by Eric Flint
The captain resisted the urge to grab the translator by his robe and throw him overboard, but only just.
The translator must have realized how angry he’d made the big Dane because he quickly added, “Truly, all is in doubt. All mansabs must be”—he visibly groped for the proper word before finding it—“confirmed…by new emperor. Each recipient must declare their support for their preferred claimant.”
Strand’s brows knitted together, trying to piece together what that meant and hoping it didn’t mean what it seemed to.
The noble went and said something more, grin reappearing in his beard.
Eyeing Strand warily, the translator dutifully said, “Do not fear, all things according to His will, in His time.”
Damn, it does mean what I thought.
* * *
“This is not good,” Loke said as they watched the galley head ashore.
“No, it is not,” Strand said. “The fellow did say we could likely get away with trading on the firman we have, so long as we get it confirmed as soon as possible.”
“But, isn’t there going to be a war for the throne?”
“I assume so.”
“So why was that man grinning?”
Strand shrugged. “What mercenary isn’t happy at the prospect of a new contract?”
“But I thought mansabdar was a noble title? Such glee hardly seems fitting.”
“I thought so, as well. But then so is a zamindar, and I have yet to speak to one of those…” He knuckled the rail in frustration. “I am not sure how they define such things, but suffice to say it must be very different to what we are used to.”
“And what if the war comes here before the Mission returns?” Loke asked.
“It doesn’t bear thinking on. Without a cargo…”
“We’ve been at anchor too long. The men are already about to lose their minds.”
“That is so.” He sighed. “No use borrowing trouble that has yet to come home to roost.”
Chapter 3
Goa
Portuguese enclave on the west coast of India
Palace of the viceroy
“I’ve had disturbing reports from the local traders, Viceroy Linhares,” Francisco Tinoco De Carvalho said, waving his glass of madeira toward the port. “Pirates all along the coast have grown bolder in the last few weeks, striking at places they never dared before.”
“A direct result of the English being ejected from Surat, I’ll warrant,” another merchant said. “That, and the succession war everyone knows is about to break out.”
The Conde Linhares, Viceroy of the Estado da India, nodded but kept silent. He’d heard it all already, of course, often from the lips of small traders themselves. But, aside from simply placating De Carvalho by hosting this feast for the baptism of the merchant’s nephew, Linhares had hoped for fresh intelligence from those merchants and nobles in attendance. As De Carvalho was the head of the Nuovo Cristao merchant families in Goa, he had sources Linhares lacked, so it was best to pay heed to what the man said.
“You speak as if the Mughals controlled the sea-lanes in the first place,” De Carvalho rumbled.
“Everyone knows that war breeds lawlessness like fleas on a mongrel dog!” the merchant, whose name escaped the viceroy, expounded as a slave topped De Carvalho’s glass off.
“Everyone does know that,” De Carvalho said, looking decidedly bored. “However, news of actual fighting has yet to reach us, and the princes were quite distant from one another at last report, so saying the pirates are already reacting to the news is a bit premature, I think…” He drank from his glass, pursed his lips and continued: “That said, I do suppose pirates will find it easier to get rid of stolen goods without Shah Jahan threatening every petty sultan with dire consequences should they interfere with his trade concessions.”
“Exactly my p—!”
As their conversation seemed destined to provide no fresh intelligence, Linhares interrupted the merchant. “As to the increase in piracy: I have already sent out orders for each captaincy to set a schedule of patrols.” Not that such orders would do much good, given that resources were perpetually thin on the ground—and even more so at sea—in the Estado da India.
“Father Cristovao De Jesus,” Ambrosio whispered from the viceroy’s elbow.
“Begging your pardon,” De Carvalho asked, not to be put off by the whisperings of a servant in the viceroy’s ear, “but does the crown have an official position on who among the Mughal princelings we will back?”
“For that, I have begun certain arrangements. As yet, nothing is set in stone, however,” Linhares said, eyes on the Franciscan father as the latter was introduced to the proud parents of the fresh-baptized child.
De Jesus was a slight man with the sloped shoulders and perpetual squint of the scholar, but Linhares knew him for an active fellow, having been hard at work in the church’s efforts to convert the Muslims and Hindus of Goa almost as soon as he arrived. The delay had only been occasioned by one of the inevitable illnesses everyone suffered on arriving here. The churchman had also shown a gift for languages, evidently having picked up enough Konkani in his years in the back country to write the first Portuguese and Latin grammars.
De Carvalho turned slightly, following the viceroy’s gaze.
Linhares did not miss the souring of his expression.
“You do not like our Franciscan friend?” he asked, quietly.
“I do not know enough of him to like or dislike him, but I think the Estado has enough churchmen. What we need are soldiers and sailors ready to defend the king’s property and loyal subjects. I would even go so far as to think we could use more settlers, even with the problems they inevitably cause.”
At least he’s not a Jesuit.
“One can only make do with what tools God places at one’s disposal,” Linhares said, casting a significant look at the Franciscan.
“True, Your Excellency,” De Carvalho said, looking from the priest to Linhares. “We will leave you to it, then.” Taking his oblivious friend by the arm, De Carvalho moved off to circulate among the other guests.
The moment they had some privacy Ambrosio said, “The Englishman is installed in your study, Your Excellency. He and His Excellency the archbishop were engaged in conversation when I left.”
“Good. Inform His Excellency I will be up presently.” Seeing De Jesus free, he started toward the priest.
“A toast to our host!” one of the celebrants called. His companions all raised glasses, turning to the viceroy.
Linhares nodded and added the appropriate returns to God and King before the toast was drunk, hoping they would leave it at that. Of course, some of the more reckless or drunk in the group moved in his direction, eager to be seen with the most powerful man in Goa.
The viceroy needn’t have worried, for De Carvalho intercepted them before they could occupy any more of his time. He was able to give his full attention to the priest as he approached, assessing him in light of the plans he’d laid.
“Your Excellency,” De Jesus said, bowing from the waist.
“Father De Jesus,” Linhares returned. “Might you have a moment to attend me?”
If the fact the viceroy knew his name without an introduction surprised him, the priest covered with better skill than most, bowing again. “I am at your service, Your Excellency.”
“Good. Follow.”
As being a good host was not without its requirements, Linhares spent a few moments informing the younger De Carvalho that he would be returning momentarily. The process allowed him to see how the presence of De Jesus was received by his supporters and those of his opponents who were present. Some of the laymen eyed the priest with calculation, only a few with concern. Most of those were from the Nuovo Cristao families under Linhares’ protection.
Those few Jesuits welcome at the palace bristled, of course.
Father Vittorio di Roma, the Dominican who had performed the baptism, was more genial, even greeting him persona
lly. But then, Father Vittorio was always at great pains to appear a friendly sort, especially as the current archbishop of Goa was a Franciscan. Never mind that he was a principal judge of the Office of Inquisition in Goa and, in that capacity, frequently ordered the burnings of Konkans for returning to their gentile ways, not to mention his repeated—and secret, or so he thought—petitions to Archbishop dos Martires for the right to examine the De Carvalhos and the other Nuovo Cristao families for heresy.
Making the last of his excuses, Linhares filed away his observations for future review and took his leave of the crowd. He took the stair to his study two at a time, De Jesus scrambling to keep up.
A slave opened the door ahead of him, revealing the large, airy chamber the viceroy conducted much of his business from. Two men were already present, one sitting, the other standing at the sideboard, ridiculously tall lace ruff at his neck identifying him as English even if Linhares hadn’t already known the fellow’s nationality. His Majesty Philip IV had wisely outlawed such wasteful ostentation even before Linhares had left home more than a decade ago, but the English were a backward people in many ways.
On seeing the other man, Father De Jesus stopped at the entrance and was nearly clipped at the heel by the closing of the door behind him.
“Good evening, Your Excellency,” Linhares said, thin smile creasing his lips at the younger priest’s reaction. Everyone knew the archbishop was on a tour of the churches of the Estado, so it must be a shock for the father to find Archbishop Francisco dos Martires seated in the office of the viceroy, sipping from a glass.
“Greetings, President Methwold.”
“Thank you for receiving me, Your Excellency,” the English East India Company man said in passable Castilian, bowing low.
Ignoring both the Englishman and Linhares, Father De Jesus bent to kiss the archbishop’s ring, receiving a benediction in return.
“Can we, perhaps, agree to set aside the social requirements of our individual styles for this meeting?” the archbishop said, smiling over the crown of his subordinate’s bent head. “We’ll be all night sorting out who is addressing whom, what with all the required ‘Your Excellencies.’”
Everyone but Father De Jesus readily agreed and Linhares took the priest’s delayed response as a result of either his movement to stand behind the archbishop’s chair or simply being intimidated at the presence of his betters.
Impatient to get the preliminaries out of the way, Linhares addressed President Methwold in Castilian: “I trust you have been keeping well, Mr. Methwold?”
“Yes, Lord Linhares, I have been. Please accept my thanks on behalf of the Company for your hospitality and the generous favors you have rendered the Company’s employees since we were so violently ejected from the Mughals’ lands.”
“You are most welcome. Indeed, it is on account of that favor that I asked you here tonight.”
Methwold’s expression didn’t so much change as harden, the lines of his face growing deeper as he looked from the priests to his host.
Linhares recognized the look immediately: Methwold was a fierce negotiator. Not two years past the two had sat across from one another and settled a peace between the Estado and the Company to better deal with the increased threat the Dutch posed to the trade of all nations in the waters of the East. That it had hardly made a difference in the face of Dutch depredations was neither here nor there; each knew the other for an honorable man.
“As and if the requirements of the Company allow it, you can be certain I will make good on those favors,” the man said after an instance’s quiet consideration.
“Good, good. I do not believe what I have to ask of you will conflict with the desires of the Company’s investors. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
The archbishop cleared his throat while Methwold thought that statement over. “For my part, I have a favor to ask of my young brother, here.”
De Jesus came round the chair and knelt before the archbishop again.
“I would ask you to lead a diplomatic mission on behalf of Christendom and the crown to meet with the young man we hope will be the next Mughal emperor.”
If Methwold had any objections to a Catholic priest representing “Christendom,” Linhares couldn’t see it. That kind of self-control was one reason the Englishman was here.
“To what purpose is my meeting with this Mohammedan prince, Your Excellency?” the priest asked.
Linhares was a bit taken aback by the direct question. His assessment of De Jesus’ character increased in light of it. Not everyone could question authority with such apparent ease.
“To pledge our combined”—the archbishop nodded toward Methwold—“support, and secure the right to open churches and schools for the common people in the territory he commands, once he ascends the throne.”
“Your Excellency, honesty makes me doubt I’m the best man for this. I am scarcely competent in Persian, have almost nothing of the courtly manners that such a mission would require…”
An expressionless Methwold looked sidelong at Linhares, who said, “The particular prince we would have you approach is rather ascetic in his religion. He does not hold much with ostentation in religion or philosophy.”
“To put it bluntly: he doesn’t like Jesuits. Thinks them arrogant and high-handed,” the archbishop amplified.
A startled snort escaped William Methwold’s control. While it was unlikely the man was unaware of the differences between the Orders and their respective methods of converting the heathen and the gentile, to have such division spoken aloud by a prince of the church in front of an Anglican of any rank was unheard of.
“But my work converting the local gentiles—”
“Commends you to the viceroy, to me, and to God. As does your gift of tongues.”
The archbishop allowed a brief silence while his subordinate searched his heart.
“Your Excellency, I can find no reason that is not rooted in pride why I should not accept this mission,” De Jesus said, at length.
“Very good, my son.”
Linhares turned to Methwold.
“I’m not certain what I can offer on behalf of the Company,” Methwold said.
“I propose we offer the prince supplies, free of charge or nearly so. Thanks to the hard work of men like Father De Jesus, the inland regions under our rule are finally producing an excess of foodstuffs.”
Methwold cocked his head, making his ridiculous ruff sway. “For our part, I cannot see the Company agreeing to such a plan. The Company has never had much in the way of settled farmland. We’ve always relied upon trade to feed our crews and factory workers.”
“Understood. Consider, then: What if our combined ships could cut off trade to his rivals and then transfer those goods as might be useful to him at limited cost and on agreeable credit terms?”
The archbishop didn’t bat an eye at this oblique mention of usury, though Father De Jesus stirred a bit.
William Methwold scratched his chin as he considered. He nodded again, his collar having lost some of its rigidity in the humidity. “What you propose has merit. I do believe I can engage our various employees to this task without waiting for word from the Honorable Merchants at home.”
Of course you can! Every one of you piratical bastards have been desperate to strike at the Mughals since the day they kicked you out and ambushed your caravan. The only thing staying your hand was the fear we might betray you to them and leave you without a safe harbor anywhere in India.
“Which prince do you propose to approach?” the president asked, though Linhares figured the Englishman knew precisely who the viceroy had in mind.
“Is that not clear from what has been said?” he asked, wishing to draw the man’s thoughts out into the open, to better see if his own conclusions were sound.
“Well,” Methwold said after a moment’s thought. “Dara doesn’t hate ostentation; he revels in theological, metaphysical and courtly display. He also controls the most ready cash and food suppli
es, as well as their most reliable port in Surat.
“Shah Shuja has a large army in the field, isn’t terribly interested in religion beyond mouthing a few pious words at the proper moment, and will likely have a desperate supply situation sooner rather than later…
“Which leaves Aurangzeb, who is in an even worse position than Shuja, being farther into the famine-stricken Deccan. He is something of an ascetic, but he can’t be the one you want us to approach, because I know from my own eyes that in addition to his asceticism he’s likely the most pious Mohammedan prince the dynasty has produced since their great-great-great-grandsires converted in the first place.”
“Everything you say is true. I have one or two pieces of intelligence you might wish to add, however:
“First, Aurangzeb, at last report, approaches Chorla Ghat where it debauches on the Deccan, and therefore will soon be in a position to receive our aid.
“Second, and perhaps of more importance: I have obtained evidence that Aurangzeb has inherited his great-grandfather Akbar’s practical streak,” Linhares said. “For I have received a message directly from him in which he asks us to send him a churchman and diplomat. Someone to speak to regarding arranging things to our mutual benefit.”
Methwold looked from him to Archbishop dos Martires. “Forgive me for saying so, Your Excellencies, but it seems to me that Father De Jesus may have been correct, that a Jesuit seems called for—what with all the diplomatic pitfalls that present themselves.”
De Jesus looked on the verge of saying something, but the archbishop replied quite calmly before he could do more than look at the Englishman: “Prince Aurangzeb, from all that we hear, makes display of his humility. Aurangzeb does not encourage theological debates between heathen, gentile, and Mohammedan as his eldest brother does, and as his father and grandfather were known to do. He does not seek contradiction in his life. We will not send this prince, who makes prayer hats in his spare time, a priest who would challenge his way of thinking. Instead we will send him a man of God who is humble before both God and man. One who is educated, to be sure, but uses that education for the good of the common people, not to lord it over them. Someone who, when they offer guarantees that the pilgrims on Haj will not be molested, will be believed.”
