“I did, did I?” Jahanara said, pretending a lapse in memory she did not suffer.
Lowering her voice, she quickly added for the benefit of her closest advisors: “If you insist on doing this, very well. But do so quietly, one at a time. Do not make the ladies of the court unnecessarily fearful for their safety. Some are pregnant, and should not be put under any more strain than is absolutely necessary.” She carefully removed the hand that had slid to cover her own womb as she spoke, regretting the strange intensity that made the statement more of a threat than intended.
“Your will, Begum Sahib,” her advisors said in unison. Firoz sent two of his assistants to arm themselves.
The drums beat upon her nerves. The shooting had yet to start, however. No wounded had been brought to the great pillared pavilion she had caused to be constructed at nearly the center of the great fort. Fully staffed, the hospital was as ready as the up-timers and Jahanara could make it.
Many of Father’s guards had died after his assassination, not because they had suffered wounds that could not be treated but because there had been no healers near at hand to suture wounds and stem the bleeding. This battle, and all battles to come, would be different if she had her way.
“Ilsa,” Jahanara called as the lovely ferenghi appeared from deeper within the pavilion. “Are you well?”
Ilsa made her way through the crowd of women to Jahanara’s side before replying, “I am well, Begum Sahib. And you? Did you get any sleep?”
“I did.” The lie came easily to Jahanara. It would not do to show weakness before the women of the court. Not before the battle. Not during the battle. There would be time enough later for allowing fear to show. For now she must find some way to convert the creeping fear that threatened to overwhelm her into the kind of example that showed the way for those in her care.
She lowered her voice. “Smidha, it is time you carried out your special orders. See to it.”
“Your will, Shehzadi.” Smidha leaned in. “Shall I bring the ferenghi?”
Jahanara nodded. “Monique knows already, it is just the timing of the thing. Ilsa may accompany you if she wishes.”
Ilsa’s puzzled glance slipped from Jahanara to Smidha.
“Where?” the blonde asked, when neither responded to her look.
“To collect my sister.”
Ilsa’s puzzled look disappeared, to be replaced by a look Jahanara didn’t care to interpret. “I will go, Shehzadi.”
The drums continued their remorseless beat.
“Where is Pr—” Jahanara was silenced by a hundred sudden streamers of light leaping from the walls protecting Red Fort. It was as if Shiva had raked nails across the early morning darkness to allow the light of the cosmos entry into the realms of men.
Almost every streamer exploded into an even brighter ball of light some twenty or thirty gaz above the walls.
Gunfire erupted from every quarter but the river as soon as Talawat’s fireworks shed enough light for the Atishbaz and other firearm-equipped men to see their targets.
“Dear God,” Ilsa breathed as the cannon added their roar to the battle for the Peacock Throne.
Red Fort
Delhi Gate
“Merciful God,” Dara breathed as the light of Talawat’s flares revealed a veritable carpet of men rushing toward the walls to either side of the gatehouse he had chosen to command the defense from.
“He is sweet mercy.” Talawat’s answer was rote, hands and mind busy with yet another check of his work. The Atishbaz sorcerer had chortled with glee as he and his apprentices had launched the flares. Dara was almost afraid to learn what the man would do when his next surprise was unveiled.
Glancing around, Dara realized the men atop the gatehouse were waiting for his command. Archers and arquebusiers in the adjacent towers were already raining death on Aurangzeb’s army.
Feeling his quickened pulse throb in his scar, he took a deep breath and shouted as loudly as he could, “Death! Death to those who think to take what is yours!”
His men leapt into action, bowstrings and matchlocks snapping. Each type of arm releasing its own particular hail of death to reap his brother’s sowar.
“Breathe, Sultan Al’Azam. Steady your breathing. Keep calm,” Talawat whispered from beside him. “Just like shooting the long gun, this.”
Dara nodded and complied, not wanting another seizure. Succumbing to such weakness in this moment would be disastrous for his cause.
“I’d probably be a better example if I wasn’t scared out of my mind, too,” Talawat added as the cannon roared again.
John climbed into view and trotted over to Dara, up-timer rifle clicking against his mail. “Sultan Al’Azam, it doesn’t appear as if Aurangzeb plans to assault the River Gate.”
“Good,” Dara said, peering down the length of the wall. Aurangzeb’s men were, despite losses, about to surmount the undefended outer wall that ran parallel to the heavier, taller, and thoroughly manned inner.
“Good,” he repeated. “Are you ready, Talawat?”
The gunsmith’s smile was so broad it seemed his face would split in half. “I’m always ready to make things go boom, Sultan Al’Azam.”
“John?” Dara said.
“Wish there was a little more light,” the up-timer said, readying his rifle.
Talawat’s snicker was gleeful. “‘Wish there was more light!’ he says.”
Chapter 43
Siege lines
Grand battery
Carvalho was just finishing his report for Aurangzeb when the night sky above the walls was lit by a constellation of stars that rose to challenge the darkness.
A heartbeat later the quiet was rent by hundreds of gunshots, followed closely by the screams of wounded men.
The fire from the walls of Red Fort reaped a red harvest as the defenders opened up on those struggling to cross the ground between the deep ravine and the moat. The walls and towers of
