Knowing wishes would not reverse the established courses of their lives, she directed her pony to the waiting eunuch. And, as such melancholy thoughts would hardly serve in front of the collected ladies of the court, she sought distraction from her personal fears. As always, politics proved the easiest distraction to turn to; all she need do was think of the many challenges facing Dara’s rule. Their brothers, the umara, the various religious and cultural factions, even the inertia of old policies and imperial precedent—each posed difficulties for her brother, whose health was also in question, the resultant pain of his injuries still affecting his moods and clarity of thought. That last was something she and the inner circle of Dara’s court dare not speak of openly, even in the most private of circumstances. That Dara was often confused was something his enemies would trade upon mercilessly.
That Dara himself had used his infirmity to argue against taking another wife had been a surprise. A surprise that, upon reflection, made horrible sense: the betrothal ceremony alone could prove enough of an ordeal to force him to reveal his weakness before the court. Such would certainly prove disastrous for their cause, exactly the opposite of the purpose of marriage alliances.
No, they were wiser to wait in that regard.
She dismounted and handed over Azar’s reins, who nuzzled her in search of sweets. Smiling, she patted the mare’s neck and entered the enclosure set up to allow the players to bathe and change clothes before returning to the festivities.
“Begum Sahib,” Smidha said, waving a bevy of servants forward to help Jahanara remove her riding clothes.
“Smidha,” Jahanara acknowledged.
“You played well, Begum Sahib.”
She shook her head. “Not well enough to beat Damla! That woman was born on a horse.”
“She is no Atisheh, though.”
Jahanara sighed. “No, she is not.”
“Skanda’s praises, but Atisheh was also born ahorse with a blade in her hand!”
“True enough,” Jahanara answered, preferring not to think too much about the day Atisheh had proven herself so proficient with a sword.
Stripped, she stepped into the waiting bath.
“Oil or water, Begum Sahib?”
“Oil. My hair will never dry, otherwise.”
Smidha set to work cleaning and untangling her hair with a comb and oils as her body slaves washed the dust and horse from their mistress.
“Are my sister’s guests content?”
“It seems they are. They very much enjoyed the poetry, music, and of course, the pulu match. The betting was heavy, and some lost more than they should have bet.”
Sensing a reproving note, Jahanara asked, “So, how much did you lose?”
“Nothing, Begum Sahib.”
“You did not bet?”
“No, I bet on Damla and Roshanara to win. I earned quite a few rupees…Though you gave me quite a scare at the end. I thought that I was going to owe our hostess, Paramjit, all my incomes for a week.”
Jahanara snorted. “Never has my failure to win pleased me so. Are you done?”
A gentle tug at her hair. “Almost.”
Jahanara sat through a few more minutes of being tended to before Smidha judged her presentable. She left the enclosure, Smidha following, and found Damla waiting outside, having eschewed the baths in favor of a skin of some drink. Truly, the woman was a slimmer version of her cousin, Atisheh. But lately come to service, Damla was young for her position as Atisheh’s second-in-command, but had her kinswoman’s full approval, at least until Atisheh could ride and fight again.
“Begum Sahib.”
“Congratulations, Damla. You were magnificent on the field.”
A shrug of armored shoulders. “I but tried to honor my uncle’s teaching.”
“My sister and I, unarmored, and on the finest ponies money can buy, were still outmaneuvered by you and your sisters as often as not.”
Another shrug. “We have had more time to play than you, and do not have your…refinement in other arenas.”
“Refinement?” Jahanara asked. She set out toward the dining area set up for the feast, intending to make a few final checks of the arrangements.
“I can swing a sword, shoot a bow, and ride, but my mother and aunts all despaired of ever teaching me proper calligraphy. My memory is also very bad. My father was certain I will never be married, as I could never recall the Prophet’s words pertaining to the conduct of a proper wife.”
“And Atisheh?”
A snort. “Hers was an even more difficult circumstance…but that is her story to tell.”
Jahanara attempted to imagine what Atisheh’s life must have been like as a child and found she could not. Then she tried to imagine the man the warrior woman might marry but could not think of one who would not be intimidated by her superior skill and proven strength.
“The lack of a husband certainly does not seem to cause you any distress,” Smidha said.
“True.” Another shrug of armored shoulders. “I do not feel the lack. God granted me my skills and set me this path. I serve. It is enough.”
“And we thank God and you, humbly, for the service you give us,” Jahanara said, heart suddenly so full she had to stop herself reaching out and taking the woman’s gauntlet in her hands. Such would not be seemly, if for no other reason than Damla was a recent addition to the harem guards, brought on from this very house to serve the imperial harem. A moment’s reflection allowed Jahanara to recognize the source of this sudden surge of feeling for Damla. The woman who looked, even sounded like, Atisheh. Atisheh, to whom Jahanara owed everything.
I must visit her soon, and to hell with the proprieties.
Her thoughts were, by necessity, silenced as their small group joined the other ladies attending the party. Moments after she was seated Nadira ordered the food be brought out. The feast was outstanding, and the company of the women exceptional, and lasted well into the evening. Varicolored lanterns were brought out as the first troupe of dancers entered and began to perform for the enjoyment of all.
After the remains of the repast were removed and the dancers finished their routines, Nadira led
