1637: The Peacock Throne

by Eric Flint

  Nadira’s smile disappeared. “He has not?”

  “No,” Jahanara said, nibbling a date.

  “But, he must!”

  Jahanara waggled her head, grateful Nadira was on her side for this. “As I, and all of his advisors, have told him. But he claims his love for you is too great to even consider another wife.”

  “Love!” Nadira scoffed. “He has love! He needs to secure life and throne before such personal considerations!”

  “As I tried to tell him. Of course, he became quite angry with me when I did.”

  “Ah, that is why he was so short with me last night when I brought the subject to his attention.”

  Jahanara winced. “I did not wish to spoil your time with him, but the—”

  “But these decisions are critical to our survival,” Nadira interrupted, waving her protest down. “You will recall that I was present for your father’s struggles, and the results of that for my father…” She looked down, but then appeared to take hold of herself. “Rest assured, I will make certain he hears my full opinion on the matter. We need marriage alliances to bolster our ranks, if for no other reason than I need him to take other wives if I am to be a proper tyrannical first wife!”

  Jahanara smiled. Nadira did not seem the type to become an overbearing first wife, but one never knew exactly how the sexual politics and precedence of the harem would work out when adding new concubines—let alone wives—to the mix. Not until the deed was done, at any rate.

  Regardless, she was glad of Nadira’s full support, and would count that particular battle won, or nearly so, with her in the vanguard.

  Now if only they had other generals as fine as Nadira to launch against the other problems assailing her brother.

  Red Fort, Hammam-i-shahi

  Amir Salim Gadh Visa Yilmaz sighed as he stepped into the steam-filled bathing chamber. A week of hard riding, another of negotiations, and then the return trip had him on the verge of exhaustion. He’d not had time to return to his own palace for a much-needed bath, so the summons to this particular place was most welcome, especially as it had come with express permission to bathe before the emperor arrived.

  Slaves entered, peeling away his sweat and dust-caked clothing in an utter, and unnerving, silence.

  When he was naked and the slaves had scrubbed the worst of the road dirt from him, Salim waded into the pool. The heat felt amazing, even on the fresh, angry, puckered scars from the wounds received while trying—and failing—to defend Shah Jahan from assassins sent by Aurangzeb’s pet, Mullah Mohan.

  Sitting on one of the submerged marble benches that formed the periphery of the octagonal pool, Salim leaned back and looked at the pattern repeated in the ceiling above. The heat quickly began to ease his aches and pains. He tried to let the warmth loosen the tightness that had dwelt in him since that terrible day without success. Meditating as Mian Mir had taught him so long ago also failed to work, as he kept slipping into a fitful doze plagued by images from that fight.

  “It’s clear he’s recovering, my young friend, but why so slowly?” The question, in English, drew Salim from that place between sleep and consciousness. As his mind cleared, Salim recognized the speaker as Gervais.

  “Well, I’m happy he is recovering.” This from Rodney’s far deeper voice. “Slowly, sure, but he is recovering. Some guys I used to play football with, they got one too many cracks on the head and were never the same. I wish we could take an X-ray and see if there’s something obvious we could do, but even back up-time brain injuries weren’t easy to diagnose. Even for qualified experts, which I’m definitely not.”

  “So, we continue to ask him to take it easy, which he can’t, and try to cover for his lapses where we can.”

  Salim decided it would be best to force them to change the subject. Ears were everywhere, even here, and it would not do for Dara’s enemies to learn his condition.

  “It’s not ideal, but it’s the best we ca—” The sloshing of bath water as Salim stood reached the pair, interrupting them. A moment later, Rodney’s giantlike form fairly filled the archway leading to the cold bath in the next chamber.

  “Hey, Salim! You’re back!”

  The attendant approached to towel Salim off, but he waved the fellow away as he exited the pool.

  “Greetings, Rodney. Gervais,” he said, walking past the big up-timer and directly into the cold bath where he submerged himself entirely. It was bracing, to say the least, and he felt more alert when he raised his head from the waters and sat on one of the steep steps of the pool.

  “Good to see you, Salim! Did you have much success?” Gervais asked, clearly hopeful.

  “I’m afraid not as much as we’d hoped.” Salim shrugged. “Not so many of my kinsmen were in Delhi for the horse trade as I had hoped. A direct result of Shah Jahan’s sensible policies…”

  “What policies?”

  Salim smiled and quoted from the law, “‘Those who come into my kingdom to trade in horses shall not number more than one rider for every five horses.’”

  Rodney looked puzzled, but Gervais’ thoughtful expression quickly turned sour as he muttered a short curse in some language Salim wasn’t familiar with.

  “Not sure I follow?” Rodney said, looking from Gervais to Salim.

  “That is because you do not think in terms of our armies. Horse traders coming overland use the same routes into India that every invasion force has used since the time of Alexander. Indeed, Babur, the founder of Dara’s dynasty, was a sometime horse trader himself. So, since Akbar’s time, at least, most emperors seek to limit the numbers of such traders coming into the country to avoid providing them with ready-made concealment for an invasion.”

  “Huh. Didn’t realize you all imported horses.”

  “Oh, the empire imports something like eight in ten of its horses. The trade is quite lucrative,” said Salim. “I myself came down from the high country with a herd to sell. India is not considered very healthy for most breeds, and the better areas have to compete with farming intended to feed the people rather than livestock. Besides, Uzbeks, Persians, Arabs, Afghans, and even the Turks provide better horseflesh than any domestic bloodline.”

  “The Rathores may differ with you on that, Salim. They do think the world of their Marwari breed!” the emperor pronounced, entering the chamber with a pair of attendants on his heels.

  “Greetings, Sultan Al’Azam!” Salim said, unsure how to proceed. His protocol lessons, while thorough, hadn’t covered nakedness before the emperor.

  “Did my doctors prescribe the cold baths for you, too, my friend?” Dara asked with a wave at Gervais and Rodney that almost struck one of the attendants removing his robes of state.

  “Indeed, Sultan Al’Azam,” Salim answered, watching closely as one silent eunuch raised his hands and waited for permission to unwind the turban covering Dara’s head. The emperor leaned over slightly to allow the young slave to work. They made no sound as they finished disrobing the emperor. That part of his mind not examining the scar Dara had taken trying to save his father’s life began to wonder after a moment if they were all mutes or something.

  Dara’s scar looked like some of his own, but Salim knew the head injury was more problematic. He had hoped to find Dara fully recovered, but knew from earlier conversations that the up-timers were concerned about the wound. A “severe concussion,” they called it.

  “We really just want you as rested, relaxed, and comfortable as you can be, to better speed your recovery, Sultan Al’Azam,” Gervais said, approaching his patient with a smile.

  “How are your energy levels? Your thinking remain clear?”

  “Sultan Al’Azam, are you certain you wish your doctors to speak so freely—” Salim said before he could answer, glancing significantly from the emperor to the attendants.

  “I am.” He gestured at the slave to his right, who bowed and leaned his head back, revealing a thin white scar beside his Adam’s apple. “They are all mutes, by one cause or another. I wa
s told that Ishaan here was stabbed in the throat by some street rat when but a child, yet through the grace of God, survived.”

  The mute nodded, bowed, and withdrew with the emperor’s clothing.

  Dara lowered himself into the cool bath beside Salim.

  Gervais bent to examine Dara’s head from beside the pool.

  “I apologize, Sultan Al’Azam. I should have guessed that you would be well protected in your own harem.”

  “I count it no sin to err trying to protect me, even from myself. I might have said Jahanara was being paranoid just a few months ago…”

  “A wise thing, then, to take such precautions.”

  Gervais cleared his throat.

  “My doctor wishes an answer, Amir.” He pushed off from the bench, turned, and submerged himself. He came up, long hair dripping, and said quietly, eyes haunted, “I tire easily. I am easily confused. I cannot concentrate. My head aches abominably from time to time.”

  “What happened to make you confused?”

  “I made a mistake today in court. Then, after, I could not recall what that mistake might have been, only that I had made one.” Dara let himself sink beneath the surface again.

  Salim looked over his shoulder and caught Rodney and Gervais sharing a look of concern.

  “A complex task can exhaust even a well-rested, healthy brain,” Rodney said as the emperor resurfaced.

  “This was not complex. It was simple. I had only to carry through with what Jahanara and I agreed—not an hour before—was the best course. Instead I reversed the man’s ranks, and then could not remember what my mistake might have been…Such mistakes frighten me, my friends.”

  “The brain is a mysterious organ, Sultan Al’Azam, and your recovery not yet complete. Be patient. Wait for it to heal,” Gervais said.

  Dara’s expression darkened, scar pulsing scarlet. “The war for my throne will not wait for anyone or anything, least of all for me to recover my strength.”

  Chapter 8

  Agra

  Mansion of Jadu Das

  “Jadu, my friend, how are you?” Salim said, dismounting and striding up to the shorter man.

  Jadu bowed, smiling. “Welcome to my home, Amir Yilmaz. I am well enough. Well enough. Your friends are already present.”

  “Your friends, too, Jadu,” Salim said, eyes on his host’s stable hand as that worthy took charge of the Arabian Salim had just purchased at great expense. He had yet to decide whether he liked the tall black horse for his primary mount, but the stallion was certainly handsome to look upon. The other courtiers might say he was uncultured behind his back, though none would dare say it to his face. But none could say he was a poor judge of horseflesh.

  “With all the upheaval caused by their coming, I wonder if they are truly anyone’s friend,” Jadu said with a note of sadness. “Though I suppose my brother would say that upheaval allows opportunity to take root like the fresh-tilled soil.”

  “How is Dhanji?” Salim asked as they mounted the broad, lengthy staircase.

  “He is well, though I quote another of my brothers, not Dhanji.”

  Salim chuckled. “Well, many blessings on your father for having sired so many sons.”

  “My mother would argue that her six sons were less a blessing than a plague when we were young, but she now lives very well at our expense, so there is that.”

  Salim laughed, surprised to learn the many brothers of Jadu were not half-siblings birthed by some concubine or other wife.

  “Wait, which brother?”

  “Sundar.”

  Salim stopped dead in his tracks. “Sundar? Sundar Das? Would he be the same Sundar who was Shah Jahan’s favorite munshi?”

  Jadu paused on the stair. “He was the emperor’s personal secretary, yes.”

  “I had no idea you were related! Mian Mir admired his talented pen a great deal, and gave us his works to read. Such poetry! A great many scribes and poets were greatly saddened to hear of his passing.”

  “He rose high, and quickly,” Jadu said, looking away. But not before Salim saw tears in his eyes.

  “Friend Jadu, I do not wish to make you uncomfortable or bring up painful subjects…”

  Jadu waggled his head and resumed climbing to hide his expression. “I am too sensitive. Tomorrow marks the anniversary of the day of his death. It is an emotional time because some of the family, including our father, believed Sundar overstepped the bounds of proper custom and caste when he took employment with Shah Jahan.”

  Salim placed a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Even so, I am sorry to have upset you, old friend.”

  Jadu covered the hand on his shoulder with his own and stopped, still not looking at Salim. “My thanks for your concern. He was a good man and an even better brother. Our father was blind to those qualities, and a good many other things as well.”

  “Were any of your sons or nephews trained by your brother?” Salim asked. In the weeks since his return from Lahore, he’d learned through Firoz Khan’s spies that the other nobles of court thought him uncouth, a man of the hills and mountains rather than a respectable man of education and learning. While his Persian was precise, Salim had no knack for the poetry and alliteration common to those educated at or aspiring to positions at the imperial court.

  A munshi trained by one of such repute and fine education as Sundar Das would show the rest of the court that if Salim had not the skills himself, he was at least capable of recognizing and rewarding talent. It was a time-honored tradition at the Mughal court: newcomers, often strangers to the Persian literary inheritance of proper nobility, purchased the services of a munshi, a learned man of letters, poetry, and extensive managerial training, to assist them in their duties. The finest munshis also served as an ornament to the reputation of the courtier with their letters, histories, and manuals on subjects as varied as natural science and proper management.

  Salim had considered approaching Jadu on the subject of hiring one of the merchant’s family to manage his property but hadn’t wished to impose on him for yet another favor. But now it seemed he might do Jadu a service that would also protect some of the wealth that was flowing to him as a result of his recent elevation at court…

  “My nephews were, indeed.”

  Jadu continued after a moment’s consideration. “For their part, my sons were too young and, frankly, more interested in mercantile pursuits like their father than in putting in the hard work to learn the skills of a proper munshi.”

  “I have need of a munshi to handle my correspondence and report the daily affairs of my estate. If you would write those of your nephews you deem properly trained and suitable for employment in my household?”

  He paused and then added, “Indeed, if you or your brothers can spare a son or two, I might make use of their services in managing my estates. I am also looking to invest, as I have an inordinate amount of cash to spend, given the emperor raised me to five thousand zat last month. Having no wives, I have scarcely any expenses to speak of, and there are only so many horses and fine robes a man can buy.”

  Jadu turned toward him, eyes still shining. “I would be honored to present my nephew Ved Das, son of Sundar Das, as a potential munshi.”

  “And I know he shall prove more than worthy to serve,” Salim said, finding himself inordinately excited at the prospect.

  “As to diwans to assist in managing your growing portfolio, I have two sons of suitable age and training that I might spare for the work, provided you ensure they receive some education in the ways of the court.”

  “It is settled, then!”

  Another waggle of Jadu’s head was not—quite—disagreement. “My friend, you should be warned: no relative of mine will be paid less than appropriate to their talents, whether or not they are employed by my greatest friend. Especially when the potential employer just finished telling me how much loose cash he has to spend on fripperies.”

  “I would have it no other way!” Salim said, startled by the strong surge of a
ffection, relief, and gratitude that rose up in him.

  It required a moment’s reflection to determine the reasons for it:

  Firstly, he had not been comfortable handling such huge sums as he now had access to, never having had more personal wealth than could be carried on horseback or invested in a small herd, and the idea that any unscrupulous person he hired could take advantage of him had weighed on his mind more than he’d been willing to admit, even to himself.

  Secondly, he hated the idea that his lack of courtly refinement might be a detriment to Dara’s reputation. As his princely establishment had not been sufficient to staff the imperial apparatus on its own, Dara had been made to affirm many nobles that his father had raised to their positions. Nobles who, if things had been different, would have otherwise been shown the door. While Salim gave not a single fig for their views on his character, he wanted to forestall any whispers of, “Look at the uncouth louts the emperor surrounds himself with,” at court if he could possibly avoid it.

  * * *

  “They’re on their way up,” J.D. said from beside the balustrade overlooking the courtyard.

  “About time he got here,” Bobby said from his seat among the cushions across from Ricky.

  Ricky, seizing on his apparent distraction, tossed a date at Bobby.

  Without seeming to look, his target raised a hand and snatched it out of the air, popping the date into his mouth with an equally negligent movement.

  Ricky grinned. Bobby had been the best shortstop in the county, and it was still damn hard to catch him off guard.

  J.D. turned his head at the movement and chuckled. “Can’t take you boys anywhere.”

  “Sure can’t,” Bobby said around his full mouth.

  Ricky, glad to hear J.D. laugh even a little, let his grin widen.

  John Dexter Ennis, or J.D. to his up-time friends, hadn’t been laughing much since before…Jesus, has it been two years since the pirate attack?