1637: The Peacock Throne

by Eric Flint

  Jahanara nodded agreement. “I would hope that such vigilance would lead to suspicion and the dissolution of their alliance, eventually. But then, I didn’t think that either could keep their armies together when Dara cut off their supplies.” She pawed through the correspondence, found a letter she’d been waiting for, unsealed it, and quickly read the contents.

  Monique strode up, bowed and fair threw herself down next to Nadira when she gestured the Mission woman to join her.

  Jahanara missed some byplay between the two women, but watched as Nadira worked the other woman’s unruly curls into a short, heavy braid. Nadira preferred to keep her hands busy and while Monique’s hair wasn’t as exotic as Ilsa’s, the Frenchwoman seemed to enjoy the attention far more than John’s wife.

  She suppressed a sigh. If reports were true, Nadira wasn’t the only one tangling her fingers in Monique’s hair of late. The twinge of unwarranted jealousy served to return her attention to the letter she’d already read once through without actually retaining any information.

  “Finally!” Jahanara muttered after several minutes, rereading the pertinent section once again.

  “What is it?” Monique asked, tip of her tongue protruding daintily as she concentrated on working another hank of hair into place.

  “We presumed Aurangzeb and Shuja were pillaging the land as they came north, but wondered how they were able to maintain their strength, as the Deccan had scarcely recovered from the famine of a few years ago when my brothers first rode south to conquer it.” Jahanara waved the letter. “Herein lies an answer: Apparently the Portuguese have made some sort of deal with Aurangzeb. They have been making up the shortfall from their lands to the west.”

  A disbelieving look crossed Nadira’s face.

  “You do not believe it?”

  “It is not so much that I don’t believe it entirely, but that I wonder how they have so much to give,” Nadira qualified. “I’m sure Portuguese Goa has its share of productive farmland, but it’s hardly the Punjab.”

  “When you treat the people like slaves, and keep many actual slaves, it is not so great a sacrifice to short your own populace for the purpose of supplying your warriors,” Monique opined.

  Jahanara looked at her.

  The ferenghi winced, leading Jahanara to suspect Nadira had given Monique’s hair a little extra tug to still her tongue as much as keep her from moving.

  “Still, the passes through the Western Ghats must be full of oxen day and night to keep the army fed,” Jahanara said as she digested what the pretty young ferenghi had said and, more importantly, Nadira’s reaction. Most of the Mission had, at one time or another, and to various degrees, expressed a similar distaste for slavery. It was an odd distaste to have, let alone speak of openly. The Quran and most every other religious text she had read documented how, under certain circumstances, the practice was acceptable, sometimes even required for the betterment of all mankind.

  Why should the Mission people feel that way when at least the slavery practiced in Mughal lands allowed for a slave to convert and then become free, something the indigenous caste system never countenanced. Born into a caste, one never left it, not in this life, anyway. Jahanara suspected Monique and the other down-timers of the Mission had their opinions heavily influenced by the up-timers, who claimed slavery was universally reviled in their time, and outlawed by every nation.

  That it was not so—indeed that she had heard of no nation where it was a crime to keep slaves—in the here and now was a simple, unassailable fact of life.

  If it were even rumored that Dara contemplated abolishing slavery, he would be removed from power in an instant, and not by his current enemies, but by a general uprising of every class and caste but the slaves.

  But do I have to silence her on this point?

  No, such oblique mentions can be ignored. Censuring her for it would only draw attention to their alien opinions, and possibly alienate them when we have need of them.

  Besides, I would hate to stop Monique speaking her mind. Just a few years older than Jahanara, Monique was worldly in a way no inmate of the harem could ever be, and she was a storyteller of rare skill and humor.

  Realizing she’d been silent for too long, Jahanara picked up the thread of the conversation and moved it elsewhere. “I am equally concerned that we only learned of this now, a month and more after this strange alliance started. We do not have enough friendly people in either camp, and fewer still that are willing to pass us information now that Aurangzeb and Shuja joined forces.”

  “I would think that the friction between them would make people more willing to inform than less?” Monique said.

  “Normally, perhaps. But both enemy camps were already fairly firm in their opinion that Dara would be defeated by the prince they chose, and now they have twice the men and their supply situation is no worse than it was before. Some of those who were willing to report goings-on went silent when that happened, and more since.”

  “Do you think they are actively rooting out spies?”

  “Of course.”

  Monique looked worried, and Jahanara quickly explained, “I am not speaking of what might be termed ‘professional spies,’ only those umara too powerful to accuse as such. Men—and women—who merely write letters to their ‘friends and relations’ in other camps, keeping in touch so as to hedge their bets in case of sudden misfortune befalling their chosen prince. They are the ones who have stopped writing Dara or his supporters, for the most part.”

  Tight, heavy braid complete and free of Nadira’s grasp, Monique shook her head.

  “What is it, Monique?”

  “The way some things are handled here seem so reasonable, and yet there are so many things that are unreasonable, and wrong, in my view.”

  Wary lest Monique say more on the subject of slavery, Jahanara decided to move to a subject that would require Monique to explain the ways of European rulers rather than continue to critique those of India. “I have heard the courts of Europe are terribly quick to cry treason and execute anyone on the losing side of a dynastic war.”

  Thankfully, Monique took the bait, and the conversation veered away from anything to do with slavery. Soon, Jahanara had forgotten her earlier funk. Soon after that, what part of her mind not engaged in the conversation started to work over the failure of her sources to obtain even basic intelligence and, in light of those failures, began to adjust her plans to overcome the many challenges facing Dara’s rule.

  Chapter 19

  Agra

  Jasmine Court, Red Fort

  Business of the day done, Jahanara shifted position in a fruitless effort to find a cool spot among the cushions. The heat of the afternoon was only made bearable by a combination of deep shade, cool fruits, and the constant effort of several slaves sweating to power overhead fans.

  She cast a look at her brother, considering.

  He hardly sweated, of course. He’d always been better in the heat than she, and his use of opium seemed to keep him cool, as well. Normally, the court would have retired to Kashmir to enjoy the cool air and royal gardens of that highlands region, but leaving Agra with their brothers in rebellion was impossible, so they made themselves as comfortable as possible and kept to the gardens and the shade as much as they could.

  “I would ask a minor favor, Sultan Al’Azam.”

  “You would, Padishah Begum?” Dara asked, smiling.

  Startled, Jahanara nearly dropped the grapes she’d just retrieved from the tray between them. Dara had never before called her by that great title, one usually reserved for princesses and dowager queens. It was one thing to have lesser men call her such, but to have the emperor declare it so, even in the privacy of the harem, was another thing entirely. He did her great honor.

  “Yes,” she said, setting aside the sudden urge to tell him everything. But some things must remain secret, even from him. Especially from him.

  Far too many ears listened to every conversation Dara had to risk telling him,
even here.

  He gestured for her to continue, popping a pair of grapes into his mouth with a hand bearing nearly as many rings as Father, a notorious lover of such jewelry, had been given to wearing.

  “Your armies grow by the day, Sultan Al’Azam, and I would see their power preserved…” She trailed off, uncertain how to continue.

  He chewed, swallowed. “I’m afraid I don’t follow, sister?”

  “I had a thought—”

  “Surely an event to cause the world to tremble!”

  She gave him a hard stare. When that didn’t quell his laughter, she plucked a grape from the bunch and threatened to throw it at him.

  Dara raised both hands in defense of his person. “Stop threatening me with such a deadly weapon, or I shall call my bodyguard!”

  “It is good to see that your sense of humor, such as it is, has returned, brother.”

  Dara lowered his hands. Still smiling, he gestured for her to continue. “A small joke, sister. Do go on.”

  “I was watching Rodney and Priscilla work…” Again she let the thread of conversation lapse, unsure what to say, or how to say it.

  He nodded encouragingly. “Rodney Totman is like a magician in his skills at medicine.”

  Deciding on a course, she said, “And, by his own admission, his wife’s needlework is even better. I would remind you that both of them oversaw the initial treatment of both Salim and Atisheh for their injuries.”

  He looked at the guard post leading from the garden to the harem, where Atisheh stood with the other guards, and said, “I need no reminders, sister. In addition to her healing of our wounds”—he touched the scar just out of view under his turban—“as well as those of our men, I well recall Nadira’s praise for the skills Priscilla Totman showed during the delivery of our son.” He took his time pronouncing the up-timer’s name, clearly enjoying the way the odd-sounding name sounded.

  Jahanara, moved by his suddenly serious tone, nodded and pressed on. “It was my thought that your army could be well served by them.”

  His brow furrowed. “What service can they do the army they do not already do me? They only have so many hands…”

  “Exactly so, Sultan Al’Azam. Having only four hands, they can only do so much. I would ask them, instead, to use their minds and tongues to train others. Men and women who wish to learn the science and art of healing. Monique tells me such people, called ‘medics,’ march now with the army of the USE. I think your army needs such.”

  “Women, serving with the army?” he asked, frowning.

  She waggled her head, sensing he was on the verge of denying her. “Not with the army, but here, in your capital, and in your camp, and not to treat the men. With your permission and blessing, I wish to establish a hospital where women will care for women.”

  And if they should be available in an emergency, and treat injured fighting men, I hardly think anyone will complain of it.

  “An interesting idea. Have you asked the up-timers if they will do such a thing?”

  “No, Sultan Al’Azam. I would not presume.”

  “Would not presume?” he repeated dryly, unscarred brow rising.

  She held her tongue, unsure what he meant to imply. She searched his face but could not discover his meaning. He looked thoughtful, only.

  At length Dara tapped golden rings against the heavy golden tray of fruit. “I think it a good plan. There are many among our people who cannot fight for reasons of their faith, and yet would serve. If Rodney agrees to it, I will make him an umara, and his zat will be commensurate with his contributions to our health and that of my army.”

  “And his wife, Sultan Al’Azam?”

  He waved her concerns away. “She will rise with her husband.”

  She bowed her head. “As you say, Sultan Al’Azam.”

  “You think she deserves more?”

  “I do, Sultan Al’Azam.”

  “Then you can give it to her. I grant you leave to establish your hospital here in Agra, or wherever the Red Tent goes. You may name whomever you please to its administration.”

  “Forgive me, but I believe that in order to overcome the most recalcitrant of the physicians I shall be interviewing for posts, I must ask for more. If I am to ensure Priscilla is taken as seriously as her husband…”

  “What then?” he asked, somewhat sharply.

  “Assign her a mansab, Sultan Al’Azam. Make her an umara.”

  “An umara?”

  “Yes, Sultan Al’Azam,” she said, forging onward.

  He almost scoffed, but read the deadly seriousness of her expression, and quite likely thinking he would hear no end of it once his wife learned he’d had a falling out with her, Dara moderated his tone and gestured for her to continue.

  “No rank of sowar, naturally. But of zat—”

  “Naturally?” he asked, shaking his head.

  “But of zat,” she continued doggedly, “you can grant her rank just below that of her husband.”

  “Sister, you ask a great deal. My brothers already speak of how I plan to overthrow all that is decent in my wanton efforts to offend all religions and upend the order of the universe.”

  “And yet it is a small thing for an emperor to order his house as he pleases. We women, your relations, have always had our own rank, our own mansabs.”

  “That is different.”

  “Only in that she is not a blood relation. The precedent still stands.”

  “Not only is she not a relation, she hardly has your education, sister. Why, yours rivals my own.”

  “No, but what she lacks in that regard we can shore up with suitable munshis.”

  “Eunuchs.”

  “I did say suitable munshis, Sultan Al’Azam.” Jahanara regretted her acerbic tone as the words leapt from her painted lips, but could no more retrieve them than stop the sun in its progress.

  “You did, sister.”

  “And any munshi will have to be approved of by Rodney, of course,” she lied, thinking it impolitic to mention that it would not be up to Rodney, but Priscilla herself, whether to employ eunuchs or simply the most qualified of people regardless of gender.

  “You did. I have heard your words. I will consider them,” he said, trying to dismiss her from his presence rather than grow wroth with her.

  Knowing that what she wanted to accomplish would take a great deal of time they didn’t have, she decided to stand her ground and attack. “Forgive me, brother, but time presses. Can you ask Rodney tonight?”

  An angry glint sharpened the look he cast her way.

  She bowed her head in humility. “Please forgive me, Sultan Al’Azam, but we have so little time to accomplish all the tasks God has placed before us, and I think now is the time for decisive action.”

  He surprised her then, smiling instead of showing offense. He said something in English she did not understand, then translated: “Sooner begun, sooner done,” explaining the lyricism in the original saying.

  “Indeed…” She cocked her head and allowed herself to be sidetracked, knowing he was convinced. “I do not think I have heard that turn of phrase before. Something the up-timers say?”

  “No. Or, rather, I do not know,” he said, waggling his head. “I heard it from Gervais, who said it might be a Protestant English saying, as far as he knew, so I imagine he could quite possibly have learned it from the up-timers. I do like it, however.”

  “As do I.” Again she was assaulted by a wave of guilt. That she should keep secrets from him wounded her.

  Again she put it away.

  “Their language may not possess the poetry of ours, but there is an elegance there I wish I had the time to explore more thoroughly.”

  He sighed. “Would that I had time to pursue all my interests. I have yet to complete my treatise on the values of the varied religions of our lands, and I am afraid it will have to wait until after I have vanquished my upstart brothers.”

  “God willing, next year.”

  Jahanara Begum pray
ed for that very outcome.

  Shores of the Yamuna

  The late-morning sun had yet to heat the day as Bertram and John rode the last mile to Talawat’s munitions factory. John was enjoying the cool air, if not the ride.

  They cleared off to the side to give the road to a patrol heading to Red Fort. He shifted his seat while they waited, attempting to find a more comfortable position. It seemed they’d been resident at Red Fort long enough for his ass to grow unaccustomed to the saddle, and training his thighs and ass to the saddle was a hardship. And to add to his ass pain was the thought of why they were riding out to the factory.

  He’d never been a fan of inspections: Back up-time at the county job he’d held they were usually conducted by assholes who didn’t know the job, didn’t listen to explanations, didn’t care at all about the people working the site they were inspecting, and went through any given job site just looking to check things off on their clipboards. It would be one thing if the inspection served a purpose other than justifying some county clerk’s existence, but they almost always seemed to have nothing better to do than get in the way.

  Only now, I get to play “asshole with a clipboard.” The thought shored up his resolve to make this inspection as quick and painless as humanly possible. Talawat and his people didn’t need anyone interfering, and certainly didn’t need to hear some bullshit from a jumped-up hillbilly who didn’t know half the chemistry or metallurgy they had learned in a lifetime.

  He shook his head and, in an attempt to distract himself with something positive, said, “Got to say I’m surprised by how quick the Sikhs have taken to training in the new tactics and guns.” Of course, the ‘new’ tactics were from a Civil War–era training manual—pamphlet, really—someone back home had copied off and thought to send along with the Mission in hopes it might prove useful.

  “Bidhi Chand seems to have had his orders direct from Sixth Guru, and those orders must have been pretty clear: Learn everything you can, fight for the emperor the best way you can, and bring that knowledge home from the wars,” Bertram said.