A Wolf After My Own Heart by MaryJanice Davidson (good books for high schoolers .TXT) 📕

was angry, too. Angry the young priest had been so reckless in his challenge to Aurangzeb, and angry that the Portuguese should continue with their claims on India while the Company struggled on without legitimacy. Angry that, in order to rectify the situation, he was made to tie his fortunes to those same Portuguese and accompany their impetuous priest into the camp of the prince who, while quite able, sat furthest from the throne.

“They are,” De Jesus said after a long silence.

“Well, no one can say you fail to do your best for those for whom you work, and perhaps your superiors will find wisdom from your example.”

“We can but pray,” De Jesus said.

Methwold wondered, not for the first time, how such a fool could balance what seemed a very deep and sincere faith with such utter inflexibility.

Chapter 16

Agra

Red Fort

Bertram absently waved away another offer of refreshment from one of Dara’s slaves, focused on the men drilling in the yard below.

The sun was a club that beat down on anyone forced to leave the shade. The men standing almost fifty abreast and two ranks deep had been beaten by its rays since dawn, but very few had fallen out. Not when they marched from one end of the square to the other; not when they were slapped and, later, when they did not learn the complex marching instructions fast enough from their leadership, struck with fists.

Their commander seemed, if not immune to the heat, then carved from stone: scarcely sweating despite conditions that had caused some half-dozen of his men to collapse from heat exhaustion.

Unlike a stone, Bidhi Chand shouted a command in Punjabi, punctuating the order with a slight motion of his heavy saber. That he held the weapon out—at shoulder height and motionless—for the hundredth time as if it were the first, spoke of the man’s stamina and disciplined training.

In response to his command the second rank pointed their weapons at targets set up roughly forty yards to their front while the front rank knelt, opening the breeches of their guns, extractors ejecting shells. There was no tinkle-tock of brass-based shells striking the flagstones at this remove, but Bertram’s memories of that fateful night on the Taj filled in the sound quite readily. Then again, the shells were not empty, either, as the shells were what John called “training dummies.” Each shell had the same general weight and construction as real ones, but contained sand in place of powder and shot. Bertram understood the need very well: real shells were too dear to expend in drills just yet, though Bertram had heard Talawat assure John that production was scaling ever-upward even as Dara’s craftsmen produced hundreds of shotgun shells each day.

A single-word command had each kneeling man pulling a pair of brass-based paper shotgun shells from the covered belt at his hip while the second, standing rank of men pulled one of the triggers on their guns. The weapons did not belch smoke and shot as they would with real shells, but the Sikhs remained stock-still, awaiting the next order.

That fresh command came quickly: a shout and movement of the sword summoned another trigger pull from those standing while the kneeling men placed fresh shells in their weapons and closed breeches.

Another, different shout, and new position for the sword.

The front rank, still kneeling, each rested an elbow on one raised knee and aimed at the targets while the second lowered their weapons and opened breeches. Brass winked in sunlight again as extractors launched shells into the hot, dry air.

Another shout. The kneeling rank mock-fired while the second reloaded.

Bertram was distracted by scattered sunlight as the diamond the size of a child’s thumb stuck in Dara’s turban caught the light.

“Bidhi Chand and his men appear to learn the up-timer weapons and training more quickly than the Rajputs, Amar Singh Rathore,” Dara said to the man sitting at his right hand.

Bertram felt his gaze snap to the Rajput princeling, but managed to keep the alarm he felt off his face. The emperor should be more circumspect in his comments, or at least less loud in their pronouncement. Amar Singh Rathore was one of the most powerful nobles of Dara’s court, with many warriors at his command and no few holdings to purchase the services of more. He was also a man more touchy of his honor than most Rajputs, which was truly saying something.

He glanced again at Salim, but the Afghan was as powerless to intervene as Bertram. Anything said now would only serve to undermine the emperor’s authority and image, coming as it would unsolicited.

The Rajput’s signature wide, curling mustaches trembled as he spoke. “Sultan Al’Azam, my people are fierce warriors, ready to fight to the death for your honor, should you command it! What they are not is dirt-grubbing farmers grown fat on easy living and but lately come to your cause! If they are slow to learn these new weapons, it is because they fail to see the honor in their use.”

Thankfully, Amar and Dara had been reviewing the training privately—at least as privately as was possible for the Sultan Al’Azam. As a result, those on the balcony were, slaves and servants aside, mostly Mission people. Thus, while the angry tone of Amar’s words might have carried, the words themselves were unlikely to reach ears that might report the umara’s disparaging remarks to Bidhi Chand.

If Dara was slow to respond, it served him well. In the silence that followed, Amar seemed to think better of his outburst, bowing his head as if expecting an angry tongue-lashing from the emperor.

“Friend Amar Singh Rathore, I do not seek to impugn the honor of fine men that have given such good service for so long. I merely observe that you and yours now have some small competition at this particular drill…” Dara said, conciliatory message spoiled by a tic that pulled at one corner of his mouth, lending a mocking edge to his smile.

Desperate to