“Nur Jahan…” Shuja mused.
“Asaf Khan and Nur remain at odds, out of communication since shortly after Asaf backed Father’s successful bid for the throne.”
“So she says.”
“Indeed.” Aurangzeb said nothing more, waiting for Shuja to speak himself onto the killing ground he’d prepared.
Shuja leaned forward. “As she would be bound to, given that she is reliant on you for her continued maintenance.”
“Just as she was to Father, and to Jahangir before him.”
“She encouraged the one to kill himself with drink and opium, and made every effort to keep Father from the throne. Successfully, the first time.”
Aurangzeb hid contentment. “Yes, she did. Only to have Asaf Khan put her in her place, eventually. Something she has yet to forgive him for.”
“Oh?”
“She has expressed the hope that you will strip him of his power and position,” he explained, lying for the first time in the conversation.
“And if, instead, I choose to reward him for staying out of our current conflict?”
Aurangzeb shrugged. “Then that is your will, Sultan Al’Azam. I will certainly not resist it, and she could not even if she wished to.”
“But you do not approve of the idea?”
“Sultan Al’Azam, the approval of your vassals is irrelevant. I—like every one of your worthy umara—serve at your will.”
“Of course. But you”—Shuja sneered—“you, would approach Asaf Khan differently?”
“If we had reliable—and trustworthy—means of communicating with him, then all my reservations regarding your stratagem would be as the last full moon, done and gone, a mere memory.”
“Very poetic, brother. Yet I do not hear the alternative I know you must have hidden in your sash alongside your ever so piously simple prayer beads.”
Several of Shuja’s umara stirred. Regardless of their own fatih, they did not like this assault on Aurangzeb’s religiosity any more than its target.
Stung despite his earlier resolve and mental preparations, Aurangzeb opened his mouth to reply.
Shuja wasn’t done: “So spare me your false smiles and crooked tongue as you chivvy me down the path toward whatever end it is you seek. I will listen, but only if you drop this pretense and speak with a straight tongue.”
Several men winced to hear the venom in Shuja’s voice, looking from their emperor to his brother. Many were obviously thinking Aurangzeb could not ignore such a public, vicious slight. Some, Shuja’s most foolish toadies included, had been looking forward to this moment in hopes they could seize advantage from the eventual break.
Others—more important men, wiser men—watched with carefully concealed interest, but no less avidly.
Almost there, my brother.
Aurangzeb took firm hold of his anger and his surging hopes and said simply, “As you command me to, Sultan Al’Azam, I will reveal my idea: I think the army should approach Agra with care, dispatching a column to discover the whereabouts of Asaf Khan’s forces. Should they meet with that force, the leader should be of sufficient rank to treat with Asaf Khan, and wise enough to identify any potential snares laid to entrap the unwary…”
“So you think I should send you?” Shuja said, cynicism dripping from the words like honey from the comb.
“No, of course not. I make no claims to wisdom, and he is likely to still think of me as a child fresh from Father’s harem. No, some other from among your umara would be more suitable.”
Several of the more ambitious men among the court stirred, excited by the prospect of an independent command and the chance to win honor and glory.
The wiser among them spared Aurangzeb glances of, if not approval, then certainly respect.
The wisest were silent and spared no glances for anyone, keeping their motives and thoughts closed off from the world behind shuttered expressions of cool disinterest.
“Perhaps there is some merit to this idea,” Shuja said. “I shall think further on it.”
Methwold’s tent, Shuja’s camp
“Aurangzeb wants his aunt to address our concerns with still more empty platitudes,” De Jesus muttered, eyes flashing angrily.
Methwold waited, holding his tongue until after the messenger conveying Nur’s invitation to pay her a visit had withdrawn. While doubting in the extreme the man spoke any Portuguese, one’s tone—especially an angry buzz like De Jesus’—could give away too much.
Once the man had gone, Carvalho glanced at Methwold, who returned the slightest of nods.
“Father,” Carvalho said, “you need to be more careful of letting your anger show before these people.”
De Jesus twitched at what, from the angry set of his shoulders, he perceived to be a rebuke rather than a brotherly bit of caution.
“I, of all people, understand your impatience. You know I do,” Carvalho said, making oblique reference to the fact that De Jesus had informed him the viceroy and archbishop had tabled his request without proffering a decision date.
On spending more time with the mercenary-cum-nobleman, Methwold had learned to respect the man’s patient intelligence far more than De Jesus’ intellectual and linguistic achievements. In fact, he’d grown to suspect the man knew the viceroy and archbishop of the Estado da India wouldn’t—couldn’t—ever approve his request the Inquisition be barred from the Estado, but felt the opportunity to ask was one he simply could not, in good conscience, pass up. William knew he wouldn’t have in Carvalho’s place.
“I do not want to listen to some woman repeating lines she’s memorized from her betters!” De Jesus said, tone that of a petulant boy. Methwold was growing to detest the priest’s antics, especially in light of the man’s excellent mind.
“Nur is no mere woman, Father,” Carvalho said patiently.
“No matter who she is, she is not Shah Shuja, emperor of the Mughals. She is not Aurangzeb, would-be emperor of same. No, she is an elderly woman sent to insulate Aurangzeb from our righteous anger at these unconscionable delays and stall us seeking an audience with Shuja!”
Methwold, seeing this as ground already well trod, thinking it not worth his time to address the priest’s tirade himself, only made a small gesture for Carvalho to continue. Perhaps his countryman could talk some sense into the priest.
“Perhaps you
