Chapter 4
Agra
Mission House
“Begum Sahib, this is most inappropriate!” Smidha said, for the twelfth time.
Jahanara had been keeping count. She had also kept silent, planning… And dreading, slightly, seeing Atisheh once more. That first night after the attack Atisheh had been on the verge of unconsciousness when Jahanara had Mullah Mohan tortured. Even in such a state she had still cautioned the princess, nearly begging her to leave the Jasmine Tower while the deed was done. Jahanara would not be moved, however. This man had orchestrated Father’s assassination, and if the torture of such a creature would stain her immortal soul, then Jahanara would gladly suffer it to discover what made such a man think he had the right to kill Shah Jahan, emperor of India.
In the end they had discovered only that Mohan was far stronger than he appeared. He would not admit to working for any of her siblings. He would not admit to being manipulated into attempting the assassination, only that he had desperately wanted Nur dead along with Father. But Nur had fled to Aurangzeb, who had almost certainly been Mullah Mohan’s secret patron.
Why flee to Aurangzeb if Mohan had been acting on Aurangzeb’s orders? And if Mullah Mohan had been, why had Aurangzeb ordered Father’s death in the first place? She could think of no reason for Aurangzeb to command his follower to do such a thing. Even one as sure of himself as Aurangzeb must know he had much to learn before he would be ready to rule. Unless he thought himself as exceptional as Babur?
Jahanara was drawn from her silent questions by a loud sniff from Smidha.
“Need I remind you, Smidha, that ‘I am invited to come by their home at any time,’” Jahanara said, knowing that by repeating the up-timers’ impertinent invitation, she was nettling her most faithful servant.
“But, unannounced?” Smidha said, scandalized. “You will put them in a very uncomfortable position, Begum Sahib!”
“It’s not as if I am sneaking up on them unawares!” Jahanara said, gesturing at the howdah’s curtains and the escort beyond them. That escort stretched back toward the gate for nearly a kos. Any member of the royal family on an outing always had a proper escort, but a princess must be accompanied by guardians sufficient to protect her virtue and enough servants to see to every need she might possibly have.
She didn’t normally think about such things, but in recent weeks she had never felt so alone in the company of her servants and guardians. Perhaps that was a result of her constant contact with the up-timer woman, Priscilla, and the strange ideas about how a just society worked that seemed to have infected the others from the United States of Europe, but she had felt discontented these last few weeks. It seemed the more power she obtained, the less content she was with the lot that Fate, Father, and God had ordained for her.
The drums in the advance guard changed tempo as one of her servants delivered news of her presence—as if that couldn’t be determined by the size of her escort—to whomever was manning the entrance to Mission House. The drums changed tempo almost as soon as they had slowed, signifying that someone knew their business and was allowing them immediate entry. She heard the mounts of the guards at the head of her party set out but Ran Bagha did not move to follow after the expected interval.
She was about to ask Gopal what was going on when she heard him in a whispered argument with someone standing below and beside Ran Bagha.
Old ears must have prevented Smidha from hearing the whispers, because she loudly questioned Gopal’s fitness to serve when they did not immediately start to move.
“I beg your pardon, Begum Sahib,” the mahout said from his position before the howdah, “but there’s no way we can get your howdah through the gate.”
The look of recrimination Smidha gave her mistress was so expert that despite brimming with unspoken I told you so’s her expression remained entirely bland, even pleasant.
Happy that the afternoon air was relatively cool, Jahanara set about fixing her veil so that she could see for herself what predicament she had thrust upon her servants.
Smidha was far less sanguine and grumbled as she shifted position to help her mistress.
“Begum Sahib, if you’ll give us a few moments we will sort this out,” Damla said. “We had not anticipated the strange construction of this…palace the up-timers have built.”
“I can walk, you know,” Jahanara said, tempted to open the curtains and see for herself what this gate that so delayed them looked like.
“With respect, none has said otherwise, Begum Sahib. I ask your indulgence as I doubt your slippers would survive the experience. There is a great deal of filth and dung in the street outside the gate to Mission House.”
Glad of her veil and that Smidha was behind her, Jahanara scowled.
Damla was being overly familiar but, to be entirely fair, the young guard commander had asked permission to scout the path before they went. Jahanara had refused her, wanting to be spontaneous and surprise the up-timers in their home.
Smidha was being very quiet, which served to annoy Jahanara all the more. Knowing that both activities would prove equally ineffective, she chewed her lower lip instead of barking at her entourage. Then again, barking at her entourage might have been more satisfying, but disgruntled servants rarely served well.
The exceedingly mild afternoon sun managed to slowly warm the howdah as they sat waiting.
Jahanara heard a rapid stream of English she thought might be curses then Damla speaking in a level voice to someone who either spoke very quietly or didn’t speak.
Tired of waiting, Jahanara twitched the curtains aside and looked to the head of her entourage. Even at first glance it was plainly obvious Mission House had not been constructed with elephants in mind: the gate that pierced the wall before them was barely sufficient for a mounted horseman, and would never admit an elephant, let alone one surmounted by howdah. To add insult to injury, the gate was only twenty gaz or so from her elephant, close enough she could see Damla and another of her servants just beyond the gate speaking to the up-timer giant, Rodney. At least, she assumed it was Rodney, as his head was lost to view beyond the lower edge of the gate.
“Begum Sahib, we were just about to arrange for a litter,” one of the new eunuchs promoted to her guard said, trying to be helpful.
“Forget that. Bring me a horse and let’s get this farce done with.”
Smidha tutted.
Frustration getting the better of her, Jahanara turned on her oldest and most trusted advisor. “One word, Smidha, and I will have you clearing the filth from our path home with your bare hands.”
Smidha’s answer was to bow her head in complete and perfect submission, which made Jahanara feel a good deal worse. Taking out her temper upon a servant wasn’t proper, especially when all the servant had done was offer good counsel. Counsel she’d willfully chosen to ignore. Mother had taught her better.
“Forgive me, Smidha. I am anxious to see Atisheh and did not listen to your wise counsel regarding this visit.”
“There is nothing to forgive, Begum Sahib. I felt your impatience, and should have done better to foresee this inconvenience rather than complaining or obstructing your will.”
Jahanara reached out and took one of the older woman’s hands in hers. “Nonetheless, I ask your forgiveness.”
“It is given freely and with a full heart, Begum Sahib.”
Wishing Azar, her pulu pony, was in the procession, Jahanara watched as a tall white Marwari was brought up beside the massive Ran Bagha.
Gopal directed the war elephant to kneel as two strong eunuchs stepped forward to assist Jahanara transition from howdah to horse. The well-trained horse stood still despite the unusual method of mounting, the nearness of the strangers, and the bull elephant casting a baleful eye over the entire process. In an almost laughable display, her drummers at the van struck up again as soon as her posterior touched the saddle.
Once again happy for the veil that concealed the flush that reddened her cheeks, Jahanara rode through the small gate of Mission House.
Mission House
Priscilla entered the bedchamber she and Rodney shared at the run. All of Mission House’s servants were scrambling to make the place presentable for the princess. A runner had arrived fifteen minutes ago to inform Mission House that Begum Sahib appeared to be on her way.
Rodney and Bertram were downstairs and at least appeared ready to receive their visitor, but organizing both men and the household staff had required the full attention of both Monique and Priscilla, leaving little time to dress and prepare themselves.
“Mon Dieu, mais c’est vraiment la putan de merde!” Monique shouted from across the hall.
“I may have only had high school French, Monique, but I sure as hell understand that!” Priscilla said, trying to put on one of the incredibly expensive silken robes she wore for palace visits without messing it up.
From the muted huffing and puffing from across the hall, Monique was stuffing her own curvy frame into a similar outfit.
“Besides, how the hell was I to know she was actually going to take me up on the invitation?”
“You don’t make the invitation at all unless you can be certain you have the means to entertain those you invite!” Monique cried.
“Well, shit,” Priscilla said, frustration bordering on panic squeezing a tear from her eyes.
“Oh, Pris, I’m sorry!” Monique said. “It’s not your fault. I’m sorry. There should have at least been some notice from the palace that she was coming.”
The drums stopped.
Priscilla’s and Monique’s eyes met. Jahanara had entered the courtyard of Mission House.
“To steal a word or two from John, ‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’” Monique said.
Glad that Ilsa wasn’t here to complain of Monique’s language, Priscilla checked her image in the very costly mirror Rodney had bought for her. She decided she looked as good as she could without the elaborate hair and makeup the harem seemed to require.
She heard Monique stepping out into the hall between their rooms.
Priscilla gave a final adjustment to her dress and joined the younger woman in the hallway. Monique looked stunning in a robe of pale blue silk that contrasted beautifully with her dark curls and pale skin.
“You have such lovely hair,” she said, reaching a gentle hand to smooth one of Monique’s wayward curls back into place.
Monique smiled. “If only it wasn’t so unruly.” She looked Priscilla over and nodded. “You look lovely.”
“Thanks.” She took a deep, steadying breath and said, “Shall we?”
“God, yes! Who knows what mess the men will get into without us.”
The pair hurried down the stairs and into the central court of the villa. Their timing could not have been better, because Jahanara was just riding through the gate on a tall white horse.
Far too experienced to turn a hair at the unusual situation, Firoz Khan, the administrator in charge of Dara’s harem, was already speaking with Rodney and Bertram.
“An informal visit, only. Begum Sahib wished to make this unannounced visit upon her court favorites and the harem guard Atisheh solely to show her favor for them and take them up on their kind invitation.”
Rodney cast a relieved glance at Priscilla. “Should we leave the ladies to it, then?”
Firoz Khan paused in consideration, then nodded. “If that is the proper protocol when a visitor comes calling, then surely we can do that.”
“Then let’s go,” Rodney said. He looked at Priscilla and smiled. “If that’s okay with you, dear?”
“Of course. Jahanara and her ladies are welcome to stay with us for this visit.” Just because her ladies were a troop of battle-hardened warriors, Smidha, and a maid or two didn’t signify that West Virginia hospitality would not be equal to the task.
Firoz Khan rattled out several commands and then followed a relieved Bertram and Rodney into the fountain room, where refreshments had been laid out for their visitors. The Mission House’s male staff disappeared within moments of Rodney and Bertram leading Firoz Khan and the other eunuchs behind closed doors.
The female warriors dismounted in unison. One woman, almost as big as Atisheh, dismounted and sauntered over to Jahanara’s horse. Taking the bridle in hand she offered her other to the princess, but Jahanara was already sliding out of the saddle to land on slippered feet.
Eyes bright, the princess sauntered to her hosts. Even veiled and covered head to toe, Begum Sahib’s grace and poise were much in evidence.
Priscilla and Monique bowed deeply.
“Welcome to Mission House, Begum Sahib,” Priscilla said.
The rest of her entourage dismounting behind her, Jahanara reached out with open arms and raised them both up. “Please, I but belatedly realized how much of an imposition this is upon you. I’m afraid I am a spoiled brat to descend on you so without prior notification. I hope I did not upset your men too much?”
“Firoz handled them admirably, Begum Sahib,” Monique said. “I do not think Bertram even got a word in edgewise. And Lord knows Bertram likes to talk.”
“And Rodney has always been uncomfortable when my friends would come by. Says he feels like a bull in a china shop when surrounded by my girlfriends,” Priscilla added, smiling.
“I am much relieved to hear it. I’m afraid I’ve made everyone uncomfortable with this visit.”
“Please, Begum Sahib!” Priscilla said. “We invited you to drop by anytime, and meant it. We just didn’t think about what an unusual invitation would mean for your…household.”
“And Firoz Khan mentioned something about you wanting to visit with Atisheh?” Monique said.
Jahanara’s eyes shone with interest over the veil. “If it is not too much trouble, I would very much like to see her.”
“She is supposed to be resting right now…” Priscilla gestured at the second floor, uncertain why Atisheh had not appeared in response to all the noise.
“Supposed to be?” Jahanara asked.
Priscilla turned and led the princess and her party along the gallery to the stairs. “She can be stubborn as a mule, Begum Sahib.” Priscilla gave a small shake of her head. “Of course, that stubbornness is likely the reason why we’re all still alive, so I can’t rightly complain.”
“She does not want to take the advice of her physicians?” Jahanara said, the faintest edge creeping into her voice.
“Oh, she listens.” The big warrior woman fell in behind them as they climbed the stairs. “She just chafes at the enforced inactivity. Not much worse than any active person would be in her place, I suppose, but I’ve rarely heard so many mutters and grumblings.”
“She is a master mutterer,” Monique said, grinning. “It helps none of us can understand what she’s saying.”
“I will be sure to admonish her to cease this muttering,” Jahanara said.
“Oh, please don’t, Begum Sahib! It’s nothing she should be challenged on. Her mood is, frankly, fragile. Which I suppose is entirely understandable given the change in her circumstances.”
“Oh?” Jahanara asked as they entered the hall leading to Atisheh’s quarters.
“It couldn’t have been easy to be plucked out of the harem, where she was certain of her place and power and be put here, away from everything she knows and understands.”
“And told she can’t even exercise the skills that set her apart from all others until she heals?” Monique shrugged. “Can’t be easy.”
“I suppose not. Still, she should be polite at the very least.”
Priscilla chuckled. “If you only knew what trying to treat a meth head was like.”
“A what?” Monique and the princess said at nearly the same time.
“Users of a particular up-time drug. They got on my last nerve. Mostly because they would not shut up. Not. Ever. That, and the fact that every time they opened their mouths they were lying.”
Their conversation had brought them to Atisheh’s door. Swallowing a sudden fear that Atisheh would be resentful of their intrusion, Priscilla raised a hand and knocked.
“Unless you’re bringing me my armor and a blade, you can just turn around and go.”
The elephant Jahanara had ridden here chose that moment to bugle a short challenge.
“Um, Atisheh, there’s someone here to see you.”
One of the mutters Monique had spoken of penetrated the door, closely followed by two other sounds: the noise of someone hurrying to their feet and Jahanara’s sharp intake of breath.
Priscilla looked at the princess and saw a tightness around her eyes as Jahanara removed her veil.
“Atisheh, is that how you speak to your physicians?” Jahanara asked, lips a tight line.
Atisheh said something unintelligible but caustic as more fumbling noises reached their ears.
Taking pity on her patient, Priscilla said, “Shall we wait for you downstairs?”
The door popped open at that moment, revealing a disheveled, if dressed, Atisheh.
“Begum Sahib, I beg forgiveness. I did not know it was you.”
“Do you often hear the drums announcing an imperial procession here at Mission House?”
Atisheh looked confused as she tried to explain, “I was dreaming, or so I thought.”
“You look well, Atisheh.”
It was only a slight exaggeration: Atisheh had none of the deathly pallor she’d had in those first days after her wounding, but she did look ready to punch something or someone, hard.
“Do I, Begum Sahib?” Atisheh asked the question of her princess, but directed a very pointed look at Priscilla as she did so.
Jahanara hesitated, probably realizing she had stumbled onto delicate ground. “You seem well on your way to a full recovery, I mean.”
“I believe I would already be fully recovered if my jailers”—she nodded at Priscilla—“would allow me to ride, hunt, and practice at arms.”
Priscilla shook her head and said, for maybe the twentieth time that week, “If we allowed that, your stitches would have torn and we’d be back at square one, Atisheh. You can’t start working out yet. Not until those stitches are out and your wounds won’t pop open under strain. Not on my watch. A few weeks more and you can start swinging whatever you want around.”
“And still you did not answer my question, Atisheh. Do you speak to your physicians in that manner?”
Priscilla begged Jahanara with a look not to go after the other woman, but the princess was not looking at her, and likely would not have heeded the up-timer if she had.
Atisheh stared at Jahanara’s feet and mumbled, “No, Begum Sahib. Or rather, yes, but I shall stop now.”
“Indeed you shall, Atisheh. Now, apologize to them.”
Opening her mouth to ask Jahanara to knock it off, Priscilla stopped when she saw the effect Jahanara’s words had on Atisheh. It was confusing, but Jahanara’s harsh words seem to have restored Atisheh’s self-image rather than diminish it.
Atisheh had drawn herself up like a soldier at attention. In fact, the woman seemed more herself than at any other time since coming to Mission House.
Priscilla was still trying to digest the change when Jahanara said, “I’m still waiting to hear your apology, Atisheh.”
“Forgive me, Doctor Totman,” Atisheh said, instantly. “I have been muttering unworthy words in response to your care. I will do better in the future.”
“Apology accepted, even if I think it unnecessary,” Priscilla said, glancing aside at the princess in hopes she would be satisfied.
Jahanara nodded, once. “If I may have a private word with Atisheh? It will take only a moment.”
“Of course, Begum Sahib.”
Jahanara stepped into the room.
The door swung closed under the warrior’s hand, but not before they could hear Jahanara hiss, “You call these people goat-fucking pig-milkers in their own home?”
Atisheh’s reply was muted, but the meek tone was unmistakable.
Priscilla stifled a giggle by clapping a hand to her lips.
Monique was less careful, and chuckled outright.
* * *
Jahanara’s gaze slid past the oddly designed furnishings of the bedchamber and fixed on Atisheh as she waited for a response. Faintly, she heard someone chuckle in the hall.
Atisheh, thankfully, did not seem to hear it. The warrior would not look her patron in the eye. “Begum Sahib, please accept my full and abject apologies. I did not consider how poorly my words would reflect upon you. Please forgive my transgressions, I will do better.”
Cold anger leaving her in a rush, Jahanara swallowed a lump in her throat as she had her first good look at Atisheh in some weeks. The older woman had a number of bandages swathing her torso, with matching ones on her left arm, right thigh, and right shin. None of them showed any color at all, meaning her stitches were holding and she was not bleeding. Priscilla had assured her that all of Atisheh’s wounds were healing properly, but seeing Atisheh’s slow movements and the sheer number of bandages on the indomitable warrior was sobering.
“A woman of your position needs to have better control over her tongue. Can I rely on you henceforth?”
Atisheh bowed her head. “Your will, Begum Sahib.”
“Even when I am not present?” Jahanara pressed.
“Even so, Begum Sahib. I am your servant. I will not forget again.”
“If I am understood, you may open the door and let our hosts in.”
“Your will, Begum Sahib.”
“On with it, then.”
Atisheh opened the door and gestured.
Monique and Priscilla entered the room, the latter glancing warily from her patient to Jahanara.
“Forgive me for giving commands in your home, ladies,” Jahanara said. “I want to make sure that Atisheh appreciates the care with which she is being treated. I have need of her once she is fully recovered, and if she has annoyed her physicians to the point where they cannot help her to that full recovery, then she will be of no use to me or my brother.”
Atisheh’s eyes narrowed, noticing her princess’s emphasis on the word fully.
“Because I have asked Dara to confer upon you the title of Commander of Urdubegis, not just my personal guard.”
The big warrior’s expression rapidly cycled through suspicion to shock to joy before settling back to suspicion.
Stifling a laugh, Jahanara continued. “As part of fulfilling those duties is the testing of each applicant. I cannot see how you would prevail against the best candidates if you had to guard not only against their attacks, but against reopening your wounds.”
“I’m afraid I must admit to some weakness. Perhaps Dara would be better served by one of my sisters?”
Jahanara shook her head vehemently. “There is no question who will best serve in this role. Dara would not have it otherwise. Nor would I. Nor any other who was there in the garden of the Taj Mahal.”
Atisheh bowed her head.
Jahanara slowly realized that she had been too harsh for too long, and reached out to take the other woman’s hand.
Atisheh, uncomfortable with such intimacy from the princess, went still.
“You are the best woman for this job, and I would have no other responsible for the protection of our family. Please, as you hold your oath to me sacred, heed the advice of your physicians and take care with your recovery so that it is complete and total. We will have need of your strong sword and discerning eye soon, but not so soon that you do not have time to make a full recovery.”
Atisheh would not meet her eyes, but nodded.
And because the warrior might need to hear it, Jahanara edged her voice with the tones of command she had so often heard Father use: “I would have your word on it, Atisheh. Promise me you shall do as I command.”
The warrior woman stood straight, met her eyes, and said, “Your will, Begum Sahib.”
“Yes. My will.” Jahanara released Atisheh, patting the broad, scarred knuckles of Atisheh’s sword hand with her own finely manicured and hennaed one.
“Besides, I shall expect a full report of what goes on here in Mission House.” She gestured at the comfortable chamber that Atisheh had been convalescing in. “Even their architecture is strange, though I do like the mosaic floor in the entryway. And the central garden is not entirely without charm.”
“As to their architecture or how they choose to decorate, I cannot speak intelligently. And, to be frank, their skill at arms—for hand to hand—is pathetic. Their firearms do seem to level the battlefield at any greater distance than melee, however.”
“Let us hope that is true. Dara has already commissioned Talawat to furnish a great number of arms patterned after one of the weapons they brought from the future.”
Atisheh’s expression darkened momentarily at mention of the copies.
“What is it?”
“Your pardon, Begum Sahib, but the use of any weapon requires training. The more complex the weapon or skill, the more training is necessary to become proficient. It is harder to use a bow from horseback than while standing still. I cannot imagine that we have time both for the weapons to be made and the training of those who will wield them.”
Jahanara smiled. “And this is why we need you fully healed and back in our service. You, my dear Atisheh, think a great deal more than any man will give you credit for.”
Atisheh bowed her head, but Jahanara could see the remark had pleased her.
“If it is just my mind you wish returned to service, I can do it now,” Atisheh said slyly.
“Look at you!” Jahanara said, laughing. “Outmaneuvering me in conversation!” She could laugh because she knew Atisheh’s honor would not allow her to play such games, not after giving her word on it.
Atisheh gave a small, shy smile. “In truth, Begum Sahib, I have missed your laugh these last weeks. Even as I have missed all those under my protection in the harem. I am eager to return and thank you for visiting me.”
Recognizing dismissal when she heard it, Jahanara smiled once more and turned to leave. She caught the barest hint of an approving glance from Priscilla before that woman bowed and turned to follow Jahanara from the room.
Jahanara paused in the narrow hall outside Atisheh’s bedchamber. It was very crowded and growing quite warm.
Smidha gestured, indicating which direction they should go. The princess and her entourage descended a set of stairs into a large chamber with high ceilings that opened onto the central courtyard through tall wooden doors. A large, tall table laden with fruit and drink dominated the center of the room. Jahanara approached it, trying to give her followers room to spread out before turning to face Priscilla.
“I must thank you, Priscilla, for all that you’ve done for my family. My brother and I both know exactly how much is owed to you and the USE’s mission. You do your king much honor.”
Priscilla bowed deeply. “Begum Sahib, we have been well compensated for all services rendered to the crown. Frankly, it has been our pleasure to help you and your family.”
“That is gratifying to hear, Mrs. Totman, especially in light of what I must ask of you now.”
Priscilla cocked a brow and gestured for the princess to continue.
“I have been thinking a great deal on your skills, and how they might be best employed to help those soldiers wounded in my brother’s service.”
Priscilla shrugged. “My husband and I only have so many hours to treat wounded.”
Jahanara smiled. “I am not being clear. I would like to employ you and your husband and perhaps Misters Gradinego and Vieuxpont. Not as physicians yourselves, but to train men and women to treat our wounded.”
“Oh, like medics?” Priscilla shook her head and clarified: “You mean train people on the battlefield to treat the wounded?”
“Exactly so,” Jahanara said, hiding her relief. Most court physicians would have considered the mere suggestion that they train random strangers in their rarefied skills offensive. “We can have some start with a small group—”
“And they will serve to train the next group!” Priscilla said, so excited at the prospect she interrupted the princess.
“Exactly so. I will have to secure funding from my brother as well as supplies, but I think it will be useful, no?”
Priscilla’s expressive eyes were wide and her voice excited. “Oh, yes! When I was training to become a paramedic my training officer, a veteran of the Gulf War, was always going on about how the U.S. military did a better job of evacuating its wounded than any other in history, which made for higher morale amongst the soldiers. If you know that your wounded friend is going to be taken care of, you can put some of that fear out of your mind.”
“I had not even thought of that aspect of it. I just thought we might help save lives. I shall recall that when I speak to my brother.”
“We’re going to have to talk to the men about this too. They likely know a lot more about how the military organized it than I do. At least I hope so.”
Jahanara nodded. “Of course. I just wanted to be sure the idea was practical and that you might be able—and willing—to do it.”
Priscilla looked thoughtful as Jahanara turned her attention to Monique.
“Monique, would you attend me on my travels back to Red Fort?”
The young Frenchwoman bowed deeply. “It would be my pleasure, Begum Sahib.”
Jahanara gestured at the table. “I’m afraid I have stayed too long. My brother needs me and I must attend him. Please forgive my intrusion, and my sudden departure. I will give you better notice next time?” She let the statement become a question to ensure they knew she understood, at last, that the initial invitation had been a polite fiction and that they would be expected to extend a formal one in future so that all parties were properly notified before this visit was repeated.
Priscilla and Monique both bowed and said, at the same time, “Of course you must come again, Begum Sahib!”