So, when it came time to look at recruits, Rodney had insisted on accepting volunteers from every caste. Mostly, they’d gotten the usual Muslims and warrior-caste folks, but there’d been one or two outsiders who’d applied, even passed. John wasn’t too sure it would serve to chip away at the caste system, or whether it was good for the unit they were establishing. There’d already been one barracks-room dustup he knew about, and he suspected there’d both been and would be a lot more unless they could find someone to run the unit who understood—yet could work around—the various cultural and religious landmines they were facing.
“And the ammunition?” Dara repeated, a tinge of impatience coloring his tone.
The question finally penetrating his funk, John answered: “Talawat tells me that since we don’t have that many of the rifles to begin with, and we skimp on the training I wanted to put them through, that we’ll have more than enough for any battle.”
“Well then,” Dara said with an air of satisfaction all out of order with the news, “at least in this we shall be as Bhima, and crash down upon the foe from beyond his reach with a violence undreamed of, in protection of our family.”
John saw the expressive eyes of the empress shift to her husband, her worried glance even more disconcerting than the behavior of the emperor.
Rodney shifted his weight, uncomfortable with the unreasoning, bloodthirsty glint in Dara’s eyes.
The movement of Rodney’s large frame must have drawn Dara’s attention from whatever fantasy of bloodletting he’d been having, as he asked, “And these field medics you are training, Rodney?”
Rodney bowed and said, “The volunteers are training up nicely. Everything Pris and I can remember, we’ve got on the syllabus, and the first graduates, the ones who will train everyone else, were as ready as we can make them. We are testing those recruits soon. Over the last months Shehzadi Jahanara has collected and issued us an enormous endowment of supplies: bandages, suture-quality thread, even opium. We are distributing them to the medics and stockpiling surplus for the field hospital.”
“And how goes that particular project?”
“Very well. The tents and other materiel your sister provided will all prove very useful, once we get our staffing situation sorted out.”
“From your tone, I gather there are issues?”
“Not for the general staff; orderlies, nurses, that sort of thing, no.”
Dara quirked a scarred eyebrow, inviting the man to continue.
“Well, while we’ve had a flood of physicians applying for positions, figuring out who is…” He trailed off, glancing at John for help.
“Qualified?” Dara said, before John could come to his friend’s aid. “According to your up-time standards, I mean?”
“You understand exactly. The interview process is…tedious and slow.”
Dara smiled. “Diplomatically put. I am sure they have strong opinions on the processes you require them to implement.”
Rodney returned the smile. “Exactly, Sultan Al’Azam.”
“And how they must have balked when they learned they would be instructed by a woman!” Dara chuckled.
Nadira, relaxing visibly, slid her arm through her husband’s, her eyes smiling now.
“The Jains were slightly better about it than the rest of them, but none of them were, well…” Rodney trailed off, perhaps realizing his words might have been insulting. Knowing that the emperor was okay with statements that might be seen as a dig against some ethnic or religious group Dara favored was one thing, knowing the mind of his wife quite another. He quickly qualified: “But most doctors are snobs when it comes to where they studied, or who they studied under, even back up-time. They certainly would’ve had a hard time listening to some paramedic, regardless of how much experience the paramedic had.”
“Really?” Nadira asked, one brow arched.
Rodney bowed again, uncertain of protocol when addressed by the empress.
John stepped in. “Oh, there was a definite pecking order, even among doctors with different specialties who went to the same school.”
“The smaller our differences, the more weight most people will place on that side of the scales, if only to mark themselves as better than the others,” Dara said.
Like the differences between you and your brothers? John had the good sense not to speak the thought aloud, but it still plagued him no end. There had been scant evidence he’d chosen the right prince to back, except for…His eyes slid to Jahanara, standing in the background, head together with Monique. Begum Sahib had suffered some loss of reputation with her brother since the explosion, but she was still the foremost of Dara’s inner circle, and, by all accounts, working hard to keep him on the throne.
Except for Begum Sahib…Just about every good turn we’ve done here has been done at her urging or as a result of her direct actions.
If only…
However pleasing the image, he deliberately turned away from the thought of Jahanara Begum ruling from the Peacock Throne. Closing his eyes, he stifled a rueful grin. He could almost hear his mother’s voice telling him, in no uncertain terms, “That’s right, you’re just a hillbilly from West Virginia, son, not any kind of king—or queen-maker.”
Chapter 24
Patna
House of Jadu Das
“What was that?” Bobby asked.
Ricky groaned, wakened from deep sleep to find his best friend standing at the foot of his bed. The barrel of the Remington 870 held in his hands gleamed dully in the silver moonlight coming from the balconies.
“Wake up, there’s something going on downstairs.” A crunching bang from the front of the house punctuated Bobby’s words.
“Wha?” Ricky mumbled, staggering out of bed only to enter into a battle with the entangling mosquito netting that wanted to drown him.
“Shhh—” Bobby’s attempt to silence him was cut short by the unmistakable sound of a musket being fired nearby. There were several angry shouts, none of which Ricky could understand.
“Fuck!” Ricky hissed, finally extricating himself from the netting.
Bobby chambered a shell and moved to cover the door.
Ricky paused, torn between arming himself or getting dressed. He put pants
