsa did not see his response, as her eyes were on Gervais as she answered. “You should have brought us in, Gervais. You know it, and you should apologize for it now, profusely, so we can all get along again.”
“I—I—” Gervais stammered, usual eloquence deserting him.
Monique said in his stead, “To be fair, Ilsa: it was discussed and at very great length. Jahanara vetoed it.”
“Is Jahanara a member of this USE mission? A special envoy of the USE?” Ilsa asked. “As she is not, it should have been obvious who you were duty bound to report to.”
The con man flinched. What she was describing was perilously close to treason, something Gervais had just lost his oldest friend to. “I—”
Ilsa cut him off: “I am not done yet: You knew who you were supposed to report to and confer with and you didn’t. That’s not something you can just ignore.”
Gervais rallied. “The fewer people who know the details of—”
“To hell with that, Gervais! You needed John and Rodney, and to a lesser extent, Priscilla and me, to act hurt and despondent, and rather than trust our ability to perform in your little operation, you actually hurt us. I can excuse the hurt to me. I can’t be so sanguine about what you did to my husband.” She smiled again, coldly this time. “Now, I understand there were reasons for doing what you did, I truly do. But now is not the time to defend yourselves. Now is the time to make it as right as you can. That in mind, I, for one, would like to hear an abject apology from each of you to each of us. Once you’ve all done that, I would have you explain one thing more: tell me that all the shit you were driven to do was worth it.”
John, blinking in the wake of his wife’s use of profanity, looked from Ilsa to Bertram then back again.
“And you, John, don’t look at me like that,” she said. “Just because I dislike such language doesn’t mean I do not know how to employ it in order to impress upon our friends just how fucking important this is to me.”
Ilsa settled back in her cushions, looking at each of the others in turn.
All three of the other down-timers looked stricken. If John hadn’t been so angry and tired, he might have felt sorry for them. As it was, he could only sit in mute silence.
“Damn straight,” Priscilla said, all traces of her earlier drowsiness gone.
She looked at Rodney, who was nodding agreement. “Better said than I could manage,” he rumbled.
Gervais opened his mouth to say something, but Bertram beat him to it. “I am sorry. Truly sorry. Ilsa is right, we should have trusted you. I knew it from the moment I heard about the corpses in the manufactory.”
Monique’s hand found Bertram’s, squeezing it. “I am sorry, too. We should have done better.” She looked at her father. “Could have done better.”
“Well, e
xperience tells me I should smile and make some excuse to cover for my errors…” Gervais trailed off, one fine-fingered hand rubbing his bearded chin. “But no, not this time. In my life, I have used any number of rationalizations to excuse my behavior. To the public, to myself, to my daughter, to her mother. I have watched others do the same, and get away with acts barbaric and cruel. I find, at this late date and”—he swallowed—“and only after the recent example of my friend’s failure to see the harm he did, that I am tired of rationalizing, of excuses.” He raised his head and there were tears in his eyes as he said, “I am sorry, John, Ilsa, Priscilla, Rodney. I am deeply sorry.”
Wanting to believe their apologies were sincere, yet uncertain how to trust again, John looked away.
“As to the other part,” Bertram said, taking up the thread and looking directly at Ilsa. “I suppose the battle to come will provide the only real answers to whether Jahanara’s subterfuge and the lies we told to maintain it were worth it or not. Early indications are good, though. If he was planning a siege, Aurangzeb’s forces would have started digging trenches as soon as they first encircled us. As no one we’ve seen has even picked up a spade, it looks as if little brother plans to try and overrun us in one go. That means the impact of the weapons will be far greater than those killed or injured by them.”
“Surprise is in the mind of the enemy,” John muttered.
“Exactly.” Then, probably because John had yet to acknowledge their apologies, he said, “I’m really sorry, John. Should have told you right from the start. Or later, when we were with Talawat on the walls.”
Bertram was looking at him again, eyes pleading.
John, throat tight, looked down at his lap. When he looked up again, it felt like everyone had joined Bertram in looking at him.
“Look, I understand why you did what you did, and why the princess asked you to do it. I still think the men she had me issue the guns to would be a lot better trained if I could have given them some live-fire training, but I see the value in making the enemy believe we were out of options. Problem is, I thought we were out of options. I can’t see how deceiving your general up to the eve of battle is even an option…”
