Red Fort, Vine Court
“I can scarce believe it, myself,” Roshanara mused, trusting the noise of the water splashing in the fountain where her sister had nearly drowned her to cover the words.
“I am sorry, Shehzadi?” Omid said, jowls bouncing as the eunuch’s nervous eyes traveled the rest of the Vine Court in yet another search for listeners.
She said nothing, but gestured for him to continue memorizing the poem she hoped would convey her news to Aurangzeb but conceal it from any who should intercept it.
The sweat pouring from beneath Omid’s pale blue turban dripped on the fine paper he held before him, making obvious the eunuch’s desperate desire to get away from her as quickly as possible.
Wishing Doctor Gradinego were present to advise her, Roshanara sighed.
The ruse they’d used to communicate had grown too thin a cover for the frequency of their meetings, so Doctor Gradinego had introduced her to Omid just two weeks past. But even if the harem guard were smarter than he looked, Omid was too fearful of discovery to even consider offering an assessment of the information she provided.
Left with nothing save the ferenghi’s assurances the eunuch was entirely Nur’s creature, and could be relied upon to pass information to him, she’d sought Omid out. Since then, she had made something of a show of making Omid and several of the other senior harem servants join her in a poetry competition, all to furnish reasons for contact with the guard.
Omid shifted his bulk from one foot to another.
“You have it memorized?” she asked, realizing she’d left him to ruminate too long.
“I believe so, Shehzadi.”
“Repeat it, then.”
The stammer that accompanied the first few lines retreated as Omid fought to recall the hastily composed poem rather than remaining focused on the peril they were in.
When Omid finished Roshanara nodded and gave what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “You have it. Go now to your rest, you have much to do over the next few days.”
“Yes, Shehzadi,” Omid said, scarcely concealing relief at being allowed to leave.
“Omid, please at least act as if you wish to participate, if not win the competition. It will make things easier.”
The harem guard glanced up at her, took a deep, steadying breath, and bowed.
She gestured permission to depart and turned back to her qulam and ink.
Omid left without another word, and with a grimace that was supposed to be a smile plastered on beardless cheeks.
Roshanara did not notice, already lost to the present trying to predict what future moves her sibling would make in response to the news.
Red Fort, west of Lahore Gate
“This is some fort, Talawat,” John said, slapping the sun-heated stone of the crenellation in front of him with an appreciative hand. He’d had about an afternoon’s worth of training on the state of the art in fortress-building back when he was inducted into the USE’s TacRail program, and they’d gone on at length about the uselessness of freestanding curtain walls that made up most medieval castles.
The advent of cannon powerful enough to knock down such outmoded defenses had been part of the demise of medieval fortifications, but the far greater factor had been an increase in the mobility of cannon of all sizes.
Military architects in Europe and under the Mughals had both adopted the construction of earth-backed walls in response to the power of gunpowder. The Mughals also liked them because such defenses were less prone to undermining or actual explosive mines placed against the base of a curtain wall.
“Sure is,” Bertram agreed. “Geneva’s fortifications, built to defend that city from the papists over the last two generations, are the only ones I’ve seen that might be better, and that’s only because they create a brutal crossfire by building in a star shape…And those defenses certainly lack the visual appeal of this place.”
Talawat nodded but didn’t comment. Instead he led the others over to one of the cannon installed to defend Red Fort. Patting the big bronze piece, he dismissed the men working to rebore it.
Knowing Talawat wouldn’t speak about whatever he’d brought them here to discuss until they were alone, John looked Talawat over while the men left the parapet and Bertram bent to examine the steel borer the crew had been using on the barrel. To be honest, John was a little worried about the gunsmith. Dark rings around the Atishbaz’s dark eyes showed the long hours the man was putting in.
Red Fort had a lot of cannon and a lot of mortars, but very little standardization between pieces, so the accuracy of any one gun couldn’t be relied on for training on another cannon. The program to rebore some of the bronze barrels to a standard size went on despite the destruction of the munitions factory. John figured Salim had decided the work should continue as much to shore up morale as to improve the accuracy of the guns themselves.
“How many more do they have to get done?”
Talawat heaved a tired sigh. “A great many, I’m afraid. Dara’s enemies have a lot of cannon as well as mortars.”
“I thought they wouldn’t be able to bring them to bear,” Bertram said.
A shrug. “The largest weapons in their artillery park, the true siege guns, are incredibly heavy and difficult to transport. As their supply situation is less than generous, it is hoped they will attempt a storm before the big guns can be brought up and laid in to bring down our defenses.”
“An attempt to storm us doesn’t sound much better than a siege,” John said, leaning on the gun.
Talawat nodded. “They have the numbers tradition claims sufficient to overcome the fortress.”
“Shit. Three to one?”
“Closer to four to one.”
“They have eighty thousand men?”
“More or less. It is assumed they will lose a number of them as they reduce the fortresses to our south, but their eventual arrival is why I asked you to come up here with me.”
“What’s that?”
“I wished to, as you say, ‘pick your skulls’ for
