1637: The Peacock Throne, стр. 21

An uncomfortable silence descended, each woman alone in her thoughts. Rather than let it persist, Jahanara decided to tackle yet another of the problems assailing her brother and caught Nadira’s eye.

“Sister of my heart, there is another problem.”

Nadira grinned. “Just one?”

“Indeed.” Jahanara smiled at the joke. Nadira was in rare form today. Shaking her head ruefully, she plowed on: “Your husband has yet to approve any of the marriage prospects I have set before him.”

Nadira’s smile disappeared. “He has not?”

“No,” Jahanara said, nibbling a date.

“But, he must!”

Jahanara waggled her head, grateful Nadira was on her side for this. “As I, and all of his advisors, have told him. But he claims his love for you is too great to even consider another wife.”

“Love!” Nadira scoffed. “He has love! He needs to secure life and throne before such personal considerations!”

“As I tried to tell him. Of course, he became quite angry with me when I did.”

“Ah, that is why he was so short with me last night when I brought the subject to his attention.”

Jahanara winced. “I did not wish to spoil your time with him, but the—”

“But these decisions are critical to our survival,” Nadira interrupted, waving her protest down. “You will recall that I was present for your father’s struggles, and the results of that for my father…” She looked down, but then appeared to take hold of herself. “Rest assured, I will make certain he hears my full opinion on the matter. We need marriage alliances to bolster our ranks, if for no other reason than I need him to take other wives if I am to be a proper tyrannical first wife!”

Jahanara smiled. Nadira did not seem the type to become an overbearing first wife, but one never knew exactly how the sexual politics and precedence of the harem would work out when adding new concubines—let alone wives—to the mix. Not until the deed was done, at any rate.

Regardless, she was glad of Nadira’s full support, and would count that particular battle won, or nearly so, with her in the vanguard.

Now if only they had other generals as fine as Nadira to launch against the other problems assailing her brother.

Red Fort, Hammam-i-shahi

Amir Salim Gadh Visa Yilmaz sighed as he stepped into the steam-filled bathing chamber. A week of hard riding, another of negotiations, and then the return trip had him on the verge of exhaustion. He’d not had time to return to his own palace for a much-needed bath, so the summons to this particular place was most welcome, especially as it had come with express permission to bathe before the emperor arrived.

Slaves entered, peeling away his sweat and dust-caked clothing in an utter, and unnerving, silence.

When he was naked and the slaves had scrubbed the worst of the road dirt from him, Salim waded into the pool. The heat felt amazing, even on the fresh, angry, puckered scars from the wounds received while trying—and failing—to defend Shah Jahan from assassins sent by Aurangzeb’s pet, Mullah Mohan.

Sitting on one of the submerged marble benches that formed the periphery of the octagonal pool, Salim leaned back and looked at the pattern repeated in the ceiling above. The heat quickly began to ease his aches and pains. He tried to let the warmth loosen the tightness that had dwelt in him since that terrible day without success. Meditating as Mian Mir had taught him so long ago also failed to work, as he kept slipping into a fitful doze plagued by images from that fight.

“It’s clear he’s recovering, my young friend, but why so slowly?” The question, in English, drew Salim from that place between sleep and consciousness. As his mind cleared, Salim recognized the speaker as Gervais.

“Well, I’m happy he is recovering.” This from Rodney’s far deeper voice. “Slowly, sure, but he is recovering. Some guys I used to play football with, they got one too many cracks on the head and were never the same. I wish we could take an X-ray and see if there’s something obvious we could do, but even back up-time brain injuries weren’t easy to diagnose. Even for qualified experts, which I’m definitely not.”

“So, we continue to ask him to take it easy, which he can’t, and try to cover for his lapses where we can.”

Salim decided it would be best to force them to change the subject. Ears were everywhere, even here, and it would not do for Dara’s enemies to learn his condition.

“It’s not ideal, but it’s the best we ca—” The sloshing of bath water as Salim stood reached the pair, interrupting them. A moment later, Rodney’s giantlike form fairly filled the archway leading to the cold bath in the next chamber.

“Hey, Salim! You’re back!”

The attendant approached to towel Salim off, but he waved the fellow away as he exited the pool.

“Greetings, Rodney. Gervais,” he said, walking past the big up-timer and directly into the cold bath where he submerged himself entirely. It was bracing, to say the least, and he felt more alert when he raised his head from the waters and sat on one of the steep steps of the pool.

“Good to see you, Salim! Did you have much success?” Gervais asked, clearly hopeful.

“I’m afraid not as much as we’d hoped.” Salim shrugged. “Not so many of my kinsmen were in Delhi for the horse trade as I had hoped. A direct result of Shah Jahan’s sensible policies…”

“What policies?”

Salim smiled and quoted from the law, “‘Those who come into my kingdom to trade in horses shall not number more than one rider for every five horses.’”

Rodney looked puzzled, but Gervais’ thoughtful expression quickly turned sour as he muttered a short curse in some language Salim wasn’t familiar with.

“Not sure I follow?” Rodney said, looking from Gervais to Salim.

“That is because you do not think in terms of our armies. Horse traders coming overland use the same routes into India