“Your will, Sultan Al’Azam!”
Well, that’s one way to avoid giving a report full of bad news, anyway…
Approaches to the Taj Majal
It was raining, though it was dry enough beneath the awning carried by four of Dara’s mounted harem guards. At least for those riding tall horses. Those on shorter mounts had to contend with wet legs. The rains had begun. Or, if some of the court astrologers were to be believed, the gods were weeping for the strife to come. From the pair of howdah-capped elephants standing to one side of the awning, Nur had not had to get her feet wet at all.
Atisheh emerged from the Taj’s grounds, effortlessly leaping to the back of her horse and beginning to canter back to Jahanara and the rest of her escort.
Aurangzeb’s forces had purposely left a gap in their lines to allow her party to access Mother’s tomb, but Atisheh could not be persuaded that scouting was an unnecessary waste of time. Still, she supposed, dealing with Atisheh’s security concerns was another way to avoid obsessing over which of a half-dozen stratagems would work best to secure the ends desired, namely that she reveal less of their situation and plans than Nur and, if lucky, plant a seed or two of disagreement—and anger, hopefully—between Nur and Aurangzeb. She’d spent much of the night before seeking counsel from her advisors, Nadira, and even the up-timers. All of them had counseled caution, but Jahanara was willing to exploit any advantage Nur exposed. Indeed, she intended to ruffle more than a few of the courtly feathers Nur used to armor her intent and conceal her actions.
Atisheh, mounted on a fine horse, splashed her way back under cover and to Jahanara’s side. “Everything is as agreed to, Begum Sahib. Her guards cover the other half of the garden. We are ready to take up positions opposite them on your command.”
“Make it so,” Jahanara said.
“Your will, Begum Sahib.” Atisheh gestured with one hand. Those guards not carrying her awning rode ahead to take up positions along the perimeter of the garden.
“What, there are no assassins waiting under every bush for me?” Jahanara asked the question without thinking as they plodded along in the wake of her guards.
“No, Begum Sahib. At least, none that I could see.” Atisheh’s expression was stony, but Jahanara could see her grip on the reins tighten.
Jahanara felt shame color her cheeks. She had suffered no injury in the attack, her only loss that of Father; while Atisheh had been gravely wounded, lost numbers of both blood kin and warrior sisters, and been forced by her injuries to miss the funerals of her fellows.
“I apologize, Atisheh. You do your duty well, and do not deserve the brunt of my foul temper.” The apology forced Jahanara to admit, at least to herself, that she was suffering more anxiety about the impending meeting than she’d allowed. Nur, with her towering reputation for manipulation, cast a vast shadow. A shadow made both darker and longer by the uncertainty shrouding her involvement in Father’s assassination. Jahanara knew she lacked the breadth of experience that Nur had gained over a lifetime of politicking and could only hope that her experiences since Mother’s death had given her the tools necessary to overcome.
“No apology is necessary, Begum Sahib.” Atisheh waved at the clouds and rain. “These conditions are not good. And to be forced to talk of important matters of state with a woman who, if I can be forgiven for saying so, deserves nothing better than torture until she confesses.”
Uncomfortable with the ease with which Atisheh would condemn Nur to torture, Jahanara opened her mouth to silence the warrior woman, but Atisheh cut her off.
“Almast, you lost a sister in the attack,” Atisheh said to the woman bearing the left front pole. “If Begum Sahib were to command it, would you not enjoy carving the flesh from the bones of those who ordered it? I know I would. For sacred honor, if not the blood of our kin.”
“God forgive me, but I would do so without hesitation,” the lithely muscular Armenian answered, crossing herself. Jahanara saw the woman’s counterpart holding up the opposite corner of the awning nodding agreement.
A fresh wave of shame swept over Jahanara. She hadn’t considered how deeply affronted her guards were by the continuing lack of certainty as to who was responsible for Shah Jahan’s death. Not that she wasn’t plagued with doubts herself, even knowing what she had learned from the torture of Mullah Mohan. And she could hardly admit, tacitly or otherwise, to the torture of a man of God, even amongst her closest guardians. Atisheh knew, of course. But, from her statements, Atisheh had no more believed Mohan’s claims than Jahanara herself. In truth, it was easy to lay some portion of the blame for Father’s assassination at Nur’s feet, especially when she had so conveniently disappeared from Dara’s court only to reappear in Aurangzeb’s camp weeks later.
Instead of trying to suppress the feeling, Jahanara embraced it. Made it one more coal to feed the flames of her desire to reveal the truth of Nur’s—and Aurangzeb’s—involvement. Father deserved no less. The warrior women, father’s nökör, and the eunuch harem guards who died protecting the family deserved no less.
I deserve no less.
Gardens of the Taj Mahal
Jahanara dismounted, transitioning from beneath the awning carried by her guards to the open-sided pavilion without getting wet. She took a moment to gather herself. It was important that certain things be accomplished in this meeting, and her opponent was a fierce and dangerous foe.
Atisheh and the rest of her escort withdrew to another pavilion some distance away, leaving her alone with Nur. More alone than she’d been since that night in the Jasmine Tower—
Savagely, she pushed thoughts of Salim away. Now was not the time.
“Greetings, Jahanara,” Nur said, voice pitched to not only carry through the constant patter of the rain
