Chapter 6
Agra
Mission House
It was around midnight when Priscilla was drawn from sleep by a noise. She lay there, listening carefully. Mission House, which she’d only moved into last week, still wasn’t really home, so she had yet to have a catalog of the night sounds like she had back in Grantville.
There. A dull metallic ringing from the courtyard.
Gervais had designed the Mission like an old Italian villa; the second-floor chambers of the main building opening onto a balcony overlooking a central court of gardens and fountains.
Bobby has guard duty tonight. Poor guy looked tired when I went to bed. The boys have been stretched thin working security, but finding reliable guards who aren’t scandalized by how we dress and act—even on our own property—ain’t easy.
Suddenly fearful, Pris pulled the .38 from under her pallet and slipped from her bed. Taking a moment to don a silk robe that five years ago she wouldn’t have dreamt of wearing, much less being able to afford, she padded across the cold tiles to a set of louvered doors.
Suppressing a shiver as the cool air seeping through the louvers bit through the robe, Priscilla reached for the latch. She could see someone had lit a lamp in the courtyard. The noise from below had settled into a rhythm, just not one she could identify.
She eased the latch up and stepped out into the night. Still unable to see the source of the sound, she approached the balustrade and looked down.
Priscilla relaxed, recognizing the figure in the lamplight below. A tall, broad-shouldered woman, Atisheh was hard to mistake for anyone else at Mission House. Better still, Atisheh’s outstretched arms finally provided an explanation for the strange noise that had awakened Priscilla.
Atisheh had a number of horseshoes over each arm. The noise was a result of her holding those horseshoe-laden arms out to either side at shoulder height and then dropping into a squat.
The swordswoman stood straight with a hiss of effort, then repeated the entire process, vigorously.
“You sure you’re up to that?”
The former harem guard and current patient of Priscilla’s twitched in surprise, found the up-timer in the shadows above, and said, “Up? I not understand.”
“I don’t think you should be doing such heavy work.”
Atisheh had been restive the last month, growling at her caregivers with an increasing impatience, volume, and grasp of English. The fact she’d been as near death as anyone Priscilla had ever seen—sword-cut in half a dozen places, battered so thoroughly she’d have been a single bruise from head to toe had she the blood to discolor flesh just a few months prior—made no difference to the woman.
Just as Priscilla’s current qualms didn’t stop Atisheh now.
“What time now?” She squatted low with her arms still out, breathed in, and stood again on the exhale.
“I don’t know, after midnight?”
“Exact.”
“What does that mean?”
Atisheh rotated her arms around and up, the shoes clanking, and raised her hands, then each individual finger until seven stood between them.
“Seven, what?”
“One week, you tell me. One week I start work. Seven days. I start soon I can and still follow orders you give.”
Pris crossed arms over her chest. “Jesus.”
“Why speak of minor prophet now? You miss prayers?”
Pris didn’t even try to answer that question. “You are a machine.”
“Machine?” Atisheh grunted, slowly lowering the weights, corded muscles standing out in her neck and shoulders, fresh scars angry in the lamplight.
“Never mind. I’m going back to bed.”
“Good”—another lengthy hiss—“night.”
* * *
Rodney returned late the next morning. Priscilla made a point of meeting him in the courtyard dressed in her favorite jeans and one of his old work shirts.
Ricky slid the bolt home on the reinforced gate as Rodney rode up to the stables. His fine robes and the sword in its jeweled sheath at his hip made him look every inch a prosperous warrior-noble of the Mughal court. Until you got close, saw how big he was, and how poorly he sat a horse. The nobles of the Mughal court rode like they were born in the saddle.
Her husband lifted his head to see her striding toward him and sent a tired but appreciative smile her way.
“Five nights in a row, now,” Priscilla said, taking the horse’s bridle in hand.
“He’s in a lot of pain,” Rodney said by way of excuse, dismounting and giving her forehead a kiss.
Her sigh tickled the nose of Rodney’s horse, making the gelding toss his head. She patted its neck and said, “I don’t dispute that.”
“But?” he asked as she led his mount into the stable.
“Hard to say where the pain of his injury ends and the pain of loss begins.”
“Sounds like a question for a priest, not a couple of certification-lapsed paramedics in way over their heads.”
“I suppose it is, but I think we should watch him close to make sure he doesn’t begin self-medicating,” Pris said as she set about removing the horse’s tack. The locals put much store in decorating every bit of riding gear with complex knots, braids, and what she could only call pom-poms. He could leave for Red Fort with a plain saddle and harness, but by the time he took his leave of the imperial stables, his horse and tack were always decorated to the ninth degree. The tack tended to bewilder a tired mind and his bigger fingers, so she handled it while Rodney removed the saddle.
“Gervais and I are doing what we can.”
Knowing he was doing just that, she left off working at the tack to smile at him. On seeing his expression, she hugged him.
“You’re still on cloud nine, aren’t you?” he asked.
Priscilla released him and raised her arms, spinning in a circle. “God, yes! And who wouldn’t be? There’s a reason they call those in a harem ‘inmates,’ after all. A gilded cage is still a cage.”
“Too true.”
Pris caught him glancing at the high walls of the compound. “I know we’re still behind walls, but just being able to wear what I want while I get some work done is huge. Huge.”
Rodney nodded.
“Speaking of working: How is Atisheh?”
She smiled. “Last I saw her she was beating the snot out of some eunuch trying out for a spot on Dara’s harem guard. The woman’s constitution is amazing. Barely a month out of our care and she’s riding and fighting like she was never hurt.”
Rodney’s chuckle ended in a yawn. “Sorry. I don’t think I will be good company for long.” He yawned again, hugely this time, his jaw popping. “I’m dead tired.”
She pulled him closer—really just pressed herself tighter to his muscular side, as she was far too small to move him—and said, “I’ll just tuck you in, then.”
He laughed, eyes shining despite fatigue.
“What’s tickled you?”
“Just reflecting on the fact that some days it’s real good to be a hillbilly named Rodney Totman.”
* * *
“Monique.” Bertram said her name with the slightest of smiles as he walked into the Mission’s council chamber.
“Bertram,” she replied. Gervais being present, she kept her own, answering smile, locked away. Papa had always been strange about the men she favored, but Bertram was…special to her and, she suspected, to Gervais as well. Of course, her father would never admit such a thing publicly.
“Bertram, come here,” Papa said, waving the younger man to join him. Gervais stood at a table strewn with papers and maps that dominated the center of the chamber.
“Of course, Gervais.”
“Papa, Bertram may need a drink, or perhaps something to eat, before we figure out—in one evening—how to defeat the pretenders.”
Gervais gave her a long look. “My lovely daughter: always encouraging her father to ever-greater accomplishments.”
Bertram tried to head off their banter before it made a darker turn. “Perhaps later, Monique?”
She favored him with a smile and let it go. “As you wish.”
“Right, now we’ve established you aren’t hungry or thirsty, what news?”
Bertram leaned on the table with both hands, examining one of the maps Gervais had commissioned. “Dara has ordered the Banjaris to stop transport of all supplies to the armies of his brothers.”
“Finally,” Monique said. She’d been present when Jahanara had begged him to do just that—nearly a month ago.
Both men looked at her, but it was Papa who spoke: “A new monarch needs to avoid giving orders that will not be obeyed. Just because an order is given does not mean it will be followed.”
“If they want to be paid, Dara holds the purse strings.”
“Dara has access to the largest treasury, not all of it. His brothers have incomes and war chests of their own, saved against this very moment. Not only that, they have experienced and loyal courts full of warriors ready to fight for them.”
When she didn’t seem moved by those arguments, Gervais went on. “Besides, a great number of the Banjaris are strung out between here and Dara’s brothers. What happens to them, and those actually in camp with Aurangzeb or Shuja, when the supplies stop?”
“Historically, the dynasty has proven very lenient toward those serving a princely master who subsequently loses, especially when those people really only declared for the losing prince because they had no choice, being in their power.”
“But—”
She cut Gervais off. “This is not any of the courts of Europe, Papa. Princes here are expected to vie for control even before the succession comes to question, and so long as no one outside the dynasty tries to take power for themselves, changes of allegiance are seen as acceptable, even expected. It is yet another advantage Dara has—if he’ll just use it! His treasury is massive, and neither of his brothers have anything comparable to the fortune at his fingertips. He also has all the imperial bureaucrats standing by, ready to do his bidding…”
Bertram cleared his throat. “Not all, Monique. Some have left the city. He has had the khutba said in his name, but only just ordered coins minted in his name, and was slow to confirm or remove the people in high positions under Shah Jahan. In the uncertainty, some left for greener pastures they imagine they’ll find with either Shuja or Aurangzeb.”
Papa crossed his arms across his chest and cast a knowing look at her, a good sign he was struggling to find some way to refute her points.
Bertram was looking at her with clear admiration. “I take it Jahanara is an excellent instructor on court politics?”
She nodded, smiling. “And I, an excellent student.”
“Without question.”
Despite herself, Monique blushed.
“Stop that, you two,” Gervais said, glowering.
“Stop what?” they asked, in near unison.
Papa threw up his hands. “Just get it over with!”
“Get what over with?” she asked.
Gervais directed his words at Bertram, though: “You clearly wish to court my daughter.”
“Papa!” she cried, so loudly she nearly missed Bertram’s far quieter response.
“I do.”
“You do?”
Bertram nodded, emphatic.
“Of course he does, girl! And now that I formally accept his designs on you, we can all get on with business without you two failing—miserably, I might add—to pretend you are not interested in one another.”
“Damn you!”
Genuine shock flashed across Papa’s face. She rarely cursed him.
“The one time I manage to upstage you with my education, you steal my thunder entirely!”
In a flash, Papa’s infuriating smile returned.
She hugged him and leveled a stare at Bertram. “I am a woman of means, now, Bertram Weiman. You will need to win me.”
He met her eye. “I shall endeavor to do so, Monique Vieuxpont.”
Gervais cleared his throat. “Very well, now we have that out the way, may we return to discussing the present strategic situation?”
“Certainly…in a moment,” Monique said.
“What?” Papa asked.
“Jahanara is…” She thought how best to describe the princess’s mental state, sighed, and continued blandly, “The princess is at the ragged edge of her patience, ability, and power. She needs help covering for Dara’s lapses. I offered ours.”
Both men went silent.
Bertram was pale under his tan, but it was Gervais who eventually broke the quiet with, “To borrow an indelicate, yet precise term from John: shit.”
Monique nodded. “Yes. Lots of opportunity to make a mess of things. Lots of opportunity to do a great deal of good.”
“She agreed, then?”
“Readily, yes.”
“Well, we shall have to prepare a few methods to make good on your offer to conceal his condition.”
“And how do we do that, Gervais?” Bertram asked, a little sharply.
Gervais answered without rancor, “To begin with, we’ll invert some of the swindles we’ve used in the past: while the one person feigns illness, the other accomplishes certain tasks while attention is focused on the supposedly sick person.”
Papa’s answer made Bertram look thoughtful, and perhaps a bit rueful as well.
“I will run possible ruses by you before Monique presents them to Jahanara. I’m sure you’ll have a role to play in them, and that wicked sharp mind of yours will find embellishments we haven’t considered.”
“I’m not so sure about that, but it’s probably a good idea to include anyone who will be in on it to be as knowledgeable as possible on the plan,” Bertram said, pulling his lower lip in the way that told her he was worrying over something.
“What?”
“We need to run Jahanara’s request past John, Priscilla, and Rodney, at minimum. More likely we need to bring everyone in all the way so that there’s no surprises on our end…”
“Of course,” Gervais said, though Monique was half-certain he’d not thought to ask. Papa could be very single-minded when he believed the stakes high enough. Single-minded to the point where he did not stop to consider the thoughts, let alone feelings, of others.
“I’m not sure Priscilla will like the idea of going back into the harem for any length of time. She chafes at it more than the rest of us.”
“Regardless of what we decide on her request,” Gervais said, “we need to finish going over the rest of the intelligence we have to present at the weekly meeting.”
Bertram nodded. “Asaf Khan was my priority this week, but there’s not a lot to report: word has it that his army is still inching its way back from Bengal. We have slightly more detail on Aurangzeb and his army, reports indicating his forces are somewhere south of Shah Shuja’s in the Deccan. This is particularly alarming as Shah Shuja alone has three times the men Dara has raised so far, and if his younger brothers join forces against Dara, he will be unable to meet them in the field.”
“Can we count on them to come to blows before they get here?” Gervais said.
“One can hope.” Bertram shrugged. “I can see Aurangzeb handling it one of two ways: either he tries to bring Shuja to battle immediately and—if his victory is incomplete or Shuja evades battle in the first place—run the risk of starvation while chasing his brother. Then again, if they do meet, they may not have a pitched battle, but rather form up and negotiate some kind of disposition.
“Or he could hole up in one of the former Deccan sultanates and try to gather power to himself. But the governors assigned to the southernmost Subahs of the empire who served Shah Jahan have declared for Dara, so anything that allows Dara time to consolidate power is probably not Aurangzeb’s first choice of strategy.
“Both ideas carry risks, and it’s hard to say which way he’ll decide, but everyone seems to agree on one point: Aurangzeb is the greater threat, even with Shuja athwart his logistics train.” Bertram used the up-timer term with ease, knowing his audience would understand.
Gervais looked a question at Monique.
She nodded. “That’s the essence of what Jahanara’s people are saying as well.”
Of course, it went unsaid that Dara’s people were also Jahanara’s, though Dara could hardly say the same about Jahanara’s people. With Nadira Begum entirely occupied with Dara’s care, and Dara himself still unsteady from his head injury, Begum Sahib Jahanara had become the power behind the throne—a status Monique and the other ladies of the Mission were entirely comfortable with but that the other ladies of the court were still adjusting to.
“Does anyone have any idea which way Aurangzeb will jump?”
“No,” Monique and Bertram said, at almost the same time.
“And what about improving our knowledge of the whereabouts, goals, and condition of Asaf Khan and his army?”
“Certainly seems to be a great number of armies running about, eh?” Bertram said with a smile.
Monique had what she hoped would be, if less humorous, than at least more helpful, to offer: “Jahanara thinks we can help Dara on that particular score.”