John grunted. “The British Navy managed it, back in the days of sail. I read about it in a book once. They wouldn’t do it for common sailors, of course, but if it was a big-shot captain or admiral they’d—” He glanced over to where his wife and the other women were chatting, to make sure they weren’t in hearing range. “They’d gut him—pull all out all the innards—and then ship him home in a casket of rum. Pickled, sort of.”
“Oh, you’re not doing that to Randy,” said Bobby, looking green around the gills. The effect was even stronger as the young man was still sickly-looking after his repeated illnesses on the road. They made quite the pair, the wounded “soldier” and the sickly “trader.”
“Hey,” John said, raising his hands in surrender and wincing as the motion pulled at his many, many stitches. “I’m not proposing we actually do it. Just giving everyone a history lesson.”
“And thank you for sharing.” Bobby smiled to show he held no grudge and cocked his head quizzically. “Are you sure about this, John? Staying here, I mean.”
It was John’s turn to make a little grimace. “Am I sure? Hell, no. But…” He reached up and ran fingers over his scalp. “Rodney and Priscilla are dead set on staying, and Ilsa’s inclined that way, at the very least until our baby is born. I can’t see leaving the big guy and Pris here alone, even if I could talk my wife into it. Besides…”
He paused again, and the grimace faded away. “Look on the bright side. Where else would a West Virginia country boy whose only qualification was as a county roadworks crew supervisor wind up an imperial general, ennobled, earn a vast fortune, and be entrusted with the safety and security of an emperor I’d never heard of before the Ring of Fire?”
Ricky had a skeptical look on his face. “This might be a good time to remember that old saying, ‘Pride goeth before a fall.’ It’s from somewhere in the Bible.”
“From Proverbs,” said John. “And the exact words are ‘Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.’ I don’t honestly think that describes me, guys. Proud—yeah, sort of. I think we can all be proud of what we’ve done here. But I’m not what you could call haughty, and in any event”—here, he returned Ricky’s look of skepticism—“do you really want to try matching Biblical saws with me? My mom taught Sunday school, remember. And she was damn firm about her kids attending religiously. No pun intended.”
Smiling, he added: “I’m sure there’s something from Ecclesiastes, especially if I paraphrase a little. How about ‘a time to be humble, and a time to accept awards’? Or—”
“Never mind,” said Ricky, waving his hand in a gesture of surrender. “I’ll give you this: the Mughal idea of a formal dress uniform is waaaay fancier than anything the up-time U.S. Army ever came up with.”
Hating the jeweled robes something fierce, John hastened to change the subject. “So when are you guys leaving? Have you decided yet?”
Bobby shrugged. “It’s mostly up to Jadu Das. He’s the one putting together the caravan.”
“Is he really planning to go all the way with you? Back to the USE, I mean? Not just Surat?”
“Are you kidding? Jadu Das? If you think that man would give up the chance to set up and profit from a new trade network—with people from the future, no less—you don’t know him the way Ricky and I do.”
Ricky nodded. “He’s dead set on it, and having him not only along, but in charge, makes a lot less work for me and Bobby. We’re pretty much just”—he patted the silk cushion under his butt—“sitting pretty until he tells us he’s got all the goods packed away and we’re ready to go and what’s taking us so long anyway?”
Monique came into the room. “John, Ilsa wants to talk to you.”
Ennis climbed, a bit laboriously, to his feet. The Mission had chosen to follow the local custom of sitting on cushions rather than chairs in those rooms that might host informal guests. Mughal furniture could be very ornate, certainly, but it wasn’t particularly comfortable, especially for someone who’d been so recently sewn back together.
“See you later, guys.” Gauging the subtleties of Monique’s expression, he added, “Probably quite a bit later.”
* * *
When he entered the chamber that served the Mission House as a formal meeting room, John came to an abrupt stop. Monique, who’d entered ahead of him, took a seat at one end of the table, but John’s attention was on the people seated at the other chairs.
Four of them: Bertram, Ilsa, Rodney and Priscilla.
“I thought you said my wife wanted to talk to me,” John said, in a mild tone of voice.
“I lied,” said Monique. “Well, left a few details out.”
“I do want to talk to you, John,” said Ilsa. “But this involves everyone here.”
“And no one else,” said Priscilla. Her tone of voice wasn’t mild at all. You could even call it steely. John didn’t think he’d heard her take such a tone ever before. She gestured at the empty chair on the side of the table next to Ilsa. “Sit. Please.”
Shrugging a little, John did as he was told. After gingerly seating himself, and smiling at Ilsa’s helping hand, he said, “Okay, so what’s this about? And why aren’t Bobby and Ricky—or Gervais—invited to join us?”
Rodney chuckled, but there wasn’t much humor in the sound. “Haven’t you ever read a spy novel? It’s called ‘need to know’—and they don’t.”
“They can’t,” Priscilla corrected her husband. “What we’re about to discuss needs to be kept secret. I mean, really, really, really secret—and no bullshit about it.”
She looked at Monique. “Tell him.”
“Jahanara is going on Hajj.”
“Yeah, I know. Cut to the chase.” John didn’t bother explaining the idiom. An Indian wouldn’t
