Priscilla shook her head. “Well, if that ain’t a cover from one of my lust in the afternoon books, I’ve never seen one.”
The Afghan cocked his head, clearly wondering what the up-timer meant. “Where is Begum Sahib? Is she hurt?”
“I am well, my amir,” Jahanara sighed, making no attempt to pull away from him despite his bloody state.
His swallow was audible even from where she stood.
Gervais stumbled up, breathing hard.
Monique ran to him, managing to grab both him and Bertram in a tearful hug.
“Gervais, a little help here!” Rodney shouted, throwing the assassin off Atisheh with one hand. “She’s still breathing.”
“Save her and you will have your weight of silver,” Jahanara declared without removing her head from an increasingly pale Salim’s shoulder.
Gervais pulled out of Monique’s arms and dropped his bag next to Atisheh. “I’ll take his weight of silver, if you don’t mind, Shehzadi.”
“Both of you, then. Only save her.”
“Begum Sahib, I—” Salim swayed, eyes rolling back in his head. He slumped to the ground. Jahanara managed to slow his fall, ended up kneeling on the ground beside him.
Bertram and Monique moved as one, rushing to Salim’s side.
“He’s lost a lot of blood,” Bertram said, inspecting Salim’s unconscious form with his hands, as they’d been taught.
“Call out his hurts so Rodney and Priscilla can advise,” Gervais said, helping Pris and Rodney remove Atisheh’s armor.
Bertram nodded and read out Salim’s injuries: “One: shallow cut, not too deep. Chest to shoulder. Two: back of shoulder and down to midriff, shallow. Three: left wrist to elbow, no bone showing, but deep. Nothing else other than…abrasions. No obvious broken bones.”
“Get sewing.”
“Don’t we need to clean the wounds first?” Monique asked.
Smidha appeared at her side, a needle threaded with barely visible silk in her hands. She handed the needle to Monique.
“Clean what you can, but stop the bleeding first. We’ll worry about infection later. We’ve got bigger issues here,” Priscilla said, hands busy with Atisheh.
“Sewing was never my strong suit,” Monique muttered.
Gervais snorted. “No better time than the present to improve your skills.”
Garden of the Taj
Nur held still as a group of harem guards pounded past their position, considering her next move. She was sure she’d spied Omid among the guards at the west gate when they entered the garden.
The guards disappeared up the stairs of the plinth.
“We’re leaving,” Nur said, setting out for the west gate.
“But they wanted you dead, surely the emperor can’t blame you,” Tara observed, following after.
Nur pointed up at the plinth. “From the wailing up there, the emperor is likely dead. If that is so, I have two reasons for leaving. First: if Mullah Mohan was taken today, or if he is taken, the new emperor will spare no effort in making him reveal any confederates. Mohan will almost certainly reveal my previous association with him, if for no other reason than revenge.”
“Dara Shikoh will ascend the throne, then?”
“For now, yes.”
“Shah Shuja and Aurangzeb will contend with him for the throne, then?”
Nur stopped, turned to look at Tara.
“Sorry, that was a stupid question. Your second reason?”
“Later.” Nur resumed walking. “For now, we need to get into Agra, and meet with a particular horse-trader…”
“And for that we need to get past the guards,” Tara said, gesturing at the gate they had just come into sight of.
“Shouldn’t be a problem if, as I suspect, they left Omid behind…” Cursing aged eyes, Nur squinted at the lone figure standing in the gateway.
“Who, mistress?”
“A harem guard named Omid. Gargi suborned him some time ago.”
“Why should he be left behind when the others moved on?”
“Because I would have it so.”
It was Tara’s turn to stop. “But how did you know this was going to happen?”
Still unsure if the lone guard was Omid, Nur decided not to admit her frailty and ask, instead walking from cover. As much to calm her own nerves as answer the constant questions, she answered: “I did not, exactly. I merely commanded him to remain at his post if ever there was a disturbance while he was on guard duty and the rest of them left.”
“Stop!” the eunuch ordered.
Nur pulled her scarf up and smiled behind it, quickening her pace. “Be silent, Omid, and fetch us mounts.”
“Nur Jahan!”
“Be silent, I said! Fetch three horses and be quick about it!”
“Yes, mistress,” the eunuch said, cowed.
“So, after we meet your horse-trader, where do we go?” Tara asked, watching Omid leave.
Knowing Tara lacked the training and experience of her predecessor, Nur humored her with an answer: “The Deccan and Aurangzeb’s camp. He will want an eye-witness who can justify taking up arms against his siblings.”
“But what did you see, aside from the attack on your own person?”
Nur sighed. “Whatever will best support his position, of course.”
Tomb of Mumtaz Mahal
“No. No. No,” Jahanara could only say the word over and over despite each denial failing to change reality. A fact. Truth. Hard reality like that of the cold marble beneath her knees, outstretched arms, against her tearful cheek.
A workman’s lamp guttered, eventually expired, and the increased darkness making her see threats among the shadows. The fear drew Jahanara from her fugue, made her look around for the first time in at least an hour.
Dara was inconsolable. He knelt at Father’s side, wracked with silent sobs.
Blinking away her own fresh tears, Jahanara looked over her shoulder at the entrance to the tomb. Guaharara and her nannies were there, as was Nadira, holding a surprisingly quiet Suleiman in her arms.
Only Smidha met her eye. Met her eye and signaled with her hand: Danger.
Jahanara stood. Feet tingling with lingering numbness, she approached Smidha.
Her old servant and confidant bowed her head.
“What is it?” The question hard to force from a raw throat.
“Forgive me, Shehzadhi, but we can ill afford this right now.”
Jahanara felt her lip curl.
Closing her eyes as if fearful of a blow, Smidha went on in a rush: “Your brother’s reign cannot afford this.”
“No,” Jahanara repeated.
Smidha cast a questioning glance at her.
She sighed. “You are right, it cannot wait. Help me. Clear the room of everyone but Nadira, the babe, and I. I will make Dara”—she stopped, corrected herself—“the Sultan Al’Azam aware of our need.”
Smidha bowed her head. “I am so sorry, my friend, my princess. I would do anything to have changed this day, to not have it so…”
Unable to trust her voice, Jahanara nodded.
After helping Smidha to her feet, Jahanara used the time the older woman spent gathering the others to collect her tattered spirits.
Nadira crossed to her on silent feet. “So hard, this pain.”
Jahanara reached out and put her hand alongside Suleiman’s head. “This is no place for the babe.”
Her brother’s wife drew herself to her full height. “We will leave when his father does.”
Jahanara let the hand fall to her side. She crossed to the lamp, brought it with her to Dara’s side. She put a hand on his arm. “Dara.”
He turned his head to look at her, revealing a fearful gash on his brow just above the hairline.
Behind her Nadira sucked in a breath.
Jahanara reached out, stopped short of touching his wound. “Brother, we must have that seen to.”
He shook his head, whispered: “No.”
She started a
different argument: “Father needs tending to.”
He didn’t look at her. “I attend him.”
“And you do him good service, but there are others who can take over from here.”
“No.”
“Your son is here, as is Nadira. We have concerns that only you may see to.”
“Yes, husband, we have need of you.”
His gaze drifted to his wife. “Nadira. You are unhurt?”
“Yes, my love.”
“Take Suleiman from this place.”
“We will only leave with you. That wound needs seeing to.”
“I will stay here.”
Nadira looked across at Jahanara. Suleiman roused, started crying.
Jahanara tried again: “Dara, you must come out with us. To have your wound treated by the up-timers, to attend to critical matters. Things move without you. We must learn who was behind this attack, whether another is coming. You must decide half a hundred things.”
“I will stay here.”
“You cannot.”
He looked at her then, eyes black with rage: “I. Will. Stay. Here!”
She met his anger with her own, blazed back at him: “And let us all fall to a similar fate as Father? Would you see that?” She pointed a shaking hand at Suleiman. “See your son killed? If you do not apprehend the one behind this, then the person who managed to strike Father down will be free to plot, free to kill your son, your wife. No one will be safe.”
He hung his head.
She continued, relentlessly seeking the words that would draw him from his stupor: “Sultan Al’Azam, you must rise and take the reins of power or see the end of all you hold dear.”
“I am not he,” Dara rasped.
“Yes, you are. Your brothers are not here, and may have been responsible for this regicide, making you Sultan Al’Azam. Save your wife and son, and discover who is behind this vile act. Save us all. Defend us. Lead us.”
He closed his eyes, tears flowing again.
“Please, husband,” Nadira said, taking his hand. “Please.”
At length, Dara Shikoh nodded. He tried to rise, fell back to his knees.
Both women helped him to his feet. Suleiman began crying in earnest, wails echoing from the walls.
One side of Dara’s mouth curled in a half-smile. “Take our hungry son to his wet-nurse, Nadira. I will follow shortly.”
“Yes, husband.” Nadira glanced at Jahanara, who gave an encouraging nod. Sensing movement, the baby quieted as Nadira mounted the stairs.
Dara slowly turned his head to look at his sister. Taking in her bloodied hands, he asked: “Are any of the harem dead?”
“I do not yet know exact numbers, but it was a close-run thing. All the eunuchs stationed between the plinth and the garden as well as five of the warrior women died defending the harem. Atisheh may still perish, and I am told that Salim may succumb to his wounds as well.
“We came across three dead slaves on our way here, as well, and I am told that Father’s architects were also slain.”
Dara shook his head, wincing. “But none of Father’s concubines, no one from the family?”
“Nur is still missing, along with one of her servants and at least one other eunuch. They may be dead beneath some bush, missed in our haste. We hurried here. I wanted to see with my own eyes…” She let the words stop.
They stood in silence for a moment, aware that to look again on Father’s still form would keep them here longer than prudence would dictate.
Dara sighed, set out for the stairs. “I will find Father’s killer. Find him and end his days, whether he is one of our blood or not.”
“Do you suspect Shah Shuja or Aurangzeb?”
Dara waved a hand, the movement sending him into a stagger that fetched him against the wall beside the stair.
Alarmed, Jahanara clutched his arm, straining to keep his greater weight upright.
“What?” he mumbled, blinking in the lamplight from the stair.
Jahanara swallowed a gasp. His left eyelid was closing a heartbeat after his right.
“You need to see the up-timer physicians.”
“Not yet. Just now I need to walk up these stairs and reassure the guards and court that I live and am in full control.”
“Yes. Good. But then you must see them as soon as possible.”
“Send someone to make sure of the garrison at Red Fort.”
“I will.”
He braced himself, then pushed off for the exit. “Merciful God, I am not ready for this.”
She steadied him. “It seems He has decided otherwise.”
“My court was already terribly depleted while Aurangzeb and Shah Shuja still have their milk-brothers and trusted allies. Indeed, they both have armies already raised and blooded. What do I have?”
“You have the treasury here, your wife, your son, and me.”
That alarming, imperfect smile bent his lips again. “Surely I cannot lose, with God providing me the service of such a mighty host.”
“If you were not already injured, I would make you pay for such sarcasm.”
“Peace, Sister.”
Because they both needed to get used to it: “Peace, Sultan Al’Azam.”
River Entrance of the Taj
The men of the mission climbed out of the stairwell, his friends carrying Randy. John emerged last, tired beyond tears. They trudged toward the front of the mausoleum, the droning of a large crowd louder with each weary step.
John squinted up the plinth. The entryway to the tomb was crowded with milling guards, slaves and servants. Their uneasy faces and tense body language were visible even at a distance.
“Just set him down. Looks like we’re going to have to wait a while,” John said, nodding up at the mausoleum entrance.
Bobby and Ricky eased the makeshift litter to the ground a few yards from the stairs.
“I’ll just go check on the ladies?”
John glanced at Gervais, couldn’t summon a reason why he shouldn’t, and nodded. He walked with the older man, stopped short of the steps. “If you get a chance, let them know we’re ready to leave.”
“I will, John.”
He didn’t know where they were going to bury Randy, though. Maybe the Jesuits would let them bury him in their graveyard?
Cradling his shotgun, John put his back to the plinth and slowly slid to the ground.
Looking down at Randy’s still form, Rodney muttered, “So far from home.”
John nodded, wishing he could look away.
“So far from everything he knew…”
“Are you trying to make me feel worse?”
Rodney spread his hands in surrender. “No, John, just saying.”
“Good, ’cause I already know I fucked up! He was right in front of me, Rodney.”
“Sorry, man.”
“For what? Might have been you I let get shot.”
“Let, John?”
He nodded, staring at Randy’s face. “I should have been paying attention. Should have been out in front.”
“You what?” Ricky asked.
“Should have been me out in front, Ricky.”
“Bullshit, John.”
“What?”
Ricky shook his head. “Sorry, but that’s complete bullshit: I was behind both of you. Randy was next to you, not out in front! None of us saw the asshole with the bow till it was too late. It’s not your fault. If anything, I was in the way when you tried to back up. Randy didn’t even get a chance to move.”
Bobby spoke up. “Ricky’s right, John. We all knew the dangers before we signed up, and when your number’s up, your number is up.”
John, realizing he wasn’t going to convince them of his guilt, changed the subject. “Where did they get the fucking bows, anyway, and why didn’t they use them on the emperor?”
Bertram cleared his throat. “Dead guardsmen down in the gallery. They were posing as workers. That’s how they managed to get so close to the guards in the first place.??
?
“Any idea who they were?”
“Well, they weren’t particularly skilled with their weapons, they were content to die for their cause, and most of them screamed a lot of ‘infidel’ and the like, so I assume they were religious fanatics.”
“Okay, any idea who would send a bunch of religious fanatics after the emperor?”
“Not yet, but everyone seems eager to get their hands on whoever is behind it.”
“That why we’re still sitting here, thumbs up our asses?”
Rodney shook his head. “Come on, John, give ’em a break, they just lost their dad.”
“And we just lost a friend.”
“I doubt they will see the two things equal, John.”
Rodney grunted, punched his chin at the entrance. “Looks like someone’s finally making a move.”
Chapter 42
Red Fort, The Vine Court
January 1636
Jahanara, tired beyond words, was looking forward to a long bath and even longer rest as she entered the harem courtyard. Ilsa and Monique walked slightly ahead of her, looking with some degree of paranoia around the darkened courtyard. At her request the mission women had, after collecting firearms from their men, served to supplement her remaining bodyguard until more of Atisheh’s kin could be found for the duty.
Thoughts of Atisheh made her ask: “Ilsa, did Priscilla find time to tell you how Atisheh fares?”
After seeing to the loyalty of his guard and garrison, the new Sultan Al’Azam had finally allowed Rodney and Gervais to see to his injury. Nadira had insisted Priscilla also consult from behind a jali, leaving Atisheh and Salim to the care of inferior physicians.
“She said that so long as they hadn’t missed some internal bleeding, she would likely make it.”
“Thank you.”
She spied Roshanara standing alone beyond the low marble fountain Father had installed. In no mood to speak to her, Jahanara sent a polite nod in her sister’s direction.
“Do not look at me so! It’s not my fault!” Roshanara wailed, crumpling to the marble flags.
The unsolicited denial brought Jahanara’s entire party to a halt. Jahanara glanced at Smidha, hoping the older woman would catch what her own tired mind missed.