1637: The Peacock Throne, стр. 28
Setting her voice to cut across the tittering and chuckles that followed, Nur answered, “Sultan Al’Azam, Shehzada Aurangzeb desires only to meet with you in person to pledge his support for you as rightful emperor, and seeks your surety as Sultan Al’Azam that he will have the opportunity to do so.”
Shuja blinked as if he’d been rapped on the nose with a stick.
Hiding her pleasure at holding the reins of an emperor once again, Nur waited for the drunken child to catch up.
“He doesn’t want the throne?” Shuja murmured it so quietly that only those nearest him could hear.
“It is well known that Shehzada Aurangzeb is a religious man, his heart more suited to study of the Quran than ruling over the hearts of his fellow man. He wishes only to submit, first to God, and then to you, his elder brother.”
Her reply drew nods from those of his kokas sober enough to follow the conversation. Nur ignored them in favor of watching Shuja. She could see him wishing he’d remained sober for this interview. Too late, of course.
“And what of Dara?” he asked after a moment’s rumination.
“Shehzada Aurangzeb loves his brothers. Hard as it is to countenance, Shehzada Aurangzeb finds it hard to believe that Dara knew nothing of the plot against Shah Jahan, happening as it did right under his nose. Beyond that, Aurangzeb knows his eldest brother pays heed to all manner of idolatry and mysticism, where you are concerned with ruling wisely.”
Shuja began to shake his head, but Nur went on before he could refute her words: “Aurangzeb bade me say that he wishes peace upon the kingdom of your forefathers, and that he knows only you are strong enough to end the war quickly and thereby hasten his own steps to Mecca and the life of contemplation and worship that has always been his sole and most fervent desire.”
One of the kokas sniffed derision on that, earning a sharp, if unsteady, look from the Shah Shuja. A drunken young man blanched and muttered a muted apology.
Shuja looked again at Nur, a thoughtful look he was too drunk to hide crossing his features.
“Does Aurangzeb offer any sureties beyond these pretty words of yours, Aunt?”
“The words are not mine, they are his, as I have said.”
“You do not answer my question.”
“Shehzada Aurangzeb remains a prince. He does not order the khutba said in his name, nor order men to strike coins with his likeness nor name upon them. He remains a prince. He makes no claim to be other than what he is.”
“For”—Shuja belched wetly—“now, at least.”
Shuja’s men chuckled.
He again shook his head. “You have given me much to think on, Nur Jahan. Present yourself tomorrow…” He picked up his goblet and drank from it. “In the afternoon sometime.”
“Your will, Sultan Al’Azam,” Nur Jahan said. Long reins were as useful as short for control of a well-broken mount, after all.
Chapter 10
Agra
The Red Fort
The gunsmith’s factory was dark after the noonday sun, and loud with hammering and the constant hissing roar of several furnaces.
Unsure where to go, John led Atisheh and Bertram deeper into the gloom in search of Talawat.
“He said to meet him here, didn’t he?” John asked. His Persian had improved to the point he didn’t need a translator for most things, but he was glad Bertram was here to make sure he made none of the big mistakes of communication poor language skills often led to.
“He did,” Atisheh said.
Talawat said something from Atisheh’s elbow, startling them all. John and Bertram jumped. Atisheh’s response was more practical: she turned, blades appearing in her hands.
“So sorry. I did not mean to startle you!” the thin gunsmith shouted as he backed from the warrior woman.
Atisheh checked herself with visible effort and a curse John didn’t understand.
“Sorry, I didn’t hear you,” John said, interposing himself between Talawat and Atisheh to give them both a moment to recover.
If Talawat was offended, he did not show it. Lowering his hands, the gunsmith smiled and rendered another and lengthier apology to his guests.
Atisheh grunted and returned her weapons to their sheaths.
Bertram just nodded.
“I have the first of the guns ready, Mr. Ennis,” the gunsmith went on, gesturing his guests toward a set of large doors leading out into a sunlit court behind the factory.
“So soon?” John asked as they walked into the long, narrow space between low walls. Aside from the color and quality of the stone, it looked like a lane at the shooting range his uncle used to take him to, right down to the wide bench at the near end. A trio of long lumps that John took to be guns rested under a silken sheet of some sort, something he never would have seen on his uncle’s range.
“Well, I followed your advice and didn’t try and recreate the pistol or even the Remington,” the man said with another smile.
“You did?”
“Instead I copied the weapon your associate, Randy, left behind. The L.C. Smith.” He pulled back the sheet, revealing his handiwork.
The first was, indeed, Randy’s gun: a hammerless side-by-side double-barreled break-open twelve-gauge shotgun, lovingly maintained but still bearing the scarred wood of too many generations tramping through West Virginia in search of game birds. Randy had been very proud of the piece, it having been in his family for three generations. He’d lugged it all the way to India even though the pump action Remingtons they’d all trained with were far more practical for the kind of shooting they had expected.
The second gun was a stunning, nearly exact copy of the original. Nearly, because instead of the plain blued steel of Randy’s shotgun, this one had the endless wave pattern of Damascus steel.
The third one had the same patterning, but looked odd. The same basic structure as the shotgun, but it was single-barreled, and had a ladder sight at the rear. Without looking down the barrel, he could only assume it