1637: The Peacock Throne

by Eric Flint

  “Sixteen hundred?”

  “Yes. What use a rifle if not to reach out and touch someone from great distance, eh?”

  “But, sixteen hundred?”

  Talawat’s smile was broad and happy. “You’d look like you were shooting at the moon, but yes.”

  Bertram looked thoughtful. “How many can you make?”

  The smile faded as the gunsmith waggled his head. “Depends upon how much time the pretenders give us. Far fewer of the rifles than the shotguns, of course. The true challenge is making the primers for the ammunition. It is dangerous, painstaking work, and I despair of making enough shells and cartridges to make a real difference. Especially in light of the work I am doing to copy those delightful cannon shells your ship’s master sent along.”

  John was sobered by the reminder that Talawat, genius that he might be, was still a lone man running one shop. He could never be expected to produce enough guns to make a real difference. The thought was depressing.

  “Of course, I have all of the smiths of the Sultan Al’Azam’s establishment working on producing these weapons and their ammunition. It goes slowly, as I am having trouble convincing my fellows to forgo treating the steel in order to best show off the lovely patterns.”

  “So, a hundred or so?” John said, gloomy.

  “Of the rifles, yes. The shotguns: a thousand, perhaps more if given time.”

  “Holy shit! A thousand?”

  Talawat’s brows shot up as he asked for the meaning of the English words.

  Atisheh coughed to cover a chuckle.

  Embarrassed by his outburst, John shook his head. “Nothing, sorry. I simply had no idea you could make so many.”

  “Not me alone, of course. The emperor Dara Shikoh, long may he reign in wisdom and the light of God’s good graces, has a great many artisans working for him, and I have some…small weight with them.”

  “A great many?”

  A diffident shrug. “Seventy Atishbaz families, their servants, and their apprentices. Not to mention the European, Persian, and Afghan tradesmen who are not, technically, members of our caste or clan. Nearly four-hundred-odd tradesmen worthy of the appellation ‘master,’ all told.”

  John stifled another expletive. Even Bertram looked surprised.

  Talawat looked at John in puzzlement. “Why this shock? Surely you knew the emperor for the richest man in all the world, and as such, the supreme patron of crafts, sciences, and the arts. It is only natural that he be the epicenter of all such things as interest him.”

  “Guess I never thought of it that way,” John said, thinking that it was a wonder India hadn’t become the leading world power up-time. Gooseflesh rose on his arms as he considered that with such men as Talawat, and knowledge of the weapons from the future he had supplied them, they just might.

  South of the Red Fort

  “So, you have all the men you need, John?” Salim asked, reining in. His entourage, trailing behind their master and the up-timer, halted as well. He’d told them to stand off a bit, wanting to have a private conversation with John.

  To think I now have a flock of lackeys to do my bidding!

  Then, because of his time spent in the company of Mian Mir and in study of Sufi wisdom: Do not succumb to the pleasures of this fleeting world, Salim.

  All things from God, to God.

  “Sure,” John had said, rubbing his chin. “There won’t be enough guns to go around for a while yet, anyway. Ammunition will become the real bottleneck once we get into live-fire training.” His horse tried to sidle sideways, but the up-timer controlled him with barely a thought.

  “John, I hope you’ll forgive me for saying it, but you’ve become a far better horseman these last months than ever I thought you’d be,” Salim said, smiling to overcome any insult the words might offer. Indeed, John seemed to be far more at ease than Salim had ever seen him before.

  “Well, thanks. Still wish I had the Ford Mustang I bought in high school.”

  “What’s that, a breed of horse?”

  John laughed. “No, a car.”

  “Car? Oh, like the ones in Grantville?” Salim asked. The vehicles had been insanely fast and very loud. In short, something he would greatly enjoy.

  “Only faster.”

  Salim’s brows drew together. “Faster?”

  “I had souped mine up. My family had some history running moonshine, see…”

  He shook his head, gesturing at the men Salim had kept at bay. “Never mind. I assume you wanted to talk to me privately about something more important than missing my old ride.”

  Feeling the press of time upon them, Salim reluctantly agreed. Hoping his sincere desire to hear more came through, he added, “I do want to know, John. You’ll have to tell me the rest when we have more time.”

  “But,” John said, smiling.

  “But,” Salim agreed with a sigh. “For now: Dara assures me Talawat and the rest of his establishment are producing ammunition as fast as they can.”

  “Is that where you’re taking me?” John asked, nodding at the tall berm rising up before them.

  “It is. Talawat and Begum Sahib thought it wise to keep ammunition production some distance from the fort.”

  John looked along the mile or so upriver toward Red Fort.

  Salim joined him. It was a grand sight, with the many manors and gardens of the court spread along the river to the cleared land near Red Fort, and beyond it rose the magnificent beauty of the Taj’s proud onion dome. The umara of the courts of two great emperors had spent great sums to build ever-grander manors in the area, as proximity to the emperor was a physical representation of one’s favor, so the gardens and mansions only grew more ornate and beautiful the closer one was to Red Fort.

  “Is that stone at the top?” John asked, drawing Salim’s gaze back to the berm, which John was examining with a builder’s eye.

  Salim regarded the berm as well. Each one rose to a height of about thirty gaz and had a core of stone walls, either previously existing or built from rubble.

  “Yes.”

  “Where from?”

  “Talawat used some preexisting structures to build the factory and its berms.”

  “Preexisting?” The up-timer looked again at the manors to the north and south. “You mean someone’s mansion?”

  “Exactly so,” Salim answered.

  “What, they get tired of it?”

  “No. They were dispossessed for choosing to throw their support to Shah Shuja.”

  “I…see.” John looked uncomfortable.

  “Such are the risks involved in any succession war, John.”

  “But, what of the family that lived here?”

  “This particular man is with Shuja’s army in the Deccan. His wives, children, sister, and mother are now in the emperor’s harem.”

  John looked alarmed.

  “They are treated well and respectfully, John,” Salim said, hoping to forestall an angry outburst. “We are not barbarians, and the keeping of wives, sisters, mothers, and children of those who support your opponent is considered a sacred obligation. They are almost never used as hostages unless that is their agreed-upon status before being brought into the harem. Akbar started with peace, and his descendants have kept it.”

  “Almost?” John asked, seizing on the qualifier as Salim had known he would.

  He shrugged. “There are those who have done wrong, certainly.”

  Patting his horse’s neck, Salim continued thoughtfully, “The men, of course, receive less mercy from the victorious. But even then, being stripped of rank and incomes is the norm, imprisonment uncommon, mutilations even more unusual, and executions rare. Admittedly, Shah Jahan was more…comfortable with bloodletting than his predecessors. At least, Asaf Khan was never punished for doing away with Shah Jahan’s potential rivals.”

  “Seems like it’s all been thought out,” John said, irony twisting both tone and expression.

  Salim chose to ignore his friend’s tone. John was an
up-timer, with an up-timer’s strange ideas about some things. He answered carefully, trying to explain his own convictions on the matter. “The empire has had some recent experience with succession struggles. The dynasty that stagnates is soon to perish, and the way they’ve done it here tends to leave the common folk more or less alone relative to what I know of similar succession wars in Europe and elsewhere. Of course, our emperor and his siblings are relatively young. Why, Aurangzeb is nearly as young as Babur was when he started the empire, if I recall correctly.”

  “So, Salim, I really don’t want to be rude, but why do you keep saying ‘they’ when you refer to the empire?” He hiked a thumb at the cluster of messengers and servants. “Looks like you are an integral part of this empire’s machinery by now…”

  “I do, don’t I?”

  Seeing that he’d never had to explain it to someone else, he spent a moment collecting his thoughts before speaking further. “You may recall Shah Jahan informing you that he was Sultan Al’Azam of many peoples, not just one?”

  “Sure do.” John nodded. “Can’t forget his angry look when I made that particular mistake.”

  “He got angry because it’s important. The Mughals themselves are a mix of Turco-Mongol, Persian, Rajput, and other bloodlines. Your wife can tell you how many languages she hears daily in the harem. The Timurids rule over hundreds of different peoples, each with distinct dialects if not utterly different languages, differing religions and practices thereof, not to mention the entirely different lives the nomads, farmers, and the city-dwellers live. So many different languages are spoken that the very language of the empire’s northern sowar is translated into the other languages as ‘camp tongue’ because it’s a combination of so many local tongues.

  “All bow before Timurid power. Some are happier with that state of affairs than others, but all recognize that the Timurids are, historically, excellent overlords who have, on the whole, improved conditions for everyone under their rule, not just Muslims, or Rajputs, or a particular caste. Everyone. And, in the successions the old order, those that supported the last emperor, are joined by those outsiders who threw in their lot with the victorious prince. My own people are not a bad example: Shah Jahan fought the Yusufzai when a young prince, and we have since fought for the empire against the Safavids under his command.”

  “I get it, it’s a melting pot.”

  “No, it’s not, not really.” Salim struggled to ignore the dismissive tone and explain for his friend. “The Timurids themselves are, I suppose. They’ve assimilated so much of what it means to be Indian, in that they have more in common with the people here than many of their central Asian ancestors.

  “Akbar’s Sulh-i-kul, or ‘peace with everyone,’ is a fine example: rather than force all these people, with their different laws and customs, through the needle’s eye of Mughal custom and legal precedent, Emperor Akbar chose to invite the religious leaders, the lawmakers, and the lore keepers of India to discuss what was fair and righteous for all. He wasn’t trying to make everyone melt together, just provide them with a framework in which to prosper without tearing the empire apart or unduly repressing one group or another.

  “The following generations have lived up to that ideal with greater or lesser success, so the lives and customs of the peoples within the empire are allowed to continue as they always have done, so long as they pay homage and taxes and offer no violence to their neighbors. That last is especially important, as it was not something that was common practice before Mughal rule. Beyond that, each person has their place in India, but the Mughal system allows the best talent to rise, and rewards those talented people who work within the framework of Mughal rule.”

  “For most people, anyway.” John’s smile was more honest this time, and took the sting from the words.

  Salim returned the smile, adding, “I do believe your up-time democracies benefitted most people, most of the time. We can scarcely do better without the benefit of the three hundred and more years of experience your predecessors had.”

  “Lot of blood shed to learn from those mistakes,” John said. He shook his head. “Don’t mind me, Salim. I’m just some hillbilly from a small town in West Virginia.”

  “If I had a hundred rupees for every time I have been called a simple hillman by some fop thinking it an insult, I would be a—well, I would be even more rich than I am.”

  John chuckled. “You do dress better than any hillbilly I ever met.”

  “Or at least more expensively, my friend?” Salim said, knowing the up-timers thought the khalats and robes of distinction handed out by the emperor and eagerly sought after by courtiers garish and overly opulent.

  The pair shared a moment of laughter, clearing the air between them.

  Salim, careful with his words in case he shatter the mood, said, “We can only try to do better, and in order for us to be here to make those efforts, the man I believe to be our best chance at lasting peace and thoughtful change must emerge victorious.” He pointed at the berm. “Hence, the work going on in there, and the work I ask of you.”

  “Salim, I know you need someone with experience in infantry stuff, but I am no drill sergeant. In fact, I got out of basic training back in the USE and felt like I hadn’t learned anything about being a soldier.”

  “I know you think you are not qualified, but you are. At least, in all the ways that matter here and now.”

  “You said that when you first asked me to do this. I still don’t get it.”

  “And I thank you for not requiring that I explain it in front of the court. They do not need to know the particulars of Dara’s reasons.”

  “I can’t believe I have to ask, but what—exactly—does he think he’s getting in me?” John asked.

  “The Mughals often recruit military specialists from outside the limits of the empire. There are not many here with Dara’s military establishment, but Aurangzeb and Shah Shuja both have artillery parks and other specialist troops overseen by and composed of ferenghi.”

  John shook his head again and shifted in his saddle. “I don’t know anything about cannons, friend.”

  “Let me finish, if you please, John.”

  The up-timer gestured apologetically for him to proceed.

  “The common sowar and, possibly more importantly, the umara of the court are used to seeing foreign experts training their comrades. They were used to it even before the arrival of such technological marvels as those Talawat created in copying your L.C. Smith shotgun.”

  John’s eyes widened. “Oh, hell.”

  “Yes. So you see, it is as important you are seen to be training the men as providing it in the first place, not because we cannot figure out a way to adapt to the technology ourselves, but because those who are in Dara’s camp expect to see you in charge. If you, an up-timer, are not visibly in charge, then they will not have much faith the weapons will serve to redress some of the imbalance of forces we face. Without faith in that strength, Dara will be abandoned for one of the pretenders.”

  John nodded. “And word will get back to the brothers that I am in the thick of things, maybe making them cautious.”

  “Exactly so, my friend. Keeping the appearance of strength is as—if not more—important than actually being strong right now. Everyone is holding their breath, hoping to see who will make the first error and thereby indicate the eventual winner.”

  “I get it.” A sly grin spread across his lips.

  “What?” Salim asked.

  “You’re not going to insist I wear one of those silly robes, are you?” he asked, gesturing at Salim’s clothing.

  Salim laughed. Then laughed harder, making their horses shy.

  “What?” John asked as he got his horse back under control.

  “Dara may! In fact, I will suggest the very thing to him this afternoon if you cannot beat me to the manufactory!” Salim called over his shoulder, snapping heels to his horse and riding for the gap in the berm.

  Chapter 11

 
; Agra

  Red Fort, Jasmine Tower

  Drums rolled, echoing across the river and burying the snap of silken banners in their thunder. The soldiers beneath the banners and marching behind the drums were uniformly big, bearded, broad-shouldered men, with tall helmets wrapped in fine turbans making them appear even larger.

  The two thousand men sent by Hargobind Singh crossed the open ground before the walls in solid blocks of several hundred each. Each battle was armed in different fashion: swords, spears, arquebus, and, leading the way, cavalry.

  “I cannot believe you made Dara accept their offer of support,” Nadira said, in tones of flat anger.

  “Are we so strong that we can afford to turn anyone away?” Smidha asked before Jahanara could formulate a response more sensitive to Nadira’s feelings.

  Nadira’s hands tightened into fists on the sandstone wall.

  Inwardly sighing, Jahanara said, “Sister, he asked the guru for fighters, and these”—she gestured at the marching men—“are the result.”

  “But their leader nearly killed my Dara,” Nadira said, more softly.

  “That he did,” Jahanara said, taking one of Nadira’s fists in both her hands. “And then he treated Shehzada Dara Shikoh honorably, as he now sends his followers to serve upon request of the Sultan Al’Azam Dara Shikoh.”

  Nadira shook her head. “I do not speak of Guru Hargobind Singh. I speak specifically of that man.” She nodded stiffly at the rider at the front of the cavalry contingent.

  “Bidhi Chand?” Jahanara asked. Even without his place in the front, the man was not hard to pick out. His horse was a magnificent white beast, taller by a hand than the rest of the mounts. It was a gift from Dara, given before his ascension to the throne in respect for the warrior’s great skill and chivalry. Aside from his mount, the saint-soldier was dressed no more richly than the riders following him. It was his bearing, handsome features, and personal charisma that drew the eye.

  “Yes, him.”

  “Surely Chand’s presence, as one of the guru’s greatest warriors, speaks of the strength of that man’s desire to fully support your husband.”