1637: The Peacock Throne, стр. 17
Priscilla relaxed, recognizing the figure in the lamplight below. A tall, broad-shouldered woman, Atisheh was hard to mistake for anyone else at Mission House. Better still, Atisheh’s outstretched arms finally provided an explanation for the strange noise that had awakened Priscilla.
Atisheh had a number of horseshoes over each arm. The noise was a result of her holding those horseshoe-laden arms out to either side at shoulder height and then dropping into a squat.
The swordswoman stood straight with a hiss of effort, then repeated the entire process, vigorously.
“You sure you’re up to that?”
The former harem guard and current patient of Priscilla’s twitched in surprise, found the up-timer in the shadows above, and said, “Up? I not understand.”
“I don’t think you should be doing such heavy work.”
Atisheh had been restive the last month, growling at her caregivers with an increasing impatience, volume, and grasp of English. The fact she’d been as near death as anyone Priscilla had ever seen—sword-cut in half a dozen places, battered so thoroughly she’d have been a single bruise from head to toe had she the blood to discolor flesh just a few months prior—made no difference to the woman.
Just as Priscilla’s current qualms didn’t stop Atisheh now.
“What time now?” She squatted low with her arms still out, breathed in, and stood again on the exhale.
“I don’t know, after midnight?”
“Exact.”
“What does that mean?”
Atisheh rotated her arms around and up, the shoes clanking, and raised her hands, then each individual finger until seven stood between them.
“Seven, what?”
“One week, you tell me. One week I start work. Seven days. I start soon I can and still follow orders you give.”
Pris crossed arms over her chest. “Jesus.”
“Why speak of minor prophet now? You miss prayers?”
Pris didn’t even try to answer that question. “You are a machine.”
“Machine?” Atisheh grunted, slowly lowering the weights, corded muscles standing out in her neck and shoulders, fresh scars angry in the lamplight.
“Never mind. I’m going back to bed.”
“Good”—another lengthy hiss—“night.”
* * *
Rodney returned late the next morning. Priscilla made a point of meeting him in the courtyard dressed in her favorite jeans and one of his old work shirts.
Ricky slid the bolt home on the reinforced gate as Rodney rode up to the stables. His fine robes and the sword in its jeweled sheath at his hip made him look every inch a prosperous warrior-noble of the Mughal court. Until you got close, saw how big he was, and how poorly he sat a horse. The nobles of the Mughal court rode like they were born in the saddle.
Her husband lifted his head to see her striding toward him and sent a tired but appreciative smile her way.
“Five nights in a row, now,” Priscilla said, taking the horse’s bridle in hand.
“He’s in a lot of pain,” Rodney said by way of excuse, dismounting and giving her forehead a kiss.
Her sigh tickled the nose of Rodney’s horse, making the gelding toss his head. She patted its neck and said, “I don’t dispute that.”
“But?” he asked as she led his mount into the stable.
“Hard to say where the pain of his injury ends and the pain of loss begins.”
“Sounds like a question for a priest, not a couple of certification-lapsed paramedics in way over their heads.”
“I suppose it is, but I think we should watch him close to make sure he doesn’t begin self-medicating,” Pris said as she set about removing the horse’s tack. The locals put much store in decorating every bit of riding gear with complex knots, braids, and what she could only call pom-poms. He could leave for Red Fort with a plain saddle and harness, but by the time he took his leave of the imperial stables, his horse and tack were always decorated to the ninth degree. The tack tended to bewilder a tired mind and his bigger fingers, so she handled it while Rodney removed the saddle.
“Gervais and I are doing what we can.”
Knowing he was doing just that, she left off working at the tack to smile at him. On seeing his expression, she hugged him.
“You’re still on cloud nine, aren’t you?” he asked.
Priscilla released him and raised her arms, spinning in a circle. “God, yes! And who wouldn’t be? There’s a reason they call those in a harem ‘inmates,’ after all. A gilded cage is still a cage.”
“Too true.”
Pris caught him glancing at the high walls of the compound. “I know we’re still behind walls, but just being able to wear what I want while I get some work done is huge. Huge.”
Rodney nodded.
“Speaking of working: How is Atisheh?”
She smiled. “Last I saw her she was beating the snot out of some eunuch trying out for a spot on Dara’s harem guard. The woman’s constitution is amazing. Barely a month out of our care and she’s riding and fighting like she was never hurt.”
Rodney’s chuckle ended in a yawn. “Sorry. I don’t think I will be good company for long.” He yawned again, hugely this time, his jaw popping. “I’m dead tired.”
She pulled him closer—really just pressed herself tighter to his muscular side, as she was far too small to move him—and said, “I’ll just tuck you in, then.”
He laughed, eyes shining despite fatigue.
“What’s tickled you?”
“Just reflecting on the fact that some days it’s real good to be a hillbilly named Rodney Totman.”
* * *
“Monique.” Bertram said her name with the slightest of smiles as he walked into the Mission’s council chamber.
“Bertram,” she replied. Gervais being present, she kept her own, answering smile, locked away. Papa had always been strange about the men she favored, but Bertram was…special to her and, she suspected, to Gervais as well. Of course, her father would never admit such a thing publicly.
“Bertram, come here,” Papa said, waving the younger man to join him. Gervais stood at a table strewn with papers and maps that dominated the center of the chamber.
“Of course, Gervais.”
“Papa, Bertram may need a drink, or perhaps something