Shaking off thoughts of what could never be again, Nur began to plan how best to make her report to Aurangzeb.
One thing Nur had gleaned from the experience: Dara—or at least Jahanara—blamed Nur and Aurangzeb for Shah Jahan’s death. Jahanara would not be shifted from certainty on that one point, despite Nur’s efforts to convince her otherwise. While she admitted to some fault for the creature’s anger, Nur had not directed Mullah Mohan to act against Shah Jahan. As far as she knew, that had been purely motivated by the Mohan’s fanaticism. A fanaticism that had, as such religious fervor often did, driven the man to respond violently to the perceived threat to his religion posed by Shah Jahan’s lifting of the jizya. Nur had maneuvered Mullah Mohan into attacking the Englishman as they departed under Shah Jahan’s protection, true, but when Mullah Mohan had struck back at her by having Gargi murdered in Agra, Nur had possessed neither the means nor the inclination to treat with the fanatic. Indeed, she’d feared Aurangzeb would punish her for interfering with his supporters.
Nur ground her teeth in frustration, the pressing need to focus on casting her report in the best light possible warring with a strong desire to wallow in dark memories and attempts to justify her loss of control. Perhaps it was her long exile from the halls of power that had rendered her so sentimental, so vulnerable.
She sighed.
Or perhaps it was just growing old that made her maudlin. Shah Jahan. Mumtaz. Jahangir. And now her brother Asaf, every single opponent, every foe she’d contested with—and learned from—in her quest for power over her own fate was now gone to dust.
Shah Jahan’s children, just now coming into their own, would render her irrelevant if she let them.
Somehow she must find a path that would allow her to avoid such an ignoble destiny. Once already she had been cast into the shadows. She would not suffer it to happen again.
Two days south of Agra
Tent of Carvalho
Methwold started, nearly spilling his wine, when one of Carvalho’s men shouldered his way into the tent.
The scarred veteran barely waited to be recognized before letting loose a rapid stream of Portuguese Methwold was hard-pressed to understand: “My captain! The priest is making a scene again. He ordered his tent to be taken down and sent his messenger boy to command an audience with the Sultan Al’Azam.”
Carvalho glanced at Methwold, who shrugged helplessly. “Thank you, Fernando. We will see to it.”
The gun captain nodded, turned, and left the tent almost as quickly as he’d entered.
“Jesus Christ, but that man’s temper is an embarrassment to my people. I don’t think I’ve ever met a more intemperate countryman in my life!”
Knowing precisely what the artillery captain meant with his outburst, Methwold did not think it politic to mention that De Jesus was not likely to share any of the Jewish blood flowing through Carvalho’s New Christian veins. Besides liking Carvalho a great deal more than the priest, it simply would not do to offend the man who’d seen them safely to this point.
“I wonder what set him off this time?” Methwold wondered, drinking more of the wine he’d barely saved from spilling.
“Most likely fresh news and orders from the Estado.”
Methwold bit back his own urge to blaspheme. Despite repeated attempts to get De Jesus or the messengers employed by the Portuguese to wait until he or Carvalho were present to hear firsthand the news from Goa, the priest continued to receive and read orders from his superiors in Goa privately. Methwold understood why the priest’s superiors might want him to receive such orders and news alone, but as their ally and compatriot in this endeavor he resented being saddled with an intemperate priest they were forever winding up with their unreasonable demands.
So much so he’d been driven to report De Jesus’ various imprecations and errors to the viceroy in no uncertain terms. Methwold discarded the unlikely possibility that De Jesus’ current fit of temper was a result of learning of his report, as the viceroy’s response had been rather terse. Only very slightly paraphrased, it left the message quite clear: Deal with it, Englishman.
Carvalho finished his own glass and set it down on the silver camp table with an air of resigned finality. Taking his cue from his host, Methwold did the same.
He held out a hand across the open space between them and, when the heavier mercenary took it, they levered one another up to stand facing each other.
Methwold stepped back and retrieved his sword belt from one of the tent poles. Carvalho snapped his fingers, the sound summoning a slave from the back of the tent, a pale puce over-robe held at arm’s length for his master. Freshwater pearls glistened in the subdued light as the slave dressed his master. A gift from Aurangzeb, the robe of honor was worth a good deal more than Methwold’s annual salary from the English Company. Intricately carved ivory toggles inlaid with silver wire closed the garment over Carvalho’s wide chest. Impatient, Carvalho waved the slave away and finished closing the robe himself.
“Let’s see what set him off this time, shall we?” he said, picking up his own baldric and blade.
Methwold nodded and, with the last wistful look at his empty glass, led the way from the tent.
The sky above the camp was overcast, the air hot, and humid, and it was very soon to rain if the ache in his joints was any indication. Still, the contrast between the shaded darkness they’d come from and the afternoon light was enough to make Methwold first squint and then sneeze.
“Health!” Carvalho said in his native Portuguese, already striding toward the tent being disassembled some thirty yards away.
Methwold set out after him. Already beginning to feel the heat, the Englishman spared a
