Then one of the cannon fired, making everyone but the dead and deafened twitch. The Sikhs outside the walls were still shooting, the sound like an angry god’s metronome, and John could see the dust and catch an occasional glimpse of horsemen riding out beyond, but details were scant.
Or maybe he was just too tired to see clearly. The last hour of battle had already become a terrifying blend of images in the mind’s eye, by turns fearful, angry, exultant, painful, and brutal.
Bertram spat something thick and red.
John glanced from the bloody mess to his friend, suddenly worried Bertram had been wounded.
More wounded.
No, more seriously wounded. They both had a number of shallow cuts and scrapes, but spitting blood was something worse. Maybe fatal.
“You okay?” John asked. Bending down, he hissed in pain. Something hot and wet spread down his back.
“I—One”—Bertram spat again—“of them…”
“One of them what?”
“I got blood in my mouth.”
“I see. Do you hurt?”
“Of course I do.” Bertram wiped at his mouth. He looked pale. “I hurt all over, but I didn’t mean my blood.” He went paler still. “Though I suppose some of it is probably mine.”
“Oh,” John said, feeling his gorge rise.
“Yeah.”
“Fuck—” John leaned over the parapet and threw up—well, down, actually.
“Jesus, John! You’re cut!”
“So are you,” John said, straightening and wiping his lip with the back of his sword hand. There wasn’t much more than a foot of blade left on the weapon, but he wasn’t about to let it go. Sixteen or so inches was better than squat. “I’ll get someone to stitch us up.”
“What, this?” Bertram asked, pointing at a long scratch on his forearm.
John nodded.
“It’s nothing compared to the big rent in your mail,” Bertram said, taking John’s arm.
“Huh. Didn’t even notice—” John slid to the ground, legs suddenly weak. Now, he did let go of the sword.
“Medic!” Bertram screamed.
Pavilion of the Healers
“So, my sisters, whence comes this sudden anger?” Jahanara asked. The rumble of distant gunfire continued.
Is it my imagination or are there fewer cannon firing now?
They should have a few moments of relative privacy while the runner she’d sent for word on the battle’s progress returned.
“Whatever do you mean?” Monique asked, sipping the julabmost Smidha had summoned for them once they were on the veranda.
Ilsa, less inclined to answer diplomatically, said, “I’m tired of tolerating the political games that put us at risk.”
“You mean the spying my sister did for Aurangzeb?” Jahanara asked.
“For one, yes.” Ilsa’s tone was light, but the undercurrent of anger was still audible, like stones beneath the surface of a smooth-flowing stream.
“You worry she will escape punishment?”
“I do.”
“We do,” Monique said.
Jahanara looked at her. “You, at least, knew my plans. Nothing has changed with regard to my intentions regarding my sister’s fate.”
Monique shrugged.
Ilsa looked from Jahanara to her, eyes narrowing. “More secrets?”
Monique didn’t answer her directly, instead addressing the princess. “I remember. And I trust you will carry through with your plans, and I even thought that would be enough. But now John and Bertram and everyone else is out there, risking everything for your brother’s throne, and it made my blood boil to hear her speaking as if the sacrifices of so many would mean so little.”
“She has a knack for saying maddening things, my sister,” Jahanara said. Smidha knew her well enough to identify the bitter irony, but doubted the other women could hear it. “We have done much, and more, in hopes of ensuring Dara’s victory. It is in God’s hands now.”
“No,” Ilsa said, surprising them all with the venom in that single word.
Smidha opened her mouth to reprimand the ferenghi, but Jahanara stilled her lips with a surreptitious gesture.
“No,” the blonde repeated, one hand still protectively curled around the baby growing within her. “It is not just in God’s hands. It’s in the hands of men like Monique’s fiancé, my husband, and the many thousands of other men doing their damnedest to make sure Dara has a fighting chance of keeping the Peacock Throne. But are these deceptions the method you will use to retain power once his throne is won? Is there no better way to honor the sacrifices of all those who die today?”
“Dear God,” Monique mumbled, suddenly white with fear. “Please don’t let him die.”
Ilsa’s free hand took the younger woman’s in her own, but her eyes did not leave Jahanara’s.
The princess looked away, embarrassed that she had no ready answer. There was no easy answer.
“I can only do so much to change the stage upon which we all dance. I am trying. God knows, I am trying.” Jahanara Begum, princess of princesses and power behind the throne of the Sultan Al’Azam, her brother Dara Shikoh, bent her head. Tears came to her eyes, and then her cheeks.
Smidha saw the gentle hand Jahanara curled about her midriff and wondered at what caused the gesture. Her puzzlement lasted only an instant, the answer coming in a landslide of implications and rising terror. She felt her face drain of all color.
A young man in messenger greens—hardly more than a boy, really—strode up onto the veranda and bowed.
Smidha shot to her feet, worried the messenger would see what only she had the experience to identify. But the boy paid her no mind, indeed did not seem to take note of anything but the report he seemed eager to make.
Jahanara took the hand from her waist and gestured him leave to speak.
He bowed again. “Begum Sahib, the Sultan Al’Azam remains outside the walls, but lightly engaged with the enemy. The sally went according to plan: The Sultan Al’Azam’s sowar brushed aside the foe between the walls and the camp nearest Delhi Gate. The Sikh infantry rolled up the flank of those of the pretender’s forces still trying to carry the wall west of Lahore Gate and are beginning their withdrawal. The infantry withdraws under cover of the Sultan Al’Azam’s sowar, and the bulk of Aurangzeb’s remaining men appear disinterested in continuing the fight.”
“The men
