“Amir, I don’t relish the idea of blundering around in the dark with this great herd of idiots among us,” Mohammed said, waving at the beasts of burden only just being forced into some semblance of order.
“Nor do I,” Salim agreed. “And there’s no telling whether or not they have another group of riders to our west. Damn.”
“Parlay?” Iqtadar suggested.
“At the very least it would allow us some time to prepare…” Salim mused.
“And perhaps scout a line of retreat?” Mohammed said.
“Both,” Salim said decisively. “Start sending the caravan west ahead of us.”
Mohammed shook his head. “We’ll lose the lot of them if they’re ambushed.”
“Send some of your best herdsmen with them. At the first sign of an attack have them stampede the oxen and buffalo. We might get lucky and the livestock will kill a few of them.”
“And,” Iqtadar said with a wolfish grin, “it will certainly distract them, having all that loot charging by.”
Salim nodded, matching his cousin’s expression.
Sunil was not smiling. In fact, from his aggrieved expression, Salim could almost believe they’d been discussing giving the Gujarati’s firstborn son to the enemy.
“What is it, Sunil?”
“I had a thought, Amir.”
“Oh?” Salim prompted.
“I merely reflect upon a truism spoken of among my people…”
“Oh?” Salim asked, impatience making an order of the question.
“You can take the hillman out of the hills,” the lowlander said, crooked teeth showing in a smile, “but you just can’t take the hills out of the hillman.”
Western Ghats
East of the ambush site
The enemy chieftains met as the sun was rising, just as they’d agreed to the night before.
Three men led by a fellow in a jeweled robe rode into the valley from the east while three more, one on a horse with an obvious hitch in its step, rode in from the west. The two groups met on the slope above Salim’s camp and spoke at length before descending to the agreed-upon site for the parley. And, it seemed to Salim’s tired mind, they had spoken angrily as well.
Two of the men who’d come from the west were scowling, including the one riding the injured horse. That man winced as they dismounted, favoring his left leg. One of the other men he’d come up the pass with looked as if he’d been knocked on his side in the dust.
Salim hid contentment. The stampede that cost them the lion’s share of the caravan loot had not been a waste, then. His men had reported success in causing it, but were forced to retreat without observing the results.
Bread and salt were eaten by all present, allowing everyone to relax, if only slightly. Rites of peacekeeping were not universally observed, but most warriors respected them.
With his counterparts so angry, Salim was just as glad to be meeting them under truce. His scouts had reported not just one force surrounding him, but five, each numbering hundreds of men. He could certainly overcome them in a straight fight, but war was only a straight fight when both sides were either idiots, had erred enormously, or both. Besides, he could not afford to lose any men, and he would lose a great many, especially if the Maratha chose to do to him what he was trying to do to Aurangzeb, and taxed his supplies by conducting lightning raids on his forces. Granted, Salim had very little in the way of supply train, but he could not afford to lose his remounts, not if he wished to travel fast himself.
“You wished to speak to me?” the Maratha chieftain asked in Marathi, eyeing the Afghan warily.
Thanking God for a youth spent guarding caravans and learning tongues, Salim answered in the same language. “Assuming you command those who seek to block our way, indeed I do.” He studied the richly dressed man in turn. From the scars seaming his jaw and crossing the backs of his hands, this man was no stranger to fighting, however richly he chose to dress.
“I command here.”
One of the men to the man’s right, the one with the injured leg, allowed his frown to deepen.
Something I said? Salim wondered. No, something he said.
“Regarding what matters?” the man said, either ignoring or unaware of his companion’s deepening anger.
Salim paused, considering. No, he’d bet a lakh of rupees the finely dressed fellow was perfectly aware of the other man’s rising ire.
Deciding to see where it led, he extended the preliminaries in hopes of capitalizing on some outburst from the anger in the air. “I have been remiss, it seems. Forgive me. I am the Amir Salim Gadh Yilmaz and I lead these men…” Salim said, watching the faces of their counterparts as he introduced each of his men.
“I am Shahaji Bhosale, and I command here in Aurangzeb’s name.”
The lip of the man to Shahaji’s right curled in a silent snarl as his head whipped around to the younger, better dressed man.
Affecting disinterest, Shahaji continued, “You are here on the pretender Dara’s orders?”
“All the world knows I am not!” Salim said, forcing a laugh. His men joined their laughter to his, lending credence to the falsehood.
Shahaji’s brother chieftains all looked to Shahaji, who cocked his head as a mongoose does upon spying a cobra.
“I do believe you lie, Amir.”
As his own men tensed, Salim leaned back and laughed once more. He smiled at Shahaji once again, and, edging his voice with careless disinterest, said, “Fascinating as that may be to you and”—he waved dismissively at the other chieftains—“Aurangzeb’s other lackeys, I don’t give a fig for your thoughts on my honesty.”
“We are not his—” The injured man’s angry words were cut off as Shahaji’s dagger appeared at his throat.
“Hold,” Salim barked at his own men, not wanting any blame to be leveled at his own people for the blood he hoped was about to be shed.
“You agreed, Koyaji, to me speaking on behalf of the people,” Shahaji said, once certain there would be no interruptions from Salim or his men.
“I did, but only after you assured us he was
