Careful not to argue too persuasively, Aurangzeb slowly gave ground and allowed himself to be convinced that his brother’s fall was the sign they all knew it to be.
Pretending to rally, he called for learned men to assess the validity of the sign. When his shrinking pool of opponents challenged him further, he asked them to bring their own seer or learned men in to refute what they had all witnessed.
An hour, then. A golden hour in which the fate of the dynasty was decided.
As if there was any question as to God’s intent.
There was a shift in the royal tent, a movement Aurangzeb likened to the gathering power of an avalanche. At first there were but a few small stones. After enough of them had been moved, the larger, heavier stones—the ones that carried more weight—were set in motion, falling over each other to throw themselves at Aurangzeb’s feet.
Eventually, all those present—the most powerful and privileged umara of Shuja’s court—were moved from the circle of Shuja’s power and entered the shade of his younger, better-suited, and most pious brother’s ambit.
When one of his snores grew too loud, and Aurangzeb was certain he had every umara who counted in hand, he directed Shuja be taken from the Red Tent to his own erstwhile quarters and seen to, but not before making certain that his own nökör stood guard over the fallen emperor.
Aurangzeb’s tent, Aurangzeb’s camp
Nur yawned behind her veil.
Humayun Lodi, Shuja’s personal physician, glanced at her on hearing it. “I can give you a draught, Begum. One that will keep you awake for hours. I only offer it because women do not suffer stress as men do, being far more delicate in their constitutions.”
“No, I will be fine.” Nur did not like the slim Persian’s airs. While he cut a dapper figure in any of the robes of state Shuja had lavished on him, the man’s skills as a courtier far outstripped any medical acumen he might have laid claim to.
Years spent propping up her beloved Jahangir had taught her more about the interplay of drugs and alcohol on the human form than most physicians would ever have the chance to learn, and certainly far more than the presumptuous buffoon before her.
Another yawn threatened. She concentrated a moment, breathed deeply, and murdered it before it could betray her fatigue to Humayun once again.
The yawns might be attributed to relief. That she was here with Humayun instead of being questioned by the fool was a clear indication none suspected Shuja had fallen victim to poison. But it had also been late when word reached her of Shuja’s collapse, and later still when she’d brushed aside the complaints of his servants and diwan, to enter Aurangzeb’s tent—no, Shuja’s now—and began her watch.
Shuja’s men had proved persistent. Their complaints had reached Aurangzeb, naturally, prompting the younger prince to order them to accept her commands as from his own mouth and placing her in charge of Shuja’s recovery.
Damn him and his clever head.
Such a public command placed her in a precarious position. She had thought to see if there might be some way to quietly do away with Shuja, perhaps by the administration of some toxin that would make his death seem a natural outcome of drink, his fall, and the seizure that followed.
She’d discarded the notion as soon as Aurangzeb’s command had been delivered, however.
By publicly placing her in charge of his recovery, Aurangzeb had also made her responsible should the drunken idiot pass on to his reward.
Besides, he gave no specific instruction regarding such action, and I have only to think back on Mullah Mohan’s fate to see what repercussions precipitous action will win for me.
No…I need to consider carefully how best to gain advantage from this and ensure Aurangzeb does not decide he can dispense with me now he begins to see his aims met.
Red Tent, Aurangzeb’s camp
Knees aching, Nur prostrated herself before the emperor in all but name. It was late, very late. There would be time to sleep when she was dead, and she counted it a good sign that he had granted her a private audience.
He had timed her audience with the same care he showed in all things, admitting her into his presence just as he was preparing to retire for the night.
As his closest female relation in camp, none should think it strange that she attend him now, especially after she had spent the last few hours nursing his brother, Shuja.
She would report the deposed emperor’s status, of course. But there were other issues of import to discuss, such as how to retain enough support from the men about him to maintain the power he’d grasped today.
Dismissing his attendants, Aurangzeb gestured for her to rise and come closer.
“Sultan Al’Azam,” she murmured quietly, always wary of eavesdroppers. She settled on a cushion below the raised platform where he sat.
He yawned, fatigue warring with exultation, and returned, just as quietly: “Not yet, Nur. I have yet to have the khutba said in my name nor had coins struck. Then there is the uncomfortable fact that Shuja still lives…” He looked at her with eyes rimmed red with fatigue. “How fares my brother?”
“He slumbers, and will continue to until noon, at least. Measures were taken.”
“But he will not die?” he asked.
Admiring his neutral tone, she answered, “Not if this is but a recurrence of his old condition, no.”
“Is it?”
“It is.” Nur’s answer was without hesitation, despite a twinge of misgiving. Even the best physicians often had to guess as to what ailed their patients, and for all her knowledge of intoxicants and their effects on the human body, she was no more a proper physician than Humayun.
“I thought your actions precipitated his fall.”
“His seizure was not a result of what you commanded be put in his drink”—she felt it useful to remind him just who had given the orders—“instead, it was a result of
