“Any idea how wide a front they’re going to attack on?”
The Sikh’s smile disappeared. “That I do not know for certain. I think that it will be a general assault with a particular focus on this gate and the wall to our immediate west. Delhi Gate is too strong without being reduced by artillery, so I cannot think he will hope to breach the defenses there, as it would be wasteful and stupid. Aurangzeb is not rumored to be either.”
John nodded agreement. “General attack on all but the walls on the riverside, then?”
A slow, thoughtful nod. “I believe so. Though I suggest we do not to pull too many men from those defenses until dawn makes it clear they are not planning to sneak men across the river.”
“How long?” Bertram asked, looking nervously out into the dark.
“Oh, we have some time yet.” Bidhi waggled his head, loose chain veil chiming gently. “It is far more difficult to move men into position at night than most commanders would believe. They will be lucky to be in position to attack before dawn.” He shrugged. “If they’ve already been given orders to begin the attack at a certain time regardless of whether or not they are in position, we may see some action earlier than that.”
John decided not to comment on how cheerful Bidhi sounded, as it would only encourage him. Then again, if every one of Dara’s men had a leader like Bidhi to look to, then Aurangzeb would be well and truly screwed.
John knew better, though. All he had to do was look at how poorly suited his own experience and training was to leading men in battle. Yet, here he was: second-in-command to an emperor whose sole previous battle had resulted in defeat and capture.
Thoughts making his belly churn, John realized there were things he should be doing about their situation rather than standing here admiring Bidhi Chand and feeling inadequate in the comparison.
“I assume your man”—John hiked a thumb at the stairs the runner had departed by—“was sent to tell Dara about the results of your scouting mission?”
“He was,” Bidhi said. “He will also return with my armor.”
John gestured a question at the chain shirt the man was already wearing.
“What, this?” The Sikh thumped his chest, smile flashing in the starlight again. “This is but a nightshirt, friend John. For the real heavy work, I dress myself in plate armor made by the finest armorers in the Punjab and touched by Guru Hargobind Singh himself.”
John and Bertram just stared at the big Punjabi warrior.
“You might have seen it when I led Guru’s men into the fort on the day of our arrival? I must say I cut quite the dashing figure. At least, the dancing girls of the city seemed to think so.”
“I remember,” John said, smiling despite himself. Dark thoughts found it hard to linger around Bidhi. The man was like a force of nature, always ready to take on whatever the world put before him.
“John, we probably ought to join Dara,” Bertram said.
Bidhi nodded. “I will join the rest of my men when I have donned my armor. We will be ready for the sally when the horn sounds.”
“Be safe, Bidhi,” John said. He raised his voice slightly and addressed the rest of the men, hoping they understood his Persian. “All of you, fight well and keep safe.”
“Do not fear for us, John Ennis,” Bidhi said. “Fear for the enemies of Sixth Guru Hargobind Singh and Dara Shikoh, Sultan Al’Azam!” As if sound itself responded to his desire, Bidhi’s low-voiced declaration carried like thunder to the edges of the gatehouse roof and no farther.
John was shaking his head in wonder as he and Bertram clattered their way down the stairs.
“That man is something else, isn’t he?” Bertram said.
“Damn straight,” John agreed. He laughed a moment later, making himself a bit breathless as they rounded the last flight of stairs.
“What is it, John?” Bertram asked.
“Just glad I’m not the only one with a man-crush on him,” John said, cupping the butt of his rifle to avoid scraping it against the inner wall of the stairwell.
“A man-crush?” Bertram asked the question an instant before deciphering the meaning for himself, if his laughter was any indication.
John was still grinning as they pounded across the courtyard from the outer gatehouse to the inner. Then he heard a high, shrill whistle. Another. Then the throb of drums.
“Shit.”
Red Fort
Pavilion of the Healers
“Dara was sent for?” Jahanara asked, attempting to see past the walls and through the veil of night.
Firoz Khan nodded. “And the messenger found him already armored and on his way to Delhi Gate, Begum Sahib. Speaking of which, Shehzadi, I must don my own if I am to prove more than a passing nuisance to any who would threaten you.”
Jahanara looked at the eunuch and raised her voice so the rest of the harem women gathered to render aid to the wounded could hear. “I must apologize for denying you the opportunity to test your blade skills against the enemy. They will not make it past our defenses. Dara and the husbands of the fine women gathered here will see to it.”
Some of the worried expressions among the noblewomen changed, some firming with resolve, others deepening as worries for loved ones about to fight made mockery of her words.
Firoz returned the look with the terribly put-upon expression she had only ever seen when Murad had destroyed the diwan’s carefully prepared correspondence with a careless kick that had upended an ink well.
“What is it?” she asked, lowering her voice.
“You agreed, Begum Sahib.”
“Agreed?” Jahanara said absently.
“Please do not pretend I am a fool, not today,” Firoz said, voice full of gentle reproach.
Jahanara looked again at her advisor. “Whatever do you mean, Firoz?”
“You know very well what your diwan means, Begum Sahib.” Smidha was far less careful with her tone than
