by Eric Flint
“No, I bet on Damla and Roshanara to win. I earned quite a few rupees…Though you gave me quite a scare at the end. I thought that I was going to owe our hostess, Paramjit, all my incomes for a week.”
Jahanara snorted. “Never has my failure to win pleased me so. Are you done?”
A gentle tug at her hair. “Almost.”
Jahanara sat through a few more minutes of being tended to before Smidha judged her presentable. She left the enclosure, Smidha following, and found Damla waiting outside, having eschewed the baths in favor of a skin of some drink. Truly, the woman was a slimmer version of her cousin, Atisheh. But lately come to service, Damla was young for her position as Atisheh’s second-in-command, but had her kinswoman’s full approval, at least until Atisheh could ride and fight again.
“Begum Sahib.”
“Congratulations, Damla. You were magnificent on the field.”
A shrug of armored shoulders. “I but tried to honor my uncle’s teaching.”
“My sister and I, unarmored, and on the finest ponies money can buy, were still outmaneuvered by you and your sisters as often as not.”
Another shrug. “We have had more time to play than you, and do not have your…refinement in other arenas.”
“Refinement?” Jahanara asked. She set out toward the dining area set up for the feast, intending to make a few final checks of the arrangements.
“I can swing a sword, shoot a bow, and ride, but my mother and aunts all despaired of ever teaching me proper calligraphy. My memory is also very bad. My father was certain I will never be married, as I could never recall the Prophet’s words pertaining to the conduct of a proper wife.”
“And Atisheh?”
A snort. “Hers was an even more difficult circumstance…but that is her story to tell.”
Jahanara attempted to imagine what Atisheh’s life must have been like as a child and found she could not. Then she tried to imagine the man the warrior woman might marry but could not think of one who would not be intimidated by her superior skill and proven strength.
“The lack of a husband certainly does not seem to cause you any distress,” Smidha said.
“True.” Another shrug of armored shoulders. “I do not feel the lack. God granted me my skills and set me this path. I serve. It is enough.”
“And we thank God and you, humbly, for the service you give us,” Jahanara said, heart suddenly so full she had to stop herself reaching out and taking the woman’s gauntlet in her hands. Such would not be seemly, if for no other reason than Damla was a recent addition to the harem guards, brought on from this very house to serve the imperial harem. A moment’s reflection allowed Jahanara to recognize the source of this sudden surge of feeling for Damla. The woman who looked, even sounded like, Atisheh. Atisheh, to whom Jahanara owed everything.
I must visit her soon, and to hell with the proprieties.
Her thoughts were, by necessity, silenced as their small group joined the other ladies attending the party. Moments after she was seated Nadira ordered the food be brought out. The feast was outstanding, and the company of the women exceptional, and lasted well into the evening. Varicolored lanterns were brought out as the first troupe of dancers entered and began to perform for the enjoyment of all.
After the remains of the repast were removed and the dancers finished their routines, Nadira led a reading of poetry written by the very pinnacle of the ladies of the court. In preparation for the celebration, Nadira had asked each lady to compose a few verses with a woman’s lot in life as the theme.
Jahanara’s verses were well received, though she avoided speaking directly to the issue that drove Nadira’s choice of themes. Instead, her poem focused on the search for wisdom in uncertain times.
At its end, Nadira launched into her own verses, which the accomplished poet had completed only last week. As she had heard her sister-in-law’s poem already, Jahanara half-listened while considering Nadira’s intent for the evening.
The celebration of her son’s birthday had been planned, in part, to give Nadira an opportunity to silence a few rumors that had begun circulating about Jahanara. It seemed that Jahanara’s management of Dara’s harem had caused some resentment. The rumors complained that it had been one thing for Jahanara to manage Father’s well-established harem of many wives and even more concubines, but quite another to do it for Dara, a young emperor with only the one wife and therefore very few close ties with his senior courtiers.
For her part, Jahanara could understand the ill will that fostered such rumors: if you, your parents, and your husband had spent a great deal of time and effort inveigling a position at court beside Nadira, it was understandable that resentment would follow upon discovery that Nadira was not the sole arbiter of who and what service was worthy of reward. No, the blackest rumors to reach her ears made her a power-hungry creature who refused to step down, only persisting in her position in order to exert undue control over her brother.
As her voice raised in protest would only serve to confirm the rumors to the minds of her detractors, it had been decided that Nadira would take the lead.
Her thoughts were interrupted as Nadira finished her reading and the ladies applauded enthusiastically.
Smiling, Nadira led a spirited discussion choosing which were the best couplets of the night. Jahanara participated, but less actively than she might have in order to allow Nadira all the attention she deserved. Instead, she sat quietly admiring her sister-in-law’s ability to guide the conversation to her objectives.
Seizing on the couplet of one of her senior ladies, Nadira expounded a few moments on the quality of the verse before focusing on the matching of it to her chosen theme.
“In reading the verse, I love that it leads the reader down a certain path of thought to a crossroads. On the one hand, the joys of a life in service to another. On the other, the desire to be beholden and responsible only to oneself and to God.
“Now that I am a mother and feel the ever-present ache of love and duty toward my son, I want to devote all of my time to being the best mother I can be.”
The other mothers among those gathered for the party expressed wholehearted agreement with the empress as she paused to drink her julabmost. While her courtiers nodded and spoke among themselves, the wife of the emperor met Jahanara’s gaze over the rim of her goblet…and winked.
Jahanara covered a smile.
Lowering her drink, Nadira resumed speaking. “Even at the cost of managing my husband’s harem and its affairs. I told my beloved husband as much, and he agreed that while affairs of state occupy his mind and weigh upon his spirit, I should concentrate my efforts upon rearing our son.
“This in mind, my beloved husband asked Jahanara Begum”—she raised her goblet again, this time in salute to Jahanara—“to take up many responsibilities on our behalf. As a dutiful sister to both myself and my beloved husband, Jahanara Begum has resumed those duties that she discharged so well for Shah Jahan. I wish to thank her for this kindness, and for the many other kindnesses she has bestowed upon me since we became sisters.”
The gathered ladies of the court joined their hostess in saluting the emperor’s sister. For the rest of the night, the ladies were far warmer in their regard for Jahanara than they had been in the weeks since Dara had assumed the throne.
Over the next few days she saw a general increase in ladies asking for her advice, suggestions, and opinions on a wide variety of subjects. Soon after that there came an increase in petitioners and requests for intercession in certain matters that required the attention of the foremost lady of the court.
Nadira’s message, it seemed, had been fully delivered.
Now it only remained to be seen how long the lesson would remain.
Chapter 2
Surat, on the Gulf of Khambhat
West coast of India
Lønesom Vind shifted at anchor as the tide raised the river under her, making her sweating captain sway on the ratlines lowered from her waist. The movement scarcely dela
yed Strand, who was far slimmer than he’d been when ship and crew had first been chartered by the USE mission.
Despite—or perhaps because of—the weight loss, he felt better than he had in years, and certainly far better than he had the last time he’d endured the Indian heat. In fact, the entire crew was, as a result of the up-timer’s dietary regimen, more fit than any he’d served with.
Feet on the deck of the Vind again, Captain Rune Strand smiled.
And now, to go with our good health, great wealth! At long last, we have the firman of trade the up-timers sought for us! He spun the bag hanging from his shoulder around and opened it, drawing the beribboned and medallion-strewn scroll into the light. Of course, the firman had also been accompanied by a request from John for two of the special shells the USE Navy had supplied for Lønesom Vind’s guns, but he was sure and certain they could be spared.
Eager to share the good news with his oldest companion, he looked aft and up. Loke stood looking downriver, out toward the open ocean.
Assuming the man was staring out toward the sea with the longing all of them felt, he quickly mounted the steps.
Loke didn’t turn to face him, leaning hard on the rail. “Captain—”
“Loke, we have it! We have the—” The good news died on his lips as his eyes followed the path of the younger man’s gaze.
Three small galleys were rowing, hard, upriver. Even at the distance he could see naked blades and no few bows were in the hands of those not hauling at oars. And they were approaching from the wrong direction to be soldiers of a local zamindar’s or even the mansabdar’s garrison troopers.
In fact…he turned and looked to the distant castle, city, and docks, which were just now reacting to the galleys. Poor sailors at the best of times, the local soldiery would be no help to the ships riding at anchor. Worse still, the crew had just completed a careening of Vind, and Strand, in an abundance of caution, had ordered Lønsom Vind as far from the castle as he dared. Sailors in the east never knew when the local potentate would decide that taking a European vessel was just the thing to solve a treasury problem, and being under the castle’s guns made him twitchy.
“Pirates, in Surat?” Loke asked, his wave taking in the other ships just upriver and in the deepest part of the channel, including the vast bulk of the junk owned by Jahanara Begum Sahib for the use of pilgrims en route to Mecca. “Won’t the emperor come down on them like the wrath of God?”
“With what navy? And, besides”—Strand gestured with the scroll—“we’ve had news from inland: the emperor is dead.”
Loke nodded toward the approaching galleys. “They heard before we did?”
“Seems so.” He considered shouting for his men to man the guns, but didn’t want to precipitate an attack on his ship if the pirates had another in mind.
“Timed their approach to ride the tidal bore,” Loke said.
“Eases the current they must fight and gives them an onshore wind,” Strand agreed.
The galleys altered course, settling into a staggered line on a direct course for Lønsom Vind.
“Fordømt!” he cursed. Just when things were looking up.
Loke made better use of his tongue, cupping his hands and bellowing, “Pirates! All hands to arms! Light your cords!”
Lønesom Vind erupted in shouts and the pounding of feet and, within moments, the stink of match cords from the leader of each gun team.
Strand spent the next few heartbeats estimating time, distance, and numbers. Disgusted, he shook his head and spat over the rail. “Axes, Loke. Cut the anchor line.”
“But—”
The captain cut him off. “You know I hate losing such an expensive piece of kit as much as the next ship’s master, but we’ll get perhaps one good broadside as she turns with the current, more than we would if we tried to bring it in.” He left unsaid that anchors could be replaced far more readily than lives and, while she didn’t have a great many, the cannon of the Lønsom Vind could very well even the odds, especially if the loads acquired just before they left Hamburg worked as well as the USE Navy man claimed.
If.
Loke nodded, relayed the orders.
Axes started falling as Strand bellowed to the waist of the ship: “Special load!”
“Special load, aye!”
One man of each gun team retrieved a heavy wooden cylinder and shoved it home atop the powder bag already packed in.
“Loaded-ed-ed.” The shouts of each gun’s team leader made a stammer as each gun was rolled into battery.
“Damn them,” Strand muttered, watching the shadow of the mast as the ship started to swing. “Men aloft. We’ll need some sail for after.”
“Yes, Captain!” Loke again relayed his orders. “They make a brave show, eh?” he asked, watching the pirates again.
“That they do…” He calculated distances and angles, drew a deep breath, and called, “Make ready! Two guns to a boat, aye?”
“Aye!” the gun captains shouted among themselves, designating their targets.
The crews quivered, as prepared as could be expected.
“Think the Navy man was exaggerating?” Loke asked.
Strand shrugged. “That’s why I’m going to let them get closer than he claimed necessary.”
The lead galley had a small piece affixed across the bow. It boomed, belching off-white smoke and sending its shot skipping across the water to drown a few paces short of the Lønesom Vind.
Loke sighed, answered the look his captain shot him with: “I’d hoped they might try and parley.”
The other two galleys turned slightly, angling to maximize the volleys from the mass of bowmen they carried along the raised walkway running the length of the little ships.
Arrows began arcing toward the USE ship.
“That’s not a good sign.”
Strand nodded and, judging the time right, bellowed, “Fire!”
The starboard side of his ship erupted in a series of horrendous bangs followed by a peculiar sound he’d never heard before, something like the world’s largest, angriest nest of wasps flying very fast away from him.
The gun captains started their men on the reloading process as the smoke cleared.
Strand didn’t think a second volley would be necessary.
All three boats were drifting, decks awash in blood and less identifiable remains of men, oars stilled and sails shredded.
He’d once been on the dock when a ship’s magazine exploded at anchor, sending slivers of timber hundreds of paces through the air with man-killing force. A lighter had been approaching the vessel when it went off, and every man aboard it had been screaming for mercy.
Lønesom Vind’s guns had each discharged a mass of lead balls with similar—and far better-directed—force to that explosion. The result was carnage so great, so total, the sharks that cruised upriver would struggle to find a morsel large enough to fight over.
The sound of Loke throwing up was loud in the silence that followed.
“Dear God,” Strand breathed.
Men, like rats, often survive even the most devastating of blows.
So it was with the pirates: a few screams at first, then some slight movement from the galleys, men grasping oars or lost limbs, lathered in the blood of their companions.
* * *
The local mansabdar sent a small galley out to check on Lønesom Vind some hours after the—Strand dared not call it a skirmish, but couldn’t bring himself to call it a massacre, either—and had finally settled on—volley. Strand didn’t begrudge them the time: finding a translator was a time-consuming problem, especially since the English had their firman revoked and been forcibly evicted. In the end they used a local to translate Gujarati to Dutch, which Strand spoke passably well, even if he’d been told by his wife his accent was horribly thick.
He was surprised to see the expensive robe the leader of the delegation wore, and even more surprised as the man was introduced as mansabdar of the local imperial forces; so surprised
it required him a few moments to catch up to the conversation and ask, “Beg pardon?”
“Who were these men that attacked you?” the translator repeated as his client eyed the Lønesom Vind’s guns.
“Abyssinians, from their look,” Strand said, shrugging. The distances involved made that unlikely, but he didn’t know enough about the region’s coastal communities to say otherwise.
“You took no prisoners?”
“We tried, but several jumped overboard, fearing we would fire on them again. The sharks…” He blinked to quell the memory, swallowed before continuing, “Well, the sharks had them before we could attempt a rescue. Their wounded did not survive the wait.”
The mansabdar nodded, said something Strand didn’t quite catch and the translator didn’t deign to illuminate.
Biting back impatience, Strand asked, “What’s that?”
“Swalley Hole. The English used it. Not best place, but enough to shelter one, two deep ships while waiting for firman. Mansabdar just had word from news writer: Now the English gone, pirates come. Try and take goods.”
“What of the Portos?” The Portuguese had nearly a hundred years of history in these waters, and had long since established a system of extorting pilgrims and traders heading to Mecca. Sometimes they even did what they were paid to do, and protected shipping. Certainly they were an ever-present threat to everyone.
A waggle of the head that could mean anything. “Many ships at Goa, not so many north. Especially without monsoon wind to carry trade.”
Strand pointedly looked to the shore and the many light galleys of the mansabdar’s fleet drawn up along it and asked, “So, what will be done to ensure our safety?”
The mansabdar grinned, pointed at Lønesom Vind’s cannon, and said something to the effect of: “What, you’re worried, even with those?”
Strand held up the copy of the firman. “Trade is made more difficult aboard ship, and this is the emperor’s surety of our safety.”
The man sobered, cocked his head, and said something lengthy and complicated. The translator, however, said flatly, “Which one?”
