The tone of the priest’s words was so disrespectful the guards to either side of Aurangzeb tensed, armor chiming faintly as they anticipated a command to seize the bloody idiot priest.
The command did not come. The emperor’s regard was silent and calm, prompting Methwold’s guts to churn all the more. The priest might forget, but the merchant knew damn well the deadliest adder lies silent until it strikes. He drew a ragged breath, trying to think of something to say to break the tableau.
He was just clearing his throat to deliver he knew not what platitude when Aurangzeb looked at him and broke the collective silence: “From his color, it seems Father De Jesus isn’t feeling well. I think you should take him and retire to think on what has been said here today.” Aurangzeb’s voice was calm, but the iron command of his words was not to be ignored.
How can one so young maintain such a passionless facade? At his age I wasn’t even aware my face could be read like a book, let alone be in control of it…
Part Seven
August, 1636
Excellent chiefs, commanders of my line
—The Rig Veda
Chapter 33
Horse trader’s enclosure
Camp of Asaf Khan
The more or less constant drone of bidding stuttered to a stop, gaining Ricky’s attention. He looked for the source of the interruption but, unable to see anything for the press of bodies, had to step to the bottom rail of the fencing around one paddock.
Just as he started to look around someone shouted, “Dead?!”
A general hubbub started then. Ricky was unable to understand anything more than the fact someone of importance had died. Praying it wasn’t Dara, he stepped down from the rail and listened intently, trying to pick up more details. Far fairer and slightly taller than the average, he stood out as a ferenghi despite long since having abandoned up-timer clothes in favor of the locals’ comfortable dress. Even amongst the cosmopolitan horse traders his appearance set him apart from others. Unsure where to place him in the pecking order of caste and religion, most folks just ignored him.
“Mourn, for the old lion is dead!” a cooper wailed.
“Who’s dead?” Ricky asked the nearest buyer, fairly certain it was Asaf Khan they were talking about, but wanting to be sure. The man looked him up and down, but didn’t deign to answer before walking away from the ignorant ferenghi.
“He is dead!” Others took up the cry. Some began to openly weep.
“Who?” Ricky asked. Having no response, and realizing that a group of competitors who assumed everyone knew what they were on about were not likely to be forthcoming with information, Ricky started jogging back through the mud to their tents. His legs were heavy after the first hundred yards or so, mud from the nonstop rains of the last couple days clinging to his boots. The sun had yet to dry the camp’s thoroughfares despite what had to be temperatures in the nineties, but it was doing a good job of drying him out. He paused to mop sweat from his brow. Sticking his bandanna back in his pocket, he decided cleaning his boots now wouldn’t get him across the huge camp any faster. While impressed with the organizational planning of the Mughals, he still wished the horse trading enclosures were closer to the tents for traders in fine goods, but supposed it wouldn’t do to have the stink of horseshit vying with the delicately scented goods some of the luxury traders were peddling. And the sheer volume of horseshit was breathtaking. Of course, not all horseshit came from the south end of northbound horses: there were a ton of charlatans and snake-oil sellers amongst the legitimate merchants, not to mention fakirs and other assorted holy men of different stripes all spouting various levels of nonsense to any that looked prosperous or paused to listen. A couple such men approached him when he paused, forcing him to shoulder past them.
They didn’t take offense, just turned and sought someone else to sell to. Before he’d made it another ten strides he noticed a change in the noises of the camp, a murmur that rose to a more general wail.
Figuring such generalized wailing was only done for great men, Ricky picked up the pace. Not that Jadu needed them there, but he’d been sent to gather information at the horse market, and this was as big a bit of news as they were likely to get.
Tent of Jadu Das
Camp of Asaf Khan
“Ricky, good timing!” Bobby called as Ricky came to a sweaty halt in the shade of the awning set out before Jadu’s tent.
“Not really,” Jadu Das said, waggling his head as he stepped out from behind the larger up-timer’s back. “Very little time remains for him to change into proper court attire.”
“Wh-What?”
“We are summoned to Asaf—pardon, Shaista Khan’s tent.”
“So soon?” Ricky asked, mentally nodding as the older man confirmed his suspicions.
Jadu nodded, expression unreadable.
“But why?”
“Best get changed, buddy,” Bobby said. “The messenger didn’t explain shit to us.”
Ricky turned toward the tent he and Bobby shared and saw Vikram emerge from it, the chest the up-timers used to store their finery carried between him and another man.
Cursing the sweat he knew would start staining the fine silk robes the moment he put them on, Ricky entered Jadu’s tent and sat on the carpet. He’d barely gotten one boot off when Vikram entered and deposited the chest next to him.
The servant went to the rear of the tent and returned a moment later with a goblet of cold watered-down wine. Ricky thanked him and drank it in a few gulps before opening the chest and putting on his Sunday best, as he jokingly called the array of bejeweled silks.
He was putting
