“And after?” Dara asked. “What did he propose to do with you then, loyal sister?”
“The pretender Aurangzeb cannot possibly throw a tantrum strong enough to prevail against you, Sultan Al’Azam Dara Shikoh, so I hardly listened to his childish foolishness.” Jahanara injected her voice with every bit of her mother’s remembered disdain for the occasional childish tantrum of her sons.
Nadira, standing beside Jahanara, stifled a giggle with one hand. Several other women of the court were not so quick to control themselves, their laughter dispelling the fearful mood. There is nothing like the laughter of their women to put steel back into the spines of men, Mother had told her once.
Smidha, sitting in silence to her right, still managed to radiate intense approval.
The wider court beyond the jali began to stir.
Dara’s masklike expression slipped, a tiny smile curling his lips.
Wait, brother. Let me finish setting the playing board for you.
“Aurangzeb’s prattle only regained my interest when Nur mentioned your son.”
Dara, instead of reacting negatively, cocked his head to one side as if listening to a diverting story instead of the proposed fate of his son. The gesture filled Jahanara’s heart with the certainty she had chosen to support the right man.
“Just what did he say regarding my boy?” he drawled.
“Aurangzeb claimed that your son would be allowed to go into exile with you. When I questioned the veracity of that particular claim I was told Aurangzeb is so certain he shall have many strong sons that he need not be concerned whether they will be able to defend their own claims to the throne.” She paused, judging her moment.
“Not yet, I told Nur,” Jahanara said, deliberately pausing in her narrative.
“Not yet?” Dara repeated, his nonchalance slipping a bit.
“Nur asked precisely the same question, Sultan Al’Azam. I explained to her that unlike the Sultan Al’Azam Dara Shikoh, Aurangzeb has no sons. Furthermore, it is well known that, for whatever reason, he keeps no other women but our elderly aunt in his harem, who is quite past her childbearing years. How then, I asked, did she know he would father children, let alone the mythical multitude of strong sons Nur claimed?”
An openly giggling Nadira turned shocked eyes on Jahanara as the rest of the court chuckled, snorted, or laughed outright.
Letting a smile creep into her own voice, Jahanara continued, “I told him perhaps it was better to retire until such sons were born and fully grown before trying these walls, since Sultan Al’Azam Dara Shikoh and his faithful umara were warriors fully grown; with sons already honorably born—sons who are strong, healthy, and blessed to grow in the sheltering power and grace of Sultan Al’Azam Dara Shikoh’s shadow.”
The gathered court’s amusement changed tone, becoming a feral delight in an insult well delivered. Looking around, Jahanara could tell the subtext of her reporting the insult had not been lost on the wiser members of the court: Aurangzeb may have proven himself a general, but Dara rules, and had already guaranteed the future of the dynasty by presenting a son to the court. Such matters were important to those who took the long view. And, as Smidha had pointed out, the larger group of umara, lacking the wisdom and refinement of their betters, often enjoyed making sport of another’s lack of virility.
Nadira reached out and took Jahanara’s hand in hers, whispering, “I have something to tell them, Begum Sahib.”
Dara’s next question prevented Jahanara asking her sister-in-law what she was to say. “And Nur? Did she offer anything but false rationales for betraying us?”
“Regrettably, no,” Jahanara said, holding up a finger of her free hand to delay Nadira. “She claims to have had no part in Father’s assassination, insisting she had nothing to do with Mullah Mohan’s plot. I can almost believe her on those points, but when she claims to have no idea why the mullah wanted him dead, I cease believing anything that flows from her mouth.”
“So you’ll stay with us, dear sister?”
“Of course! I would not miss your victory, not for all the jewels in your treasury nor all the silver and gold of the throne God placed beneath you.” It could not hurt to remind the more mercenary of the court of the vast wealth Dara could dispense to his loyal supporters when he emerged victorious.
Dara smiled benevolently at his court. “It seems Aurangzeb has offered much that he does not have to those who would not have it. All present know my generosity, that I will reward each man for their part in the coming fight.” He paused, scratching his beard as if in thought. “Indeed, I shall offer one lakh of rupees to the man who succeeds in killing the greatest number of my brother’s sowar.” Dara suddenly surged to his feet and drew his sword. “But warn your men, warn them well! I intend to personally kill so many of my brother’s men as to make it possible to walk from the top of the wall to the ground upon the backs of his dead.”
The Hall of Public Audience went mad with shouts and growled cries of “Da-Ra! Dar-Rah! DahRahhhhh!” until the shouts blended into one long, aggressive grow of barely suppressed passion.
Jahanara felt a fresh surge of hope that Dara might be well enough recovered to be the leader they all wanted, needed him to be.
Jahanara winced, hand suddenly squeezed so hard she thought the bones might bend. She looked at Nadira, found her weeping, the hand not crushing Jahanara’s stuffed in her mouth to stifle great, racking sobs.
“Nadira, what is it?” Jahanara asked, pulling Nadira into a hug. Those closest to them converged to offer comfort as well.
Her sister-in-law took long moments to respond, and even then her strangled whisper was as much tortured sob as coherent statement. “God will take him from me, I know it…”
Shaken by the certainty in Nadira’s voice, Jahanara still had the
