“She wants us to come with her. By ‘us,’ I mean me, Bertram, Pris, and Rodney.” She nodded toward Priscilla, who was seated at the other end of the table. “Especially Pris.”
“What the hell for?” John demanded. “None of you are Muslims. And while I wouldn’t mind seeing Mecca—or even participating in the whole thing, just out of curiosity—they won’t let you in. The whole city’s off-limits, right?”
Rodney shook his head. “I did some research and: not really—not in this day and age. That was true in the when-and-where we can from, because the Saudis were strict about it. But today the city—the whole Hejaz region—is under Ottoman control, although in practice they let the emir of Mecca pretty much run the show locally. From what I’ve heard, they’re pretty slack on the subject of keeping infidels out of the holy city. Probably all it would take to get in is a cover story and a bribe.”
John was getting impatient. “I said, cut to the chase. What is this all about? Why does Jahanara want you along?” He looked at Monique. “You, I can understand. You’re probably the best friend she has—insofar as she has any friends at all. But why ‘especially Pris’? She doesn’t look sick, so why does she need to drag our best medical person out of here?”
“No, she’s not sick. But she saw firsthand how much of a difference Pris made when Nadira gave birth. And she doesn’t want to lose her own kid—or her own life, for that matter.”
John stared at her, his mouth open. “Huh?” was all he managed.
His wife made an exasperated little snort. “What is so surprising?” She leaned back from the table and ostentatiously curled both hands around her growing belly. “She’s young, healthy and in love. Or thinks she is. Maybe it’s just lust, who knows? Salim is as pretty as they come. So she got pregnant. It happens. Even to princesses. Even in Mughal India.”
John now stared at her. “But—”
“Close your mouth, dear. You look silly.”
Flushing a little, he clamped his mouth shut. Then, between clenched teeth: “Jesus H. fucking Christ.”
Ilsa smiled. “Now that is some serious blasphemy. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
John shot her an irritated glance. “Blasphemy be damned. We’re talking about Jahanara. Do any of you have any idea what’s likely to happen when Dara Shikoh finds out? We ain’t in West Virginia anymore, kiddies. The worst you’d get back home was a shotgun wedding. Here…Shit…”
He grimaced. “You can start with Salim—we are talking about Salim, I assume—staked out on a field with an elephant trampling him into chunky ketchup. It’s even possible Jahanara will be staked out alongside him. Probably not—she’s probably just in for a brutal beating and then being walled up for life somewhere really shitty—but you can’t rule it out. For the love of—”
His mouth snapped shut again. After a second or two, he added: “Oh.”
Ilsa shook her head. “He’s usually quicker-witted than this. Yes, dear, that’s why Jahanara’s going on Hajj. In case you hadn’t noticed, that girl is one smart cookie, to use one of your silly American expressions. The Hajj will take her out of India for most of a year. She leaves next month, before she’s really showing yet, and she has to stay in Mecca until May because that’s when they do the annual ceremony this year. Luckily for Jahanara. The timing’s perfect.”
John was feeling out of his depth again. “The date of the Hajj changes every year?”
Monique laughed. “You’ve been in the Mughal empire for this long and still haven’t figured out local customs? No, the date of the Hajj doesn’t change. It’s always the first ten days of the month of Dhu al-Hijjah, which is the twelfth and final month of the Islamic calendar. But it’s a lunar calendar, so over time the days and months shift compared to the calendar we use. This year, it starts in late April and runs through the first week of May.”
“The point,” said Priscilla, “is that by the time observance of Hajj begins in earnest, Jahanara will have given birth. She told Monique she’s pretty sure she conceived early in July.”
John glanced at Monique, frowning. “She doesn’t know for sure? How many times did she and Salim—”
“I didn’t ask,” Monique said. “But I’m sure it was more than once. Let’s just hope she conceived the first time because if it was later in July—might even be in early August—then the timing might get sticky. She can’t very well be waddling around the Kaaba for seven circuits—that’s how many are required—and still keep her condition secret.”
“How is she going to keep it a secret anyway?” John asked.
“Us,” said Pris, pointing to herself and her husband and Monique and Bertram. “And there’ll be others. Smidha knows already, so does Atisheh—and if Atisheh tells the staff to keep their mouths shut you can be damned sure they will. No one will go up against the Nagini of Red Fort, not after her repeat performance in defense of the emperor.”
“Nagini?” John said.
“Female naga,” Pris said. “A serpent-man of Hindu mythology. In her case, like a cobra crossed with a woman. Which isn’t too far removed from the truth, judging from the accounts I’ve heard.”
“Firoz Khan might know already,” said Rodney. “If he doesn’t, Jahanara or Smidha will tell him by the time we reach Jeddah.”
John scratched his chin. “Will all of them—I’m especially thinking of Firoz—keep the secret? They could collect quite a reward if they told Dara.”
“Jahanara’s not worried about informers, at least not profit-motivated ones,” said Monique. “First, because she believes they’re completely loyal to her—and for what it’s worth, I agree with her. Second, because telling her brother is likely to get your head cut off immediately after he hands you the
