Methwold grew impatient, and spoke before she was able to unearth the meaning. “If we are done complimenting one another, perhaps we can go see what progress the forces of the Sultan Al’Azam have made?”
Something surged forth to her, startling Nur.
“You may. I do not think I will.” Her smile began as an attempt to reassure him, but ended on the bitter surge of emotion that threatened to close her throat.
Nur thought she caught a glimpse of an incredulous look and, driving down a sudden surge of anger, said, “What is it, President Methwold?”
“Only that your reputation would have you watching, avid to see the results of your work.”
His answer was so direct, and so disarming, Nur knew she had covered the flash of emotion quite completely. Still, it struck a chord in her—a wellspring of anger Nur had thought herself immune to. She had been at or near the center of power and politics for the majority of her life.
One would think such remarks would no longer sting so.
“Reputation?” she mused.
“Please forgive my impertinence.” Methwold clearly saw he’d made some kind of error, and struggled to recover. “But I can see the utility of a certain kind of reputation at court.” An apologetic smile appeared while his eyes searched hers for some sign of either an impending explosion of temper or agreement.
Feeling no need to bury her anger before this perceptive foreigner, Nur spoke directly from the heart. “Who better to know the reputation I have built than I? I, who built it with acts of deceit large enough to mislead entire nations and small enough to pluck the strings of my lover’s heart, one contest of wills at a time? Oh, I know what my reputation is, and what it has cost me. I also know what it means to hold the reins of power and lose them.”
She smiled. “I much prefer them near to hand, President Methwold. One price of that proximity is a reputation that has, in the past, worked against me as much as for me. But then, I have lived a long time, and no one builds a reputation—for good or ill—without experiencing life. When I went to bed last night I thought that the outcome of this particular contest was a forgone conclusion. This assumption on my part was based upon the relative reputations of the involved generals, but now…Now I begin to question the validity of not only my reputation, but that of Dara and Aurangzeb as well.”
Methwold nodded slowly, opening his mouth to comment again, but she silenced him with a shake of the head. “Is it possible for one night—nay, just one unpleasant dream—to so shake and shape one’s thoughts?”
“Would that not depend upon the dream as much as the dreamer?” he asked.
She looked at him sharply. “Spoken like a guru, President Methwold. It seems you have learned more than most ferenghi in your time among us.”
“You are kind,” he said, clearly relieved her anger had gone, if it had ever been present.
“Am I? Truly? I think not. The life of the true guru, whatever their reputation, is rarely comfortable.”
Methwold was so distracted by the sounds of battle, and his desire to see it for himself, that she was almost certain her words did not register with the younger man.
“With permission, Nur Jahan, I will take my leave of you, and discover for us both how our hopes fare…”
Nur waved him on.
He fairly sprang to his feet and was gone in an instant, leaving Nur with the residue of nightmares, dreams, and unfinished business.
Chapter 46
Red Fort
Lahore Gate
John coughed, hard. Then again, so hard he bent double.
Something very heavy shrieked through the air and crashed into the wall just below the crenellations with such weight and power that the stone construction buckled and slowly slumped outward, away from the wall, carrying two screaming men with it.
Ignoring fear, fatigue, and the dangerous footing, John lurched across the last section of wall toward the door. He and Bertram had, with a handful of other survivors, fled the middle gate what seemed like hours ago.
Knowing that, if everything had gone to plan, the inner gate had long since been completely blocked up by the defenders, they’d been forced to run the gauntlet of fire that flailed the wall that defended the courtyard between the middle and inner gates. The iron-sheathed door that would get them off the freestanding structure and into the relative safety of the earth-backed walls to the west of the gates seemed, when glimpsed through the dust, smoke, and madness, to always be just a little farther away.
Drifting clouds of smoke and dust obscured everything for a few steps, bringing their progress to a crawl yet again. They were feeling their slow way forward when Bertram hit something and staggered backward into John’s injured shoulder.
Biting down on the urge to scream and shove Bertram, John saw the down-timer had run blindly into their goal. Wanting to weep, he stepped past his friend and thumped his good fist against the iron-shod wood.
No response.
“The password, John!” Bertram shouted, levering himself up.
John leaned his forehead against the cold iron, unable to recall his own name, let alone a password he’d tried to memorize over breakfast yesterday.
He was saved from further frustration when the door swung slowly open under his full weight.
Inside, a sweating Gujarati stood blinking at him, shaking arms pointing one of the long-muzzled guns at John’s chest.
John opened his mouth to greet the man.
The arquebusier pulled the trigger.
Without thinking, John stepped inside and thrust his hand between match and pan.
Three things happened then. The match snapped down to burn his hand, his shoulder told him in no uncertain terms what it thought
