1637: The Peacock Throne

by Eric Flint

  Ricky looked away from the sudden flare of lights. Seeking a patch of darkness, he looked toward the river. As luck would have it, he spied figures running among the caravan’s supplies and trade goods stacked not fifty yards from his position.

  A choking cry sounded from among the people there, followed by the fall of one shadowed figure.

  Blinking, he realized the remaining figures were picking up the various goods and throwing them over the shoulders of their comrades. Somehow the second party of raiders had managed to get between the tents and the river.

  They must have swum… The thought came slow.

  “Jadu!” he shouted.

  No answer from the merchant, but Bobby appeared next to him, his own shotgun at port arms, like they were taught.

  “You see that?” Ricky asked.

  “Yup.” Bobby suddenly hunched over his gun, emitting a rumble.

  “Stay here till you’re feeling better,” Ricky said as his friend straightened.

  “I’m…good enough,” Bobby muttered, looking green even in the red light of the fires.

  “Let’s go, then,” Ricky said, comforted by his friend’s insistence on joining the party.

  They started trotting toward the…bandits or river pirates? Was there a specific term for them? Shaking off such thoughts, Ricky tried to get a count of the raiders. It was hard to judge in the limited light, but Ricky counted between a dozen and twenty figures. Most were moving back and forth to the water’s edge with the caravan’s goods in their arms.

  Ricky thought about firing a warning shot, but the first man to see them coming dropped his package, pulled a knife so big it might as well be a sword and shouted over his shoulder. For help, if the response from his friends was any indication: three more of the raiders drew various blades and started moving to meet the up-timers.

  “Couple more steps?” Ricky asked.

  Bobby groaned, doubled over, and farted wetly.

  Ricky would have laughed if he wasn’t so scared his friend might have caught some deadly disease and the raiders hadn’t started to charge at that moment.

  Unable to see to his friend, Ricky shouldered the Remington and dropped the bead over the first bandit’s naked torso. Pushing the safety off, he stroked the trigger with his finger. The high-base shell made the gun kick him in the shoulder, hard, and launch its load with a heavy bark and flash as the buckshot exited the barrel.

  A spark went up from the man’s sword, followed closely by the swordsman himself slumping to the ground with a wet, coughing sob.

  The others, scattered in a loose group a few steps from each other and behind the first, paused a moment, then one of them started shouting.

  Ricky cycled the action and drew a bead on his next target.

  The raiders were sprinting at him now, unaware he had five more in the tube and thinking to cut him down as he tried to reload.

  Another man staggered, fell as soon as Ricky pulled the trigger.

  Ricky didn’t bother to aim now, just cycled and stroked the trigger. He was left unsure if he’d hit or not, as the man now leading the pack didn’t slow.

  By now close enough Ricky could see his eyes glittering in the firelight, Ricky watched the growing round O of fear the man’s mouth pulled into as he cycled the action once more and fired.

  This time the man went down, sliding across the damp grass of the camp to a boneless stop almost at his feet.

  Again he cycled the action, but the fourth man was already on top of him, swinging a sword overhand at his head. Ricky ducked, desperately throwing his shotgun up to parry the descending blade. The sword clanged against the receiver somewhere near the loading gate. The raider pulled back for another swing.

  Bobby’s gun barked at Ricky’s hip, surprising both combatants.

  The raider fell, revealing the back of the last man as he ran for the water’s edge.

  Ricky lowered his still-smoking gun. He felt a surge of excitement, a feeling of invincibility, of being entirely there.

  Unnerved by the sensations, Ricky looked around, moving his head to be sure he could actually see what he needed to see. From the absence of torches at the edge of the camp and the fading hoofbeats, the horsemen were fleeing, having distracted the caravan guards.

  He looked to where the other raiders had been on the shore and dimly saw shapes on the water. After a moment he realized it was a boat being poled rapidly downstream.

  The sound of Bobby puking reached him.

  He swung around and knelt beside his friend. “You okay?”

  “No. Sick. Soooo sick.” He paused a moment, then mumbled, “I think I shit myself.”

  “Me too!” Ricky laughed, a note of panic he didn’t like edging the words.

  “Reload,” Bobby groaned, thumbing a shell into the loading gate of his own weapon.

  “Oh, yeah.” Ricky found his hands were steadying as he took the first shell out of the vest he wore and thumbed it into the loading gate. His thumb caught on the deep scratch in the metal left behind by the sword stroke he’d parried. The thought of how close he’d come to getting stabbed made Ricky’s hands start to shake once more. The shells seemed slippery and the gun heavy and awkward, making the loading take longer than it should have. He managed, though, despite the stink coming from either Bobby or the bodies at his feet.

  The pair of them ignored the moans of one of the men Ricky had shot. Not out of cruelty, but because there was almost nothing to be done for the man—and what did a guy ready to kill people just to take their property deserve in the way of care, anyway?

  It wasn’t the first time he’d had to kill someone, and he didn’t know how he’d feel about it tomorrow, but for now he was okay with leaving the son of a bitch to die.

  “Ricky? Bobby?” Jadu called.

  “Here, Jadu.”

  The merchant strode up the slope, his footman and body servant, Vikram, carrying a torch aloft for him. Two guards were on his heels as he joined the up-timers.

  He wasn’t even breathing all that hard, despite the slight paunch he sported and the fact Ricky hadn’t seen him exercise or train once in the weeks they’d spent on the road.

  “Are you well?”

  Ricky gestured with the shotgun. “Bobby’s still sick, but we managed to keep from getting cut to pieces.”

  “So. Sick,” Bobby groaned.

  “But not injured in the attack?”

  “No.”

  Nodding, Jadu knelt and examined the man dying at their feet. After a moment he stood and walked down to where the goods and supplies had been dropped when they turned to attack the up-timers.

  Ricky helped Bobby to his feet, intending to take him back to his tent.

  “No, man. I’m good enough here. Besides, I want to hear firsthand what’s up.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I have to wash in the river anyway.”

  Eyes tearing from the stink coming from Bobby’s pants, Ricky said, “Yes, yes you do.”

  They took a few steps, and Ricky couldn’t resist a jab at Bobby’s expense: “But isn’t that how you took sick in the first place?”

  “Might be,” Bobby mumbled, taking the question seriously. “But I won’t open my mouth this time, not even if I have to scream for help.”

  “Right,” Ricky said. Deciding not to make any more fun, he simply supported his sick friend on the way to meet the merchant.

  Jadu addressed the up-timers as they approached. “Thanks to your intervention, it looks like they weren’t able to get more than some of the indigo we bought and some cotton cloth I was planning to sell soon anyway, prices being cheaper nearer Bengal. I would have preferred not to lose anything, but with no one seriously injured and so little lost, I am content. More than that, I am thankful. I will make a great offering at temple when next I am able.”

  Vikram held the torch aloft as his master knelt next to the wounded man and asked a question.

  Ricky couldn’t hear the answer, but at a gesture from Jad
u, the guards picked the wounded raider up and carried him toward Jadu’s tent.

  Jadu stood and walked among the other men Ricky had shot, examining them.

  “What are you looking for, Jadu?” Bobby asked, wading into the river to clean himself.

  “I hope to discover who sent them,” Jadu answered, an odd expression on his face as he stopped what he was doing and watched Bobby.

  “They’re not bandits?” Ricky asked.

  Jadu waggled his head. “Perhaps. But using horses and boats in such a well-coordinated attack speaks of more organization than we normally see from bands of criminals, especially here where there are more regular patrols by police on both river and road.”

  Bobby pulled his shirt off and started to weakly pull at his pants.

  Jadu looked more uncomfortable, made a nervous gesture with his hand. “Could you…come out of the water?”

  “Need to get clean…” Bobby paused a moment, his expression thoughtful, then asked, “Why?”

  “There are a number of snakes in these waters and along these shores. If they should bite…That will kill you very quickly.”

  Bobby’s eyes went wide enough the whites were visible in the torchlight. He appeared to levitate out of the water and to shore, looking to Ricky like nothing so much as a cartoon character running for his life.

  Stifling a laugh, Ricky turned away. When he could keep a straight face he turned around only to find his friend shaking, eyes darting from the river to the ground at their feet.

  “Who do you think it was?” Ricky asked, as much to distract Bobby as get an answer.

  Another waggle of the head accompanied Jadu’s reply. “Could be the local zamindar out to pilfer goods because he knows he’s not likely to be investigated by the emperor’s men any time soon. It could also simply be someone opposed to the emperor’s rule…It is difficult to know.”

  “The wounded guy know anything?”

  Jadu glanced after the man and gave a very Western shrug. “He might tell us something should he wake before we leave tomorrow.” He returned his gaze to the two up-timers. “You should rest. We must leave earlier than I planned when we made camp.”

  Bobby nodded, worry and illness leeching the color from his expression, even in the torchlight.

  “Why the hurry?” Ricky asked, worried that Bobby’s condition would worsen without rest and easy access to clean water while on the move.

  “If the local zamindar was involved in this attack, he may decide to complete our destruction and thereby guarantee there are no witnesses to interrogate if the Sultan Al’Azam or local governor gets around to ordering an investigation.”

  “I’ll be good to go,” Bobby said, bravely trying to mask his discomfort.

  “I will arrange for you to ride in a litter at our next caravanserai, my young friend. In the meantime…and with your permission, I will use some of the opium we just purchased to make a remedy that I hope will prove helpful in arresting your digestive distress.”

  “Anything,” Bobby said. It said a lot about how badly he must feel that he so readily agreed to take the drug that both young men had such a healthy fear of. It made Ricky feel bad, knowing he’d had fun at his friend’s expense.

  “I want to thank you for all your help and guidance,” Ricky said, wishing to change the subject and acutely aware the older man’s precautions, planning, and commands had been the difference between losing most of their goods—not to mention their lives—in the raid and suffering the minor losses they had.

  “Thanks are not necessary.” A small smile transformed the man’s face. “At least not yet. We have not yet met with success, and to accept your thanks prematurely may call the disfavor of the gods upon us…”

  He and Ricky helped Bobby up, and together they walked to the tents.

  Chapter 13

  The Deccan

  Red Tent, Shah Shuja’s camp

  The drums rolled on as Shuja’s wazir announced Aurangzeb’s arrival at the court of the emperor.

  The court of an emperor, at any rate.

  Aurangzeb did not allow the irony of the thought to change his carefully neutral expression as he came to a stop before Shuja’s tent. Such would not be prudent, given the fact he was beyond the assistance of the bulk of his army and deep in his brother’s power. Besides, smiling made him appear even younger than he naturally did, something he had long cultivated a calm and disinterested demeanor in order to combat. Further, he had expended much effort and treasure to gain this audience. Indeed, his fresh agreement with the Portuguese viceroy had provided Aurangzeb with the one thing Shuja could no longer do without: supplies for his host. Food and fodder enough to last them a few months, at least. So, however much he disliked most music, only a fool would follow the investment of treasure and time with a display of ill temper over such a trifling thing.

  Aurangzeb did not count himself a fool.

  Dismounting, Aurangzeb examined his older brother. Shuja wore an impressive robe sewn with pearls, rubies, and emeralds, and had a large diamond in his turban that twinkled in the early-morning light. His cheeks were flushed, whether with wine or excitement or a combination of the two, Aurangzeb could not say at this remove.

  For his part, Aurangzeb had chosen his wardrobe very carefully: a simple robe of dark silks that would stand in contrast to his brother’s ostentatious display and a taqiyah of red and black he’d fashioned for himself. The only jewel to adorn him was affixed to the hilt of the dagger that rode at his belt.

  The drums stopped. After a long pause, the echo from the far hills did too.

  As the pride of lions, or in this case, perhaps, a pack of jackals examines prey before the hunt, the eyes of all those present turned on him.

  Aurangzeb stood tall under their collective gaze, glad that those who observed could not see the heart beating hard in the cavern of his chest.

  With a pride bordering on the unseemly, he reflected that whatever reputation for austere habits, religious piety, and personal bravery he had obtained in his short life would certainly be enhanced by today’s events, regardless of the outcome God had decreed.

  “Brother!” Shuja called. The sun’s rays scattered from jewel-studded sleeves as he raised his arms in welcome. That Shuja did not rise from his seat—Aurangzeb could not, in the privacy of his own mind, call it a throne—before the tent was not lost on anyone present.

  Aurangzeb least of all. Of course, Aurangzeb had planned for these petty aggravations and, with the exception of the drums, Shuja had failed to act outside of his younger brother’s expectations for the meeting.

  Judging his moment to again gather all eyes, Aurangzeb approached his elder brother on steady feet, posture erect and perfectly proper. He stopped just short of the distance Shuja’s kokas would be expected to order him disarmed in the presence of the emperor.

  “Sultan Al’Azam,” Aurangzeb said with a deep, respectful obeisance.

  A collective sigh ran through the assembled courtiers as, with his first words, Aurangzeb publicly acknowledged Shah Shuja’s claim on the Peacock Throne. Aurangzeb could not decide if it was relief or pleasure that made them exhale so, and quickly decided it did not signify.

  Hoping to forestall some wise courtier among his brother’s advisors ordering him taken prisoner now that he’d played what appeared to be his best gambit, Aurangzeb waited scarcely a heartbeat before continuing: “I wish to serve you, my brother. You, Sultan Al’Azam, are one I know will stand in righteous opposition to that misguided, irreligious fool, Dara! He, who knows neither respect nor grace, honor nor amity, and was unable to protect our father from his enemies must be returned to his proper place! He must be prevented from corrupting our storied lineage with error and idiocy! Kept from defiling your great empire with misrule and disharmony!”

  Shuja was sitting forward and nodding as his younger brother finished. Belatedly realizing his error in showing interest—let alone affirmation—for what his brother had to say, Shuja sat back as silence des
cended.

  Aurangzeb tried to gauge the effect of his speech without appearing to, and failed to find a friendly face among those closest to him.

  The wazir fidgeted, drawing the eyes of both brothers.

  As if the sight of the man brought him back to some prearranged script, Shuja looked again at Aurangzeb. “What then, brother?”

  Aurangzeb bowed once more before replying. “All present here today know that I desire nothing more than a life of quiet contemplation, an opportunity to focus on pursuing a deeper understanding of the Word of God—” Some among the gathered nobles muttered. Aurangzeb, expecting it, seized upon their skepticism to fuel the fire of his tongue. “I would happily live out my days engaged in only these holy pursuits, but I cannot!”

  The atmosphere of the crowd was changing, those closest hanging on his every word. “No, not so long as our feckless brother preaches of accord with all religions even while he reaches for bang and honeyed wine then rallies to his banner those ‘up-timers,’ men who profess no faith at all! These things he does in hopes of gaining some technical advantages over you, the rightful Sultan Al’Azam!”

  The crowd was now, if not held entirely in thrall to his words, then approaching it.

  Shuja’s wazir seemed on the verge of advising Shuja to silence his brother before they realized they might have chosen the wrong son to back.

  Aurangzeb did not allow him time to speak, however. “Why, he even allows our sister to rule his harem instead of the wife that should! That Jahanara is a wise and intelligent woman, I have no doubt, but my regard and respect for her quality does nothing to remedy this breach of tradition. Indeed, under her influence, Dara has not sought wives of his leading nobles as a Sultan should! The nobles of the court are left without the traditional guarantor of their sovereign’s trust and love! Instead the influence traditionally wielded by the collective women in the harem is not even left in the hands of his lone wife—but rather, our sister!”

  Many courtiers were nodding—the older among them, those with daughters of marriageable age—in particular.