Salim was silent, handsome features thoughtful instead of fearful. “What news is it that will stay your hand and see me exiled, then?” He somehow managed to ask the question lightly, without rancor.
Quelling the desire to tell him how much she admired him, she explained, “We have confirmed the rumors that the Portuguese are supporting Aurangzeb with supplies and food brought through the passes of the Western Ghats from the interior of Goa. Only with great effort and expense, I might add.”
“And they’ve been successful, otherwise Aurangzeb’s army would have ceased to exist.”
“You are correct. What is important—and not so well known—is that my brother the pretender has been slow to reward them for their service and his Portuguese and English allies are represented by an angry Christian priest and the Englishman, President Methwold.”
“Methwold is a skilled diplomat. I would not underestimate him.”
“I do not think we do, but from all reports he’s representing the junior partner in the enterprise.”
Salim waggled his head. “Understandable. Given Shah Jahan’s revocation of the English Company’s firman, they could hardly be expected to offer support to equal the Portuguese.”
“True, though I believe they are trying to make up the lack using goods and treasure taken in acts of piracy against the Hajj pilgrims traveling to Mecca.”
“God forbid,” Salim said.
“God forbid,” Jahanara agreed.
“Still, I am sorry, Begum Sahib, but I fail to see how these disparate things—my exile and Aurangzeb’s support—connect to our advantage?”
“If you are exiled, you will naturally be expected to take your followers with you. News of the departure of Dara’s strongest umara with his many sowar will surely be welcome when it reaches Aurangzeb’s camp.”
Salim gave a slow nod. “But my exile will be a ruse?” he asked, rubbing his beard. “And instead of riding north I will be attacking…?”
“…Aurangzeb’s supply lines between here and Bombay.”
“Bombay?” he asked.
“A minor Portuguese port, though the up-timers tell me it became an enormous metropolis and trade center during the British Raj that, God willing, will never come to be.”
“God willing,” Salim repeated. He fell silent, looking thoughtful, then said, “If we can keep it secret, and not just from the court, but from the scouts he will certainly have covering his advance, it might work. Might work very well indeed. But then he will just forage for what he needs here, will he not?”
“There is little left to gather. We have not been idle in bringing supplies into the fortress, and this heat makes grazing hard to find.”
“True. I need a map…” he mused.
Jahanara pushed her map box toward him and gestured at the cushions once again.
He sat with a rueful smile.
She watched him as he rifled the contents of the box and selected several maps for consideration. Pretending an ease she did not feel, Jahanara busied herself loading the water pipe with fresh tobacco. In truth, she was anything but relaxed. Dara’s rage had continued, even after he’d slept. Even Nadira’s calm presence had scarcely appeased the emperor. Would that what had made him so angry had no foundation in fact. She could barely admit, even to herself, that everyone, from Smidha to Atisheh to Salim himself, had been correct: she should not have been taking these insane risks to meet Salim alone. And now she had to worry that her efforts to retrieve the situation would merely make things worse.
He was watching her when she looked up.
“What vexes you, Begum Sahib?”
Those eyes. So perceptive.
“Am I so transparent?”
“To the eye, no.”
She smiled.
“But your sighs are perhaps more audible than you intend.” He gestured at the water pipe. “That, and the pipe you pretend to work upon has been ready to smoke for some time now.”
She bowed her head, thankful for her veils as she felt a flush creep up her neck and color her cheeks. “Perhaps you should not make me sigh, then.”
“What fresh error of mine upsets you, Begum Sahib?”
She swallowed fear and blundered on. “You are so very handso—”
He came to his feet, interrupting her. “Begum Sahib, forgive my interruption, but what you are about to say will lead to exactly the kind of situation your brother raged against. His imaginings about what we did last time brought on his collapse…”
“If I may finish, Salim?” she asked, more shortly than intended, more gently than he deserved.
“Apologies, Begum Sahib,” Salim said, eyes sliding to hers and then leaping away. His glance carried gentle rebuke, and the regard of those grass-green eyes made her heart thump even faster in her chest.
She recovered, said, “First: be seated. I should not have to crane my neck to speak with you.”
“If I…” he began.
Jahanara resorted to one of Mother’s favorite ploys to gain compliance: she sat entirely erect, squared her shoulders, mustered her most imperious expression, and raised one brow in question.
He bit off his next words, glanced at the place she had indicated and eventually settled among the cushions.
Hiding a smile, Jahanara Begum watched him as he complied with her command. The technique had performed admirably upon her father, recalcitrant princes, and palace servants alike, so she was not surprised he complied. The grace and strength of every movement of his swordsman’s body made it difficult to look away.
God help me, but just watching him is enough to fill the chambers of my heart to bursting!
“That’s better,” Jahanara said past the catch in her throat. “As to what caused me to sigh: the reasons I gave at our first private meeting are even more valid in light of this afternoon’s events. Dara’s unreasoning rage can be of service.”
“Unreasoning?” he said. “I have known men of power who incited their tribes to kill their neighbors for less insult to their honor than your brother’s suspicions.”
“Suspicions aside, you are his faithful servant, your only transgression to meet with me upon my command.”
He grimaced. “Yet that meeting is all the grounds the Sultan Al’Azam needs. Indeed, none would call him tyrant if he were to have me executed, not merely exiled.”
“Dara Shikoh would not dare punish you
