“I am sorry for your losses, Talawat, but I need you to be more specific. Was this sabotage or an honest accident?”
“If it was sabotage, John and Bertram didn’t see anyone flee just as or after it happened, and none of the bodies show any sword strokes or the like…which doesn’t rule out the use of slow match, just makes it far less likely…The patrol that was first on the scene had also just come from here, so…” He trailed off, thoughtfully tugging at his beard.
“So, accident?” Salim pressed.
Talawat nodded, expression tight. “Much as I hate to admit it, yes. Most likely. I will investigate to confirm it, but yes, I think so.”
“I should have been more on top of site safety,” John said, looking at the row of bodies.
Talawat moved to interpose himself between John and the corpses. Once he had the up-timer’s attention, he straightened and looked him right in the eyes. Speaking slowly, and enunciating clearly to ensure the up-timer understood his every word: “My people are very experienced at working with gunpowder, John Ennis. Sometimes these things happen. They know—knew—the risks. Don’t think this is something you could have done anything about. I will be more careful in laying out the next manufactory in the future, given how this ended. I welcome your input and knowledge, but do not think to treat me or my people as children unused to the dangers of gunpowder and chemicals. We are not. We are Atishbaz!”
John winced at the hard edge in Talawat’s voice, but Salim fully supported every word Talawat said.
Salim wondered at the strength of the artisan’s character: that he was able to shoulder all the burdens of this disaster and still reach out and protect John from the up-timer’s frequently expressed propensity for taking responsibility for events he could not possibly have done anything about.
All the up-timers were soft in some ways, and this setback would be hard enough to overcome without John wallowing in guilt, as Salim had watched him do in the first weeks after Randy’s death. Perhaps it was their lack of faith that made them so attached to this life and its burdens.
Shaking his head clear of ideas that would, at the very least, offend John, Salim forced himself to consider the critical question at hand. The weapon Talawat had copied was only useful with the up-timer munitions, which could not be made by just any craftsman. The artisans working here could not be replaced, not for a generation, at least. Salim sat erect, trying to put on a brave front as another thought occurred: the remaining masters would be forced to stop production and train their inferiors or not only fail to meet Dara’s needs but also risk the loss of an entire generation’s acquired knowledge.
Unsure he wanted to hear his thoughts confirmed, Salim asked, “What does this mean for production of munitions for the new guns, Talawat?”
“Honestly, I don’t know that we will deliver all that we need, Wazir.”
“So, how much ammunition can we expect to see?” Salim insisted.
“Only about a quarter of what I promised, Wazir. There are simply too few full craftsmen to tra—”
Salim waved his protests down even as he mastered his own surge of angry disappointment. “I understand. I must inform the Sultan Al’Azam. Do what you can to salvage things here. I will be making a full, formal report to the Sultan Al’Azam as soon as you can give me an accurate assessment.”
“Yes, Wazir.”
John was muttering something, his eyes sliding to the corpses yet again.
Bertram was also staring at them, face drained of color.
“John, you and Bertram should ride back with me. The Mission will be concerned and there is nothing more for you to do here.” Salim left unsaid that he didn’t want either of them waylaid on the road, either. The specter of sabotage had also raised the possibility of assassination as well, and he decided to speak to Jahanara about assigning bodyguards to each of the Mission members, whether they wanted one or not.
“What? Oh. Okay,” John said. He walked over to one of the remounts Salim’s men had brought. Bertram went to another of the horses, his original having blown itself out carrying the young man after galloping for the patrol and then returning to the manufactory in an equal rush.
John mounted with great difficulty, bruised posterior and legs making him grunt with effort and no small amount of pain, no doubt.
Bertram mounted in silence, but Salim caught sight of the young man’s eyes, and was unsurprised by the smoldering anger he saw there.
Good. I fear we will need a great deal of anger and rage to carry the day against Dara’s rivals now.
He turned his horse and, out of deference to John’s infirmity, started at a slow trot for Red Fort. He felt time pressing on his spirits with the weight of mountains, and within moments he ordered them into a gallop.
Those guns were the single greatest technical advantage we had over the pretenders. Now, without enough ammunition to make a difference, they are only so much steel and wood—awkward clubs, really.
Dara—or Jahanara—must be brilliant, or all will be lost, because I am fresh out of ideas…
The Grape Garden, Red Fort
Jahanara hurried into the Grape Garden, her veils, the noonday heat and stress making sweat bead her brow. She saw Dara, or rather one of his nökör, rising from a full prostration before the white marble dais at the center of the four quarters of the garden. Her brother liked to rest there while enjoying the garden and whatever entertainments his wife had arranged for his pleasure.
Biting back an oath that Smidha, hurrying along in her wake, would surely reproach her for uttering, Jahanara hurried to join the cluster of women surrounding Dara.
Upon hearing the great explosion, she’d made arrangements to delay the messenger reaching Dara until she could get back from the diggings of
