by Eric Flint
“Salim was in on it from the beginning, and he was to be Dara’s second,” Monique said.
John just looked at her.
“He ain’t here,” Rodney said.
“But he is still fighting for Dara!” Monique said. “His exile was part of the attempt to make us appear weak so Aurangzeb will attack head-on.”
“We are weaker without him than with!” John said, a little louder and angrier than he’d meant to.
Rodney stirred, then spoke. “Dara was already cutting Salim out of the picture, you know. He thought the pair of them were knocking boots, and wanted Salim exiled. It was a weird fixation he had. Every time he started coming down with one of those brutal headaches he would start in about it.”
Gervais nodded and added, “Jahanara made use of the only option that both removed Salim from the court, as Dara wished, and retained his services, and in the process deceived Aurangzeb. It was an elegant solution to a potential disaster.”
“I don’t disagree, Gervais. Thing is, when you play these kind of games with people, your mileage may vary. What if I was so pissed I just took Ilsa and we rode for the God-damned hills like the men who snuck out after Salim left? What then?”
They had no answer for that, and all of them had the good grace to look guilty. A part of John figured he’d said enough, but couldn’t help continuing, “Look, we already know we aren’t going to change everything about these people or this place, and we all learned exactly how dangerous court politics can be when they killed Shah Jahan. But I’m not going to sit by and idly take that crap for normal!”
Rodney and Priscilla were nodding agreement. Monique and Bertram both looked like they wanted to say something, but John plowed on. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking about taking her on right now. It’s too important that we get through these next few days without the men realizing there’s been yet another reason to worry. But once we get through this, if we get through this, there will be a God-damned reckoning.” His voice was shaking by the time John stopped talking.
“John, we’re gonna make it,” Rodney said.
“I sure hope so, but Rodney, you’ve been neck-deep in setting up the hospital with Pris, so you don’t know what we’ve been going through on my end since Salim left.” He glanced at Bertram. “And you didn’t get a chance to hear what Dara is planning now.”
“No?” Rodney said, blinking.
“He wants to sally.”
“Sally? You’re kidding,” Ilsa said. He’d not told her the news before the meeting, more because he hadn’t the heart than from any real lack of time for it.
“Nope. No joke at all. Dara said that once we’ve stalled the attack at the walls, he will lead a couple thousand sowar out and ‘sweep them before us like leaves carried on a cleansing wind.’”
“Jesus,” Rodney said.
“Right?” John said, catching Ilsa’s frown at Rodney’s casual use of the name. For some reason her expression struck him as funny. So funny he had to hide a foolish grin. Foul language allowed, just no blaspheming, thank you very much.
“Tell them the rest, John,” Bertram said.
Memory killed the smile. “I argued about it—as much as I dared—and he’s dead serious. I said we couldn’t afford to lose him or that many fighting men and he laughed. Said we wouldn’t, that God was with us. You know how he gets. I gave the signal to Bertram and things went from bad to worse from there.”
Bertram sighed. “When it seemed we were going back over the same ground and Dara remained unconvinced, I told him to send for Bidhi Chand, thinking an experienced warrior would add his voice to John’s wisdom.”
Gervais tutted. “Didn’t I teach you better, mon fils? Never, ever ask anyone else’s opinion unless you coached them on it yourself.”
Bertram’s cheeks reddened. “How was I to know he’d fully endorse the idea?”
John laughed bitterly. “That wasn’t the only opinion Bidhi had. He offered the services of his men in the sally.”
“But they’re infantry,” Ilsa said. Far better at organizing than her husband, she had been a great help to John in planning and implementing the training regimen for the garrison. “Won’t they deploy too slowly to make a difference?”
“Exactly what I said,” John muttered.
“And his response was along the lines of, ‘John, we will be like the wind, and take the fight to them, provided the preparations you and Talawat have arranged do their job and stop the storm at the second wall.’”
“But, how does—”
“He and Bidhi say they can get outside the gates in quick time. Dara will lead”—he had to pause to let the gasps of surprise die—“the horse straight out and at the retreating backs of the enemy while Bidhi follows out the gate and wheels parallel to the walls and start mopping up. They are confident of accomplishing a great slaughter.”
“But if they are retreating, won’t they all be out of range of the infantry?” Ilsa asked. “And what happens when they recover? Won’t the Sikhs be caught against the wall? And if they’re pursued as they try and return through the gate?”
“All valid points I made sure to bring up,” John said. “He didn’t listen. Bidhi was even worse, he just smiled and said he was ready to face whatever challenges were placed before him by God and the enemy.”
“Was Talawat there?” Rodney asked.
“Yes, but he wasn’t the voice of reason I’ve grown to expect. He was grinning like a madman.”
“What did you do?” Monique said.
“I tried to convince them not to throw away our best men in an attack that would likely fail and only serve to put his own life at risk.” He shook his head. “They didn’t listen.”
“John may have pulled off a minor miracle by convincing Dara to only sally if it was clear that any attempted storm was a failure on at least two fronts.” John didn’t miss the admiration in Bertram’s tone.
“But then he’s the one decides what constitutes success and failure, so he might order the sally on a whim.” John lowered his voice and dropped into his fastest Amideutsch. “Frankly, dude is hurt and I worry he might fall out under pressure.”
Rodney and Gervais shared a concerned look.
“Oh, I think he’ll be all right,” Gervais said.
Rodney snorted. “For certain values of all right. His blood pressure is down, and I think he’s chasing the dragon again, because he’s nowhere near as high strung and hasn’t shown any signs of another seizure despite being under what has to be a huge strain…”
“He is,” Gervais confirmed, then held up his hands to ward off Rodney’s anger. “I didn’t give it to him, Rodney.”
“I asked today and apparently Jahanara authorized it when their brother arrived,” Monique explained.
“I might just have to talk to Jahanara about interfering with patients,” Priscilla said angrily.
Ilsa looked from Priscilla to Rodney. “Do either of you know if he’ll fall out again?”
“Can’t say for sure. He hasn’t had another seizure, and he was sure angry enough to bring one on when Aurangzeb showed up…” Rodney shrugged wide shoulders and looked at his wife.
Priscilla nodded. “He’s been working out, trying to get his strength back, and hasn’t had any episodes, but there’s just no telling. Not with certainty. If you want, Rodney and I can work to convince him and Nadira riding to battle is a bad idea, but it sounds like he’s ready for those arguments and I worry he’d stop listening to us on everything if we push too hard.”
John nodded. “Yeah, add to that the need he has to be seen leading.”
“Aurangzeb doesn’t lead from the front, does he?” Ilsa said.
“No, but his brother has a history, however short, of victories. Dara doesn’t.”
“Seems a huge risk for ‘might.’”
“The warriors like the idea, though,” Gervais said.
John nodded agreement.
“Oh?”
“I asked Atisheh what she
thought of him fighting with them on the walls. Her response was one of those hard stares that make you feel like you’re about to get cut, if you know what I mean.”
John smiled. He knew the look very well.
“But when I persisted, eventually she muttered something that sounded like, ‘About time!’ and left.”
“She’s quite the social butterfly, is Atisheh,” Priscilla said, grinning.
“So delicate and dainty,” Monique chuckled.
They all shared a brief, tired laugh that served to dispel some of the worried atmosphere they’d been struggling through.
“Back to the point, though: The idea that Dara be seen leading was something Salim mentioned before. He said it was critical to his eventual rule, and I have to believe he’s got the experience and wisdom to know,” John said.
“So do we try and stop him riding out or not? Trying to stop him after he’s announced that he will makes the decision irrevocable, so we need to get on it before the next durbar,” Gervais said.
“I don’t think so,” John and Bertram said at nearly the same instant.
“And why not?” Ilsa asked, looking across at Bertram.
Bertram nodded at John to go first.
“I don’t think he can afford the hit his credibility would suffer if word got out that he’d wanted to but his doctors told him ‘no.’ The court is already leery of how much power, privilege, and attention we’ve been receiving from Dara and Jahanara.”
Bertram nodded. “Much of the correspondence we were reading before we rolled up the network was complaints about how much power Dara was allowing us and”—he looked at Monique—“how he was a fool for, as they saw it, ‘making himself a slave to his sister’s unnatural lust for power.’”
John yawned hugely.
“I’m sorry to have kept you so late, but I wanted to clear the air if we could,” Gervais said.
Wiping tiredly at the tears forming at the corners of his eyes, John nodded.
“Did we, John?” Bertram asked, leaning forward on his cushions and staring intently at John.
“Did we what?”
“Did we clear things up? I know my apologies are late, but I count you among my very best friends, and hate that I hurt you with this.”
John thought about it another moment, then nodded. “We have, Bertram. Wish it hadn’t happened, and I hope it never does again, but I accept your apology.” He lifted his head to look at Monique and Gervais in turn. “All your apologies. I understand your reasons and accept them. Just wish we could have done better.”
Chapter 41
Aurangzeb’s camp
Nur’s tent
“Damn him,” Nur hissed. Crumpling the report in one small, hennaed fist, she threw it from her in a fit of anger.
Tara, just entering, was struck in the chest. She bent with the graceful suppleness of youth and retrieved the crumpled piece of paper from the carpets. She knew better than to try and open it, however.
“I disappoint, mistress?” she asked.
Nur shook her head. Taking a deep, cleansing breath and expelling her anger with it, she said, “What word?”
“You are to attend Aurangzeb in the Red Tent an hour before sunset.”
Seeing the glitter of delight in her advisor’s eyes, Nur raised a questioning brow.
Tara approached and knelt. “That pet priest of Carvalho’s was making a scene again. Rumor has it Aurangzeb is going to put a stop to the Christian’s complaints at last,” she said, excitement obvious despite the low tones used to convey the message.
“I see,” Nur said. She despaired, some days, of training Gargi’s replacement to a more dispassionate manner. The young woman’s intelligence was undeniable, but it was too often colored by passions that Gargi had assured Nur would be tempered with experience, leaving an intellect that was not only sharp, but flexible. Of course, when they’d discussed her eventual replacement, both of them had blithely assumed there would be plenty of time for Gargi to properly mentor and train Tara before the young woman would be forced to take over the position.
Now was not the time to take the young woman to task. No, not now.
Thinking hard, Nur plucked the message from Tara’s unresisting hand.
She did not have to unfold the paper to review its contents: Shaista Khan had declared for Dara. Delayed by the death of one messenger and the failure of another to find suitable transport, the missive had been dated the very same day Asaf Khan passed to his reward. Nur’s informant was unable to discover what the exact terms were that had secured her nephew’s service, but had said a pair of up-timers had been presented to Shaista and Asaf shortly before her brother’s death and those same men had been summoned to audience with Shaista immediately after Asaf’s death.
This information, combined with Tara’s news about the breakdown in relations between Aurangzeb and his European supporters, was worrisome.
The supplies Aurangzeb had been able to secure at Gwalior would only stretch so far. It occurred to Nur that Aurangzeb might be counting on taking Red Fort quickly enough to use the vast stores of the palace to supply his army, but it seemed a risky proposition. What if Dara decided to torch Red Fort rather than allow it to fall into Aurangzeb’s hands?
No, she reflected, Aurangzeb must be convinced to give the Europeans another chance. But from Tara’s reaction to the news, the priest might get his comeuppance if he had made a public outburst that could not be ignored, forcing Aurangzeb’s hand.
If only there was a way to silence the priest. Carvalho was Aurangzeb’s man through and through, and the Englishman, Methwold, was an eminently reasonable man.
“Does the priest have any known faults beyond an inability to control his tongue?” Nur asked, hoping for something she could use to have the man killed without the death seeming an obvious result of some courtier currying favor with Aurangzeb. Not that such gossip would be terribly difficult to overcome, but Aurangzeb had yet to endorse any murder, and Nur was certain she did not want to be the first to test the young man’s forgiveness for unsolicited acts that reflected poorly on him.
Tara thought a moment before replying, “None that are known to me. He drinks, of course. But not to excess. He did arrive in camp with a massive black eye. Neither Methwold nor Carvalho are with him.”
“That is to be expected. They are overseeing the arrival of the bulk of Aurangzeb’s artillery train.”
“You are correct, mistress. However, I am told by reliable sources that Carvalho is only a few days away. Given that there are no major obstacles to the transport of his guns…”
“It follows that he could have made the trip had he wished to,” Nur finished her advisor’s thought.
“Exactly so, mistress.”
“Do we know if any messages arrived from Carvalho to Aurangzeb?” she asked.
“Only his usual daily progress report, and it caused no undue stir that I am aware of.”
Nur nodded, turning her thoughts to what, exactly, Aurangzeb knew about Shaista Khan’s declaration.
The Sultan Al’Azam had made no announcement condemning his cousin nor had he dispatched any of his army to deal with the threat. From previous experience with the young man’s deep thinking and devious turn of mind, she considered it likely that Aurangzeb planned to deal with the most immediate threat as quickly as possible and then turn his attentions to the more distant, lesser one. And regardless of whether he knew or not, she also knew from previous experience that he would not appreciate any delay from her in conveying news that might affect him.
“We shall go early, and hope the Sultan Al’Azam will see us privately.”
Nodding, Tara snapped her fingers.
The servants summoned by the sound bore one of the robes of honor Aurangzeb had given Nur and veil of translucent silk that was set off her eyes.
Tara’s fits of temper frequently disappointed Nur, but she had to admit that supervising—and vetting—household staff was one of the young woman’s exceptional str
engths, especially when it came to the body slaves and those responsible for her mistress’s appearance.
Nur supposed that, being raised from the position of harem guard, Tara knew the value of preparation and proper equipment for battle. Armed with this knowledge, she rarely missed a beat when it came to ensuring Nur’s servants and slaves had appropriate garb prepared for any foreseeable need.
So it was that it required mere moments before Nur emerged from her tent armed and armored for her own kind of war.
Red Tent, personal quarters of the Sultan Al’Azam
“You wished to see me before the public audience?” Aurangzeb said. His body slaves were dressing his slim frame with robes of state that, while a sober dark green in color, were trimmed and accented with thousands of peridots.
“I did, Sultan Al’Azam,” Nur said, careful to keep out the hint of a mothering tone that threatened to creep into her voice on seeing him so thin. While she approved of the boy’s fashion sense, she felt he should eat more. No man of her family had denied himself food the way Aurangzeb did.
“Regarding?” Aurangzeb asked, checking his image in the massive mirror some courtier had given him.
“I’m told the priest continues his complaints?”
“He does,” Aurangzeb said. “I have agreed to let him speak one last time today.”
“May I ask why?” Nur said, disquiet rippling through her at the emperor’s choice of words.
“I have been more than patient with the fool but I can countenance no more of his complaints. My umara will begin to think me weak if I do not put him in his place.”
And if you would have given him what he asked for in the first place we wouldn’t be here.
“Would you allow me to…” She let the request trail off unfinished, unsure how to proceed.
