“At the very least, Shehzadi, it was thoughtless of me,” Monique said in quiet, soothing tones.
Jahanara managed a weak smile. “It is nothing, Monique,” she said. Hoping to quell any further unnecessary apologies, she hugged her friend.
Head on Monique’s shoulder, Jahanara had to look away, not just from Monique but also from Salim, which led her gaze to fall on Dara. The emperor had turned in their direction, likely intending to congratulate her on organizing the entertainment, and instead had seen her commiserating with Monique. Taking hold of her emotions, she smiled to see him beaming. It was an honest, almost pain-free smile the likes of which she had not seen in months.
Still, she cast about for some way to cover her expression as some passing fancy, and unable to resist tweaking Monique’s nose a little, said quietly, “Perhaps your lapse is yet another result of your needs not being met?”
A snort of laughter met her sally. Monique pushed herself out of Jahanara’s embrace, laughing.
If Dara had wished to, he might still have questioned her expression or the embrace, aware, as he often was, of the things that upset her, but just then Rodney and John closed in on the emperor and began speaking to him. She saw Bertram standing in Rodney and John’s wake, saw also the broad wink he gave her.
“I did not misspeak,” Jahanara whispered.
“Did not what?” Monique asked, laughing still.
“Misspeak.”
“Oh?”
She nodded at Bertram. “He is a treasure.”
Monique laughed harder, gasped out, “Please don’t let him know that! He’s already proud as a peacock!”
Feeling the tense, tearful sadness of a moment before retreating, Jahanara chuckled. Like the last clouds of the rainy season, tears might threaten still, but she knew they would soon disperse in the warm sunlight of friendship and chosen family.
With such friends and allies, surely we will overcome.
Red Fort, Gardens of the Harem
John didn’t particularly like the music that accompanied the big dance production Jahanara had staged for Dara’s amusement, but he had to admit the dance routine was impressive in the athleticism it demanded of the participants. So much so that it was almost possible to ignore the amount of flesh on display.
Almost.
He was thankful that Ilsa really enjoyed both the music and dancing. So much so that it seemed she didn’t mind him looking at the dancers. At least, not from the way she smiled beneath her nearly transparent veil.
This social visit-cum-meeting was a new one for him. Special arrangements had been made for the various women to attend, with the unmarried ladies wearing far more in the way of veils and concealing clothing than either Ilsa or Nadira. The way the silks worked, though, he could almost see through his wife’s, especially where it touched the skin. The effect made it easy to ignore the near nudity of the dancers, and from certain looks Isla had sent his way his attention to duty would be rewarded later tonight.
Her presence, while exciting, also calmed him. That he was worthy of such a fine woman’s interest made him more confident in himself, made him want to win.
His eyes went to the emperor, who was looking across at his sister and Monique, pensive expression on his face.
He’s a good guy, but he’s been hard to deal with since the factory explosion. Temperamental and angry, even with Salim, who’s been juggling everything to try and cover for him.
John’s eyes slid to Salim, who had also noticed where the emperor’s attention had fallen. Bertram stood beside him, and made a small gesture with his hand, asking John to intercede.
Rodney and John both moved to the emperor’s side, trying to figure out what to say.
Dara saw them coming, however, and smiled, the one side of his mouth slower to respond than the other.
“John, Rodney.” The emperor had taken to using their given names as a sign of his favor. It sometimes made John shake his head in wonder, the weirdness of life as an up-timer. “If you’ve had your refreshment and enjoyed sufficient entertainment, I would like progress reports on the readiness of our special armsmen”—he looked from John to Rodney—“and these ‘medics’ my sister insisted we train.”
John and Rodney bowed, not nearly as well as any courtier born to it, but close enough for government work.
“How goes the training of our specials, John?”
“Shehzada, I believe they are doing well, with the Sikhs in particular taking the drills very seriously. Your public rewards for their good performance during the last review proved useful in spurring the other contingents to take it more seriously”—the Rajput commander who had replaced Amar Singh Rathore had flogged his rasildars for failing to earn top spot in the review—“and so they apply themselves to the drills we’ve established.”
John carefully did not mention precisely why the men had found it difficult to take training with the new weapons seriously; by now, even the least sowar in Shuja’s distant army knew Dara’s up-timer ammunition factory was no more. Despite Talawat’s heroic efforts, the situation was unlikely to change.
“And my Servants of Vāyu?”
“Rodney put the volunteers through the eye exam, and we selected thirty candidates from that. They are being trained separate from the main body of troops. We’ll be testing them next week to get the best mix of spotter-shooter.”
“And the breakdown of the men?”
“Quite diverse,” Rodney supplied. “We had volunteers from every level of society, and that diversity is reflected in the men who passed the exam.”
They both knew from reading they’d done that one of the reasons the Allies had prevailed in World War II was the Axis powers’ insistence on using social elites to provide specialized soldiers like pilots, where the USA had screened everyone for raw ability and taken the cream off the top. So, when pilots started getting killed, the
