by Eric Flint
Shuja’s man followed up on his advantage, grabbing the other man by his arm and pulling it into a lock that made his opponent gasp. His supporters groaned, though Aurangzeb believed the noise had more to do with fear of losing massive bets rather than any actual sympathy for the fighter.
The armlock may have hurt, but his free hand lashed out to sink deep in the other man’s belly. Once. Twice. Three times.
Shuja’s man bore in, heedless of the blows. Pressure on the lock eventually put his opponent on one knee, face a rictus of pain.
Aurangzeb felt his own expression tighten in sympathy.
Shuja’s man howled his victory.
Too early, it seemed: The kneeling man turned into the lock, tendons visible as they ground across the shoulder into new, unnatural positions. The fighter, ignoring what had to be crippling pain, thundered home an uppercut that lifted Shuja’s man onto tiptoe and prevented him getting his breath. The grip on his crippled arm relaxed enough for the fighter to break free. He surged to his feet with another punch, this one to the breathless man’s bearded jaw.
A stunned sigh ran through the audience as Shuja’s man fell bonelessly to earth, dislocated jaw obvious despite the beard.
The winner stood over his opponent, breath coming in ragged gasps, injured shoulder far lower than the other.
Shuja himself, impressed with the astonishing end to the fight, roared congratulations as loud as any of his court. Seeing it safe to do so, the men who had bet on him surged forward to congratulate the winner, who swooned with pain when one idiot jostled his shoulder to congratulate him.
Aurangzeb bowed his head in silent acquiescence to God’s will.
So I must suffer to ensure your victory. I will gladly do that, and anything more that is required of me, to secure Your ends.
Part Five
June, 1636
Suppressing all the instruments of flesh
—The Rig Veda
Chapter 21
Patna
Residence of Jadu Das
“Would have been nice to have some of this while we were watching the troop barges on the river,” Bobby said, sipping at the chilled wine the household staff had laid out for them. He’d have liked an ice-cold beer, but that was not happening.
Ricky nodded agreement. “Probably too expensive for more than occasional use.”
“Much as I want to keep cool in the sun, we probably can’t afford it.” Bobby drank the last of his wine, Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Yeah, must not come cheap, all those people dying to bring ice down from the mountains at top speed.”
“What did you say?” Jadu asked, a bit sharply, from the cushions across from the younger men. He wasn’t looking at either of them, but had his pen poised above the paper.
Both up-timers started a bit. The merchant only just joined them a few minutes ago and, as was his habit, quickly lapsed into silence to log the day’s receipts and complete the daily log of expense reports to be sent off to the Mission with the next messenger.
Bobby looked at Ricky, a question in his eyes.
Uncertain what had pricked Jadu’s interest, Ricky shrugged.
“We were just…” He trailed off, not wanting to give offense.
Jadu put his quill down and looked at the pair. “I am not angry. I just want to hear it again.”
“Well, we were wondering how many people died to get us the ice to chill our drinks.”
“Died?” Jadu asked, puzzled.
Bobby frowned. “You know, bringing it down from the mountains in this heat couldn’t have been easy.”
Jadu’s puzzlement evaporated, only to be replaced by a stifled chuckle that soon grew to outright—and loud—laughter.
Bobby shot a questioning look at Ricky, who could only shrug and watch as both his oldest friend and his newest grew red in the face.
“What did Bobby say?” Ricky asked. He sniffed his own goblet, suspicious because Jadu had only just started drinking, having been at the market all day listening for rumors and buying on behalf of the Mission.
Wiping tears from his eyes, Jadu looked at him, but continued to convulse with laughter.
The merchant’s body servant, Vikram, entered. While Vikram had served him for years, Jadu had bought the large house and hired additional servants from the locals in hopes of establishing his bona fides as a trader of consequence and thereby gain access to additional intelligence sources.
Vikram, at least, showed some discipline, and avoided joining his master’s laughter. He merely poured more wine for Jadu from an unwieldy-large and towel-wrapped ewer, then offered more to the boys.
“Tell me, what’s got you laughing so hard?” Bobby asked, covering his goblet to show he did not need more wine.
Bobby had spoken in English. Realizing his best friend was about to lose his temper, Ricky stood up. They’d both grown used to avoiding the use of English unless they were completely alone, having come to the conclusion it was the only way to acquire the necessary language skills in anything approaching a useful time frame. For him to abandon the habit was a sure sign Bobby was pissed.
Jadu held up a placating hand and made a visible effort to stop laughing.
The servant, taking Ricky’s rising as an invitation to fill his goblet, approached. Ricky held it out, deliberately holding his arm so that it interfered with the angry eyes Bobby was sending Jadu.
As Vikram filled his goblet, Ricky caught sight of something odd about the ewer: it appeared to have an inner pitcher, the spout of which extended beyond the lip of the sealed outer one.
Jadu saw his interest and finally got control of himself, waving to draw Bobby’s attention to the container as well.
Grateful for the distraction, Ricky asked, “May I, Vikram?” and held his hands out for the item.
Confused, the servant glanced at Jadu.
“Let him see it, Vikram. It will help me explain my undue mirth.”
The servant handed it to Ricky, keeping the towel. The metal was quite cold to the touch, so cold the humid afternoon air quickly beaded the surface once exposed.
Holding it up, he saw what appeared to be a thermos-like arrangement: the outer pitcher was filled with water and sealed, while the inner contained the wine they were drinking.
He handed it to Bobby.
“I don’t get it. Ice in the water of the outer pitcher?”
Jadu smiled and shook his head. He stood and bowed before Bobby, who waved him away, uncomfortable as only up-timers could be with all the bowing and scraping people seemed to do in this time and place.
“Forgive me, Bobby. I was not laughing at you. Your question caused a strong memory to surface.” He sobered further. “One that should serve as a firm reminder to me of the perils of man’s stubbornness and basic assumptions regarding reality.”
Bobby’s expression eased at the apology, but Ricky could read his friend’s expression. Bobby still needed to know what was so funny before he’d forgive the man.
“Given the reputation you up-timers have for technological wonders, I had assumed you knew all the properties of saltpeter, and that those several properties were the reason you sought the substance in the first place, and why I was instructed to purchase so much on your behalf.”
“Saltpeter…” Bobby mused, looking at the ewer. “You put saltpeter in the water?”
“Yes. Stirring a sufficient quantity of the substance into water causes it to grow quite chill, though it does not solidify into ice.”
Endothermic reaction. The phrase bubbled up from Chemistry 101. And here I thought I’d forgot everything I ever learned in Chem.
“So, to answer your question without laughter: no blood was spilled or lost to make your drink cool, my friend.” His grin grew and he waggled his head. “A lot of piss, however, was poured.”
Bobby looked uncomfortably at the ewer, making Jadu chuckle again. “They use urine to speed production of saltpeter. Vast quantities of it, from both humans and livestock.
“Petermen?” Bobby asked, interested despite himself.
Jadu returned to Persian. “To hear him tell it: Men who were licensed by the English king to enter a man’s home and property to collect saltpeter wherever it may lay. They were even allowed to damage that property in order to collect the substance. Given how our own imperial jagirs are managed, I find it easy to imagine quite a few instances of corruption that might have led to my employer’s low opinion of petermen.”
“No offense, but I still don’t see why you found my question so funny.”
“Forgive me, I was recalling a similar conversation with my former employer, who was, in his own parlance, a tight-fisted bastard. When available, he insisted on purchasing ice instead of using any of the Company’s wares. When it wasn’t available, or too dear—which was most of the time—he went without…” Jadu trailed off, looking sidelong at the up-timers.
“And?” Bobby asked.
“And he died of heatstroke, sitting atop a cart containing enough saltpeter to cool a good-sized pond.”
Both up-timers stood silent a second, then burst into laughter.
The wisdom of his long-ago choice to avoid the fermented grape confirmed by the antics of those he served, Vikram left the pitcher behind and departed, smiling.
Patna market
The market was busy even in the heat of the afternoon, though most of the traffic consisted of the servants of the great merchants, rather than the men themselves.
Ricky enjoyed watching the activity, if not the powerful odors that accompanied them: spices, unwashed flesh, strange incense, and weaving through it all, the moist, mud-laden scent of the Ganges.
Jadu was busy finalizing the arrangements for taking possession of another shipment of saltpeter. At least, he was supposed to be—but he seemed to be spending more time complaining, loudly and at length, of the cost. They’d run out of goods to barter with and Jadu hated, absolutely hated, spending cold, hard cash. He liked to claim that making a profit was easier when he could talk up the value of his goods and denigrate the value of those goods offered in exchange than when offering coin.
While he complained on the market side of the awning set up for his trade along the edge of the market, Ricky and Bobby were on the back side, along the stone stairs that led down to the river. They were watching the river, just as they had done for weeks, keeping track of the number of troop barges arriving from farther south and east, which was slow and stupid-boring make-work, but it might prove useful, eventually. Jadu said so, at any rate.
“What’s that, you say?” Jadu barked. Voice raised, not in complaint, but in question. “You are the tax collector here?”
Bobby started to get up, but Ricky grabbed his arm and kept him still.
“And to whom will my taxes go, then?” Jadu said, just as loudly, but without the biting tone of his earlier question.
Ricky smiled. The clever merchant was speaking so loudly, not from thoughtlessness, but for the benefit of the up-timers. Bobby smiled back a beat later, and together they snuck to a position where they could better hear what was being said without revealing themselves.
“I am not saying I will not pay the tax! I only ask to whom it will be paid!”
“The governor,” the tax collector said, voice tight.
“The governor, you say?”
Ricky’s grin grew wider. From his tone, you’d never guess he hates revenuers at least as much as my pa.
“I do. Now, I will see your books, that I may make a proper assessment.”
“Of course, my friend. Perhaps something cool to drink while you do?” Ricky heard the snap of Jadu’s fingers.
“I would not refuse such a kindness.”
“Good, good. Perhaps a seat in the shade as well? Here, take mine.” A brief pause in Jadu’s patter, filled with a creaking sound as Jadu’s camp chair had a heavy load placed upon it, then he continued, “As we speak of kindnesses done from one to another, I would ask a small one of you. A trifle, really.”
“A trifle?” the man asked, voice full of resigned suspicion. Probably expecting the usual plea from merchants, a request that Jadu be exempted from taxes just this once.
Vikram stepped into view from the front of the tent, collecting a pitcher of wine from a barrel-sized version of the ewer he’d served them from last night. The servant winked at him and bustled back to the front of the tent.
“Ah, you see, it’s a small matter…Ah, our drink is here!”
Only after the wine was poured and goblets touched did Jadu resume speaking. “This small matter I spoke of…” Jadu paused again, this time the sound of his document chest being opened filling the pause, then the sound of shuffled papers. “A matter most delicate. Delicate, but minor…One that this humble servant wishes to clarify with someone of wisdom and intelligence. Someone like you…”
“What is this?” the tax man asked.
Jadu’s lowered voice was still audible. “That, neighbor, is a firman exempting my trade in opium and saltpeter from any and all taxes normally levied in the empire, signed by the emperor Dara Shikoh.”
“Ah.”
Ricky had always wondered what writers meant when they wrote stuff like pregnant pause, but figured the silence that followed Jadu’s statement must qualify.
“You see my problem, my good man?” Jadu asked, after a moment.
“I think I do.”
“Well, have you some wisdom to share with this poor merchant?”
“I, perhaps, do.”
“Please, then, share it.” Ricky heard the faint clink of coins being passed. “For I know not what to do.”
“Well, it is quite clear, here…You see…”
“Please, do tell.”
“This morning, I myself was at the palace…”
“You were?”
“Indeed I was.”
“Among the exalted of the empire, then?”
“Indeed, though I do not step above my station. No, I was there to receive instruction.”
“Oh?”
“Indeed. We were all told that every merchant trading in Patna was required to resume payment of the emperor’s taxes.”
“And, dear neighbor?”
“Well, there was no mention of which emperor. So, clearly, your firman takes precedence and all prudent men will abide by its terms.”
“But, then, where does the money go if not to serve the emperor in Agra?”
A loud snort. “Sooner ask where the monsoon rains go as ask where the taxes paid go, in the end!”
Ricky thought Jadu laughed harder than the weak joke warranted, but the tax collector must have enjoyed it because he continued, “The money is collected by Asaf Khan’s wazir at the palace.”
Ricky stifled a sigh of disappointment. This they knew within hours of entering the city.
“And where is Asaf Khan and the great army he was sent here with?”
“In the east, still. Everyone says so. Though no one knows where, precisely.”
“And so, who then, is this wazir?”
“And why do you ask?”
“Well, who is he, to be trusted with the revenue of so many merchants? And why now? I have not seen a single one of your fellow tax men about…”
“So interesting that you should ask, my dear friend merchant…”
Another pause followed.
This time Jadu must have retrieved additional coin from the strongbox he kept on the table, as the hinges squeaked loudly (a security measure, he’d assured the up-timers).
“Shaista Khan, Asaf Khan’s son, returned two days ago. He promptly ousted the man Asaf had left behind when that most famous general sailed down the Ganges.”
“Oh?”
“Shaista had th
e old hand whipped from the palace. I’m surprised the market gossip had not already spread.”
“It will now,” Bobby mouthed, grinning.
Ricky nodded back, still listening.
“Did you, by chance, learn when the legendary Asaf Khan will be returning? I saw him several times, from afar, in Lahore. A most impressive figure.”
“Soon, I think. Why, only yesterday evening I recognized one of his most famous captains—the commander of his personal guard, I believe—at the horse market.”
“I am impressed by your acumen, neighbor. Not every man is as aware of the comings and goings of great men. I count myself very lucky to have made your acquaintance.”
“Humbly, I try to be…My father made sure to teach me that every man must take note of the doings of great men, if only to avoid being swept aside by their activities. I still have rounds to make, but rest assured that your firman will be honored by this humble collector of taxes…”
Jadu was staring unseeing at something in the distance when the up-timers emerged. Seeing he was busy, Vikram gestured them to take seats and poured them drinks while they waited.
“Never thought I would get used to drinking so much wine,” Bobby said, gesturing with his cup, “but I can’t remember the last time I had a hangover.”
“I still remember the first time I got wasted.” He dropped into English on the last word.
Bobby answered in the same language: “Me too. Freshman year. That party in the cut after homecoming, right?”
“Yup.” Ricky shook his head, rueful. “God, but I got sick.”
“I’d still prefer that brutal hangover to the squirts I got from just an accidental sip of the river.”
“I was told the waters of England are no better,” Jadu said, a defensive note in his voice.
Bobby turned to face Jadu and raised his hands. He apologized in Persian and continued in that language: “It wasn’t an attack on the quality of the water here. Really.”
