Ricky had to think about it for a minute but eventually remembered some part of it. “Crawnpoor or some such?”
“Kanpur,” Jadu corrected, finishing his drink. “The fort on the hill overlooking the town,” he said, holding the glass up as Vikram entered with a fresh pitcher.
Ricky held his own out, not really thirsty but happy to have a distraction. Worrying about Bobby sweating out whatever sickness he’d caught made him feel helpless.
“That fort—or at least a future version of it—was where the mutineers slaughtered a great many Englishmen after a siege.”
Ricky considered that as Vikram refreshed their drinks, then said, “So how did that make today…?”
“Shaista Khan had word today that Aurangzeb has completed his siege lines and cut off Red Fort from all supply.”
“Shit,” Ricky said, suddenly feeling guilty that it seemed all his friends were facing danger while he sat here, healthy and safe, drinking wine.
“But that is not all.”
Jadu drank, then said, “Our friend Salim is somewhere in the Western Ghats, hopefully on his way somewhere safe.”
“Salim left Red Fort? Why?”
Jadu waggled his head. “The court is abuzz with rumors that he and Jahanara Begum had some kind of inappropriate contact. Dara exiled him. Things do not look good.”
Fearing for his friends both near and far, Ricky did something he very rarely did since leaving home: said an earnest, if silent, prayer for their well-being.
“Did Shaista agree to pick up the pace or anything?” he asked.
“The Khan was considering his options even as I was called here.” Jadu took another long drink and shrugged. “His army is certainly large enough to make a difference. It’s his political position that’s weak.
“That was the debate he was having: On the one hand it grows stronger with Dara the longer he delays. On the other, if he waits too long and Dara is defeated before he arrives, especially with little loss to Aurangzeb’s forces, he will have a great deal of explaining to do in order to justify his refusal to answer Aurangzeb’s call.”
“But he already declared for Dara, didn’t he?”
Jadu nodded. “Indeed he did. The one thing any new-made Sultan Al’Azam cannot ignore from any of his subordinates is a failure to take sides with someone in the royal family.”
“Someone?” Ricky asked, then realized what it was Jadu was telling him. “Wait, I get it. Whoever wins will want to know why their nobles didn’t pick a side…”
“Almost,” Jadu said. “They will already know, in their hearts, why. It is well known that anyone who does not support one of the princes is planning to take power themselves, something the dynasty cannot and will not countenance.”
“Right.” Ricky felt a sudden need for more drink. When he’d refilled his cup he asked, “So, any idea which way he was leaning?”
“I believe the only sensible path open to him is to make better time, to hurry and support Dara. That is what I advised him to do.” He finished his wine again and shrugged. “But then he said my thinking was a victim of my own hopes in the matter.”
Sudden worry stabbed Ricky. “My calling for you here didn’t screw things up with Shaista Khan, did it?”
Jadu shook his head. “No, I’ve been kept waiting at least as much as I have been allowed in to see him. Though I suppose telling him one of you had fallen ill may not have been the best thing to do.”
“Why not?”
“In our previous conversations I put great stock in your up-timer technology, skill, and wisdom to shore up an image of Dara’s camp as stronger than it might otherwise appear. Specifically your medical acumen. I’m afraid I might have made you out to be signs of divine favor upon Dara’s cause.”
Ricky shook his head. “And it’s hard to look like a messenger from God if you’re sick.”
Jadu nodded. “I should not have said anything. I apologize. I’ve grown quite fond of both of you. The wine makes me morose and stains every word dark. The important thing is that Bobby get well. The rest of it is just politics and will work itself out, one way or another.”
“One way or another,” Ricky agreed.
Part Eight
September, 1637
All mounted on their shining chariots!
—The Rig Veda
Chapter 40
Agra
Red Fort, palace of Akbar
The lamps were burning low as John and Ilsa sat. Gervais had asked for the meeting, but their busy schedules had only left this after-hours window in which to meet. The palace was quiet. Even the servants had retired for the night, dismissed after setting up the chamber.
John was tired, wrung out in a way he’d rarely felt before. It had been a long evening spent in private counsel with Dara, where the emperor had dropped yet another bombshell on his closest advisors. The stress was enough to put him off his feed. Even the collection of fresh fruit and wine laid out for their refreshment held no appeal.
He tried not to grind his teeth as Bertram, Monique, and Gervais finally entered. He’d found it hard to accept that the people he’d trusted with not only his life, but Ilsa’s and that of their unborn child as well, had been lying to him.
Ilsa greeted them cordially. She’d always been better at hiding her anger. Then again, she’d said she was more disappointed than angry, when John had gone off about it. She’d expressed her disappointment, sure, but hadn’t shown one tenth the angry hurt he felt whenever he thought about it.
The trio looked around with fatigue-fogged interest before picking spots amongst the cushions in the center of the chamber. The Mission personnel had all been given quarters in what had been Aurangzeb’s palace, but John and Ilsa had been too busy and tired to investigate their new digs, and John assumed the same was true for the rest of them.
Preparations for the siege likewise hadn’t given them much time to think, let alone discuss recent events, and John had been on a slow boil the last few
