Bertram bent double, massaging his thigh as if relieving a terrible cramp there while slaves set about picking up the mess.
A moment later, pretending sudden awareness of everyone’s attention, he stopped rubbing his thigh and cast a sheepish look at Dara.
“So sorry, Sultan Al’Azam! The heat made me cramp terribly.”
Bertram hid his relief as Dara’s tic subsided and his smile returned to its more natural, if forced, appearance. The emperor waved a languid hand to silence further apologies and nodded through the Rajput prince’s disdainful comments on how ill suited the Europeans were to the climate.
The moment passed, Dara and Amar Singh turning to watch the men drilling.
Relaxing ever so slightly as he sat, Bertram became aware of Salim watching him. Once he was sure it was safe, he met the other man’s eye behind the backs of the emperor and one of his most powerful umara.
Salim nodded silent thanks.
Bertram returned the nod, though Salim hadn’t been thanked for the many times he had saved the emperor from more of the same over the last few months. Rodney and Gervais insisted Dara’s condition was improving, but the many stresses of ruling slowed the emperor’s progress and lent every setback that much more weight.
Gervais and Rodney could not attend Dara all the time lest the mere presence of the up-time-trained doctors provide irrefutable evidence of his condition to the watching court.
And they were watching.
All the time.
It was a miracle they hadn’t already had some incident spiral out of control and into public view.
He covered a smile with a bite of mango, reflecting that the miracles had two names: Jahanara Begum and, to a lesser extent, Monique Vieuxpont.
The princess carefully guarded all aspects of Dara’s public life, paring down appearances to the bare minimum necessary to avoid comment and stage-managing those appearances that were absolutely necessary as closely as possible. That management required men she could trust. Bertram was proud to be counted among that very select group, especially as it was Monique’s vouchsafe for his skills that moved Jahanara to approach him in the first place.
She’d made the recommendation just days after he and Monique had stolen some time alone at Mission House.
Thoughts of Monique led his mind down garden paths, air heavy with floral scents, dark curls in his hands, lips parting under his, breath and stolen caresses mingling in memory to heat his flesh even in the shade.
With effort, he turned his mind from pleasant memory and forced himself to focus on the future. As was often the case of late, he began worrying what would become of them all when the Mission concluded their business—successfully, God willing—and it was time to leave.
Their current efforts, while effective, left him feeling very much like the Mission had, in assuming such lofty responsibilities, taken a tiger by the tail.
The up-timers had become fixtures of Dara’s royal court, with Rodney and Priscilla becoming indispensable to Dara—and his family’s—health, while John Ennis had become a military advisor of sorts, working closely with Salim and the Atishbaz gunsmith, Talawat, to develop the drills being practiced below. And it wasn’t just the up-timers of the Mission who were deeply involved in courtly politics: Gervais, in addition to his role as the most in-demand of court physicians, had become Dara’s diwan in all but name. That role gave him a greater range of reasons to have access to the emperor, allowing his native talent at what up-timers called “the long con” to work upon the court at large.
Monique had been instrumental in that, as well, presenting Jahanara with several options when the princess had been at her wit’s end with how to prevent Dara’s condition becoming common knowledge. Today’s little folly being an example of one of those options in action.
His attention wandered again at the thought of her. He was continuously surprised that anyone so intelligent, so beautiful, and as talented as Monique would show any degree of romantic interest in him. He’d been selected by the family as a potential spy as much because of his bland appearance as any other specific talent for the job, after all.
God help us if Monique and her father get bored with the court and decide to leave with their loot! The thought made him smile, then shiver despite the heat.
They could do it, too. Have done, in the past. Monique would only have to lead me down the primrose path a little, allay my suspicions…
Bertram bit his lip, hating himself for thinking such things about Monique…and her father. He consoled himself that a certain amount of professional paranoia was healthy in his line of work and proceeded, trying to think coldly, logically:
To what end would they betray their companions?
The easy answer—wealth—did not signify. They had that in abundance, and stood to gain even more with time and the exercise of the firman Dara granted the Mission. Indeed, their places at court had them daily in the presence of more portable wealth than most kings could marshal in a year.
Another answer—power—did not satisfy, either. They were just as intoxicated by the sheer challenge of this great enterprise, of helping direct the intrigues and intelligences of an empire richer and more vast than any European state, as Bertram himself was. They could never exercise such power in another court, except perhaps that of the USE, and that subject to the new laws concerning sharing of power brought to them by the up-timers.
No, they were not engaged in some enormous swindle.
But then, the target of a swindle rarely believed himself the victim until he’d been thoroughly fleeced and left naked in the cold…
His
