Eric Flint's Blog, page 182

Gods of Sagittarius – Snippet 14

Gods of Sagittarius – Snippet 14

CHAPTER 8

“Why didn’t you warn me?” Occo demanded.

Floating next to her so it could examine the spectacle on the main screen for itself, Bresk’s mantle swelled indignantly. “Warn you? Do you have any idea of the complexities involved in the Nedru Concord’s calculation of the right time — excuse me, I believe the term the maniacs prefer is ‘auspicious juncture’ — for holding an Imminence Stimulation?”

“No, of course not. That’s one of the reasons why I fashioned you in the first place. I’m a shaman. Doing that sort of math is your job.”

“Undoable job! Because you then have to add to that complexity — of which you have no concept whatsoever — the ingredient of random chance which the Nedru Contemplate insists is an essential feature of a successful Stimulation.”

“They do?”

“Yes — which just proves once again that the Nedru Concord Skein of Creeds is a horde of morons, seeing as how they’ve now held” — there was a minute pause while Bresk searched its memory records — “three hundred and twenty-nine Stimulations, counting this one, none of which have succeeded in reawakening an Old One. Or an Old One bacterium, for that matter.”

Occo glowered at the screen. The Nedru were indeed insane, even by the none-too-stable standards of the whole Subsumption Posturate. All adherents to the doctrine of Subsumption held that the Old Ones were deific, not demonic. They also believed that the holy Old Ones — a few of them, at least — had survived the war with the demons but only by corporeal disembodiment. Most Subsumers believed that the Old Ones were now beings of pure ethereal spirit, residing in the fluctuations of the brane fissures. One could certainly call upon their spirits for guidance, but there was no longer any prospect that the Old Ones would play a role in the working of the material universe; not, at least — according to some schools — until the prophesied Time of Annulment, when the spirits of the Old Ones would reverse the expansion of the universe and (very, very slowly) resume their corporeal existence as the universe began compressing and rushing toward the ultimate collapse and rebirth.

This doctrine was far too passive, though, for those who belonged to the Nedru Concord. Although they professed a vast multitude of particular tenets and dogmas — it was not called the Skein of Creeds for nothing — the Nedru were all united in their belief that Old One survivors still existed somewhere in this universe and could be stimulated to rise again with the proper rites and rituals.

Prominent among those rites and rituals was the Imminence Stimulation, wherein Nedru summoned from across the galaxy — to be more precise, from inhabited planets of the known portion of the Sagittarius arm thus far explored by Nac Zhe Anglan — brought their spacecraft into orbit around Vlax Broche.

Very close orbit, from which the most faithful dipped into the gas giant’s atmosphere in hopes of awakening the Old Ones thought to be sleeping somewhere in the interior. It was perhaps the most dangerous pilgrimage in the sprawling Nac Zhe Anglan galactic region. Every Stimulation resulted in hundreds of fatalities.

And even more in the way of casualties. The small shipyard on Zayth located right next to the Repository of the Old Ones was flooded with work during Stimulations, as was the nearby medical center. Occo suddenly saw a way she could turn a problem into an opportunity.

“We’ll have to actually damage the ship, though,” she mused, half-aloud. “No way around it. The Nedru are crazy but they aren’t stupid.”

Bresk swiveled to face her. Its compound eyes, always a very prominent feature of its not-exactly-a-face, were bigger than ever. “What are you talking about?”

Occo explained.

Bresk farted. “Are you joking?”

“Of course not. Set a course to put us in orbit around Vlax Broche. A close orbit, you understand. There’ll be observers, some of them agents of the Repository. This has to look genuine.”

“How do you make a fake shipwreck look genuine?”

“By not faking it in the first place. All we have to do is survive. Once we steal the Warlock Variation Drive we won’t need a ship.”

“You don’t know that!”

Occo flexed her arms back and forth, indicating xaff, a sentiment best described as uncertainty-coupled-with-insouciance. “The records suggest as much.”

Bresk’s fart, this time, indicated sarcasm rather than fear. “Just listen to yourself! First we destroy the ship — with us in it, mind you! — without quite destroying it utterly in order to gain access to the Repository, after which — by means yet unknown — we shall seize the Warlock Variation Drive, whereupon ‘the records suggest’ we might be able to use it without a ship. This s your idea of a plan?”

“It could work.”

“Yes, and if you devote yourself immediately to her worship — or maybe it’s a him, who knows with Humans? — the goddess Evel Knievel will see you through. But unlike you, I don’t have any bones to be broken and made whole again by an alien deity.”

“Just do it,” Occo commanded.

***

Within a short time, however, it became clear that Bresk’s skepticism was not entirely without merit. Being neither suicidal nor insane nor stupid, Occo had never before attempted to skim the outer atmosphere of a giant planet with a spacecraft not designed for that purpose. She soon discovered that the casualty rates reportedly suffered by Nedru stimulants were not apocryphal.

“There’s a reason they like to call themselves ‘martyrs,’ you know,” Bresk groused.

“Shut up. I’m thinking.”

“My terror swells. Where Occo Nasht Jopri Kruy Gadrax’s mind roams, fools and lunatic fear to tread.”

“Shut. Up.”

***

“There’s no help for it,” Occo finally concluded. “We’ll have to use precognition.”

“I’m using it right now. I foresee disaster.”

“Link,” she commanded, raising her earflaps to expose the surgically implanted neural sockets below.

Sarcastic and annoying as it might be, Bresk was never disobedient. Less than two minims later, its neural connectors were inserted into the sockets.

As always, there was a brief disorientation. Very soon, though, Occo felt her senses greatly enhanced and her mind working more quickly than ever.

Which was a good thing, since she discovered that during the brief period of disorientation she’d allowed the spacecraft to dip back into the atmosphere at a steeper angle than she’d intended. If she didn’t take immediate corrective action the ship would start breaking up — Bresk’s racing calculators provided the answer almost instantly — in fifteen and a half minims.

Somewhere in the recesses of her mind she sensed her familiar’s agitation but, as always during linkage, Bresk’s habitual sarcastic prattle was suppressed. It took her less than three minims to realize that she was too deep to simply lift back out of the atmosphere. Her only chance now —

Yes! There! Another ship was plunging from above just ahead of her. She increased her acceleration to bring her craft into the other ship’s wake.

The turbulence was severe. But within five minims the ship ahead of her began disintegrating in a spectacular fashion. A total of eleven minims had now elapsed of her allotted fifteen and a half.

She folded her mind — there was no other way to describe the process — into the precognitive state. Precognition was a peculiar skill. It was unpredictable, and more a matter of feel than logic; an art, as it were, not a science.

Which made perfect sense to Occo. All Nac Zhe Anglan creeds which included shamans in their canonate recognized the fact of precognition. But whereas most such creeds explained the skill as being a psychic byproduct of brane interpenetration, the Naccor Jute understood the truth — it was a function of the same forces of magic that had given the Old Ones and their adversaries their immense power.

Real magic, not complex scientific interactions misunderstood as such. Most Nac Zhe Anglan creeds — and all alien species, to the best of her knowledge — were blinded to the truth by their own history. Emerging as they had out of animal intellects, they first began to grapple with the great magic forces which underlay reality by superimposing upon them the crude logical tools which became known as “science.” As time passed, they reified the practical error and became convinced that magic did not exist.

The great founder of the Naccor Jute, the sage Hefra Ghia Diod, had put it thusly:

A sufficiently primitive magic is indistinguishable from technology.

That understanding made Naccor Jute shamans the best clairvoyants produced by any Nac Zhe Anglan creed. Their ability to sense the future was not clouded by scientific superstitions.

That said, the best was still not very good. No clairvoyant could ever see more than a few minims into the future, and their visions almost always came as a complex of variations, not a foreordained clarity. What they saw, in essence, was that in a very short time their fate would take one of two to four alternative paths. The choice was still theirs.

The moment came and she saw her three futures. Immediately she chose the most daring.

Why? She would never be able to explain in terms that corresponded to logic. That choice simply seemed truest to her own nature.

As the craft ahead of her came apart, Occo brought her own craft into a glancing collision with a large section of the disintegrating ship. She’d interpreted that future to be one in which the collision would allow her to carom out of the atmosphere, but within three minims she realized that she’d misread her vision. Her ship effectively fused with the section of the doomed ship and used that section as both a buffer and what amounted to a huge (and grossly misshapen) surfboard.

Occo was a superb surfer. She’d never before surfed an atmosphere instead of an ocean, nor used a single board instead of two — much less such a grotesque one! — nor, for that matter, surfed using a ship’s controls instead of her own four legs and feet. But the overall process was still recognizably surfing and she responded with confidence.

Some traces of her precognitive state must have remained, too. Even with her skill and experience, she could find no other way to explain the ease with which she brought her craft safely out of Vlax Broche’s violent atmosphere. Many would have called it a miracle, but she knew it was magic.

***

And, as it turned out, her choice had given them an additional boon. By whatever means her ship had come to be fused with the section of the other ship — it was probably not a true fusion but simply that their external parts had gotten jammed together — they were still connected after they left the atmosphere. Occo had no way of knowing exactly what her ship now looked like, but of one thing she was certain. It would look damaged.

Badly damaged, most likely. Certainly damaged enough to warrant landing at the shipyard on Zayth. In fact . . .

She’d have to go outside the ship to see for herself, but if the ship’s appearance was as lopsided as she suspected it was, then it would be perfectly plausible that entering Zayth’s atmosphere would cause it to veer off course. The moon’s atmosphere was much thinner than that of the gas giant it orbited, but it was a real atmosphere. Not dense enough to breathe, even if it had contained more than trace amounts of oxygen. But more than dense enough to explain a crash landing.

A crash landing that . . . ended up right next to the Repository. Might even breach one of the walls.

A pity precognition wouldn’t let her see that far ahead. But magic always had its practical limits.

“Unlink,” she commanded.

As soon as Bresk did so, it began complaining.

“You almost killed us! And now what silly notion do you have in mind?”

After she explained, her familiar farted a veritable tune. A discordant one, to be sure.

***

It didn’t take Occo more than four medims outside the ship to realize two things. First, the ship’s appearance was certainly grotesque enough to make her desire to land at the shipyard plausible to whoever was in charge of the facility. And secondly, her ship and the torn-off section of the doomed ship were effectively fused. As she’d suspected, the two craft had locked together because various external parts had interpenetrated. But the impact had been severe enough that at least in a few places the parts had melted and fused together.

It wasn’t much of a fusion, granted. But since there was no way to predict whether and for how long the broken section would remain attached to her ship once they entered the moon’s atmosphere — nor how it would affect her ship’s aerodynamics while it did remained attached — she would have to jury-rig some sort of explosive device to detach it at the proper time.

Whatever that time might be. There was no way to predict that, either.

Fortunately, her spacecraft was an armed survey ship. She didn’t have any industrial explosives, but she had several different kinds of grenades as well as quite a few personal weapons aboard.

A concussion grenade should do the trick nice nicely.

***

That left the problem of breaching the wall of the Repository. She decided she could manage that — well, probably — by using the ship’s directional jets. If she brought the ship to a semi-controlled crash-landing against the side of the Repository . . .

With at least two of the forward directional jets positioned to strike the walls with their hot exhausts . . .

And assuming she dug the ship in solidly enough when she crashed it — in a controlled crash, of course — that the reaction from the directional jets wouldn’t cause the ship to just spin on its side . . .

That was a lot of “ifs.” Too many to be comfortable with. But she didn’t see any good alternatives.

***

“We’re set to go,” she pronounced, after reentering the ship and resuming her place on the command bench.

“We most certainly are not,” Bresk countered. “I have done a careful mathematical analysis and I estimate our chances of success are about one in three.”

“That good? Splendid.”

 

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 27

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 27

Monique shook her head. “Castes, clans, religious divisions…It is all very complex.”

“Almost as confusing as the situation in Central Europe?” Gervais asked, tongue firmly in cheek.

“Or the city states surrounding Rome?” Angelo said, smiling.

“Point!” Gervais chuckled.

Monique didn’t bother to respond to their patronizing and short-sighted humor. She had other things on her mind.

* * *

“It’s actually kind of pretty when the rain stops, John,” Ilsa said, looking out over the grassland. The couple had ridden up the rise to get the lay of the land while the rest of their caravan rode by below.

“What?” John asked, distracted.

He panned the binoculars across the plain ahead. The wind was in their faces, making the grass rustle pleasantly. It was nearly a perfect moment, neither too hot nor too wet.

“John.”

He let the binoculars hang from the strap and turned to look at her. She had angled her umbrella toward the caravan to conceal herself from the guards and pulled her veil aside.

He couldn’t help but smile, seeing her golden hair spilling out. “Yes?”

“Are you all right, John?”

“I’m…” His usual glib response froze behind the prison of his lips.

She waited for him.

“I am –” he choked on the words.

“Are you hurting, John?”

He couldn’t make his mouth work, eventually managed a nod.

She reached across to him, covered his larger hand with her smaller, finer one. “I love you, John Ennis. Nothing can change that.”

John just stared at her, his throat feeling as if a giant was pinching it closed.

“Now, I insist that you listen to me a moment. That boy, the one you shot, he was a pirate. He would have killed you and enslaved me had I not been able to kill myself before his crew got their hands on me. I was ready to do that, you know.

“Therefore: you did what had to be done to protect me and our friends. No one can fault you for that, including you, my rock-headed, obstinate, lovely, kind-hearted hillbilly!”

He swallowed half a dozen replies, tried to tell her she didn’t know, that she hadn’t seen the kid fall and die, that it didn’t matter what she thought.

But it did matter! It mattered more than life itself what she thought of him.

“I know,” he managed to say at last. He looked her in the eye again. “I love you, you –”

He stopped mid-sentence as her gaze flicked over his shoulder and hardened.

She pulled her hand from his as he turned to look.

A group of about a dozen men were moving out of the tall grass in a loose semi-circle around them. The nearest was only ten yards away, filthy and hefting a spear. All of them were armed with more than unpleasant expressions under hard eyes, and a few had bows.

Shit! They must have been lying in the grass, checking the caravan out when we rode right up on them…

They were poorly armed, but John didn’t think he could get the rifle off his shoulder and into play in time to stop them getting to either him or, worse yet, Ilsa.

Two of them were pointing excitedly at Ilsa’s uncovered head and speaking in hushed tones. Despite the language barrier, their manner managed to convey both greed and desire.

They started to close with a will, picking up speed.

“Ride, Ilsa!” he shouted, trying to swing the rifle from his shoulder and cover her retreat. The shout made his horse rear. He tried to get over the stirrups, but the weight of the rifle dragged him out of the saddle and back in a slow tumble over his horse’s ass.

He rolled with the impact as best he could. Losing his rifle and bashing his shoulder something fierce. John ignored the pain to pop up on his knees, struggling to orient himself.

He could hear the bandits shouting excitedly among themselves, but only one horse’s hooves fleeing down the rise.

Shit, she didn’t run!

Belatedly, John heard someone charging through the grass at him.

“Down, John!” he heard Ilsa shout from behind him.

For once John immediately did what his wife told him to, throwing himself flat.

CRACK! CRACK! The double tapping of Ilsa’s 9 mm Beretta was almost immediately followed by a meaty thump and patter of liquid on grass.

CRACK! Her third shot sounded before the first bandit fell just a few steps from his position.

John looked for his rifle, started crawling toward it.

CRACK! Someone else fell thrashing in the grass.

He rolled up, saw Ilsa standing in the stirrups, hair glowing golden in the sun over her deep blue burqa. She had the reins in one hand and was carefully lining up another shot.

CRACK! A third man went down. This one didn’t thrash.

Her horse stands still while she’s shootin’ and mine spooks at a fucking shout?! The world just ain’t right! he thought, rising to one knee and shouldering the rifle.

Less-than-excited shouts from the remaining bandits and horrifyingly, the snap of a bowstring.

CRACK! Ilsa was still in it, regardless of where the arrow landed.

John lined up a shot on the bowman and squeezed the trigger. The stock thumping his shoulder was a surprise, just like it always was when you did it right. The target went down.

CRACK! CRACK! Ilsa firing again.

He went in search of other targets, found them all running away down the slope. He put the rifle up and looked to his wife.

She was still standing in the stirrups, shifting her point of aim back and forth between the fleeing bandits. He could see daylight though the burqa under her shooting arm. The arrow must have missed her by inches.

He tried to call out to her, found his mouth too dry for speech. Swallowing, he started moving slowly toward her.

The movement drew her attention. Like a turret, she swiveled in the saddle. She almost had him in her sights before realizing who he was. Her eyes shot wide, whites showing all around the iris as she let her gun hand fall.

She started shaking as she tried to re-holster the gun inside the burqa.

“Ilsa?” he managed.

“John!” She slipped off the horse and into his arms.

They clung to one another for some time, even when Rodney and the boys rode past in pursuit of the remaining bandits.

Her horse ambled over, nuzzled her hair.

He laughed, an edge of hysteria in the sound. “What the hell did you do to make him stick around while you were shooting?”

“Nothing, he’s stone deaf.”

“No shit?”

She nodded, head against his chest, making no comment about his cursing other than to clutch him tighter.

Iqtadar rode by, Angelo and a few of the diwan’s guards with him.

Angelo stopped a few paces from them, leading John’s horse.

Iqtadar rode around the corpses, examining them and what John supposed could be called a battlefield, from horseback.

Ilsa didn’t bother to cover her head, and John wasn’t about to ask her to, not after what they’d just gone through, not for anyone.

Iqtadar returned, spoke to Angelo at length while gesturing at the hilltop. “Iqtadar offers his respects, John, for the excellent shooting.”

“I only shot one. Ilsa shot the others.”

Iqtadar’s eyes went wide under his turban.

Angelo translated into politeness what John was certain was some variation on, “Bullshit!”

“He may believe what he wants, but she shot him,” he pointed at each corpse in turn, “him, and him.”

Iqtadar said something his men grinned at, then bowed to her from the saddle.

“What was that?” John snapped.

Iqtadar was already riding back to the caravan.

“John!” Ilsa warned.

Angelo smiled. “Actually, the Khan’s words are a deep complement.”

“What?” John and Ilsa chorused.

“He gave your lovely wife a title, Mister Ennis: Shirhan e Zarrin.”

Eyes narrowed with suspicion, Ilsa asked, “And what does that mean?”

“Golden Lioness, Signora Ennis.”

John couldn’t miss the pleased upward turn at the corners of his wife’s lovely mouth. He laughed for the first time in months. Laughed hard and long. “Golden Lioness! HA! Damned if he didn’t get you exactly right!”

 

Darkship Revenge – Snippet 13

Darkship Revenge – Snippet 13

François didn’t look shocked.  He tightened his mouth so much that it looked as though he were trying to make his lips invisible.  “I suspected you might have been away, ‘demoiselle.”  His eyes narrowed too, and he made a gesture with his head, as though pointing his rather sharp chin at Eris.  “Judging by your company.”

I almost corrected him and said I was Madame, as befitted a married woman, but I didn’t, because he was going on, “The Good Man, so called, got deposed and executed for his crimes against the people.”

For a moment the room swayed and it seemed to me like darkness crept from near the walls to press in on me.

“Mademoiselle!”  It was Louis, and he’d held my arm near the elbow.  I didn’t think I’d almost passed out, but I must have swayed, from his gesture.

“I’m fine,” I said, steadying myself, and standing on my own two feet.  “I’m fine.  I just didn’t know.”  Poor Simon.

He’d been somewhat of a pest.  If I understood what Kit had said – after he’d found these things out from the memories of the man he was cloned from – Simon’s own original had been created as a spy, a chameleon who could fit in anywhere, unnoticed, who could penetrate all levels of society and the most closed of conspiracies.

And Simon’s own history, with his father becoming incapacitated when Simon was very young, and Simon being required to step into the work of government, while at the same time keeping the insurgence against the mode of government alive, had caused him to develop a fake personality, a face he wore in public, which I had reason to believe concealed a much deeper and thoughtful young man.

But for all his flaws – and sometimes I wasn’t sure where the flaws ended and Simon began – he had been one of my earliest friends and one of my first lovers.  Even the last time we’d met we’d flirted and to be fair to him, he’d given me and Kit and our companions, all the help we needed in getting what we needed from Earth.

“Well, now, ‘demoiselle, we all had our own, private feelings for the Patrician.  And that’s how they should remain.  Private.”

François was watching me closely.  I nodded.  I shook Louis’ grasp away from my elbow.  “Indeed,” I said.  “Indeed, we must be loyal subjects of the ah — Emperor Julian.”

François smiled approvingly. He made some kind of head gesture at Louis, who disappeared into the shadows, and, if my ears were tracking right, into a corridor somewhere near the back of the shop.  “Now,” he said.  “Before we open the door, demoiselle, how may I help you?”

I took the extra broom from my back and laid it on the counter.

He looked at it, nodded, then ran his fingers over it, as though studying it by Braille.  “It’s not one of the standard commercial models,” he said.  “Nor one of the military models.”

I kept my mouth shut.  I really had no need to confess to the theft of an air-to-space, much less precisely to where I’d stolen it or why.

“On the other hand,” he said, largely – I think – speaking to himself.  “It is not one of those rescue brooms that fly only down, right?  So.  Let me see what I can give you for this?”

He bit the corner of his lip.  It was said among the broomers that François Lupin had a computer between his ears.  A highly specialized computer that could calculate to the last centime exactly how much he would get for an item, and then offer you half.

But when he spoke I was shocked.  “How about two hundred Beaulieus?” he asked.

I raised my eyebrows.  “Beau –” The currency not just in Liberte but over most of the hemisphere was narcs, which was an abbreviation for “narcotics” which had been a form of currency in the Turmoils, before the Good Men had taken over and restored peace.

“It tracks more of less with the old narcs,” the man said.  “Because they were only replaced a week ago.  It’s a thousand Beaulieus to the ounce of gold,” he added, helpfully.  “Give or take.  Emperor Julien has placed us on a gold standard.”  I noticed once more he touched his forehead with his fingertips when talking about the emperor.  It really gave me a creepy crawly feel up the spine, but I turned on the calculations instead.

One thousandth of an ounce per narc give or take and depending on fluctuations, had indeed been the price of gold in the old days.  I knew because I often bought raw gold to have it fashioned into jewelry that was exactly what I wanted.

Given that, 100 was unusually high for a broom with its brains beaten out, which made it clear it was stolen.  I must have murmured something about high price, which just shows you I wasn’t functioning.  I’m not in the habit of arguing against myself.

I didn’t realize I’d done it, till I saw François smile widen, with his lips still closed.  “Well, Demoiselle,” he said, his voice slightly hoarse.  “It is what you can expect when war is so widespread that all flyers and brooms go up in price, as the military are buying them.  He looked at the broom on my back.  “If you sell me that one too, and your suit, I can raise it to four hundred nar — Beaulieus.”

I shook my head.  The entire situation was making my skin crawl, and I did not want to leave myself without the means to escape this place as soon as possible.  I did not know anything about the Emperor Julien, his rule, his domains, or even his policies.  But I knew anyone who talked loudly about how much they defended liberties, let alone anyone who named a currency after himself, was not a benevolent or lax ruler.

“One broom,” I said, my own voice hoarse.  “And what is the price in gold?”

“One tenth of an ounce,” he said.  “Would Madame prefer it in coins?”

I was Madame now.  And Madame was not outfitted to check the gold composition of coins, and wasn’t completely stupid.

I ended up selling the broom for a tenth of an ounce, deposited in the Interplanetary bank, an old and respectable institution at least 300 years old and if anything a little stodgy.  The deposit was in gold, but retrievable in any currency of my choice by means of a fingerprint, a voice code or a typed number code, both of which I memorized.

When I asked how much of that I’d have to pay for a packet of diapers – the smell was really near unendurable, and I suspected the screaming was about to resume – they told me it was no charge, and brought out from the back a dusty, ancient but sealed packet of newborn sized diapers, and even threw in a shoulder sack to carry them in.

I changed Eris in a little room at the back of the shop, one that contained two cots and a tiny cooker, and where I couldn’t avoid the suspicion that father and son lived.

And I left wondering if I’d sold the broom so cheap that it warranted throwing in freebies, or if Gallic courtesy had taken over.

I thought of this to avoid thinking of what had happened to Simon.  Or of what might happen to me and Eris, in a world where no one had any reason to be well disposed towards us.

Kit? I mind called.

But there was no answer.  Which only meant I had to find him, if I had to turn the Earth upside down and give it a good shaking.

 

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 26

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 26

Chapter 16

Surat to Agra

September, 1634

The leader of the guards the diwan had sent along with them was clearly upset, and it didn’t look like a simple temper tantrum brought on by the heat of the afternoon.

John looked hopefully at the approaching weather front. It had been either been oppressively hot or pouring with rain every day they’d been in India, neither of which conditions were tailored to please a West Virginian. To add insult to already-abused sensibilities, the men in charge of the caravanserai they’d rested at last night since leaving Surat all claimed this was an unusually hot and dry September.

“What is it, Iqtadar?” John asked, through Angelo.

“Your women, they must be covered. They must not be allowed to lead my men into unclean thoughts, or there will be consequences this one,” Angelo gestured at the Afghan, “will not be blamed for.”

“Pardon?” John said, anger spiking.

Without looking, Iqtadar pointed back along the line of riders to where the ladies were. Angelo toned down the angry snarl falling from the guard captain’s lips and calmly translated: “Your women must cover themselves.”

John looked over. Ilsa had removed her hat and was fanning herself with it. Her blonde hair shone in the sunlight like a halo. She was, in every way that mattered, his angel.

“I am sorry,” John said, dragging his gaze from the love of his life and knowing he wasn’t at his best: “We do not keep…”

“Purdah,” Angelo supplied.

“Right, we do not ‘keep’ our women in purdah. We cannot…No, we won’t even try, to force them into a life of such restriction.”

Iqtadar did not look pleased, and spat something angry.

Angelo looked less sanguine this time: “Iqtadar claims he will not be responsible for what happens if you cannot control your women.”

“Is that a fucking threat?”

Angelo held up his hands and spoke over John’s outburst, “Please, Signor Ennis, calmly…These armed men who are helping us in our travels are not asking for anything exceptional or improper under the laws and customs of this place.”

“Customs and laws that treat women like property!” John spat.

A sweating Rodney rode up at that moment. “What’s up?”

John hiked a thumb at their guard, “Iqtadar here was just telling me how the women got to get covered up.”

Rodney shrugged. “Thought that might be a problem.”

“Not ours, that’s for sure! It’s not like they’re running around in god-damn bikinis or something!”

Another maddening shrug. “Different standards, man.”

John lost it: “Which standards? The ones that allow a man to fucking own another human being? Or the standards that allow one guy to cut the nads off a kid so they can make ’em acceptable company for the women they keep shut up and behind walls their entire lives? Tell me, please!”

Everyone within earshot was staring at him now, but the anger wouldn’t be stopped: “Fuck. Their. Standards.”

“Um, please don’t translate that, Angelo,” Rodney said into the silence that followed John’s tirade.

“Oh, I think Iqtadar has the gist of it,” Angelo said.

With a savage pull at the reins, Iqtadar turned horse and galloped back toward the rear of the caravan, passing the women of the mission.

Conferring a moment, Ilsa and Priscilla rode forward to meet their husbands.

“What’s wrong?” Ilse asked.

John, feeling like a just-cracked pressure cooker, could only shake his head. He could feel Rodney’s eyes on him, willing him to get a grip.

“The guards ain’t happy with you ladies going uncovered,” Rodney said.

“Well then,” Ilsa said, looking to Priscilla for support, “we’ll just have to cover up.”

Priscilla nodded agreement. “Good thing Monique bought us all burqas in Surat.”

“I…” John tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come out.

God, am I this fucked up? First I lose it over this bullshit, then I can’t even explain it…

Ilsa looked at him fondly then reached out a hand and squeezed his forearm. “We knew when we came that things would be different here.” She nodded at Priscilla. “We even talked about it coming here. We can’t stop and attack this kind of thing head-on every time we’re confronted with it, certainly not here, with people we don’t have any hope of convincing. Maybe, when we get to court, if there’s a safe opening, we can try and turn the lights on for someone in power. Someone who can effect real change. But for now we can’t risk our safety or that of the entire mission just because some locals want women to conform to their idea of modesty.

“Even back in the USE some people still have foolish, shitty ideas about how proper women should behave.”

Priscilla snorted. “Up-time, too!”

Ilsa’s light laughter soothed him, even as her use of the profanity indicated just how deeply she felt about the situation; John might curse all the time, but she rarely indulged.

“I…”

“It’s not a problem we’re here to take on. Not directly, anyway. Seriously, it’s not a problem, right, Priss?”

“You bet…Aside from the fashion,” Priscilla said.

“What’s that?” Rodney asked.

Priscilla put on a British accent: “Well, I very much doubt our burqas will be the height of fashion when we arrive in the capital. We colonials are so easy to look down on, what with our simple speech and provincial ways!”

“Frightfully so, daaahling,” Ilsa said.

John smiled. His German-born wife had always loved the regional accents of English speakers, and her snobbish Englishwoman was even better than Priscilla’s. He felt himself slowly unlock, the warm banter between friends and wife easing his mind.

* * *

“Could it get any wetter?” Monique asked, shifting her entirely insufficient umbrella to her other hand and pulling at her burqa in another vain attempt at finding shelter for her dampest parts.

As if listening to her, the rain chose that moment to increase from the hours-long soaking drizzle to a heavy downpour.

She sighed. “Silly question: of course it can.”

“Indeed it can,” her father mumbled from his own misery, replacing the lens covers on his borrowed binoculars. He was completely enamored of the things, borrowing Rodney’s pair every chance he had. Never mind that the terrain had hardly changed in the last week; forested hills to their south and west marching unending along the gently sloping plain they rode north and eastward.

Angelo spilled water from his riding hat, spoke up. “Ah, India in the monsoon, such a joy and pleasure.”

Seeking distraction, Monique said, “Those soldiers, the ones who challenged us yesterday, they didn’t look like our escorts.”

More water spilled from Angelo’s hat as he nodded. “They were Mewaris, a Rajput caste.”

“Aren’t Rajputs an ethnic group, like Sicilians?” she asked.

“Not…exclusively. Rajputs are the traditional ruling caste — have been for as long as anyone recalls. So the Mewari are, well, I guess the closest thing would be…a clan of Rajputs. And the Mewaris have their own dynasty of kings.”

“Muslim?”

Angelo shook his head. “Most Rajputs, including the Mewari, remain Hindu. Some have converted to Islam, though.”

“In exchange for the right to rule?” Monique asked. Central Europe had been savagely divided by differences between the religions of its people and that of its princes often enough in the last decades. People being people, she figured Indians were similarly motivated.

“No. Akbar and Jahangir were both very conciliatory toward the Hindus and Sikhs, treating them quite reasonably.”

“Who were they?” Gervais asked.

“The present emperor’s grandfather and father, respectively.”

“All right…getting back to the Rajputs: how is it they’ve come to rule subject kingdoms rather than their kingdoms being ruled directly from the emperor’s Court?”

“The Rajputs in general have long been respected for their fierce warrior practices and the Rajput kingdoms successfully resisted the Mughals for a very long time.” He scratched his sodden beard, “If I recall correctly, Mewar only became part of the empire about fifteen years ago, making peace with Emperor Jahangir. As with most peace agreements hereabouts, it was sealed with marriages and tribute.”

He grinned. “The Mughals have won so many kingdoms in this way, I daresay the emperor’s family have as much or more Rajput blood in their veins as Persian and Mongol.”

 

Gods of Sagittarius – Snippet 13

Gods of Sagittarius – Snippet 13

In addition to these major divisions, innumerable smaller sects and creeds emerged as well. Naccor Jute, the one to which Occo belonged — or had belonged; she still didn’t know if there were any other survivors — was considered outrageously agnostic by all other creeds. Just barely short of outright atheists! For it was the Naccor Jute’s basic proposition that the distinctions between the Old Ones and their destroyers — whom the Naccor Jute simply called the Other Old Ones — were all meaningless. Deific or demonic? All one and the same, from the perspective of the Nac Zhe Anglan, or indeed any sentient but non-divine species.

The conclusion which inexorably followed was that the universe was dominated by chaos and evil but that taking sides in this conflict was the height of irrationality. All that a sane intelligent species could hope for was to stay unnoticed by whatever deific/demonic/it-made-no-difference-beings might still exist while it searched — quite possibly in vain — for some method to destroy the whole lot of supernatural monsters.

Whatever their disputes, however, all Nac Zhe Anglan creeds were agreed on some points of a practical nature. They had forged the Dessetrai Pact centuries earlier and had created the Envacht Lu as the neutral arbiter to enforce its provisions.

The first of those provisions was that no one should do anything to attract the attention of whatever Old Ones or their enemies might still be at large in the universe. The second provision — perhaps assessment would be a more precise term — was that any form of interstellar travel which in any way disturbed or transgressed or contravened or trespassed upon the innate structure of reality was likely to draw such unwanted attention. Thus, the only permissible forms of interstellar travel were either sublight or used the natural fissures produced by the brane intersections.

At the great convocation which produced the Dessetrai Pact, debate and dispute also waged hot and heavy as to whether the provisions of the Pact should be enforced on alien species as well, up to and including the penalty of extermination if violated. In the end, however, the position advanced by the temporary faction known as the Epistemological Inducement prevailed. According to this school of thought, having stupid or irredeemably optimistic aliens around who drew the attention of malevolent supernatural beings was entirely to the advantage of the Nac Zhe Anglan, since it would distract such gods and/or demons from the Nac Zhe Anglan themselves.

The dispute was so intense, however, that it could only be resolved by the adoption of the so-called Gadrax Clause. This permitted individual members of the Nac Zhe Anglan species to withdraw from certain provisions of the Pact, provided they did so by notifying the Envacht Lu and formally registering themselves as having chosen gadrax status. Thereafter, they became outlaws — but outlaws with a recognized and, if you will, quasi-legal status. Any creed which chose to do so was free to liquidate any or all gadrax, with no penalty accruing therefrom. But the Envacht Lu would remain scrupulously neutral in the matter.

The convocation which produced the Dessetrai Pact was attended by observers from several alien species. These included one Human, and groups of Paskapans — at that time known as Jeffratu — and the species which had formerly gone by the name of Wravelli but which adopted the term Vitunpelay given them at the Convocation by the one Human attendee.

The Human observer was a Finnish explorer named Jarkko Järvinen, the analog for Humans in the early interstellar era of Magellan or Captain Cook. The term “Paskapan” was a slightly corrupted version of the Finnish term for “shithead” and was universally agreed to be such an apt depiction of the species-formerly-known-as-Jeffratu that it was adopted over time by all other intelligent species. That included, eventually — sometimes grudgingly but more often with swaggering braggadocio — the Jeffratu themselves. Järvinen was also the one who bestowed the term Vitunpelay on those who had formerly called themselves the Wravelli. The term Vitunpelay was a corruption of the Finnish term for “fucking clowns.” It says something about the Vitunpelay that they were so charmed by the term that they immediately adopted it themselves, once they learned what it meant.

The Human explorer Jarkko Järvinen made no attempt to bestow a new name on the Nac Zhe Anglan, simply satisfying himself with the probably-disrespectful-but-who-cared-what-Humans-thought nickname of “the Knacks.” He left immediately upon the conclusion of the Dessetrai Pact, saying nothing about its results. Some Nac Zhe Anglan did observe, however, that he changed the name on the bow of his huge spacecraft from Sibelius to Been to the Madhouse and Escaped. The title was probably disrespectful but who cared what Humans thought about anything?

The Jeffratu made no public comment. They offered to sell their opinions, Jeffratu being indeed Paskapans. But there were no customers since by then all Nac Zhe Anglan attending the Convocation had come to adopt the term “Paskapan” as well.

As for the Vitunpelay, the only recorded remark made by one of them, upon the conclusion of the Dessetrai Convocation, was: “And they call us fucking clowns?”

***

The passage through the wormhole that Occo chose in the Tranxegg cluster was uneventful, at least in the sense that she was quite sure her spaceship had gone undetected.

The passage was unpleasant, of course. Gas giants often produced — or gathered; no theorist had yet been able to determine which — clusters of wormholes, so they were quite familiar to Nac Zhe Anglan interstellar travelers. As often as they were used, however, no one enjoyed the experience.

Which was, in a word, turbulent. From a distance, a gas giant planet looks serene and colorful. Up close, the colors shift from peaceful pastels to their true angry hues, and any craft which approaches close enough to use one of the wormholes will inevitably encounter traces of the atmosphere. Even such traces, given the velocities involved, will cause any spacecraft no matter how massive to experience a form of travel that was far more violent than anything usually encountered by interstellar voyagers.

Occo had been through the experience many times, however, so she maintained her stoic demeanor.

Bresk had been through the experience just as many times, but it was a familiar. Stoicism was not one of the creature’s modes of thought. So, it complained constantly and bitterly.

Complaints which Occo, of course, ignored. Being as she was, a stoic.

She did find herself wondering what the famous Human explorer Jarkko Järvinen would have called a Nac Zhe Anglan shaman’s familiar, had he ever met one.

Eventually, it occurred to her to ask Bresk itself. The familiar was an endless font of useless information, after all.

“How am I supposed to know?” Bresk demanded. “Järvinen spoke Finnish. Do you know what that is? One of the more obscure dialects of a species that produces dialects the way fungi produce spores. Ask me what he would have called me if he spoke one of the common dialects like English or Chinese or Arabic or Spanish. I only know a few hundred words in Finnish.”

A thought occurred to her. “Do you know the Finnish word for ‘fungus’?”

“‘Sietämätön,’ I think. No, wait. That might be the word for ‘insufferable’ or ‘unendurable.'”

“That’ll do well enough. Bresk, I hereby rename you Sietämätön.”

“You’re not pronouncing it right,” protested the familiar.

Whether she was pronouncing it right or not, Occo eventually decided the new name was too much work so she went back to calling her familiar Bresk. Still, the name-change distracted her enough to make the rest of the transit to the wormhole bearable if not enjoyable.

***

The passage through the wormhole was very brief, more so than most. They’d only traveled a few light-years to their next wormhole, this one located in the system of a very placid red dwarf.

“Three more to go,” she murmured to herself.

 

Gods of Sagittarius – Snippet 12

Gods of Sagittarius – Snippet 12

CHAPTER 7

Occo and Bresk passed through the first wormhole on their voyage a short time later. This was the wormhole which would take them to the Masc Bleddin system, the largest wormhole nexus in their stellar vicinity. From there, they would have a choice of no fewer than seven wormholes to take in the next stage of their mission. Five of those seven wormholes were located within the magnetosphere of the Masc Bleddin system’s gas giant planet, Tranxegg.

The planet was so huge that it was almost a brown dwarf and had a magnetosphere to match. That made it effectively impossible for detection systems to keep track of an object as small as a spaceship that came close enough to Tranxegg to use one of the wormholes, unless the detection was done at close range or by the use of visible light. But since all of the wormholes were also within the orbit of the giant planet’s spectacular — and obscuring — rings, that made Tranxegg an ideal wormhole cluster for anyone to use who did not want their destination to be self-evident.

The Envacht Lu knew or at least suspected where Occo was headed, but everyone else would remain unsuspecting — especially the Nedru Concord Skein of Creeds. The Nedru were powerful but she thought she had a good chance of succeeding in her purpose if she took them completely by surprise.

It was always possible, of course, that the Nedru or someone else had placed a string of monitor satellites in a ball-of-twine orbital pattern that would enable them to detect the wormhole she used. But it was highly unlikely that the Nedru would have done so, given the great distance between Tranxegg and Vlax Broche. And if anyone else had done so, why would they inform the Nedru, who were as unpopular as they were powerful?

***

The term “wormhole” was a misnomer stemming from the earliest days of interstellar exploration. One of the first sublight ramjet expeditions set out to investigate one of Angla’s closest neighbors, a G4 star which it had been determined was orbited by at least one possibly habitable planet. The planet was not only inhabitable, it was inhabited by Ebbo. They were not colonists; the Ebbo rarely engaged in colonization, then or since. Instead, they were a survey expedition themselves, one of many sent out by the Ebbo to chart the pathways that permitted travel between the stars that was effectively faster than light. “Effectively” faster, because no vessel actually exceeded the speed of light. But from the standpoint of the traveler, the distinction was purely theoretical. One entered a wormhole, as the Ebbo called the peculiar pathways, and one emerged in another star system that might be as much as thirty-seven light-years away. For reasons no one had ever determined, thirty-seven light-years seemed to be the maximum distance one could travel using this method. Longer distances required two or more wormholes.

The Ebbo were not a species much given to purely abstract science, however. They were, here as in all things, the galaxy’s nonpareil practitioners of obsessive-compulsive behavior. They found the wormhole network, as they saw it, through purely pragmatic endeavors. Using it to full measure required charting the intricate complexities of the network, which — in the absence of theoretical analysis — required centuries of painstaking (and sometimes quite dangerous) exploration.

But Nac Zhe Anglan theorists eventually realized that what the Ebbo saw as a network of wormholes — as if there really were some sort of tunnels all through the spacetime continuum — was actually something quite different. They concluded that the pathways were fissures produced by the constant intersection and interpenetration of the untold number of branes which seemed to be the basic structure of a multi-universe reality. The fissures were temporary, not permanent, but since the time scale on which branes operated was vastly greater than the scales used by sentient species, the distinction was of purely theoretical interest. By the time a fissure that allowed travel from one star to another finally closed or evaporated, at least one of those stars would have moved off the main sequence or become a supernova.

That discovery — if such it could be called; it was really more in the way of a theoretical hypothesis — came just in time to forestall what had looked to be a great religious war in the making. By the time Nac Zhe Anglan theorists decided that the Ebbo analysis was incorrect, hundreds of expeditions had explored Angla’s stellar vicinity to a distance of several hundred light-years. And everywhere the Nac Zhe Anglan went, they found the traces and relics of a civilization so ancient it predated the emergence of multicellular life on Angla itself.

Traces and relics only, however. They found no living members of the race they came to call the Old Ones, nor even any species that seemed to be their descendants — although that was purely an hypothesis also. No one actually knew what the Old Ones had looked like. No fossils had ever been found, nor any visual images. The assumptions made about them were basely purely on the size, dimensions and details of their ruins.

The discoveries triggered a great religious awakening in the Nac Zhe Anglan. All faiths predating interstellar travel were either swept aside or subsumed within the new and far more vigorous creeds that emerged. There was no single persuasion that prevailed but rather a great constellation of dogmas, which conflicted with each other as often as they agreed. A few basic principles, however, were generally shared by all:

First, that the Old Ones were either deific or demonic in nature. That was the first point of agreement — and also, of course, the initial great schism. The first of the religious wars which dominated the early centuries of interstellar travel was fought (more or less) over this matter of dispute.

Second, that such immensely powerful beings could only have been destroyed by still more powerful antagonists. These might be either deific or demonic themselves, but they presumably had to be one or the other. The second great schism — it would be better to say, bipartite schism — thus produced four basic doctrines. Or rather, four basic doctrinal constellations:

There were those who held that the Old Ones were deific and had been utterly destroyed by the demons. The conclusion which inexorably followed was that the universe was dominated by evil — a proposition in support of which, of course, there was much evidence.

Secondly, there were those who held that the Old Ones had been demonic and had been destroyed by beings still more demonic. The conclusion which inexorably followed was that the universe was dominated by great evil — a proposition in support of which there was still greater evidence.

Thirdly, there were those who held that the Old Ones were deific and had won the great conflict, but at such a terrible cost that only a few survived, and those much weakened. The conclusion which inexorably followed was that the universe was dominated by chaos — a proposition in support of which there was enormous evidence — but which held the possibility, at least, of the eventual triumph of good. For which the evidence was admittedly very slender.

Fourthly, there were those who held that the Old Ones were demonic and had lost the great conflict, but at such a terrible cost that only a few of the greater demons had survived, and those much weakened. The conclusion which inexorably followed was that the universe was dominated by chaos but that the possibility existed that chaos would be eventually superseded by supreme evil.

This fourth doctrinal constellation then fell out among themselves over the issue of whether the triumph of evil over chaos was to be welcomed or opposed. Thus arose the factions between whom eight fierce religious wars had so far been fought, none of them with decisive conclusion.

 

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 25

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 25

Chapter 15

Agra, Red Fort, The Harem

September, 1634

“Where is this man you spoke of, daughter?” The question was quietly voiced, but Jahanara recognized the ill-concealed impatience.

“I sent people into Agra to search him out, Father,” she answered, careful to keep her eyes directly on Shah Jahan. He hated the appearance of dissembling in his children.

They were alone but for a few of his body slaves, as he had summoned her to his private chambers to read to him from his favorite book, the Akbarnama.

She had welcomed the opportunity for private time with him this morning, when it seemed they might discuss Salim’s interpretation of the encyclopedia entries he’d copied and brought to Agra, but now…

“People?”

“Trusted servants, Father.” Ones I pray were not stopped by Nur Jahan’s agents.

“Yet he has not come.”

“No, Father. He has not.”

“Perhaps tomorrow I shall send for the Englishmen. They are always sniffing about, hoping for some scraps from our table, are they not?”

“That is so, Father, but I hardly think they will provide accurate translation of the texts.”

Shah Jahan waved a hand, jeweled rings flashing. “They will, given proper incentive.”

“Still, is it prudent to ask the tiger what it prefers to eat?”

The emperor snorted. “Ruler of The World is my title, daughter. I am the tiger, not these red-faced water nomads from the west.” He leaned forward, looking at her closely. “From your words, you trust this man. Why? He is no one, not even one of my commanders of horse, and not beholden to our house.”

“Because he is a friend to Mian Mir, Father, and because he did not have to bring us news of what happened in that place.”

Shah Jahan sat back on his cushions. “Who else would he have brought it to, then?”

Not yet ready to reveal all she knew and suspected, Jahanara answered: “Those who would do you mischief, Father.”

“Their contents are not mischief enough?” he asked, gesturing at the foreign-looking book and slim folio he’d not let out of his sight since Jahanara had given it to him.

“We have long sought to read the future in the stars, Father. That it, or a portion of that future, may be revealed in these foreign texts should not be so great a surprise, I think.”

“Perhaps.” A faint smile, then: “The mullahs who will surely pull their beards and wear out their prayer beads with consternation when they learn that the future was revealed first to those not of the Faith.”

“That is also a concern, Father.”

“What?”

“The reaction of certain mullahs.”

“Oh?”

“I am not the equal of your learned mullahs, but if all this,” she gestured at the documents, “came to pass, then it was because God willed it.”

Shah Jahan pulled at his beard, then pointed at the heavens. “And if it came to pass, who are we to try and shift God’s will from the path He has chosen for us?”

She nodded. “I have given this quandary some thought, Father.”

“Oh?” he asked, gesturing her to proceed.

“If it was God’s will, then it was surely also God’s will that these facts come to us in the now, so we might learn from the experiences of those others who bent to His will in that future that was?”

Father cocked his head, again tugging at his beard in thought. After some time he sighed and released his beard. “Such weighty thoughts are best picked up in the morning, after much prayer to strengthen the soul.”

Disappointed, Jahanara bowed her head obediently. Just please don’t ask them of the supposed ‘learned’ Mullah Mohan. I don’t want him getting wind of what Salim brought us. Bigot that he is, he will call for deaths of all foreigners and use it as an excuse to persecute the Hindus.

He looked her in the eye as she raised her head. “I am very proud of you, daughter. You are a thoughtful and brightest of the ornaments to my throne, entirely worthy of your mother.”

Flushing, she bowed her head again. “Thank you, Father.”

He lay back on the low bed, shoving silken cushions aside. “Read to me of our forebear’s doings, daughter.”

“Yes, Father.” She took up the tome recording the life of Akbar and opened it where the silken ribbon had been left when one of her stepmothers had stopped the night before. She read ahead slightly and began reciting the beautiful words of Abul Fazl.

Agra, Home of Jadu Das

Salim stopped his pacing and settled on the cushions, putting the note from Mian Mir down. He tried to put his frustration away with it, but the contradiction held in its few lines refused to let him.

Mian Mir, ever a friend to all who sought God, had assisted the guru in laying the cornerstone of the Sikh’s greatest temple and was even known to receive the previous guru at his own home in Lahore. Salim himself had been present when the two had publicly proclaimed their amity and friendship. He knew Mian Mir would tell Hargobind Singh of the doom riding toward his people.

Salim had no wish to undermine the Empire in any way, but duty to the living saint came first. Guilt-ridden, he had written Mian Mir of the emperor’s plan to crush the Sikhs.

Written, and received word in return.

He sighed, picked up the note once more, and read it for the tenth time:

Take comfort, my student: there is no resisting God’s will. All things proceed from His plan, in accordance with His wishes.

The Sikhs will not be swayed from their present course. They, too, are moved as God wills, and know it.

Some little blood will be shed, but not as much as might be were we not engaged in foiling the workings of the Dark One.

The sound of a horse in the courtyard reached Salim’s ears, driving him from consideration of the almost prophetic wording of the verse and to his feet again. Jadu had said he would return around noon with word who at court the East India Company factors paid visit to.

Salim returned to the balcony and leaned elbows on the railing before realizing Jadu was not alone in the courtyard. A heavy fellow, whose smooth, rounded cheeks and rich clothing marked him as a possible eunuch, was dismounting next to his host.

Jadu looked up, waved an arm to present the beardless fellow to Salim. “Amir, this one was sent to find you.”

The eunuch bowed deeply, then craned his fat neck to look up at Salim. “Amir Salim Gadh Visa Yilmaz, I am sent by Begum Sahib, who commands you to attend her.”

“Oh?” Salim asked, hoping for more.

A wobbling of neck fat. “I am forbidden knowledge of my mistress’ motives, Amir.”

Salim thought about that a moment. He doubted Mullah Mohan would choose a eunuch to search for him, it was too subtle.

Jadu cocked his head and covered for Salim’s lack of immediate response: “Then the amir will, of course, attend to her command.”

“Within the hour!” the messenger insisted, still watching Salim.

“That may not be possible,” Jadu said, glancing up.

“All things are possible, God willing,” the eunuch snapped, leveling a nasty look at Jadu.

Jadu bobbed his head, raising hands in respectful submission. “But surely you don’t want the amir — favored of both Shehzadi Jahanara and Shehzada Dara Shikoh alike — to go before them dressed as you see him?”

Mention of both royal siblings brought the fit of pique to an abrupt end. The eunuch produced a silken kerchief and mopped his brow. “Pardon, I am tired, having spent the entire night and most of yesterday searching for the amir. Proper preparation for the visit is acceptable, of course.” A fatalistic shrug of round shoulders and a heavy sigh: “I’ll be punished as it is, I am so late delivering him.”

Jadu cast a meaningful glance at Salim.

“I will ask that you be treated gently, having found me as soon as possible,” Salim offered. “It was not your fault that I was so well hid.”

Jadu smiled reassuringly at the eunuch. “And surely the amir’s word will count in your favor! Go, take refreshment while I help the amir prepare as quickly as can be.”

Salim retreated into his chambers once again, waiting for Jadu.

It didn’t take him long, though he arrived with several servants in train. Seeing Salim on the verge of talking, he held up his hands in caution and stepped close before speaking. “There were others seeking you out, hoping to prevent you appearing at the palace. It was all I could do to get that great bag of figs to come here with me. We’ll make you ready and escort you to the palace.”

“I hardly think a slippered eunuch any kind of protection,” Salim said, as Jadu’s slaves started to dress him.

Jadu smiled. “Normally, no, but he made it plain, and in public, that he is on Begum Sahib’s errand.”

“Are there still a great many fighting men on the streets?” Salim asked, as the slaves wrapped him in a rich, but light, over-robe.

“Yes, the wazir has yet to depart, and has not even attempted to refuse his men the chance at the entertainments to be had here. Why do you ask?”

“Accidents are easy to arrange.”

“I cannot believe any would be foolish enough to interfere with someone on a mission for Begum Sahib.”

Absently noting how out of place his worn and undecorated sword belt looked in conjunction with his current attire, Salim shrugged. “What God wills to pass, will pass.”

Agra, Red Fort, Diwan-i-Khas

“Amir Salim Gadh Visa Yilmaz, Your Majesty, answering the summons of Begum Sahib,” the majordomo announced.

Nur Jahan heard the name and immediately looked through the jali at the man being introduced. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with the straight nose and coloring of an Afghani tribesman. The amir wore his rich clothing with indifference but moved with the grace and gait of a trained warrior as he made his way forward to stand within a few gaz of the emperor’s dais.

Nur resisted the urge to look at Jahanara, seated some distance away, and feigned a cough. She had to keep up appearances, after all. She was alone and seated well away from the other women observing the court, secretly welcoming the relative solitude the lingering effects of her recent “illness” granted her.

She smiled inwardly. With such tangled skeins, it was a small wonder that she did not get more headaches.

The amir arrived before the emperor and bowed.

“You are late, Amir Yilmaz.”

A deeper bow followed the emperor’s greetings. “I beg forgiveness, Sultan Al’Azam, and offer no excuse for it save that I came as soon as I learned of the summons.” The man’s voice was resonant and pleasing, his Persian lightly accented but grammatically perfect. More impressive: it held no fear, despite the rather sharp reprimand inherent in the emperor’s words.

“You may secure our forgiveness by translating the texts you brought to our notice.”

Another bow. “Majesty, I have already begun to write the translations –”

“No, I want you to read the words aloud to me, translating as you go. Thus, if I should have any questions, you will be available to answer them immediately.”

And no one else will know what I learn, Nur added silently for the emperor, hiding her displeasure. Such personal access to the emperor was unusual, to say the least. What might have started as a subject of idle curiosity was no longer: the amir was now a clear threat to the balance of power at court.

A further, deeper bow. “Your Majesty does me a great honor I fear I am unworthy of.”

He actually seemed humbled by the emperor’s regard. Nur wondered if that was an artifice.

The emperor waved as if the amir’s words were of no consequence “You have been vouched for at court.”

When? she wondered.

Further up the gallery, where Jahanara sat, there was a sharp intake of breath. She did not intend to vouch for him, then — or she did not expect the emperor to reveal she had spoken for him? Nur carefully controlled a sharp breath. If Jahanara had vouched for Amir Yilmaz at court…then Jahanara was the one who moved the slave to poison Nur, if only to be sure she was not present while she laid the groundwork for this introduction.

“Furthermore,” the emperor was saying, “we grant you zat and sowar for your upkeep and a robe you may wear in honor.”

Put it away. Reflect later. You must observe the court now.

Nur slowly moved her head, trying to catch sight of Aurangzeb without alerting those who were undoubtedly taking note of who she was watching at court. The young man’s expression betrayed no particular interest in the proceedings. Nur wondered, for just a moment, whether he knew of Mullah Mohan’s failed attempt on Amir Salim Yilmaz’s life.

He must have known. The question was: did he sanction it?

She let her gaze wander without moving her head, searching out Mullah Mohan.

For his part, the learned Mullah — My, doesn’t he look like he’s eating his own beard?

Such anger marked his desire to kill the amir as something personal — and might prove an excellent lever to move Mohan to Nur’s designs. Foolish religious bigots with an army of fanatical followers could prove useful in certain circumstances, after all.

 

Darkship Revenge – Snippet 12

Darkship Revenge – Snippet 12

Everyone gave me a wide berth, and I walked more or less aimlessly, but taking stock of what was available, as well as thinking through my next move.  I needed to know if Simon was safe and still in control, but if he weren’t that might be a perilous or even deadly move. The easiest thing would be to listen to people talk, but that wasn’t going to happen on the streets.  It might very well happen while shopping for diapers, or looking for food.  But for that I needed money.

I knew where to go. Look, my lair did not engage in the normal criminal pursuits of broomer lairs, but it was impossible to exist even as a semi-recreational broomer lair – without getting into battles with other lairs.  And in those battles we often took spoil, which was mostly brooms.  So we needed a place to dispose of stolen brooms.  And I’d in the past had occasion to dispose of other spoil.  Or at least of things I’d stolen from my father’s house, in order to finance my lair or a new broom.  Mostly things no one but me even remembered existed, like one of those musty, old books in the library, printed in twenty first century paper with ink that was fast fading.

Most of the places we traded with were in Syracuse Seacity, but we had places of resort in other isles and continental settlements, at least within our broom range.

In Liberte the place was Lupin and Sons.  Its door looked like a gash in the base of one of the dimatough columns that supported the next level.  From the fact it was much taller than most normal doors, it probably had started out as a bubble in the dimatough, with an opening.  Well, two openings, because next to the strangely shaped door was a strangely shaped shop window.

The shape of the shop window did not begin to be as odd as its contents.  In higgledy piggledy fashion, the display showed off – if you can call it that – anything from tarnished silver candlesticks to brand new, shining burners that looked like police issue.

In the center of the shop, holding pride of place, was a stuffed squirrel outfitted in miniature broomer kit, with a burner in its hand.  By pride of place I mean that it was upright and could easily be discerned from its surroundings.  It was, however, covered in a thick layer of dust and a dusty cobweb linked its tufted ears to – presumably – the distant, darkened ceiling of the shop window.

Its dull glass eyes seemed to look me over banefully as I passed by, to enter the shop.

The man behind the counter was old François and his helper was his son Louis.  They were both thin and I presumed they had both once been dark haired.  The only way I’d ever known them, François’ pony tail was all white, and there was a distinct bald circle on top of his head.

They looked like perfectly respectable merchants, except for a slight look of … expectancy.  Behind their eyes lurked the sort of alertness that indicated they were looking for something or waiting for something.  People said no one tried to rob Lupin’s twice.  People – and by people I mean broomers – also said that in the basement of the shop there was a powerful hidden incinerator that was used to dispose of more than damaged merchandise.

As a matter of curiosity, I’d often wondered if there was any truth or if these were rumors carefully set about to make sure that no one tried anything funny the first time.  It didn’t matter.  I’d never been willing, or in fact interested in, trying anything new the first time around, and I surely wasn’t about to do it now, with Eris dependent on my staying upright and breathing.  If I died heaven only knew what they’d do to Eris.

An unexpected, disturbing image, of a stuffed Eris in the shop window, in a miniature broomer suit, holding a burner, made me shudder, and I realized both men were looking at me expectantly and also with a scared expression.  The expectant made sense.  They probably remembered me.  The scared?  Not at all.

I kept my eyes and ears open for any movement behind or to the sides of me, but there was nothing.  The crowded little shop – with brooms hanging from the ceiling, used furniture and books cramming the corners and for whatever reason a batch of white rats in a cage – looked perfectly still, and sounded perfectly still, except for the rats and the men behind the counter.  And trust me, if there had been anyone else there, even just breathing, I’d have heard them when I was listening that intently and that alert.

The last time I’d used the code that told Louis and François that I was a broomer with something illicit to sell, it had been “At the orders of Marat.”

Now in the old days, the password had changed every few months, and I was never absolutely sure how it was changed or how it was passed down.  We just knew it by word of mouth.  Mention in any broomer bar that you were going to visit Lupin’s and someone sooner or later told you the new code.

Only I’d been away from Earth for well over six months.  I was sure it had changed, but not how.  So I approached the counter and gave the old sign.  “At the orders of Marat.”

Pierre’s watchful, laid-back look changed.  He blinked.  I had the impression he’d bit his tongue.  He said, in something less than a whisper, “Louis, secure.”

I tensed.  For a moment I thought he was telling his son to secure me, which even with Eris strapped on and brooms on my back would not go well at all well for him.

But Louis slid quietly around me, as I tracked him, and closed the door, then threw a switch somewhere in the shadowy edge of the walls.  I wasn’t sure what the switch was, or even if there was one, but I was aware a distant hum had quieted.

François gave me the once over.  “Well, demoiselle, now we should be safe.  I should tell you never to say those words again, and not in public.  We are good citizens, and good subjects of the Emperor Julien, allors.”

If my eyebrows climbed any further, they would become part of my hairline.  “Emperor Julien?” I asked.  My voice cracked a little.  I didn’t know anyone named Julien, and really, Emperor?  It didn’t sound like someone who served under the sphere of the Good Men.  The highest title I knew they allowed as king, and mostly because the British, an ancient, proud and quite possibly mad race had refused to surrender their ancient pomp and dignity.

“Emperor Julien Beaulieu,” he touched his forehead, in what seemed to be some kind of gesture.  “The protector of Liberte, grantor of our liberties and keeper of our people.”

Uh uh.  There was one thing I knew for sure.  When someone called himself the grantor of anyone’s liberties, those liberties were long gone, if indeed they had ever existed.

I tried to look calm and uncaring.  It didn’t help that Eris chose this moment to wake up and give me a look like she was astounded at my incompetence.  All right, so I was probably reading that into her wide-eyed look.  But I felt incompetent, and was afraid of getting us both killed.  “What happened… I’ve been away… ah.  Out of the reach of news.  What happened to Good Man St. Cyr?”

 

Darkship Revenge – Snippet 11

Darkship Revenge – Snippet 11

And The Rock Cried Out

Eris cried all the way on the way down.  I kicked the broom into as shallow a descent as I could, but I had the vague and possibly wrong idea that babies’ eardrums were more sensitive than adults’, and I assumed the pressure changes bothered her.

We glided over blue ocean, tinged gold here and there by the setting sun.  Above us, the air-to-space sped up on its final journey.

Eris cried.

She was still crying – it is entirely possible that babies crying are the most underestimated force in the universe – when we approached the ocean I changed my flight path, adjusting from memory to fly at that one peculiar height that was rarely tracked.  Too high for the normal every day flyers, but not so high that I impinged on the path of intercontinental or inter-island traffic.  It was the level at which broomers lived.  Other than the occasional peacekeeper broomer or flyer looking for broomers, and that only when broomers had been particularly troublesome.

There were neither broomers nor peacekeepers.  In fact, there was no one around.

I let my memory play back what I’d seen while coming down through the atmosphere, and while getting ready for the broom, and oriented myself.  If I was right, Liberte Seacity would be … North.  About an hour.

Long before I’d flown the full hour, I was tired of listening to Eris cry, and felt like I’d been flying for years or perhaps centuries.  My back ached and I couldn’t move it, couldn’t make myself comfortable with Eris and the broom both strapped to me.

It felt oddly more vulnerable and desolate to have Eris with me than to be alone.  I was responsible for her, so it wasn’t simply a matter of looking after myself.  And part of me hated being responsible for her, and having the extra burden of making sure she was well, and the other part of me despised myself for thinking it.

When we got near Liberte, even from the air, I could tell something was wrong.  In fact, it was as much of a shock as I’d sustained when first seeing my native city of Syracuse from the air last time I’d returned to Earth.

Liberte – unlike Syracuse – had always been a beautiful seacity.  Part of it came from its being the ruling city of the empire ruled by Good Man St. Cyr who, for the last ten years or so had been my friend, Simon.  His domains included Liberte, sure, but the real work horse of his fortune was the seacity of Shangri-La, known mostly for its production of mind-altering – and in many jurisdictions illegal – drugs and the algae farms that surrounded it, which fed half a continent, if one were to believe the reports put out by St. Cyr.  Of course, I didn’t believe the reports.  It’s something one learns when growing up in an oligarchy.  Never believe the official reports.  But I still knew the St. Cyrs had commanded impressive wealth for a long time, and that very little of it was produced in Liberte.

This left the city where administrators and bureaucrats lived a beautiful place, resembling a dimatough wedding cake, climbing layer on manicured layer till it achieved the pinnacle, where Simon’s palace stood, itself like a wedding cake, all glistening white dimatough, layer on layer, to the turret on the top, where the ballroom had been located.

It had been one of the most beautiful seacities to look at from the air.

Had been.

Half the palace looked ruined – blackened and burned — as did many of the other levels of the seacity.   Even from the air I could see entire streets where once-airy mansions had been torched.

There were signs of rebuilding, as I got nearer the palace: Scaffolds and heavy machinery, some of it obviously dimatough extruders, stood close enough to the palace that it was obvious that they were repairing some of the damage.  But who was repairing the damage?  Who was in control?

The same events that had propelled me out of Earth and into Kit’s native Eden, and that had caused a quasi revolution in Eden, had made it so that there was a revolution or the start of one on Earth.

Now, Earth, unlike Eden, was a vast place, with more than three billion inhabitants – how much more was a matter of great debate, because, as I’ve said before, the Earth was divided not only into the domain of fifty Good Men, but into countless principalities, governorships and satrapies under them.  And none of the absolute rulers or their absolute underlings trusted each other’s numbers.  So estimates of the numbers of humanity on Earth ranged from ten billion to three billion, and there was no consensus.

But even at three billion, there was no way a single revolution, even one propelled and masterminded by the Usaian cult which seemed to be everywhere, could by itself span the globe.  However, it was enough that it had started chaos in the areas I was most familiar with.  My own native city, Syracuse Seacity, had been destroyed by a bomb and the last time I’d been on Earth, war ranged across all of Syracuse’s continental dependencies, and Olympus Seacity’s also.

That it had extended to Liberte was not a surprise.  Simon, though not an Usaian, had aligned himself with them.  And the Good Men still in control of most of the Seacities and territories on Earth would attack him as well as the rest.

But the question was – who had won?  Who was in control of the island?

If it was the party of the Good Men, my landing there and making myself known might at best get me killed, or, more likely and worse, get me captured and made into that “Mother of the Race” thing they had planned for me.

I listened to Eris’ now hoarse cry and decided I wasn’t absolutely sure I was ready to be the mother of one child, much less of a race.  This was absolutely not happening.

So, instead of landing near the top, where the palace was; instead of trying to make contact with Simon and asking for his help in finding Kit, I circled the island and came in on the North side, the lowest level.

The way the seacities were built, level on level, the level above cut off most of the light and air to the lower on.  Perhaps because of that, the lower levels tended to be far cheaper than the top levels, and the areas where the supports for the top level anchored often were dark and difficult to get to, which made them ideal for a criminal or at least shadowy element.

Now most levels of Liberte housed at worst minor bureaucrats and an educated middle class.  But there still needed to be a place for the servants and gardeners, the cooks and cleaners catering to the rest of the island.  Shangri-La was too far away for a daily commute for those who had neither a flyer nor a broom.  And I’ve yet to see a place, on Earth or not, who doesn’t have an area where a shadow economy can flourish.  In Liberte that was only the lowest level of the seacity.

I landed there, in a secluded place I knew from visits with my broomer’s lair.  My appearance attracted a few looks, even after I pulled off the oxygen mask and stowed it and removed my Eden-made helmet from Eris’ head and folded it into my pocket.  Possibly because my suit was more expensive than normally seen in these parts, but also – likely – because it was unusual to see a broomer carrying two brooms on her back and an infant on her front.

The minute I removed the helmet from Eris, she had stopped screaming and fallen asleep.  This told me she really didn’t like her head confined, but there was something more.  From the whiff emanating from her we’d need to find a place to change her too.  Materials too.  I wasn’t used to this being a mother thing.  I had completely forgotten to pack diapering material.

 

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 24

1636: Mission To The Mughals – Snippet 24

Chapter 14

Dara Shikoh’s Camp

September, 1634

Dara stepped out into the late afternoon sunlight, striding past his personal nökör to greet Wazir Khan. He allowed himself a moment of pride that these men were his to command.

Grandfather dismounted smoothly. A life spent in the saddle might have given the old Persian decidedly bowed legs, but he remained otherwise unbent and unbowed. “God is great, Amir of Amirs, Dara Shikoh.”

“God is great, Wazir Asaf Khan.” Dara smiled and gestured toward the awning spread above the entrance to his tent. He had come out merely so that his followers could see the esteem in which he held Asaf Khan, and to allow Father’s wazir a chance to inspect the warriors who would accompany him into battle. Such political maneuvers were important, even here among the warrior elite.

“All the sowar are mustered?” Asaf asked, inspecting the dismounted troopers lining their path as the pair walked slowly toward the tent.

Each of the men of his personal guard wore a metal helm over padded armor, a cavalry sword and leather shield, and had a heavy composite bow ready to hand. Their mounts were sleek and well-fed. While the rest of the men of his command were not so well-equipped, they all bore hand weapons and bows, and had at least one remount.

“Yes, the men are ready — eager, even,” Dara answered with a smile.

“All are the proper age and skilled?”

“Yes, Wazir.” There were mansabdars who tried to pass false rolls on to the reporters, hoping to collect pay for mansabs greater than their actual ability to field troops would justify. When called upon to muster, they would try to make up the lack with old men, grooms — even slaves — on mounts good only for the knackers.

“Their mounts?”

“Twenty thousand and several hundred more horses, all up. Fodder for same. Eight elephants. I have no guns, but my advisor indicates such would only serve to slow our advance.” Amir Mukhlis Khan was in a terrible hurry, greedy for the productive farmlands the Sikhs held.

Slaves presented refreshment as the prince and his grandfather turned, more slaves placing cushions beneath them as the pair settled in to watch the camp. It was already smaller than that of the wazir’s army, as the Deccan excursion would require tens of thousands of fighting men.

“I had thought to see matchlock men,” Asaf said, gesturing at the camp.

Dara wagged his head. “I thought it best to avoid any…possible rumors that I used some trick of technology to win against my opponent, rather than through honorable and traditional strength of arms.”

Asaf Khan fixed him with a penetrating stare, taking a persimmon wedge and biting into it.

Recognizing the wazir was considering how best to say something his grandson might not wish to hear, Dara gave him permission: “Speak freely. I value your experience above all but Father’s.”

Asaf swallowed, spoke quietly: “You have read the biographies of your ancestors, have you not?”

“Of course.”

“Traditions have their place, but your ancestors put little stock in them, most especially Babur. I would remind you how his twenty-five thousand, lined up behind carts, succeeded against Sultan Ibrahim of Delhi’s hundred thousand.”

“Guns.”

“Yes. I can cite other battles won with the tools created by the artifice of men like your atishbaz gunsmith, but I think you get my point.”

“Yes, but Babur was a blooded general with years of experience and on the rise to power by then. I am not…do not…know…my advisor, he…”

“The advisor your father appointed?”

Dara nodded, glad for the sudden change in subject. “Amir Mukhlis Khan has been most helpful.”

“I am sure he has.”

“Indeed, he is most eager to come to grips with the upstart.”

“Be sure not to let his eagerness lead you into folly. He is not known for his restraint. By all reports, his ambition exceeds his ability.”

A twinge of annoyance bit through Dara’s good humor. “Perhaps you should have told this to Father?”

Asaf Khan nodded, jeweled turban glittering, “I did. I can only caution you.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I suspect Shah Jahan wishes to see exactly how you deal with such unpredictable subordinates in uncertain circumstances.”

“All the more reason to restrict myself to traditional forces, commanded in traditional fashion.”

“Success breeds tradition.”

“I don’t think I follow.”

“I do not wish to contradict you, Shehzada, but is it not more important that you take command and win than worry what the court might say about how you secure that victory?”

Agra, Red Fort

“He cuts a handsome figure: my husband, your brother,” Nadira said, as Dara led his men in a long parade along the riverbank before the court.

“He does.” Jahanara smiled, taking her sister-in-law’s hand in her own. Dara was in full military kit, sparkling like a jewel among the barely-more subdued dress of his bodyguard.

“I do not see the gloves I gifted him,” Roshanara grumbled from Nadira’s other side. She was leaning hard against the jali, trying to get a better look.

Trust my sister to try and make this moment about her.

Aloud, Jahanara said: “Do not squint so, sister. It will line that smooth brow of yours with wrinkles. Besides, he bade me tell you that he has set them aside to wear into battle.”

Roshanara sniffed, but said nothing more. She left the balcony a moment later, whether in search of other entertainments or better company, Jahanara could not say.

Jahanara felt Nadira squeeze her hand in thanks, smiled gently at her. To be left behind — pregnant — she could not imagine the fear. Her mother always shared her father’s campaigns; was always there, even when her father was losing, to support him even as he returned to the tent each night to support her in her latest pregnancy.

She turned, saw Nadira wiping tears from her face and tried to comfort her: “He will return victorious, I’m sure.”

“But he has only five thousand, while the wazir is taking tens of thousands south into the Deccan.”

“True, but eight elephants and five thousand troops, all of them mounted, is a significant command. Besides, Father says the Sikhs can barely field two thousand, most without horses. I do not claim to know a great deal about such things, but it seems to me Father would not have sent Dara without sufficient means to accomplish the task.”

“Did the emperor…did he change his mind about giving Dara a command because of –” She glanced around, making sure no one could overhear. “Of what you showed him?”

Having failed to consider that possibility, Jahanara’s brows rose. “I do not know, Nadira. It may have been that.”

“Then I wish God had seen fit to stop Salim coming here.”

Jahanara shook her head. “Nadira, you must not say such things. Grantville did appear, and Salim did bring back such proofs. We can argue all we wish to with Him, but in the end we must submit to God’s will.”

“I know, it’s just so…”

“Difficult. I know. Take heart. Dara will likely return before you give birth.”

Nadira nodded, tears still falling through long lashes to glisten on smooth cheeks.

Jahanara resisted the urge to shake her head. Her sister-in-law even looked pretty crying! She could never have managed that herself.

They stood in companionable silence for a while, watching the rest of Dara’s troops parade past.

“You said your good-byes last night?”

“Oh, yes, at length.” Nadira’s grin was wicked. “I’m even a little tender.”

A startled laugh escaped Jahanara’s lips. “Is that safe? I mean, with the baby coming?”

“My mother always told me it was good for the baby, but then she was always after father for more pillow time.”

“Really?” Jahanara said, suddenly uncomfortable with the conversation.

Be honest – you are not uncomfortable with it, you’re angry. That I’m to never know what it is that other women experience in the arms of their husbands is an idea I shall never find comfort in.

“Oh, yes,” Nadira said.

“I am sure he will not stop thinking of you while he is away.”

“Nor I, him,” Nadira replied, laying palms across the gentle rise of her belly.

“And you can write him daily, and be sure that he will do the same to you.”

Nadira nodded. “Even so, I shall miss him dearly.”

“Come, we shall tell the astrologers to discern for us when Dara will return to us, victorious.”

Agra, Mullah Mohan’s Madrassa

“Enough. Shehzada Aurangzeb is here for private instruction. Leave us.” The other students and servants of Mullah Mohan, obedient to their master’s will, retreated.

Aurangzeb waited in silence, rolling prayer beads between his fingers as he considered how best to capitalize on the conflict between Father and the guru. Perhaps by stirring religious discord? Thus far, the conflict was between one ruler and another. He glanced at Mullah Mohan. If the proper people could be convinced that the Sikhs were actively opposed to Islam and, perhaps, desecrating the Qur’an, then many things could happen…

But, not now. Such a course would only add strength to Dara’s position by giving him more soldiery to command. But perhaps it would prove useful to Aurangzeb at some later time.

“Should you have stayed at Red Fort?” Mohan asked as the doors closed.

Aurangzeb left his musing and answered: “And watch my brother depart in search of martial glory? I have better things to do with the time Allah has given me to walk the earth.”

A solicitous smile. “Indeed, Shehzada.”

“I don’t know what you are smiling about. The court buzzes with rumors about a pair of deaths in Agra last month.”

The smile disappeared. “Men often quarrel.”

“Men known to be supporters of yours.”

“I’m afraid my supporters are yet men, with all the flaws of common men.”

“Do not think to put me off with such pious mutterings, Mohan. I told you to be discreet.”

“And I was, Shehzada. You know of our conversation, and therefore link the deaths to me. The bystander, however interested, has no such advantage.”

“Did they succeed, at least?”

“God’s work was not, unfortunately, so easily accomplished.”

Aurangzeb spent several breaths resisting the urge to beat the man bloody.

When he had restrained his rage, Aurangzeb spoke: “You used your own men and they failed?”

Mohan waggled his head. “Members of the mosque are many. I cannot be held to answer for the acts of each and every one of them; such are the laws of the land.”

Aurangzeb let slip some of his anger: “I am not concerned with laws, you fool! You should not have revealed your hand in this petty action. Now I have no doubt that this Salim knows who it is that seeks his death.”

Mullah Mohan again wagged his head, holding up a hand. “My men would never have betrayed me: they were faithful, loyal to Allah and to me!”

“You stupid, stupid man. There is active betrayal, and then there is the fanatic’s inability to hide his true nature.”

“What does that mean, b –” Mohan snapped, face darkening with throttled rage.

Aurangzeb heard the “boy” Mohan narrowly avoided uttering.

He let how close Mohan had come to uttering his own death sentence sink in for a moment before resuming: “These men, the ones you set to kill the amir, they were faithful men, likely screaming praise to God and condemning Salim as a heretic as they tried — and failed — to kill him.”

A bit of the angry color drained from Mohan’s face. “I had not thought of that…”

“So, when I say Salim likely knows who was behind the attempt on his life, I am speaking from a greater understanding of the situation. You are a fool to argue with me in such circumstances. Am I understood?”

Mohan nodded, shoulders slumping, “Yes, I understand. I…I fear I have not, until this moment, realized just how much you have matured.”

What, my putting you on your knees with my bare hands was not sufficient sign that I am a man grown? But it would be impolitic to say that aloud, so Aurangzeb continued instead with: “I know it is difficult for you, who was my teacher, to understand the change in our circumstance, but I am no longer the child seeking an education from a learned mullah. I am a man grown, now; and one day, soon, I will rule.”

It felt good to say that aloud, for the first time; made it seem real, somehow.

“I will rule,” he repeated, savoring the words, “and I will bring all those I rule to Islam. I will conquer, and those I conquer will be brought to Islam. I will crush the divisions plaguing our sweet religion, and bring all believers to orthodoxy.”

He fixed the mullah with a steady gaze. “If you would be a part of this great future I would make for our people, if you would be the spiritual leader of all people, then you must listen and be guided by me in these affairs.”

He saw the fire ignite in Mohan’s eyes, knew then that Mullah Mohan would do anything for the future Aurangzeb laid before him.