by Eric Flint
Neither of the other women seemed to understand what the girl was saying, so Monique stepped forward, “Our thanks, Diwan Firoz Khan, we are most impressed with our…common living area?”
The diwan flushed, stepped over to one of the arches and lifted the silk hanging. Beyond was a boudoir dressed in a riot of silks and plush pillows. “Each of you will, he hopes, be comfortable in your individual sleeping quarters.”
“Of course we will.”
“You have but to call, and someone will answer. Now, he begs leave to depart, as there are a great many…” she paused, looking for the word, “things he must attend to.”
“Of course. We hope to see him again under better circumstances.”
The eunuch left, obviously in a hurry.
“And what is your name, young lady?”
“Sahana, mistress.”
“Monique, please.”
“Pardon, mistress?”
“Monique is my name, and these ladies are Priscilla Totman and Ilsa Ennis.”
Both her companions nodded.
“Where we are from, we like to be on a first name basis with those whom we are closest with.” A white lie, for her part, but one that did no harm. “Now, I would love to know, how is it you came to speak such excellent English?”
“My mother served Sir Thomas Roe, and taught me the rudiments of the language. Later, I was purchased by Jadu Das, a servant of the English Company, to work at their factory, where I continued to listen to that language.”
Both her companions looked uncomfortable at something the girl said. She mentally reviewed the statement, then asked, “Purchased?”
“Yes, Mistress Monique.”
“And were you purchased again for this duty?”
“Yes, Mistress Monique.”
She wondered just how much loyalty a slave had to any master, let alone new ones. “I see. Will there be anyone else to assist you?”
The girl looked scandalized. “No, Mistress Monique! I can do the work myself.”
“Of course you can. I was only worried that speaking for three garrulous women like us might be something of a trial.”
Sahana bit her lip. “Forgive my ignorance, Mistress Monique, but I do not know this word: Garuliss.”
“Garrulous. It means talkative.”
A broad smile drove the girl’s looks from merely pretty to exotic, impish beauty. “If I can manage to understand the drunken louts of the English Company, I durst think I can keep track of the words of a few women.”
“Oh dear,” Priscilla said, “I think we may have stumbled upon a young lady much like ourselves, Monique.”
Monique grinned. “I think you are correct.”
“Well then, on to the important stuff: can we take off these infernal blankets?” Priscilla asked.
Another grin. “Of course. Durst ye have clothing suitable to the harem?”
“No,” the women lamented.
The girl’s smile nearly split her face in half. “Well then, let me offer my first service.” She clapped her hands, calling out in liquid Persian.
Young, attractive attendants came from two of the alcoves, quickly stripping all three naked, then clothing them in garments that were far less modest but also far more appropriate to the climate.
Monique overcame her body-shyness by focusing on the clothes. She had rarely seen such fine silk, let alone worn the like. The feel of the shift was a fantastic experience. She was almost ashamed to don it, sweaty as she was.
“What’s the bathing situation?” she asked.
Another, wider smile and another clapping of hands was Sahana’s answer.
Monique could see how one might grow to like this, despite the hateful nature of keeping free people in bondage.
The other women, while each likely had their separate reservations, appeared likewise overcome by the luxurious comfort of their clothing and surroundings, at least for now.
Tomorrow for thought, today to ease fear and fatigue.
Chapter 22
Agra, Red Fort,
November 1634
The chamber set aside for the Inner Council was well ventilated and usually comfortable regardless of the heat outside.
But not today, Aurangzeb thought. Father’s anger burned like the sun in the small space, casting servants out at the run, as if their tails were afire.
The Inner Council was not for the faint of heart. Usually the domain of princes, family, and those nobles powerful enough to win a place advising Father on critical issues, it was here that such matters were discussed and contested before Shah Jahan.
Many were the courtiers who had, thinking their star on the rise, fallen from this chamber into ruin.
This was the first time Aurangzeb had been ordered present as a participant rather than as a student, only there to observe, be silent, and learn.
Dara’s death had done this much for him, at least.
“Order him back.”
“But Asaf Khan is weeks gone, Father. He and his army are already well into the Deccan,” Shah Shuja argued.
“I know that. Order his return.”
“Are you certain, Father?”
Aurangzeb covered a wince, not out of pity for his sibling, but for Asaf Khan’s sowar. For once Shah Shuja was advising a reasonable course: twenty-five thousand men and all their provisions would not easily be turned around, especially once in the Deccan. The prolonged famine there was already straining supply lines. Just the cost of fodder for Asaf Khan’s thousands of horses would have beggared a lesser power, and that was before transporting that fodder across hundreds of kos of drought-afflicted territory.
“Do I look as if I am of a mood to be questioned?” Father bellowed.
“No, of course not, Father.” Shah Shuja turned and repeated the order to the messenger, who fled the room in haste.
“What forces do we have on hand?”
Shah Shuja turned to a subordinate, but Aurangzeb answered from memory before his elder brother could get the information: “Assuming the court decamps with you, Father, ten thousand mounted sowar can be mustered and ready in two days. If we wait another two weeks, that number rises to thirty thousand horse and ten thousand foot.”
Shah Shuja’s face twitched, probably with the realization that Aurangzeb had robbed him of the opportunity to shine.
He ignored the angry look that followed and concentrated instead on Father’s reaction.
Shah Jahan was nodding, one hand tugging at his beard, but he showed no sign of being impressed by Aurangzeb’s ready answer.
Confident in his information, if not Father’s reaction, Aurangzeb pressed on: “Numbers for supply are more difficult, but the first ten thousand can be readily supplied for travel between here and Lahore. Thereafter a question arises: if you wish to destroy the farming capability for the region, then foraging will provide supplies sufficient to needs for a week, assuming the Sikhs have not already scorched the earth to deny us. After that, everything will have to be brought in. If you decide to wait for more warriors, then the supply situation will become more acute, more quickly.”
“The blade’s edge.”
“Pardon, Father?” Shah Shuja asked, trying to regain position by being first to ask, instead of answer.
Shah Jahan released his beard and waved his hand. “The disaffected will seek out Hargobind Singh, now that he has struck this blow to our pride and emerged victorious. If I strike quickly but with the smaller force, I may find myself caught in the same trap he used to kill your brother. But if I wait I appear weak and allow time for him to gather even more jackals to his side.”
He looked up, from Shah Shuja to Aurangzeb. “What would you do in my place, Shah Shuja?”
“Attack immediately, with the forces you have on hand. You have proclaimed your vengeance before your nobles, and must maintain honor.”
Shah Jahan’s dark gaze shifted to Aurangzeb. “And you, what would you counsel?”
“To do as my brother says, though I hav
e more reasons than honor alone.”
“Say on.”
“Moving quickly and decisively denies Hargobind time to prepare for your coming, eases questions of supply, and satisfies honor. Further, and with all fairness to the dead: you are not Dara, Father. You are far more experienced and therefore less likely to be caught in any trap he might lay for you.
“In an abundance of caution, you may wish to have one of us remain behind to gather the balance of your forces and ensure your lines of supply can be relied upon. That force can then be ready to move to assist you in the unlikely event you need it.”
“All this talk of supplies and such makes you sound a cook, not a prince,” Shuja said.
Aurangzeb turned to face Shah Shuja, striving to respond to the provocation calmly and with reason where Shuja, and most likely, Father, expected anger and thoughtlessness: “Our forebears, when at war, were ever aware of where grazing could be found for their mounts, even at the expense of their own meals. A famine-struck army is no army.”
“I know that, you jumped-up little—”
“Enough!” Shah Jahan commanded.
Shuja bridled, but didn’t finish the insult.
“I will consider your advice. Return tomorrow morning after prayers.”
Both brothers bowed before Father’s will and made to depart, Shah Shuja with little grace, muttering under his breath.
Aurangzeb followed more sedately, barely concealing his pleasure at successfully navigating his first Inner Council meeting. Surely, Father would grant him a command for the coming battle! A way he could prove his ability to him and to the great nobles, so that when the time came, his power base would be unassailable.
I can almost feel God reaching out to me, claiming me for His purpose. Aurangzeb silently thanked God for His mercy and the opportunity to further His will.
Agra, Red Fort, The Harem
“Begum Sahib, these are Madame Priscilla Totman, Madame Ilsa Damaschke-Ennis, and Mademoiselle Monique Vieuxpont,” Firoz Khan said. Each of the women bowed before the princess as her name was called.
“I extend the hospitality of my father’s home to you, our honored guests. Please, take your ease and refreshment. I am told that these climes are hot for your comfort.”
The women did as Jahanara bid, evidence that Sahana was worth the outlay of silver spent to purchase her from Jadu Das.
One of the blonde ones, Priscilla, spoke to Sahana, her tone one of concerned sincerity. The woman had a most direct stare Jahanara found a bit disconcerting, even as she admired the even white teeth and beautiful blonde hair that the woman wore in a braid. For that matter, to her eye all of the women were exotic in their beauty, if a tad large for refinement.
“Begum Sahib, you are kind to receive us. We, all of us, wish to extend our condolences at the loss of your brother.”
Swallowing sudden tears, Jahanara bent her head and answered only when she could trust her voice. “Your condolences are well received and appreciated in these painful times.”
A slight lowering of her voice, quickly translated: “We hope we are not imposing on you in your grief, Begum Sahib.”
“No, no, you bring welcome distraction.”
A brilliant white smile. “I suppose we are like the cirkiss”—Sahana asked for clarification, had the word repeated, shrugged, and left it untranslated—“circus come to town.”
Jahanara smiled gently in recognition of Sahana’s efforts and asked, “What is this circus?”
“Usually a traveling group of entertainers that entertain as much from their appearance as from their performances.”
“Something like our troupes of dancing girls?”
Sahana blanched, but dutifully translated.
Madame Totman noticed her translator’s change in demeanor and paused a moment before replying. “Not quite, Begum Sahib. Some of them, called clowns”—there was another back and forth for the term, which again remained untranslated—“wore colorful, strange clothing and painted their faces for performances.”
“I…see,” Jahanara shook her head. “To what purpose, these circus?”
“Circuses were for entertainment only, Begum Sahib. My town was considered,” another broad smile, “very provincial, and could not support performers year round. So the circus would visit on occasion.”
Jahanara now spoke to Priscilla. “If I take your meaning correctly, your appearance is quite extraordinary, what with your giant of a husband and your own exceptional appearance. I have seen blond Englishmen, but their women do not travel with them.”
A shrug of shoulders. “One small difference between up-timers and today’s society.”
“Today’s?”
“Yes, Begum Sahib, we traveled with—and without—our men all the time, back up-time.”
Fascinating. To have such freedom, to even travel under the sun and stars with one’s husband…
“I was going to say that we travel with our men, too, but I see you mean something more. I would hear more of this ‘up-time.’”
A chuckle, quickly taken up by the other women. “How much time do you have?”
Agra, Mosque
Aurangzeb finished his prayers and climbed to his feet. He waited for the other faithful to depart the mosque, enjoying the quiet. Cleansed of distraction, he was able to focus anew on the momentous events of the day before.
Dara was dead.
Not merely dead, but killed in battle! And now Aurangzeb had an opportunity to prove Dara’s failings by commanding some element of the army his father was gathering to do what Dara failed to do.
But how to keep his brother Shah Shuja out of the way?
“How, indeed?” he mused.
“Shehzada?” Mullah Mohan asked.
Aurangzeb flinched, turned to see the mullah standing beside him. “You move quietly, Mullah.”
“I try to avoid undue attention. Such is unseemly, here.”
“Indeed it is.”
“Did you have some question I could assist you with, Shehzada?”
The man had the subtlety of an ox. “I do not think so, Mullah.”
“Refreshment, then, Shehzada?”
Aurangzeb cocked his head. “Certainly.”
They retired to more private surroundings. Once served, and the servants withdrew, Aurangzeb began a slow count in his head.
He’d barely got to five when Mohan spoke. “Your brother’s passing was an unexpected blow.”
“Yes, it was.”
“Surely—”
“Mullah Mohan, have I not been forthright with you?”
Mohan’s eyes shot wide. “Of course.”
“Then do the courtesy of coming to the point without bringing my dead brother into it.”
“Of course, Shehzada. I merely thought to offer—”
“I don’t care what you hoped or planned to offer, Mullah Mohan, I want you to come to the point. You have offered me refreshment and keep trying to offer condolences; I have the one in hand and I do not need the other.”
“I but—”
Aurangzeb cut the older man off with a shake of his head. “The refreshments were appreciated, but the condolences are not only unnecessary, they make you appear insincere. I know what little regard you had for my brother, so please don’t insult my intelligence by offering false sentiments and come to the point.”
Mohan’s cheeks reddened above his beard. “Yes, Shehzada. With your permission, I will do so. I hoped to quietly call some of the more militant faithful into your service before Shah Jahan’s army marches.”
Merciful God! My impatient tongue will be the end of me! I dress the fool down even as he seeks to offer me service.
He covered his brow with one hand. “I fear I have wronged you, Mullah Mohan. Please accept my abject apologies. I tire of the hair-pulling and wailing at court, and wrongly thought you about to exhibit similar histrionics.”
“Your apology is accepted, Shehzada Aurangzeb. Occasional youthful intemperance in dealing with subor
dinates is understandable, even expected, of a young prince.” He held up a finger and smiled, adding, “Acceptance of responsibility for one’s error is the mark of a great prince.”
Aurangzeb wondered who he was quoting. Surely he hadn’t come up with it himself. Aloud, he said, “My thanks, Mullah Mohan, I appreciate your understanding and forgiveness.”
“You have given me no reason to believe you will not serve the faith and faithful in the coming years. If I can do this thing in support of you and your cause, then God wills it.”
“An honest question, Mullah, and one for which I will not respond to with anger if answered honestly: I would have your assessment of each of my family.”
“Honestly?”
Aurangzeb spread his hands in invitation. “Please.”
“The Sultan Al’Azam Shah Jahan is preoccupied with other matters, and has not given proper attention to maintenance of the faith for some time. We mullahs had such high hopes when he assumed the throne and immediately instituted the jizya, abolished the full prostration of supplicants before the throne, and even went so far as to stop the construction of new Hindu temples, something that had not been done by his predecessors.”
Mohan sighed. “But he has since allowed the collection of the tax on unbelievers to cease. And, aside from the just punishment meted out to the Portuguese—the motive for which was their failure to support him against Jahangir rather than righteous faith—he has allowed the Christians far too much free rein. Then there was the business of Dara’s and Jahanara’s education under Mian Mir. That creature’s accommodating attitude toward the Hindus is nothing short of heretical.”
Mohan licked his lips, suddenly aware precisely how far he’d gone in condemning the emperor in front of the prince.
Aurangzeb smiled reassurance. “Please, go on.”
“As to your brothers, Shah Shuja has not shown a predilection for supporting the faith or, as your departed brother, undermining it with the teachings of that heretic in Lahore.
“Murad is too young to have left the harem, and while an indifferent student of the Quran thus far, he takes direction as well as any little prince might be expected to.”
