I climbed back on the horse and dug my spurs in: I'm writing 1000 words a day on the current project until the draft is done.
See you in fifty or so.
Subscribe
Posts
All Comments
Showing posts with label Mughals. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mughals. Show all posts
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Of Changing Stripes and Saltpeter
So, continued work on the third of the Mughal tales today, after a week's worth of further reading into saltpeter production of the era and Jos Gomman's Mughal Warfare.
Here is some of what I've done so far:
“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 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 writings he’d 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, “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 Amir. 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 nothing like 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 learned Mullahs. I don’t want Mohan getting wind of what Salim brought us, bigot that he is.
He looked her in the eye as she raised her head. “I am very proud of you, daughter. You are a thoughtful and bright ornament to the throne, entirely worthy of your mother.”
Flushing, she bowed her head again, “Thank you, Father.”
He lay back on the low bed, making himself comfortable. “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, then began reciting the words of Abul Fazl: “So it was, that when Akbar gave Bairam Khan the choice between continuing on to Hajj or returning to favor with the court, Bairam chose the pious course and went on to Mecca instead of becoming a person around which further rebellions might form.”
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Mughal Mood
Been working on the next in the Mughal serials. This tune is helping the mindset a great deal...
Monday, February 11, 2013
Working On The Third...
of the Mughal Court Stories. I sold the second this weekend.
Here is something I am listening to as I write, hope you enjoy:
Here is something I am listening to as I write, hope you enjoy:
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Hunter, My Huntress (Almost Done)
The penultimate scene of the next installment of the Mughal Court serial:
Dara shook his head. While impressive, their antics were denying him a shot. Not that he couldn’t rely on his skills and shoot anyway, it was simply not a good idea to go firing into a field occupied by two princes, whether the shooter was a brother or not.
He briefly considered taking to his own horse while summoning a drink from one of his body slaves.
“Don’t want to take to your own horse?” Asaf Khan asked.
Having already decided against it, Dara punched his chin toward where his brothers were now racing back towards the firing line in a cloud of dust, “When their horses tire, there will be other game.”
Asaf nodded, looked sidelong at his eldest grandson, “Married life agrees with you, grandson.”
“Oh?” Dara asked, taking the gem-encrusted goblet full of iced fruit juice from his servant.
“You are more patient than you were. I may presume too much when I think it your wife’s doing,” he shrugged, “but there are worse reasons for change in the behavior of men.”
Dara hid his smile by slaking his thirst. Smacking his lips appreciatively, he answered: “Yes, many things are put in their proper places, especially now I have a son on the way.”
“A son? You are so sure? The astrologers tell you it is so?”
“Yes,” Dara half-lied. The up-timer history had it that his son rode to battle with him in his war against Aurangzeb, many years in the future.
“You must send me y–” Asaf stopped in mid-sentence, peering into the dust beyond Aurangzeb and Shuja.
Dara followed the line of his gaze, saw it at a heartbeat later: something gold-orange flowing along in the wake of Shuja’s horse.
“Tiger!” Asaf bellowed in his general’s voice, pointing at the great beast stalking his grandson.
Dara tossed his goblet aside, scrambled for his newest gun.
Shuja, hearing the shout, did the wrong thing: he reined in to look at Asaf Khan. The tiger was within twenty gaz of Shuja. When he came to a stop, it did as well. In fact, it went forequarters down, hunching its rear end.
Asaf was screaming, as were more and more of his men. He started running for his own horse and household guard.
Dara knelt and lifted the butt, surging upright.
Shuja was looking around, trying to identify the threat. His horse tossed its head, moved sideways, uneasy.
Dara pressed his shoulder into the stock, trying to cock the lock, find his target, and get his hand on the firing lever–and had a moment’s panic when he couldn’t find it: Not a lever, a trigger, you fool!
The tiger was rocking its hips, getting ready to charge.
Talawat was beside him, quietly urging: “Shehzada, please do not try to do too much at once. Slow down. Calmly.”
Dara stopped. Breathed out. Found his aim point and his target. Slid his finger into the trigger guard.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Talawat’s silhouette nod. The gunsmith cocked the hammer back for Dara, “She kicks like a mule, Shehzada. Now kill us a tiger.”
Dara squeezed the trigger. The lock snapped forward, steel and flint sparking into the pan. A half-heartbeat later, the gun discharged with a thunderous roar and brutal kick to Dara’s shoulder.
The tiger leapt.
Smoke obscured Dara’s sight for a moment.
Shuja’s horse bolted, riderless, into view.
Talawat stepped forward and turned to face Dara, hands busy as he reloaded the piece with quick, economical motions. He could hear the gunsmith praying even over the shouts of Asaf’s men.
Asaf had stopped his rush to mount. It was too late.
The smoke cleared.
The tiger lay prone, part of one of Shuja’s leg and a boot protruding from beneath it.
Dara’s heart stopped.
It seemed years later when Shuja sat up from between its paws, face as white as bleached linen. Hands shaking, the younger prince heaved the heavy corpse aside and stood up, apparently unscathed.
Suddenly thirsty, Dara wished for strong drink and his pipe.
The line erupted in crazed shouts of joy. Asaf came charging back toward Dara, teeth bared in a smile that split his beard.
Shuja was walking, somewhat unsteadily, back toward the line.
Placing powder in the pan and stepping back, Talawat murmured, “Fine shooting, Shehzada.”
Dara pointed a trembling finger at his sibling, “I will give you his weight in silver, Talawat. Were it not for you, I would have surely rushed the shot,” he swallowed,”and missed.”
Talawat bowed his head, clearly aware of how badly things might have turned out, “God is merciful and loving-kind, to place one of my tools in the hands of one so gifted in their use: I will use your silver to make more fine guns for your use, Shehzada.”
Aurangzeb rode into view behind his dismounted brother, stopping over the tiger for a moment. After a moment he nudged his horse into motion. Quickly catching up to Shuja, he said something the other responded to with angry shake of the head. Shrugging, the mounted brother rode on toward the firing line.
As he came closer, Dara noticed his quiver was empty and his face had a thin smile drawn across it. For Aurangzeb, such an expression was a broad smile of unrestrained glee.
“I see we each took a tiger this day, brother.”
“What?” Dara asked, wondering where his wits had gone.
Aurangzeb nodded his head in the direction he’d come from. “Another one, possibly this one’s mate or nearly adult offspring, took the last blackbuck in the herd. He took some killing: all my arrows are in him.”
Asaf Khan drew close enough to hear this last, sweating from his exertions. Pausing to catch his breath, he was still beaming and making happy noises when Dara remembered to be civil: “Congratulations, brother, I’m sure it was a fine kill.”
“And to you on yours, Dara, though it appears your beast had an old wound to slow it; an arrow in its flesh, turned to poison.”
“Might explain why it went for Shuja with dead game at hand,” Asaf gasped while Dara tried, mightily, to still his angry tongue.
He failed: “Anger stirs the killer in the hearts of both man and beast,” Dara said, trying not to look at his brother as he did so.
Aurangzeb and Shuja had split up to either side of the herd, and were standing in the stirrups, loosing. Where their arrows fell, antelope staggered out of the herd, dead or dying. Shuja ended up on the near side of the herd, Aurangzeb disappearing into the dust kicked up by the herd and their own mounts.
Dara shook his head. While impressive, their antics were denying him a shot. Not that he couldn’t rely on his skills and shoot anyway, it was simply not a good idea to go firing into a field occupied by two princes, whether the shooter was a brother or not.
He briefly considered taking to his own horse while summoning a drink from one of his body slaves.
“Don’t want to take to your own horse?” Asaf Khan asked.
Having already decided against it, Dara punched his chin toward where his brothers were now racing back towards the firing line in a cloud of dust, “When their horses tire, there will be other game.”
Asaf nodded, looked sidelong at his eldest grandson, “Married life agrees with you, grandson.”
“Oh?” Dara asked, taking the gem-encrusted goblet full of iced fruit juice from his servant.
“You are more patient than you were. I may presume too much when I think it your wife’s doing,” he shrugged, “but there are worse reasons for change in the behavior of men.”
Dara hid his smile by slaking his thirst. Smacking his lips appreciatively, he answered: “Yes, many things are put in their proper places, especially now I have a son on the way.”
“A son? You are so sure? The astrologers tell you it is so?”
“Yes,” Dara half-lied. The up-timer history had it that his son rode to battle with him in his war against Aurangzeb, many years in the future.
“You must send me y–” Asaf stopped in mid-sentence, peering into the dust beyond Aurangzeb and Shuja.
Dara followed the line of his gaze, saw it at a heartbeat later: something gold-orange flowing along in the wake of Shuja’s horse.
“Tiger!” Asaf bellowed in his general’s voice, pointing at the great beast stalking his grandson.
Dara tossed his goblet aside, scrambled for his newest gun.
Shuja, hearing the shout, did the wrong thing: he reined in to look at Asaf Khan. The tiger was within twenty gaz of Shuja. When he came to a stop, it did as well. In fact, it went forequarters down, hunching its rear end.
Asaf was screaming, as were more and more of his men. He started running for his own horse and household guard.
Dara knelt and lifted the butt, surging upright.
Shuja was looking around, trying to identify the threat. His horse tossed its head, moved sideways, uneasy.
Dara pressed his shoulder into the stock, trying to cock the lock, find his target, and get his hand on the firing lever–and had a moment’s panic when he couldn’t find it: Not a lever, a trigger, you fool!
The tiger was rocking its hips, getting ready to charge.
Talawat was beside him, quietly urging: “Shehzada, please do not try to do too much at once. Slow down. Calmly.”
Dara stopped. Breathed out. Found his aim point and his target. Slid his finger into the trigger guard.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Talawat’s silhouette nod. The gunsmith cocked the hammer back for Dara, “She kicks like a mule, Shehzada. Now kill us a tiger.”
Dara squeezed the trigger. The lock snapped forward, steel and flint sparking into the pan. A half-heartbeat later, the gun discharged with a thunderous roar and brutal kick to Dara’s shoulder.
The tiger leapt.
Smoke obscured Dara’s sight for a moment.
Shuja’s horse bolted, riderless, into view.
Talawat stepped forward and turned to face Dara, hands busy as he reloaded the piece with quick, economical motions. He could hear the gunsmith praying even over the shouts of Asaf’s men.
Asaf had stopped his rush to mount. It was too late.
The smoke cleared.
The tiger lay prone, part of one of Shuja’s leg and a boot protruding from beneath it.
Dara’s heart stopped.
It seemed years later when Shuja sat up from between its paws, face as white as bleached linen. Hands shaking, the younger prince heaved the heavy corpse aside and stood up, apparently unscathed.
Suddenly thirsty, Dara wished for strong drink and his pipe.
The line erupted in crazed shouts of joy. Asaf came charging back toward Dara, teeth bared in a smile that split his beard.
Shuja was walking, somewhat unsteadily, back toward the line.
Placing powder in the pan and stepping back, Talawat murmured, “Fine shooting, Shehzada.”
Dara pointed a trembling finger at his sibling, “I will give you his weight in silver, Talawat. Were it not for you, I would have surely rushed the shot,” he swallowed,”and missed.”
Talawat bowed his head, clearly aware of how badly things might have turned out, “God is merciful and loving-kind, to place one of my tools in the hands of one so gifted in their use: I will use your silver to make more fine guns for your use, Shehzada.”
Aurangzeb rode into view behind his dismounted brother, stopping over the tiger for a moment. After a moment he nudged his horse into motion. Quickly catching up to Shuja, he said something the other responded to with angry shake of the head. Shrugging, the mounted brother rode on toward the firing line.
As he came closer, Dara noticed his quiver was empty and his face had a thin smile drawn across it. For Aurangzeb, such an expression was a broad smile of unrestrained glee.
“I see we each took a tiger this day, brother.”
“What?” Dara asked, wondering where his wits had gone.
Aurangzeb nodded his head in the direction he’d come from. “Another one, possibly this one’s mate or nearly adult offspring, took the last blackbuck in the herd. He took some killing: all my arrows are in him.”
Asaf Khan drew close enough to hear this last, sweating from his exertions. Pausing to catch his breath, he was still beaming and making happy noises when Dara remembered to be civil: “Congratulations, brother, I’m sure it was a fine kill.”
“And to you on yours, Dara, though it appears your beast had an old wound to slow it; an arrow in its flesh, turned to poison.”
“Might explain why it went for Shuja with dead game at hand,” Asaf gasped while Dara tried, mightily, to still his angry tongue.
He failed: “Anger stirs the killer in the hearts of both man and beast,” Dara said, trying not to look at his brother as he did so.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Hunter, My Huntress
Submitted the re-worked short story, MIDNIGHT COURT Friday night. Now I am at work on the second in the serial, HUNTER, MY HUNTRESS.
Here is what I came up with this afternoon:
Seeking distraction, he again took up the gun he’d had as a wedding gift from Father last year, the inlaid piece monstrous heavy yet reassuring in its solidity. He sighted down the nearly two gaz of barrel, arms immediately trembling from the weight of iron, ivory inlay, and mahogany.
“Here,” he grunted.
Body slaves overseen by his Atishbaz gunsmith, Talawat, hurriedly set up the iron tripod needed to support the hunting piece while he struggled to hold position.
“Ready, Shehzadi,” Talawat said.
Trying to keep the weight under control, Dara slowly lowered the gun into place. Talawat slotted the pin allowing the gun to stand upright and ready to action into place, easing the awkward weight from Dara’s arms.
Rubbing the ache from his muscles, hoofbeats drew Dara’s attention. He looked down the gradual slope to the watering holes that marked the two sides of the shooting zone for the hunt. The beaters were working toward that spot in a steadily shrinking circle. About one hundred gaz of grassy clearing lay between the slowly-drying watering holes, with about half that much distance between grandfather’s tent and the open space.
One of Asaf Khan’s men emerged from the wood line at a gallop, crossing the zone and pounding up to the camp. In a fine display of horsemanship, the sowar swung down from his mount to land lightly a few paces in front of Dara’s grandfather.
Asaf Khan, standing in the shade of his tent, stepped forward and listened as the young trooper made his report, “At least a hundred head of blackbuck and red antelope, a small herd of nilgai, Wazir. Tiger spoor was also found, but no one has laid eyes on it, yet. Should not be long, now, before the first of the beasts make an appearance.”
Gray beard dancing, the still-powerfully-built Wazir smiled, called out as he waved dismissal to his man: “A tiger would make a worthy prize for one of my grandsons!”
“Perhaps for Dara, grandfather. He has yet to take one.” Aurangzeb drawled from inside the tent.
Dara watched Asaf’s smile dim before he turned and answered, “One tiger could never be enough for the sons of Emperors.”
“I did not say it was, grandfather.” Aurangzeb said, striding from the tent and into the sun.
“I will kill it, grandfather!” Shah Shuja, crowed, raising his bow. Born between Aurangzeb and Dara, Shuja seemed always afire with desire to please his elders. At eighteen he was a man grown, however, and larger than Dara by a head. Of course, that head was rarely full of things other than those he might hunt, fuck, or ride.
Asaf turned to face his eldest grandson, “And you, Dara?”
“I will take what it pleases God to place before me.”
“Pious words,” Asaf said, nodding approval.
Behind grandfather’s back, Aurangzeb shook his head and commanded his horse be brought up.
“Where are you going?” Asaf asked, edges of his beard curling down as he frowned.
“I will take the animals my brothers miss." Aurangzeb's lips curled in a smile, "that way I am sure to have a good day hunting.”
Doing his best to ignore the insult, Dara gestured at his leopards, “Brother, that is why I have brought my cats, to run down escaping game.”
Aurangzeb shrugged, took up a lance. “Then I will race them, and beat them, to the kill.”
Asaf stepped toward Aurangzeb, “I would advise caution, Brave One, if there is a tiger in among them, it will easily overtake a horseman. They can only be hunted safely from elephant howdah.”
Aurangzeb shrugged again, put spurs to his tall horse and sped off to the left of the firing line, a trail of attendants and guards in tow.
“Here they come!” one of grandfather’s cronies cried.
Here is what I came up with this afternoon:
Patience growing short in the afternoon heat, Dara’s favorite leopard yowled and spat at her handler, ready to hunt.
Dara grinned, ready as well. The beaters had started the day before, working through the night, driving all the wild game resident in several square kos toward where the hunting party lay in wait. The prince welcomed the prospect of release from the tension being around Aurangzeb always seemed to provoke in him.
Seeking distraction, he again took up the gun he’d had as a wedding gift from Father last year, the inlaid piece monstrous heavy yet reassuring in its solidity. He sighted down the nearly two gaz of barrel, arms immediately trembling from the weight of iron, ivory inlay, and mahogany.
“Here,” he grunted.
Body slaves overseen by his Atishbaz gunsmith, Talawat, hurriedly set up the iron tripod needed to support the hunting piece while he struggled to hold position.
“Ready, Shehzadi,” Talawat said.
Trying to keep the weight under control, Dara slowly lowered the gun into place. Talawat slotted the pin allowing the gun to stand upright and ready to action into place, easing the awkward weight from Dara’s arms.
Rubbing the ache from his muscles, hoofbeats drew Dara’s attention. He looked down the gradual slope to the watering holes that marked the two sides of the shooting zone for the hunt. The beaters were working toward that spot in a steadily shrinking circle. About one hundred gaz of grassy clearing lay between the slowly-drying watering holes, with about half that much distance between grandfather’s tent and the open space.
One of Asaf Khan’s men emerged from the wood line at a gallop, crossing the zone and pounding up to the camp. In a fine display of horsemanship, the sowar swung down from his mount to land lightly a few paces in front of Dara’s grandfather.
Asaf Khan, standing in the shade of his tent, stepped forward and listened as the young trooper made his report, “At least a hundred head of blackbuck and red antelope, a small herd of nilgai, Wazir. Tiger spoor was also found, but no one has laid eyes on it, yet. Should not be long, now, before the first of the beasts make an appearance.”
Gray beard dancing, the still-powerfully-built Wazir smiled, called out as he waved dismissal to his man: “A tiger would make a worthy prize for one of my grandsons!”
“Perhaps for Dara, grandfather. He has yet to take one.” Aurangzeb drawled from inside the tent.
Dara watched Asaf’s smile dim before he turned and answered, “One tiger could never be enough for the sons of Emperors.”
“I did not say it was, grandfather.” Aurangzeb said, striding from the tent and into the sun.
“I will kill it, grandfather!” Shah Shuja, crowed, raising his bow. Born between Aurangzeb and Dara, Shuja seemed always afire with desire to please his elders. At eighteen he was a man grown, however, and larger than Dara by a head. Of course, that head was rarely full of things other than those he might hunt, fuck, or ride.
Asaf turned to face his eldest grandson, “And you, Dara?”
“I will take what it pleases God to place before me.”
“Pious words,” Asaf said, nodding approval.
Behind grandfather’s back, Aurangzeb shook his head and commanded his horse be brought up.
“Where are you going?” Asaf asked, edges of his beard curling down as he frowned.
“I will take the animals my brothers miss." Aurangzeb's lips curled in a smile, "that way I am sure to have a good day hunting.”
Doing his best to ignore the insult, Dara gestured at his leopards, “Brother, that is why I have brought my cats, to run down escaping game.”
Aurangzeb shrugged, took up a lance. “Then I will race them, and beat them, to the kill.”
Asaf stepped toward Aurangzeb, “I would advise caution, Brave One, if there is a tiger in among them, it will easily overtake a horseman. They can only be hunted safely from elephant howdah.”
Aurangzeb shrugged again, put spurs to his tall horse and sped off to the left of the firing line, a trail of attendants and guards in tow.
“Here they come!” one of grandfather’s cronies cried.
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Latest Thing
For the last few weeks I have been doing a great deal of research on a project for Eric Flint's 1632 Universe. Today I felt ready to begin writing, and put this together in relative short order:
It was rare that he missed an opportunity to show his appreciation for her work. Resisting the urge to show her displeasure, she asked, “What troubles you, brother?”
“I wonder what it will take to shake Father from his grief.”
She strangled a sigh. “Must he be shaken?”
“Our brothers are not idle, sister.”
“No, but neither are they gathering armies to usurp father’s place.”
“Not that we know of, at least.”
“Our friend Mian Mir, in his wisdom, would have you set aside your fear, brother.”
Dara sniffed, “I know. I would argue that it is no sin to fear for one’s family.”
“If you only feared for your family, rather than fearing certain members of it.”
Another sniff, this one companion to a bitter twist of the lips,
“It has always been thus for the sons of this house.”
And the women of our house, they have free reign to do exactly as they wish, do they? She refused to let him see how much his self-pity annoyed her. “But our Father has chosen otherwise, for you.”
Looking through the walls of the garden, Dara whispered, voice so low it nearly drowned in the buzz of industrious insects about them: “Some days, I think he might have chosen the wrong son…”
The honeybee took flight from the flower, releasing the siblings from the stillness that held them. They had barely greeted one another when it flew between them to land on the orchid and crawl into purple folds of the flower, seeking the nectar within and drawing them to watch in silence.
As the bee disappeared deeper into the gardens, wingbeats joining the hum of others of its hive, the brother and sister leaned back and regarded one another, much as they had many times before and, God willing, would have opportunity to do for many years to come.
She noted his smooth brow was furrowed under the gorgeous yellow turban he wore. She had not seen him so troubled since father had sent Aurangzib from the court. Jahanara folded hands in her lap, waiting. It was not often that the eldest came to visit, but when he did, it was nearly always to ask the same questions.
“And what of Father, sister mine?”
She smiled inwardly–but not wanting to show how easily she had read him and therefore hurt his feelings–she didn’t let the smile curve her lips. “He still pines for our beloved Mother, of course. The only thing he looks forward to is the daily meeting with his advisors regarding her tomb.”
“His remaining wives?” Dara asked.
She smiled openly. She had been composing a verse this morning, a playful little thing, and used part of it now: “The harem persists in its perennial practices: showing their love of Father and whining at his inattention.”
Dara nodded absently, but didn’t return her smile.
It was rare that he missed an opportunity to show his appreciation for her work. Resisting the urge to show her displeasure, she asked, “What troubles you, brother?”
“I wonder what it will take to shake Father from his grief.”
She strangled a sigh. “Must he be shaken?”
“Our brothers are not idle, sister.”
“No, but neither are they gathering armies to usurp father’s place.”
“Not that we know of, at least.”
“Our friend Mian Mir, in his wisdom, would have you set aside your fear, brother.”
Dara sniffed, “I know. I would argue that it is no sin to fear for one’s family.”
“If you only feared for your family, rather than fearing certain members of it.”
Another sniff, this one companion to a bitter twist of the lips,
“It has always been thus for the sons of this house.”
And the women of our house, they have free reign to do exactly as they wish, do they? She refused to let him see how much his self-pity annoyed her. “But our Father has chosen otherwise, for you.”
Looking through the walls of the garden, Dara whispered, voice so low it nearly drowned in the buzz of industrious insects about them: “Some days, I think he might have chosen the wrong son…”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)