by Eric Flint
Contents
Part One Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Part Two Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Part Three Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Part Four Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Part Five Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Part Six Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Part Seven Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Part Eight Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Part Nine Chapter 55
Glossary of Terms
Cast of Characters
1637
THE PEACOCK
THRONE
ERIC FLINT
GRIFFIN BARBER
1637: The Peacock Throne
Eric Flint and Griffin Barber
The assassinated Shah Jahan lies entombed beside his beloved wife in the Taj Mahal, while their progeny drag the Mughal Empire into a three-sided struggle over the succession to the Peacock Throne.
The diplomatic and trade mission from the United States of Europe is openly siding with Princess Jahanara and her brother Dara Shikoh. The mission, made up largely of Americans transplanted in time by the Ring of Fire, is providing the siblings with technical assistance as they prepare to fight their rivals for the throne, Aurangzeb and Shah Shuja. Meanwhile, the Afghan adventurer Salim Gadh Yilmaz, confidant of two emperors—Shah Jahan and now his son Dara Shikoh—has been elevated to the position of general. He has great challenges to face, not the least of which is resisting the fierce and forbidden mutual attraction between himself and Princess Jahanara.
As the conflict deepens, the junior members of the mission are sent east to buy opium needed by the USE’s doctors. Their guide, merchant Jadu Das, has an agenda of his own, one entrusted to him by Jahanara: seek out her great uncle, Asaf Khan, and promise whatever is needed to bring his army over to Dara’s side.
The USE’s mission was sent to India in search of goods needed in Europe. But now they find that straightforward task has become enmeshed in a great civil war—for control of the Peacock Throne.
THE RING OF FIRE SERIES
1632 by Eric Flint
1633 by Eric Flint & David Weber
1634: The Baltic War by Eric Flint & David Weber
1634: The Galileo Affair by Eric Flint & Andrew Dennis
1634: The Bavarian Crisis by Eric Flint & Virginia DeMarce
1634: The Ram Rebellion by Eric Flint & Virginia DeMarce et al.
1635: The Cannon Law by Eric Flint & Andrew Dennis
1635: The Dreeson Incident by Eric Flint & Virginia DeMarce
1635: The Eastern Front by Eric Flint
1635: The Papal Stakes by Eric Flint & Charles E. Gannon
1636: The Saxon Uprising by Eric Flint
1636: The Kremlin Games by Eric Flint, Gorg Huff & Paula Goodlett
1636: The Devil’s Opera by Eric Flint & David Carrico
1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies by Eric Flint & Charles E. Gannon
1636: The Viennese Waltz by Eric Flint, Gorg Huff & Paula Goodlett
1636: The Cardinal Virtues by Eric Flint & Walter Hunt
1635: A Parcel of Rogues by Eric Flint & Andrew Dennis
1636: The Ottoman Onslaught by Eric Flint
1636: Mission to the Mughals by Eric Flint & Griffin Barber
1636: The Vatican Sanction by Eric Flint & Charles E. Gannon
1637: The Volga Rules by Eric Flint, Gorg Huff & Paula Goodlett
1637: The Polish Maelstrom by Eric Flint
1636: The China Venture by Eric Flint & Iver P. Cooper
1636: The Atlantic Encounter by Eric Flint & Walter H. Hunt
1637: No Peace Beyond the Line by Eric Flint & Charles E. Gannon
1636: Calabar’s War by Charles E. Gannon & Robert E. Waters
1637: The Peacock Throne by Eric Flint & Griffin Barber
1635: The Tangled Web by Virginia DeMarce
1635: The Wars for the Rhine by Anette Pedersen
1636: Seas of Fortune by Iver P. Cooper
1636: The Chronicles of Dr. Gribbleflotz by Kerryn Offord & Rick Boatright
1636: Flight of the Nightingale by David Carrico
Time Spike by Eric Flint & Marilyn Kosmatka
The Alexander Inheritance by Eric Flint, Gorg Huff & Paula Goodlett
The Macedonian Hazard by Eric Flint, Gorg Huff & Paula Goodlett
Grantville Gazette volumes I-V, ed. by Eric Flint
Grantville Gazette VI-VII, ed. by Eric Flint & Paula Goodlett
Grantville Gazette VIII, ed. by Eric Flint & Walt Boyes
Ring of Fire I-IV, ed. by Eric Flint
1637: The Peacock Throne
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Eric Flint and Griffin Barber
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
A Baen Books Original
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
www.baen.com
ISBN: 978-1-9821-2535-6
eISBN: 978-1-62579-806-0
Cover art by Tom Kidd
Maps by Michael Knopp
First printing, May 2021
Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Flint, Eric, author. | Barber, Griffin, author.
Title: 1637 : the Peacock Throne / Eric Flint and Griffin Barber.
Other titles: Peacock Throne
Description: Riverdale, NY : Baen, [2021] | Series: The Ring of fire
Identifiers: LCCN 2021005965 | ISBN 9781982125356 (hardcover)
Subjects: GSAFD: Fantasy fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3556.L548 A6186927 2021 | DDC 813/.54—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021005965
Pages by Joy Freeman (www.pagesbyjoy.com)
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Electronic Version by Baen Books
www.baen.com
To my parents, Bill & Donna,
for giving so much down the years
—Griffin
To Professor Stanley Wolpert,
December 23, 1927–February 19, 2019.
Stanley Wolpert was my professor of Indian history at UCLA and the person who in
troduced me to that immense and fascinating field of the human past. I’ve now written eight novels which are in one way or another set in Indian history—the six-volume Belisarius series which I co-authored with David Drake and the (so far) two volumes set in my Ring of Fire series—and any number of other works in which Indian history and culture figures to some degree. That never would or could have happened without the impact and influence that Prof. Wolpert had on me as a young man. I have been thankful to him for decades and remember him very well, even though I never saw him again after I left UCLA in 1971.
Such is the fate of excellent teachers. They are remembered by their students long after the instructor has forgotten them. Sic transit gloria mundi is usually translated as “Thus passes the glory of the world.” But I prefer to think of it as “Thus the glory of the world is passed on.”
—Eric Flint
Part One
February, 1636
Flame burns it not, waters cannot overwhelm
—The Rig Veda
Chapter 1
Agra
Palace of Amar Singh Rathore
Jahanara stood in the stirrups and gave Azar her lead as they left their own half. The fierce little pony flowed across the turf like the wind. Enjoying the moment, the princess leaned over to strike at the ball. An instant later her mallet sent it spinning across to one of her new guards, Yonca.
“Bad pass,” the princess muttered, seeing she’d sent the ball to where the Turkic warrior woman had been rather than where she was headed.
But Yonca showed great skill as Damla and Roshanara closed on her, coming to a complete stop that would have sent a weaker rider over pommel, mane, and mouth to slap face-first into the turf. Her opponents went by, forced by her sudden stop to move aside or collide with the rump of Yonca’s mount. The talented horsewoman wasn’t done showing her skill, however: she leaned well out of the saddle and clapped her mallet against the ball, sending it in a curving arc that straightened along the boundary line ahead of Jahanara.
Roshanara, the closest rider from the opposite team, snapped her reins against her pony’s flanks and set out in pursuit.
Jahanara lowered her head and again let Azar run. She had the straighter line and the faster horse, but Roshanara was smaller than her sister, and hadn’t been riding her mount all that hard until the last few runs of play.
The other players were out of position, and could only join the shouted encouragement from the gathered women watching from the shade of the gardens. The birthday celebrations for Nadira’s son had gathered nearly every wife, mother, sister, and daughter of Dara’s umara to the gardens of Amar Singh Rathore’s palatial home to participate, most of whom watched the two princesses compete.
The distance between the two players and the ball closed with exhilarating speed, making Jahanara’s lips curve with feral delight.
Then the pair were riding flat out and side by side. The ball had stopped beside the boundary, meaning that Jahanara could only strike at it while riding out of bounds and from the left while Roshanara had it on her right, strong side. Jahanara quickly switched hands and dropped her mallet for the swing.
Roshanara’s quick overhand swing of the mallet clacked against the ball, sending it rocketing back the way they’d come.
Jahanara’s mallet tangled with her sister’s as the momentum of the smaller woman’s swing carried the shafts together. The impact sent a violent shiver up the wood that stung Jahanara’s hands and wrenched her shoulder.
Roshanara was even more affected, as she’d stood in the stirrups and used every bit of strength in her body to make the hit. With her swing stopped so abruptly, Roshanara lost control of her mallet and struck her pony hard on the leg, making it stumble.
She overbalanced and started to topple sideways, away from Jahanara.
Jahanara dropped her mallet and snatched at her sister, hoping to stay her fall. She missed, but Roshanara caught her outstretched arm and used it to lever herself back upright.
As one, they slowed and turned back onto the field.
“My thanks, sister,” Roshanara said, cheeks still flushed from exertion and perhaps, Jahanara reflected, from sudden fear.
Jahanara nodded, feeling the now-familiar surge of shame over the beating she’d given Roshanara the night of Father’s murder. She wanted to apologize, but could not. To do so would be to admit everything that had happened that night, and that would only make her angry once again.
Instead, Jahanara nodded at the far end of the field where Damla and the rest of Roshanara’s team were celebrating the final point and said, “Fine play, sister. You surprised me with that overhand strike, you delivered it so swiftly.”
Roshanara’s cheeks colored more deeply. “It was my only good play for the entirety of the game.”
“Better to properly seize an opportunity once than attempt to seize every chance, however small, and fail.”
Letting their mounts cool, the princesses rode in a slow, silent circle before Roshanara departed for the accolades of the gathered women.
Sadness seized Jahanara as she watched her sister leave. Roshanara had been in virtual hiding since the night Jahanara had attacked her, and only come out for the day’s events at Nadira’s insistence. And if Smidha’s spies and informants were to be believed, Roshanara hadn’t been in contact with anyone outside the harem precincts. Jahanara dismissed as cruel rumor those reports that claimed Roshanara had not cried since that terrible night. Roshanara had never been a favorite sibling, and her younger sister’s part in the events that led to Father’s assassination had sent Jahanara into a killing rage.
Now, though, when her temper had cooled, Jahanara wished desperately for someone to speak to of her concerns, both political and personal.
Atisheh still recovered at Mission House and was not given to easy sentiment or concerted effort to unearth the meaning of life in the first place.
Smidha was an eternal help in most things, but sometimes the elder woman was just that: old-fashioned in her thinking and…she was not inclined to speak of physical passions as anything less than a liability for her princess. And Jahanara had certainly not forgotten the feel of Salim’s muscled flesh under her fingers, the interest in his eyes. The memory—and imagining what might come of his hands exploring her flesh—had kept her awake on more than one occasion in the last weeks.
None should be so well equipped to understand as her sister, and Jahanara was left wishing they had been closer as children so she might unburden herself without fear of betrayal…
Knowing wishes would not reverse the established courses of their lives, she directed her pony to the waiting eunuch. And, as such melancholy thoughts would hardly serve in front of the collected ladies of the court, she sought distraction from her personal fears. As always, politics proved the easiest distraction to turn to; all she need do was think of the many challenges facing Dara’s rule. Their brothers, the umara, the various religious and cultural factions, even the inertia of old policies and imperial precedent—each posed difficulties for her brother, whose health was also in question, the resultant pain of his injuries still affecting his moods and clarity of thought. That last was something she and the inner circle of Dara’s court dare not speak of openly, even in the most private of circumstances. That Dara was often confused was something his enemies would trade upon mercilessly.
That Dara himself had used his infirmity to argue against taking another wife had been a surprise. A surprise that, upon reflection, made horrible sense: the betrothal ceremony alone could prove enough of an ordeal to force him to reveal his weakness before the court. Such would certainly prove disastrous for their cause, exactly the opposite of the purpose of marriage alliances.
No, they were wiser to wait in that regard.
She dismounted and handed over Azar’s reins, who nuzzled her in search of sweets. Smiling, she patted the mare’s neck and entered the enclosure set up to allow the players to bathe and change clothes before returning to the festi
vities.
“Begum Sahib,” Smidha said, waving a bevy of servants forward to help Jahanara remove her riding clothes.
“Smidha,” Jahanara acknowledged.
“You played well, Begum Sahib.”
She shook her head. “Not well enough to beat Damla! That woman was born on a horse.”
“She is no Atisheh, though.”
Jahanara sighed. “No, she is not.”
“Skanda’s praises, but Atisheh was also born ahorse with a blade in her hand!”
“True enough,” Jahanara answered, preferring not to think too much about the day Atisheh had proven herself so proficient with a sword.
Stripped, she stepped into the waiting bath.
“Oil or water, Begum Sahib?”
“Oil. My hair will never dry, otherwise.”
Smidha set to work cleaning and untangling her hair with a comb and oils as her body slaves washed the dust and horse from their mistress.
“Are my sister’s guests content?”
“It seems they are. They very much enjoyed the poetry, music, and of course, the pulu match. The betting was heavy, and some lost more than they should have bet.”
Sensing a reproving note, Jahanara asked, “So, how much did you lose?”
“Nothing, Begum Sahib.”
“You did not bet?”
