1637: The Peacock Throne

by Eric Flint

  “I know it does.” Nadira turned steady eyes on Jahanara. “Just as I know I must tolerate his presence. That does not mean that I must enjoy it.”

  Jahanara smiled at Nadira. “At least he does not have another prospective wife for Dara in tow.”

  “There is that.” Nadira looked again at the men passing below. “There is that.”

  “At least, as far as we know,” Jahanara teased.

  Mission House

  “Do you think it’s enough?” Bertram asked, handing Monique a cup of wine as he sat among the cushions next to her.

  “I think so, but I don’t know how much proof will be required,” she said, giving him a peck on the cheek.

  “Proof of what?” Gervais asked, entering the chamber set aside for less formal meetings of the Mission members.

  “We think Monique has uncovered a spy.”

  “Oh?” Gervais asked, collecting a cup for himself.

  Monique waited until her father had settled among the cushions across from her and Bertram before speaking. “Jahanara was right to ask us to watch the harem. I think I’ve identified—”

  “Think? Your daughter gives herself too little credit,” Bertram said with an affectionate smile at Monique.

  Monique tossed her dark curls. “I want to talk it out before I bring it to Jahanara’s attention. I was not trained to this as you were, my handsome spymaster.”

  “Well, uh…” Bertram said, flushing pink as an idiot’s grin spread across his face.

  Gervais, choosing to ignore the byplay, waved away her concern. “Who do you suspect, then?”

  “Mahroz, wife of Orang Khan.”

  “A Persian couple?” Gervais asked.

  “Yes, though as far as we can tell, not related to the royals.”

  “Do you think they report to Nur even so?”

  “A natural conclusion to draw, but without confirmation at the other end it’s impossible to say with certainty.”

  “Certainty isn’t a thing we trade in, daughter.”

  “No, I suppose not. Still, I am certain she is passing messages out of the harem.”

  “And not just sending love notes to her husband?”

  “Not her husband, no,” Bertram answered. “He’s been home all week and I’ve set watchers on the family manor.”

  Gervais looked a question at them both.

  “We compared notes last week and then again before you came in,” Monique said, divining the question an instant before Bertram.

  “And here I thought I was only giving you time to steal a few kisses.”

  “Well, that too, Papa!” Monique said, grinning impishly.

  Bertram flushed again, cleared his throat, and changed the subject. “The messengers rode south while their mansion is to the north and on the other side of the river from the Red Fort.”

  “Some other paramour? Parents?”

  “Doubtful in the first instance, and deceased in the second,” Monique answered, instantly.

  “For both of them?”

  Bertram looked thoughtful, but it was Monique who answered, with less certainty this time. “Her parents are dead. Not so sure about his.”

  Gervais shrugged. “I suppose it doesn’t really matter…though it would be nice to know who, exactly, is receiving the intelligence. Perhaps Dara can get us verification from one of the camps?”

  “Possibly. I will ask Jahanara.”

  “Any idea what intelligence was passed?”

  “Two items make sense: The first rumors regarding completion of the munitions factory circulated at about the same time as the first messenger departed. The second messenger left the same day as Bidhi Chand and the Sikh army arrived.”

  “But why report that second bit? The arrival of the Sikhs has to be general knowledge.”

  “That’s what I asked him,” Monique said, looking at Bertram for an answer with a twinkle in her eye.

  He cleared his throat, having been distracted at the time by her warm lips and nimble fingers. “Informants often feel they must report everything in order to be seen as reliable, especially ones seeking to ingratiate themselves with whomever they are spying for. And they have a point, to a certain extent. Just because a thing is common knowledge in one place does not mean that it will be reported in another…” He thought a moment and continued, “In this case, though, I think the former situation applies: Mahroz and/or Orang both wish to ingratiate themselves with someone, and seek to be first with the news.”

  “So probably not accomplished spies.”

  “Almost certainly not,” Bertram agreed. “Which is why it would be useful to track their movements. We might identify the center of the ring if we can watch them long enough. Even professionals slip up, eventually.”

  Gervais considered a moment before asking, “Just what do you think Dara will do with this information?”

  “He’ll probably take them prisoner, remove their rank, and generally make them miserable,” Bertram said.

  “And Jahanara, what would she do?” Gervais looked at his daughter this time.

  “Jahanara will likely set her own people, or give us free rein to continue watching the couple in hopes they would lead us to roll up the rest of the ring.”

  “Then I suppose it makes sense that we tell Jahanara and let her decide whether and when to inform her brother.”

  Monique rolled her eyes and said, exasperated, “That was exactly my idea, Papa!”

  “Why so vehement?” he asked, brows rising.

  “I would like to think that you, at least, believe I know what I’m doing when it comes to this sort of thing.”

  “Did I show you differently?” he asked, looking to Bertram for support.

  “Of course you did, by not asking me what I planned in the first place!” she snapped.

  Bertram, aware that the lovely young woman he wanted desperately to please might not look favorably upon any support he showed for Gervais, kept his mouth shut. Gervais and Monique did this sometimes, arguing over what seemed to outsiders to be trifles. They rarely differed on matters of importance, and to be honest, Bertram found the pair were far closer than he’d been with either his mother or his father since becoming an adult, so who was he to judge?

  Red Fort, Harem

  “Do we know how large the network is?” Jahanara asked. Placing her carved jade chaturanga piece with care. She had lost three straight matches to the older woman. What had started as a way to engage in private conversation had become something of a grudge match.

  “Three in the palace proper. Two more in the manors of nobles of the inner court…Damn these hot flashes,” Smidha said. They were on a balcony, but the fitful breeze coming off the dry-season Yamuna had little impact on the older woman’s temperature.

  Jahanara gathered some ice from the bowl that chilled their drinks and, after a raised brow elicited a nod from Smidha, pressed it to the hollow of her servant’s neck.

  “Oh, that’s wonderful, thank you, Begum Sahib.” Smidha sighed, and then indulged in a moment of calm consideration of the board before making her move. “There are two in the harem, another among the umara of the court. The ring is rather large, but in identifying the ringleader, we think we know most of them.”

  Studying for her next move, and hoping to distract Smidha, Jahanara asked, “And how certain are we of this identification of the leadership?”

  “As fully as one can be on such things. Two separate sources confirmed it and a third mentioned suspicions to that effect…”

  “And do they know we have identified them?”

  “Your move, Begum Sahib,” Smidha said. “In answer to your question, it is doubtful.”

  “While certainty would be comforting,” Jahanara said, making the move she considered the least detrimental to her game, “comfort in such matters is a sign we were being deceived.”

  “Exactly so, Begum Sahib. Discomfort and uncertainty are the bywords of intelligence work.” Smidha grinned and made her move, seemingly without
thought.

  “What is it, beloved Smidha?” Jahanara asked, eyeing her opponent, and then the board, with suspicion born of long experience.

  The smile broadened. “Oh, nothing.”

  Jahanara took another handful of ice and pretended to throw it at Smidha.

  Her servant sniffed, unmoved, and said, “Truly, Begum Sahib, it was only this: our familiarity and acceptance of those conditions of uncertainty and discomfort are inherent in what it means to be a woman and therefore, it seems to me, must give rise to women’s supremacy in such work.”

  “Supremacy? Such a strong word,” Jahanara said thoughtfully. She tossed the chips of fast-melting ice back in the bowl and preemptively waved a slave back to his position when that worthy thought to replenish the bowl’s contents. Privacy was far more important to her right now than the temperature of her drinks.

  “Oh?” Smidha prompted.

  Jahanara shook her head. “It seems too broad a generalization. Perhaps it would be better to say that we inmates of the harem are trained by our experiences while those who are not immured in such circumstances have less experience to learn from and trade upon?”

  Smidha considered. “It is difficult to say, as those not in these circumstances who are also close to power are not easily found in all the wide world.”

  “Unless they are from the USE, I suppose,” Jahanara said, thinking of Monique, Ilsa, and Priscilla. “Or until, like Nur, we are beyond our child-rearing years.”

  “Even then, proprieties must be observed,” Smidha said, smoothing the fringe of the pillow she reclined on.

  Jahanara did not miss the sign. She glanced again at the board, but realized she was beaten in three moves or less and decided Smidha’s reaction had to do with something more important.

  “What is it, Smidha?”

  Smidha’s good humor disappeared, replaced for an instant with a feral intensity Jahanara had last seen in the Garden of the Taj. “More than anything, Begum Sahib, I want to roll up this spy network like so much betel and burn it to ash. I want it, and everyone who threatens you, burned to the ground, made into ashes that can be placed in the sacred river and carried to the sea.” Smidha’s hands had curled into claws by the time she’d finished speaking.

  Jahanara nodded, allowing the anger and heat of Smidha’s outburst to pass without accepting it, wanting to make sure her advisor and ally was fully aware of her will when she chose to speak it.

  The older woman’s experienced, agile mind recovered from the fit of temper quickly enough, leading Smidha to bow her head respectfully and mumble an apology.

  Jahanara ignored the apology to focus on the problem. “What you propose is a mere trimming of leaves. I want to uproot the brush, root and all, and slay those wishing to gather any harvest from it.”

  Smidha waggled her head. “I understand the desire to keep them in play, b—”

  “It is not simply a desire, Smidha. It is necessary. All our hopes for the future may come to rely on a very few things, who knows what and when: the up-timer weapons, the strength of our resolve, and whomsoever earns that most precious of commodities—the blessings of divine favor.”

  Smidha, pale now, looked away.

  Jahanara sat back. Giving Smidha another moment cost her nothing but time. She even made her move, knowing it was futile.

  Smidha’s eyes, following Jahanara’s hands, fell on the board again.

  “Your will, Begum Sahib…” She let her words trail off, and made the move Jahanara knew she would.

  “But?”

  A tremulous smile. “Not so much a ‘but’ as ‘new thoughts occur…’”

  “Oh?” Jahanara said, ceding the game by laying her emperor on his side.

  “Amar Singh Rathore,” Smidha said, picking up the pale jade horseman she’d captured earlier. The piece Priscilla said came to be called the knight in that future which was not to be.

  “What of him?” Jahanara knew the young Rajput umara’s reputation for prideful arrogance, but he had been nothing but supportive of Dara’s rule.

  Smidha reached across the board to Jahanara’s remaining castle, placing the sowar beside it. “Your brother must send Amar Singh south to garrison Asirgarh.”

  “Why?” Jahanara asked, genuinely puzzled.

  “Because he is as prickly as that new fruit from the Americas, what is it called…pineapple…yes, pineapple, that the court has enjoyed these last few years. Yes, prickly, and like to give offensive wind at the least opportunity.”

  “And?”

  “And if Dara were to publicly give him an independent command as important as Asirgarh, it will swell his head with even more pride. That pride will tie him to our cause with chains forged of strongest steel yet he’ll feel only pleasure at the recognition and responsibility received, not the collar we have placed around his neck. And here, at home, your brother will have one less potential headache.”

  Jahanara cocked her head. “But, why send him to Asirgarh? Why not to Gwalior?”

  “Because Gwalior’s zamindar is headstrong and still resents the way Shah Shuja and Aurangzeb snubbed him while pursuing Shah Jahan’s campaign to the south. If Dara were to replace him, who knows which way the man would jump, and who he might back out of pure spite. Besides, Asirgarh is far enough away for both the semblance of independence such men crave and distant enough for Dara’s general peace of mind. And, if common opinion and his own words on the subject are to be trusted, Amar Singh is at least a competent commander.”

  Jahanara smiled. “He does tend to wax poetic about his own exploits. Paramjit is a staunch ally, however. I would not see her offended.”

  Smidha waggled her head. “That she may be, but Amar Singh’s mother, Raijada, is another matter entirely.”

  “Oh?” Jahanara asked. “Is she spying for one of my brothers?”

  “Nothing so useful as that! No, she’s simply a bitter old prune of a woman with a penchant for rumor-mongering. She was at the center of the web of rumors you and Nadira worked so hard to quell.”

  “She was?” Jahanara’s tone made a statement of the question. Then the anger hit, filling her mouth with bitter copper. “She was,” she repeated. Jahanara let the rage expand to fill her heart, then expand some more, and finally, let it expand beyond the confines of her body in hopes that, as it lost density, it would also lose power over her thoughts.

  Smidha was watching her as one hunting cat watches another, not fearful—never that—simply…watchful.

  Jahanara took a long, deep breath, then let it out slowly, sending the remainder of her anger and bitterness out into the world with the exhalation. She had room in neither heart nor head for such feelings, not if she was to win.

  Chapter 12

  Allahabad

  Mission camp on the Great Trunk Road

  “This is the biggest lump we’ve bought so far. I hope it’s pure,” Ricky said, the crickets just starting to sing their night song beyond the tent flap.

  “How much more do you need?” Jadu asked without looking up from his ledgers.

  “Not really sure how long it keeps…” Ricky said, looking uncertainly at the fist-sized lump of opium lying on waxed paper before him. They’d bought it at what Jadu assured them was a fair price in Allahabad just before departing this morning. Ricky had laid it out for repacking with the smaller amounts they’d obtained from previous stops.

  “Kept away from damp and extremes of temperature, salt water, or immersion, it will last at least a year,” Jadu said, quill never stopping in its glide across the pages before him.

  “Extremes of temperature like you get in Allahabad during the dry season?” Ricky asked, glancing out of the tent at the last, lingering light of the sunset. The days were getting steadily warmer and there wasn’t an air conditioner for thousands of miles.

  “And we just have to keep it out of water as we cross the rivers bounding this doab and enter into Bengal, where the rivers abound?”

  “So long as it’s not left for ho
urs in direct sun, it should retain its effectiveness. And the watertight chests I provided should be effective in keeping it from inundation.”

  “All right…Then I think I’d like to have twice what we got. Twenty chests or so ought to do it. I was told we wouldn’t need anywhere near that much to make what we need, because of the process they plan to use, but I don’t want to be the guy who came back without the goods, you know?”

  Jadu nodded agreement. “Almost always, it is better to have mo—” The quill stopped. “Ricky, where is Bobby?”

  “Lying down and trying not to shit himself.”

  “Arm yourself, Ricky.”

  “Wha—” Ricky stopped as a scraping sound reached his ears. It took a moment for Ricky to identify the noise: swords being drawn from scabbards were not among those sounds a youth spent in small-town West Virginia made readily identifiable.

  “The night creatures have ceased making any noise,” Jadu said, eyes wide.

  Ricky snapped up the eight-seventy and chambered a shell with the obligatory, and comforting, shick-shack sound.

  As the metallic noise faded, Ricky heard the thunder of hooves, a sound he had grown more accustomed to identifying since coming to India.

  Jadu shouted something and ran into the semidarkness of the camp.

  Unsure what the man had said, Ricky ran out of the tent and came to a stop to get a quick idea of what was happening.

  Lights were approaching from the east, the closest just about ten yards from the first of the perimeter of the camp, if he remembered correctly. From the number of torches they carried, a dozen or more horsemen were attacking from that direction, climbing diagonally across the gentle slope toward Jadu’s tent at the center of the camp.

  The merchant’s shouts were answered from all along the perimeter of the camp, followed quickly by pillars of flame as campfires were doused with oil. The merchant himself rushed toward where most of the guards were entangled in a melee with the riders, shouting further orders.