Shaking off dark thoughts, Nur realized he was gazing at her in expectation of an answer.
“Of course, Sultan Al’Azam. You are wise to consider the safety of your sisters.”
“Good.” He looked away again, eyes traveling over the monument to his mother.
“What may I offer in these negotiations?”
“He will not accept it, but offer him safe passage to Mecca should he abandon the fortress and abandon his claim to the Peacock Throne.”
“Anything else? Perhaps something less…stark?”
“For my brother, nothing but that offer. Jahanara, she may do as she wishes short of marriage. I cannot afford her marrying some ambitious umara, especially before I have had a son. Roshanara, well, the negotiator need not know what we will give her as compensation for her support.”
“And Murad?”
Aurangzeb sighed. “I offer him the same terms as Dara. I hope he will be made aware of the offer and know it for the genuine sacrifice I make in order to offer it to him. Allowing him to go into exile is opposed by everyone.”
“They are right to oppose it, Sultan Al’Azam,” Nur said, more harshly than she intended. Her daughter and son-in-law had not been offered such leniency, but knowing why was no salve to her broken heart.
“I am aware he and his heirs will forever pose a threat to me and mine, but I cannot, in good conscience, see him imprisoned with Dara because of my older brother’s preventing him from joining my just cause. He is but eleven years old.”
And you hope—no, pray—that he will not be made aware of the offer.
Nur was sure that, at least on the surface, Aurangzeb told himself that he wanted his youngest brother to take up the offer. But deep inside he had to know what a threat that would be. The Persians, the Turks, or some internal enemy would make a puppet of Murad and use his cause to strike at the very heart of Aurangzeb’s rule.
There was little room for mercy when the Peacock Throne was at stake.
Chapter 35
Agra
Red Fort, Diwan-i-Khas
“What do you mean it’s impossible?” Dara hissed. He looked around his circle of counselors. “Aurangzeb has yet to completely encircle Red Fort. Surely we can get someone out under cover of darkness. On the river, perhaps?”
The late afternoon summons to the Diwan-i-Khas had served to pull John from his vigil. Not that he was alone in watching Aurangzeb’s army begin its encirclement of Red Fort; everyone with sufficient status to claim a spot on one of the many balconies had watched as the rain-soaked banners and tents of Aurangzeb’s umara sprouted like mushrooms from the rain-veiled landscape just beyond the reach of the fort’s guns.
“Sultan Al’Azam, I fear such a mission would be wasteful. I have only just heard that Asaf Khan is dead.”
Dara pounded an impotent fist against the jeweled side of the Peacock Throne. He looked up, an air of desperation about him, and said, “His son, then. Shaista Khan was always easier to speak to than Asaf Khan.”
“Sultan Al’Azam, I beg forgiveness, but getting to Shaista Khan’s camp is the greater problem. Sending one man will surely fail, and sending more will merely serve to reduce our already thin garrison.”
“Is there no one? No brave warrior who will take up this task and be made a hero in the doing of it?”
The silence that followed his questions was telling. The emperor’s jaw clenched, muscles under his beard bunching. The scar peeking from beneath his jeweled turban stood out against the darkening flesh of his face.
“Husband,” Nadira’s calming voice came from behind the jali. “Your sowar and umara are all ready to become heroes, but Shaista Khan has made clear by his lack of response to your generous offers and diplomatically worded messages that he believes he can stand aside in this conflict between brothers.” A brief pause, then, “Surely the Sultan Al’Azam can see that it is only his desire to save lives on both sides of the conflict that leads him to ask such a thing of his loyal warriors.”
That was well said, John thought. Hope it works…
Dara was still incensed, glaring about at his inner council in search of someone to vent his spleen on. Dara’s counselors avoided meeting his eye. For his part, John concentrated on memorizing the latest training report he’d generated for this meeting. He hated speaking in front of any crowd, especially in a language he still felt uneasy with, and these meetings were torture for him. Even without Dara losing his composure.
Dammit, I’m a hillbilly from West Virginia, not some Renaissance man to be speaking a language I hadn’t ever heard a word of before coming here. If I speak with a horrible accent or use the wrong words, they can just suck it up.
Dara’s wife gave a delicate noise that might have been a clearing of the throat, John wasn’t sure.
Whatever it had been, the sound was enough to remind Dara of decorum, because the emperor, instead of barking at his subordinates, leaned back and took a deep breath. Then another. He even spread the fingers of both hands flat across the silk cushion covering the monstrously heavy gold-and-gemstone-encrusted Peacock Throne.
The hopeless atmosphere permeating the hall eased slightly. Dara might not be as charismatic as his father had been, but he still projected his moods well enough to make everyone aware of his displeasure. So far no up-timer had taken the brunt of such outbursts, but John was sure it was only a matter of time.
Firoz Khan spoke into the quiet. “I believe John Ennis has a report to give, Sultan Al’Azam.”
Dara, steadier now, gestured for John to make his report. It wasn’t actually his work, not entirely. He’d always sucked at paperwork. Thankfully Bertram was a fair hand at just about anything he decided to put some effort into and Priscilla and
