by Eric Flint
Such was the small size of the tent that Aurangzeb was unable to examine the third man before the diwan stopped and led the visitors in the proper obeisance.
“Shehzada Aurangzeb,” the eunuch said, “I present Amir Carvalho, Father De Jesus, and President Methwold of the English Company.”
“Peace upon you, Captain Carvalho.”
“And upon you, Shehzada.” The commander of five hundred bowed again. “Shehzada Aurangzeb, my associates have come from Goa in order to present certain offers from the viceroy of the Estado da India, the Comte de Linhares and the English East India Company.”
“I have been expecting an answer from that noble person, though I did not expect the reply to be accompanied by a Catholic priest of an order I do not recognize and an Englishman my father banished from the empire.”
The Englishman colored above the lace collar and the priest looked likewise discomfited, but it was Carvalho who spoke into the uncomfortable silence that followed the prince’s pronouncement: “Shehzada Aurangzeb, I thought it wise to allow them to make their offers rather than send them packing without being heard.”
Carvalho’s quick yet careful response made Aurangzeb reassess the man’s political acumen. The Portuguese might be worthy of more than simple field command.
“As you vouch for them, captain and commander of five hundred, I will hear what offers they convey immediately, and from their own lips, knowing that you only offer introduction, and not surety of the content of their message…”
The priest stepped forward and bowed again. His Persian was not polished, but was smooth enough for easy understanding as he outlined the viceroy of Goa’s offer of assistance. Aurangzeb felt his hopes rising as the narrow-shouldered fellow spoke.
Careful now, do not show that this is exactly what you need before they have revealed the price of their assistance…
With such cautions in mind, Aurangzeb set himself to treat with the ferenghi.
Shah Shuja’s camp
Shah Shuja’s tent
The lavish meal complete, Nur watched her host from behind the jali as she waited for Shah Shuja to address her. Her niece’s middle son, Shuja had never been among her favorites. Not that she knew him well, but his reputation for impropriety and pleasure-seeking had been well established by the time Aurangzeb had secured her return to Shah Shuja’s court.
Now he held a goblet in hand, drinking wine from it as he watched the dancing girls perform with a hungry, lustful eye. His court were an extension of his own licentious nature, laughing and speaking crassly, each as deep—if not deeper—in their cups as their boy-emperor.
Interesting I should think of him as a boy when I have come to think of his even younger brother as a man, and a dangerous one at that.
The meal itself had been an unnecessary extravagance, given the supply situation. Of course, the livestock suffered more than people, having little water and poor forage. Why, she’d had great difficulty securing fodder for the few horses of the retinue Aurangzeb had provided for her mission.
It seemed to Nur that Shuja had decided to pursue all his grandfather’s vices and few, if any, of his virtues. Too much a slave to his desires and still without a fine wife to guide and support him through the many pitfalls of ruling the vast empire of the Mughals, Shuja would never be a success as emperor—even if Aurangzeb were inclined to let him sit the throne for an appreciable length of time.
Nur shook her head. Never had she felt so old, so surrounded by inexperience and folly.
Interesting that I do not feel this way when at Aurangzeb’s court. Jahangir—my own parents, for that matter—would never believe I would find comfort in the court of a prince so conservative he forbids dancing, and even some music.
As if her thoughts of Aurangzeb’s policies had killed the music, the dance came to an abrupt climax with the dancers stretched in supplication to some Hindu god or other. Nur knew the tale; she just could not be bothered to place it just then. The gathered men roared their approval, more for the dancing girls’ uniformly firm and shapely sweat-sheathed bodies heaving from their exertions than any proper appreciation of the tale they’d told, Nur was certain.
More like a pride of young lions watching a herd of antelope just emerging from an exhausting river crossing.
“Enough, my umara! Enough! Leave me!” Shuja’s suddenly slurred command was missed in the tumult. He sloshed wine from his goblet as he gestured for quiet. It required a moment for his drunken entourage to quiet enough to hear the rest of what he had to say. “I must speak with my brother’s emissary, Nur Jahan.”
A few drunken umara mumbled protests, but were silenced by their more sober—or simply smarter—brethren.
“My kokas and diwan will remain, of course,” Shuja slurred. “I will want their counsel.”
What counsel does a drunkard heed when the fermented grape has poured its sweet song into his ears, blocking them from receiving any wisdom beyond that in the bottom of his own cup?
Nur remained silent and still as roughly half of the assembled umara slowly departed, reflecting that Shuja’s “milk brothers” should be content to be allowed to stay, as most of them were unable to rise, having drunk far more than she or her late husband would have allowed even common sowar to have while on campaign, even after a hard-fought victory.
And my beloved remains famous for his love of intoxicants, even if the rest of the world does not know that I was chief among those…She hid a sigh, longing for the touch of a man long departed from this world.
Shuja was impatient, ordering the jali be removed before half those who were to depart were within a few paces of the tent flap. Nur affixed her veil as the slaves bent and removed the screen. Hardly necessary, as those who would remain to see her were family in all but blood, but it would not do to give detractors even a hint of impropriety, not while performing as Aurangzeb’s intermediary and messenger.
“Well, what is it my brother wished of me, but was too frightened to ask in person?” Shuja asked, grinning at his sycophants as if he’d exhibited some great wit.
Setting her voice to cut across the tittering and chuckles that followed, Nur answered, “Sultan Al’Azam, Shehzada Aurangzeb desires only to meet with you in person to pledge his support for you as rightful emperor, and seeks your surety as Sultan Al’Azam that he will have the opportunity to do so.”
Shuja blinked as if he’d been rapped on the nose with a stick.
Hiding her pleasure at holding the reins of an emperor once again, Nur waited for the drunken child to catch up.
“He doesn’t want the throne?” Shuja murmured it so quietly that only those nearest him could hear.
“It is well known that Shehzada Aurangzeb is a religious man, his heart more suited to study of the Quran than ruling over the hearts of his fellow man. He wishes only to submit, first to God, and then to you, his elder brother.”
Her reply drew nods from those of his kokas sober enough to follow the conversation. Nur ignored them in favor of watching Shuja. She could see him wishing he’d remained sober for this interview. Too late, of course.
“And what of Dara?” he asked after a moment’s rumination.
“Shehzada Aurangzeb loves his brothers. Hard as it is to countenance, Shehzada Aurangzeb finds it hard to believe that Dara knew nothing of the plot against Shah Jahan, happening as it did right under his nose. Beyond that, Aurangzeb knows his eldest brother pays heed to all manner of idolatry and mysticism, where you are concerned with ruling wisely.”
Shuja began to shake his head, but Nur went on before he could refute her words: “Aurangzeb bade me say that he wishes peace upon the kingdom of your forefathers, and that he knows only you are strong enough to end the war quickly and thereby hasten his own steps to Mecca and the life of contemplation and worship that has always been his sole and most fervent desire.”
One of the kokas sniffed derision on that, earning a sharp, if unsteady, look from the Shah Shuja. A drunken young man blanched and mut
tered a muted apology.
Shuja looked again at Nur, a thoughtful look he was too drunk to hide crossing his features.
“Does Aurangzeb offer any sureties beyond these pretty words of yours, Aunt?”
“The words are not mine, they are his, as I have said.”
“You do not answer my question.”
“Shehzada Aurangzeb remains a prince. He does not order the khutba said in his name, nor order men to strike coins with his likeness nor name upon them. He remains a prince. He makes no claim to be other than what he is.”
“For”—Shuja belched wetly—“now, at least.”
Shuja’s men chuckled.
He again shook his head. “You have given me much to think on, Nur Jahan. Present yourself tomorrow…” He picked up his goblet and drank from it. “In the afternoon sometime.”
“Your will, Sultan Al’Azam,” Nur Jahan said. Long reins were as useful as short for control of a well-broken mount, after all.
Chapter 10
Agra
The Red Fort
The gunsmith’s factory was dark after the noonday sun, and loud with hammering and the constant hissing roar of several furnaces.
Unsure where to go, John led Atisheh and Bertram deeper into the gloom in search of Talawat.
“He said to meet him here, didn’t he?” John asked. His Persian had improved to the point he didn’t need a translator for most things, but he was glad Bertram was here to make sure he made none of the big mistakes of communication poor language skills often led to.
“He did,” Atisheh said.
Talawat said something from Atisheh’s elbow, startling them all. John and Bertram jumped. Atisheh’s response was more practical: she turned, blades appearing in her hands.
“So sorry. I did not mean to startle you!” the thin gunsmith shouted as he backed from the warrior woman.
Atisheh checked herself with visible effort and a curse John didn’t understand.
“Sorry, I didn’t hear you,” John said, interposing himself between Talawat and Atisheh to give them both a moment to recover.
If Talawat was offended, he did not show it. Lowering his hands, the gunsmith smiled and rendered another and lengthier apology to his guests.
Atisheh grunted and returned her weapons to their sheaths.
Bertram just nodded.
“I have the first of the guns ready, Mr. Ennis,” the gunsmith went on, gesturing his guests toward a set of large doors leading out into a sunlit court behind the factory.
“So soon?” John asked as they walked into the long, narrow space between low walls. Aside from the color and quality of the stone, it looked like a lane at the shooting range his uncle used to take him to, right down to the wide bench at the near end. A trio of long lumps that John took to be guns rested under a silken sheet of some sort, something he never would have seen on his uncle’s range.
“Well, I followed your advice and didn’t try and recreate the pistol or even the Remington,” the man said with another smile.
“You did?”
“Instead I copied the weapon your associate, Randy, left behind. The L.C. Smith.” He pulled back the sheet, revealing his handiwork.
The first was, indeed, Randy’s gun: a hammerless side-by-side double-barreled break-open twelve-gauge shotgun, lovingly maintained but still bearing the scarred wood of too many generations tramping through West Virginia in search of game birds. Randy had been very proud of the piece, it having been in his family for three generations. He’d lugged it all the way to India even though the pump action Remingtons they’d all trained with were far more practical for the kind of shooting they had expected.
The second gun was a stunning, nearly exact copy of the original. Nearly, because instead of the plain blued steel of Randy’s shotgun, this one had the endless wave pattern of Damascus steel.
The third one had the same patterning, but looked odd. The same basic structure as the shotgun, but it was single-barreled, and had a ladder sight at the rear. Without looking down the barrel, he could only assume it was chambered for, at most, twenty gauge. On second glance, the barrel looked significantly longer, as well.
“Wow,” John said, fingers twitching with desire to touch the magnificent-looking tools.
Bertram let out a low whistle, eyeing the odd-looking one. “The craftsmen at home would be hard-pressed to manufacture a copy, and never with this quality on the first try, and certainly not in a few months.”
“Firearms are loud, and can fail at the worst moment. I prefer the blade or the bow,” Atisheh opined.
Talawat’s grin only grew wider on hearing her. “These are something entirely better than the usual products of my establishment, warrior.”
“They sure are pretty. May I?” John asked, engrossed in the fine workmanship and the endless patterns in the steel.
“Of course.”
John picked up the first copy, surprised that it wasn’t heavier.
“Amazing,” he said, flipping the gun up and enjoying the smooth action that ended in a deep clunk as the barrels locked against the breech. John sighted along the long groove between the barrels and smiled. Lowering the weapon, he pushed the breech lever sideways, releasing the barrels and watching as the shell extractor rose smoothly from the opening breech.
“I thank you for the praise, but this weapon itself was not the most difficult part of this particular weapon.” Talawat waved at the open doors, summoning someone.
“The shells?” Bertram guessed.
“The shells,” Talawat confirmed.
A younger version of Talawat emerged from the workshop. The young man was carrying a set of belts or bandoliers. One was studded with dozens of brass-based shells while the other long brass cartridges. He lay the belts with the shells on the table in front of John and the other in front of Bertram. Talawat retrieved two of the shells and presented them to John.
Taking them, John took a closer look. Each shell had a high brass base, but the hulls appeared to be something like an odd plastic.
“Shot?”
“Yes.”
“And the”—he looked at Bertram for help translating, who supplied the word after a moment’s thought—“hulls?”
“Waxed paper,” Talawat said, pride evident in his voice even as he spoke slowly and more clearly than his excitement inclined him to in deference to John’s language skills. “Settling the process was a great challenge. It still fails to extract the empty shells too often for complete contentment, but we are still making improvements to the formula.”
“May I?” John asked again, holding the shells up and gesturing with the shotgun.
“Of course.”
John dropped the shells in, closed the break and shouldered the shotgun, admiring how smoothly the action worked. Aiming down the lane at a man-sized target that looked something like a scarecrow, he took up the front trigger with his finger and squeezed.
The resulting bang was loud, the recoil tolerable, and the target gave a satisfactory shiver before smoke obscured it. He pulled his finger from the first trigger and took up the second with similar results. Thick, cottony smoke obscured the firing lane for a few seconds, but cleared to reveal still more damage to the target.
“See, loud,” Atisheh said. John noted that, for all her disapproval, the warrior woman was paying very close attention behind that chain veil.
In answer, John pressed the lever to release the break. The shells extracted flawlessly, flying a few feet before tock-tocking on the tiles of the courtyard. John pulled another two shells from the belt with one hand and dropped them in, snapping the action closed with an almost negligent flip of the hand holding the gun.
“Just like that, I’m ready to shoot again.”
“Almost as fast as a bow,” Atisheh answered, the grudging respect coloring her tone robbing the words of any insult.
Talawat looked like he might burst with pride.
“And these?” Bertram asked, waving at the gun and cartridges
in front of him.
“Well”—he touched the gun in front of Bertram with a prideful smile—“I looked at the cartridges for the handgun John showed me last year…and thought I might make something similar but that fire from the same basic principles as the shotgun.”
“Wait, the barrel is rifled?” John asked, reverently returning the shotgun to the silk-covered table and picking up the gun in question.
“It is. I used the larger caliber pistol cartridges for the .45 revolver you showed me as the model for the cartridge…” He pulled a brass cartridge from the bandolier. It wasn’t very wide, but was longer than a pistol cartridge, making it look like an absurdly long .45 round.
“So big?”
“I tried to use slugs through the shotguns, but they were not effective with the amount of powder I had to use. Nearly killed myself with one breech explosion among many,” the gunsmith said, clearly excited to explain his craftsmanship to someone who might appreciate the technical achievement for what it was.
“Our black powder can’t match the velocity of your smokeless powders, and the bullet from that gun, even when I lengthened the cartridge to add more powder behind it, was too light to do much at range, so I decided on the bigger round. The results were…more than satisfactory, I think you will find.”
John smiled and reached for the cartridge in Talawat’s hand, deeply impressed.
Talawat did not hand it over, however, shaking his head. “Not in here. This range is too short for shooting these.”
“Really?” John said, surprised. The range was about a hundred feet long.
“Well, these are accurate, when aimed, to about two hundred and fifty of your ‘yards,’ and there is only stone behind our target here. I would hate for a ricochet to kill or wound one of us.”
“Two hundred and fifty?” John said, incredulous.
“Well, a shot will likely kill a man at sixteen hundred yards, but no one could hit someone on purpose at that range.”
