by Eric Flint
Shakuntala nodded. She, too, spoke softly. "Warships, I believe?"
Garmat's smile returned. "Axumite warships, Empress." He coughed modestly. "Rather superior, don't you know, to those Malwa tubs? And I dare say our sarwen could handle three times their number of Malwa's so-called marines."
"Yes, I know," she replied. "As it happens, I can use them. The ships and the sarwen both. Have you heard the news of Deogiri?"
Garmat nodded. His smile widened.
She leaned forward.
"As it happens—"
Three days later, in a pouring rain, the fleet left Muziris. The Matisachiva Ganapati and the city's viceroy stood watching from the docks. All day they remained there, sheltered from the downpour under a small pavilion, until they were certain that every single one of the cursed "Empress-in-exile's" followers had quit Keralan soil.
Not until the last ship disappeared into the rain did they summon their howdah.
"Thank the gods," muttered the viceroy.
Ganapati's expression was sour.
"For what?" he demanded. "The damage may already have been done. A courier arrived this morning from Vanji. The Malwa have been issuing the most pointed and severe threats. They are demanding that the King arrest Shakuntala and return her to captivity."
The viceroy shook his head.
"They can hardly expect the King to do that. She is his granddaughter, after all."
"Probably not," agreed Ganapati. He shrugged. "Hopefully, they will be satisfied with the fact that we have expelled her—and her followers—from Keralan soil. I will immediately dispatch a courier with the news."
The elephant bearing their howdah loomed up in the rain. Hurriedly, the two Keralan officials scrambled aboard the great beast. Despite their haste, they were soaked through by the time they reached the shelter of the howdah.
Ganapati's expression was still sour.
"Cursed monsoon," he muttered.
A sudden, freakish gust blew aside a curtain and drenched his companion.
"Cursed monsoon!" cried the viceroy.
"Blessed monsoon," stated Kungas cheerfully. The commander of Shakuntala's bodyguard leaned over the rail of the ship and admired the view. He did not seem in the slightest aggrieved by the fact that he was soaking wet. Or that there was no view to be admired.
Neither did the man standing next to him.
"Blessed monsoon," agreed Dadaji Holkar. "No-one will be able to see which direction we take. Let's just hope that the rain keeps up."
"This time of year?" demanded Kungas, chuckling. "Be serious, Dadaji! Look!"
He pointed eastward. Their ship was not more than two miles from the shore, but the coast of Malabar was completely invisible.
"Can't see a thing," he pronounced. "It'll be that way nine days out of ten, for at least another month. More than long enough for us to reach Suppara, even with this slow fleet."
Dadaji began to stroke his beard, but quickly left off the familiar gesture. It was a bit too much like wringing a sponge.
"True," he murmured. "And there is this additional advantage, as well—the refugees won't know where we're going either. Most of them will continue to think we're heading for Tamraparni until the very day we sail into Suppara."
Kungas cast him a sidelong glance.
"Might be a bit of trouble, then."
Dadaji shook his head.
"I don't think so. I had many spies in the camps, and they all reported that the great majority of the refugees are devoted to the Empress. I believe they will accept her decision. Besides, she intends to offer those who don't want to return to Majarashtra the alternative of Tamraparni. Whichever so choose, she will provide them with the necessary ships to make the voyage. After we've seized Suppara, of course."
A thin smile cracked Kungas' face.
"Not much of an alternative, that. The King of Tamraparni is not going to be pleased when he hears how Shakuntala used his name in vain. His own son in marriage, no less!"
Holkar made no reply. For a few minutes, the two men simply stared out at nothing. Nothing but beautiful, blinding, concealing, sheets of rain.
Eventually, Kungas cleared his throat.
"Speaking of marriage," he stated.
Holkar grimaced. "She refuses to even discuss it," he said softly. "Believe me, my friend, I have tried to broach the subject on many occasions. Each time, she says the question is premature."
Kungas twitched his shoulders. "That's not the point. For her to marry anyone now would be premature. She has nothing to offer, at the moment, in exchange for an alliance with real forces. But after we take Suppara—after we demonstrate to India, and all the world, that Andhra intends to hold southern Majarashtra—then the question of a dynastic marriage will pose itself. She must start thinking about it, Dadaji. Or else she will be paralyzed when the time comes."
The Empress' adviser sighed. "You know the problem, my friend."
Kungas stared out to sea. Nodded once, twice. "She is in love with Rao."
Holkar blew out his cheeks. "Please," he growled. "It is the infatuation of a young girl with a man she knew only as a child. She has not seen him—hardly at all—in two years."
"She has seen him for a few hours only, during that time," agreed Kungas. His voice rumbled like stones: "After he gutted the Vile One's palace in order to rescue her. Quite a reunion, that must have been."
Holkar said nothing. Kungas turned his head away, as if something had caught his eye.
In truth, he simply didn't want Holkar to see his face. Not even Kungas, at that moment, could keep from smiling.
Excellent. The thought was full of satisfaction. Excellent—"child"! Poor Holkar. Even he—even he—is blind on this point.
For a moment, as he had many times before, Kungas found himself bemused by that peculiarly Indian obsession with purity and pollution. Even his friend Dadaji could not entirely escape its clutches.
So blind, these Indians. When the truth is so obvious.
He turned away from the rail.
"Enough rain," he announced. "I'm going below. The action's going to start soon, anyway. I have to get ready, in case I'm needed."
As he walked across the deck toward the hatch, Kungas' face was invisible to anyone. Now, finally, he allowed his grin to emerge.
Stay stubborn, Shakuntala. Dig in your heels, girl, refuse to discuss it. When the question of marriage is finally posed, you will know what to do. Then, you will know.
He shook his head, slightly.
So obvious!
An hour later, the fleet changed its course. The change was slow—erratic, confused, haphazard. Part of that fumbling was due to the simple fact that the troop commanders on every ship had a different estimate of the right moment to give the command. The only time-keeping devices available to them were hour-glasses and sundials. Sundials were useless in the pouring monsoon. Hourglasses, under these circumstances, just as much so. It would have been impossible to provide each commander with an identical hourglass, much less have them turned over simultaneously.
So, each commander simply gave the order when he thought the time was right.
Most of the confusion, however, was due to the fact that the crews and captains of the merchant ships were bitterly opposed to the change of course. They had been hired to transport the Empress and her people to Tamraparni. They were not, to put it mildly, pleased to hear that the destination had been changed—especially when they discovered the new one.
Suppara? Are you mad? The Malwa hold Suppara!
But the captains of the ships were not the commanders. The commanders were a very different breed altogether. Kushans and Maratha cavalrymen, in the main, who cheerfully accepted the berating abuse of the Keralan ship captains.
For about one minute. Then the steel was drawn.
Thereafter, Keralan captains and seamen scurried about their new-found task. Grumbling, to be sure. But they had no illusions that they could overpower the squads of soldiers placed on each sh
ip. Not those soldiers.
One crew tried. Led by a particularly belligerent captain, the Keralan seamen dug out their own weapons and launched a mutiny. They outnumbered the soldiers two-to-one, after all. Perhaps they thought their numbers would make the difference.
They were sadly mistaken. Within two minutes, the four surviving seamen were huddled in the bow, nursing their wounds and casting fearful glances at the Kushan soldiers standing guard over them. Not one of those Kushans had even been scratched in the "melee."
Then, to add to their misery, they saw the prow of a ship looming out of the downpour. Within seconds, the ship had drawn alongside. The Keralan seamen recognized the craft. One of those swift, fearsome Ethiopian warships.
An Axumite officer leaned over the rail.
"Is problem?" he called out. "We hear noise of—of—" He faltered, having reached the limit of his skill with Hindi.
The Kushan commander glared.
"Yes, there's a problem!" he grated, pointing an accusing finger at the four captives. The Keralan seamen hunched lower.
"There's only four of the bastards left. Not enough to run the ship."
Another Ethiopian came to the rail. The Kushan commander immediately recognized him—Ezana, one of the Axumite soldiers' top leaders.
Ezana gave the situation a quick scrutiny. He was familiar with Kushans, and knew that they were not a sea-going folk. No hope they could run the ship themselves.
He turned his head and barked out a quick string of names. Within a minute, six Ethiopian soldiers were standing next to him. While they were mustering, Ezana took the opportunity to close with the merchant vessel. It was the work of but seconds for the Ethiopians to tie up alongside.
Lightly, Ezana sprang across onto the Keralan ship. He strode toward the bow where the Kushan commander was waiting, along with his men and the captives.
Once there, Ezana made a little gesture at the six Axumites who were making their own way across.
"These men will stay with you for the duration of the trip," he explained, speaking in heavily accented but quite good Hindi. "Along with the four surviving mutineers, that should be enough."
He gave the ship a quick examination. Judging from his expression, he was not pleased with what he saw.
"Indian tub," he sneered. "Can run a good Axumite trader with six men. Five—even four—in an emergency."
He transferred the sarcastic expression onto the four Keralan survivors. The seamen hunched lower still, dropping their heads. Doing everything in their power to fade out of sight.
No use. Ezana squatted down next to them.
"Look at me," he commanded. Reluctantly, they raised their heads.
Ezana grinned.
"Don't look so unhappy, lads. Consider your good fortune! My men hate running crappy ships like this. I'd have my own mutiny if I pitched you overboard and appointed four replacements."
Hearing this happy news, the expression on the faces of the Keralans brightened.
A bit, no more—and that little bit immediately vanished under Ezana's ensuing scowl.
"But they don't hate it as much as they hate mutineers," he rumbled. "I'd be on my best behavior from now on, if I were you."
Four Keralan heads bobbed frantic agreement.
Ezana's scowl deepened. "You're seamen. So I assume you're familiar with the Ethiopian treatment for mutineers?"
Four Keralan heads bobbed horrified agreement.
"Good," he grunted.
He rose and turned to the Kushan commander.
"You won't have any more trouble," he pronounced. As he made his way back to the rail, the Kushan accompanied him.
"What is the Ethiopian way with mutineers?" he asked.
Ezana climbed onto the rail. Just before making his leap, he bestowed a cheerful grin onto the Kushan commander.
"It involves fishing."
He sprang across. Turned and called back.
"We're partial to shark meat!"
Two days later, Ezana came aboard the Empress' flagship. A council had been called for all the central leaders of the expedition. He, along with Wahsi and Garmat, were to be the Ethiopian representatives at the meeting.
Garmat was already aboard, waiting for him. As the two men fought their way across the deck in the face of a rain so heavy it seemed almost like a waterfall, Ezana grumbled. "This has got to be the worst climate in the world."
Garmat smiled. "Oh, I don't know. At least it's not hot. The temperature's rather pleasant, actually. Whereas the Empty Quarter—"
Ezana shook his head firmly. "No contest. At least you can breathe, in Arabia."
He cast a fierce glower at the heavy sky. "How much does it rain here, anyway?"
They were at the small shed which provided an entryway into the large cabin amidship. Both men made an effort to wring out their clothes—mere kilts, fortunately—before entering.
Garmat frowned in thought. "I'm not sure, actually. I think I heard somewhere that southwest India during the monsoon season gets—"
He gave a figure in the Ethiopian way of measuring such things. Ezana's eyes widened. The figure was the equivalent of thirteen feet of water in five months.
"Mother of God!"
Garmat nodded toward the east, toward the invisible coast of India.
"Cheer up. If all goes well, soon enough we'll be crossing the mountains into Majarashtra. It's dry, I hear, on that side of the Western Ghats."
"Can't be soon enough," grumbled Ezana. He led the way into the cabin.
The cabin which served as Shakuntala's "imperial quarters" was a bit grotesque, to Ezana's eyes. He was an Ethiopian, brought up in the Axumite traditions of royal regalia. Those traditions leaned toward a style of ornamentation which was massive, but austere. And always practical. When traveling by sea, an Ethiopian royal—even the negusa nagast himself—would enjoy nothing more than a simple cabin decorated with, at most, a lion skin or ostrich feathers.
The Indian tradition was otherwise. Massive also, at times—Ezana had seen, and been impressed by, the size of the Malwa Emperor's palaces and pavilions. But not austere. Not practical.
Never seen so many gewgaws in my life, he thought sourly.
His eye fell on a ivory carving perched atop a slender table by the entrance. The carving, incredibly ornate and intricate, depicted a half-naked couple entwined in a passionate embrace. Ezana almost winced. It was not the eroticism of the carving which offended him—Axumites were not prudes—but the simple absurdity of the thing.
On a warship?
First storm, that thing's so much ballast.
Garmat pushed him forward into the cabin.
"We're diplomats," he whispered. "Be polite."
Shakuntala was perched on a pile of cushions against the far wall of the cabin. Dadaji Holkar sat to her left, in the position of her chief adviser. Next to him sat the religious leader, Bindusara.
Shakuntala's military commanders were clustered to her right. Kungas was there, along with his two chief Kushan subordinates, Kanishka and Kujulo. The Maratha cavalry leaders Shahji and Kondev were accompanied by three of their own top aides.
Wahsi, also, was there. He had arrived earlier. He was perched on a little wooden stool. Two other stools rested nearby. The Empress had provided them, knowing the Ethiopian preference in seating. All of the Indians were squatting on cushions, in the lotus position.
Once Garmat and Ezana took their seats, Shakuntala spoke.
"The first stage of our strategy has been a resounding success. We have broken free from Kerala and eluded the Malwa. It is well-nigh certain that our enemy believes we are headed for exile in Tamraparni."
She paused, scanning the room for any sign of dissent or disagreement. Seeing none, she continued.
"I believe we can assume that our arrival at Suppara will come as a complete surprise for the enemy. That being so, it is now possible for us to concentrate our attention on the more distant future. We will surprise the Malwa at Suppara, and we will
take the city. The question is—then what?"
Kondev stirred. Shakuntala turned toward him, cocking her head inquiringly. The gesture was an invitation to speak.
For a moment, the Maratha officer hesitated. He was a relatively new member of the Empress' inner circle. Accustomed to Indian traditions—he had been a top officer of Shakuntala's father, whose haughty imperial manner had been legendary—he was still nonplussed by her relaxed and easy manner with her advisers.
Recognizing his uncertainty, Shakuntala promp-ted him.
"Please, Kondev. Speak up, if you have some doubt."
The cavalry officer tugged at his beard nervously. "I do not have doubts, Your Majesty. Not precisely. But I thought our course of action after seizing Suppara was simply to march on to Deogiri. Join our forces with Rao's." He ducked his head in a quick, apologetic manner. "Perhaps I misunderstood."
"You did not misunderstand, Kondev," replied Shakuntala. "That was our plan. But the unexpected arrival of the Axumites, and their offer of an alliance, has led me to reconsider. Or, at least, to think in more ambitious terms."
She turned toward the Ethiopians.
"If we held Suppara—permanently, I mean—could your navy hold off the Malwa fleet?"
The three Ethiopians exchanged quick glances. Wahsi was the first to speak.
"No, Empress," he said firmly. "If the Malwa did not possess their gunpowder weapons, it might be possible. Their navy is much larger than ours, in men and ships, but ours is better. Besides, most of their fleet is tied up in the Persian invasion."
He shrugged.
"The fact is, however, that they do possess the demon weapons. That nullifies our advantage of superior skill. We cannot close with them to board. Their rockets are erratic, at long range, but they are fearsome weapons against a nearby enemy."
Shakuntala nodded. She did not seem particularly chagrined, or surprised, by Wahsi's reply. "You could not break a Malwa blockade of Suppara, then?"
