1637: The Peacock Throne

by Eric Flint

  Ricky nodded and tried to explain further. “I’m amazed we weren’t sick more often when we came to this time. We were so used to having everything cleaned for us it’s a wonder that we aren’t sick all the time.”

  Jadu waved a hand and changed the subject. “You heard my conversation?”

  Picking up on the fact Jadu didn’t want to go down the rabbit hole of yet another discussion of the many differences between the time they came from and those they found themselves in, both up-timers nodded and gladly let the matter drop.

  “Your thoughts?” Jadu asked, his thoughtful tone suggesting he wanted to use the young men as sounding boards.

  Bobby looked at Ricky, who answered for them both. “Seems like someone must have won whatever fight was going on in Asaf Khan’s camp.”

  Jadu’s brow arched under his turban. “And what makes you say that?”

  “Because we didn’t see blood in the streets, or hear about fighting at the palace,” Bobby said.

  “Explain.”

  “I figure if the guy who was running things in Asaf Khan’s absence thought he had a chance at a win, he’d have fought Shaista Khan to keep his spot. And, with the succession still an open question, fighting to keep your position doesn’t mean a nasty letter to the boss man, but taking up your sword, ordering your boys to do the same, and sticking those swords into the fellow giving you problems.”

  Ricky smiled at the look Jadu gave his friend.

  Bobby rarely chooses to give voice to his thoughts, but when he does, then Mom’s old adage about still waters running deep comes to mind.

  “What?” Bobby asked, looking from Jadu to Ricky.

  Jadu recovered smoothly. “It is only that I had not expected your thoughts to mirror my own so perfectly.”

  “So either you’re both right or both making the same errors in our assumptions,” Ricky said.

  “As you say, it is possible we are both wrong, but I think we are right. Especially in light of news I received from the horse market outside of town.” He gestured at the notes on his desk. “It was nearly silent, not because there were no horses to be bought, but because all of them had been spoken for already.

  “It seems that whatever infighting or confusion there was in Asaf Kahn camp is over, and whoever won is making ready to move.”

  “But where?”

  “That, my friends, is the question.”

  Chapter 22

  Asirgarh

  The Red Tent

  Shuja’s camp

  “I will leave behind a force sufficient to continue the siege here and take the rest to advance at all speed toward Agra,” Shuja said, putting his wine cup down. He looked as if he would continue, but just then the siege cannon thundered in a lingering barrage, a stuttering roar barely muted by both distance and the heavy material of Shuja’s Red Tent.

  At great cost of powder, blood, and guns, their fire was slowly chipping away at the walls of Asirgarh fortress. Aurangzeb was certain there was a metaphor or something to be drawn from the ineffectiveness of the guns despite their loud bellows, but could not be bothered to pin it down, not when Shuja gestured to what amounted to his inner council and said, “I would have your advice here and now, and invite you to give me your best counsel, so that you may better know my mind and carry out my orders when I have decided upon a course of action.”

  Aurangzeb felt his brother’s gaze drift to him as he made this pronouncement, but felt their stare as anything but an invitation to conversation.

  No, he does not want to hear what wisdom I might have, not at all.

  Ah well, “wish in one hand,” as they say.

  With a final unspoken prayer, he said aloud, “We need not press so quickly, Sultan Al’Azam.”

  There was a long, shocked silence at this apparent reversal of position.

  “So quickly? So quickly?” Shuja sputtered, words steeped in derision. He gestured, presumably at the siege lines outside the tent, and went on: “First you say we go too slow, yet now you say too fast? Which is it, brother?” He shook his head as if gravely disappointed. “You speak like a woman: uncertain of her desires and like to change her mind with the next breeze to touch her intimate parts.”

  A few umara chuckled. Most simply listened.

  Aurangzeb felt the sting of their amusement despite having repeatedly steeled himself against the slings and arrows of his brother’s limited wit.

  When he failed to answer, Shuja continued. “If we strike straight at Agra with all speed, we will prevent Dara from buying more allies like the Sikhs he has already purchased with Father’s treasury, not to mention additional time for his pet sorcerers from the future to create more weapons to use against our brave sowar.”

  Aurangzeb nodded even as he disagreed. “He can buy all the Sikhs he wishes; they are but farmers. As to the weapons they plan to use against us, all reports indicate they are refinements of common fowling pieces, allowing one to reload from a prone position.” That such would improve the survivability of infantrymen under fire wasn’t worth mentioning to the emperor. Shuja spared little enough concern for his sowar, let alone the common men that constituted the majority of infantry forces.

  “No, what I am most interested in is the whereabouts of Asaf Khan and the army he commands. An army that was the same size as yours is now, and that before Father’s death. He has had many weeks to add to his forces now, and was always a competent general.”

  Far more experienced than all of the princes combined, if not known for any particular genius, Asaf Khan was the single greatest threat to the dynasty, let alone its individual factions. He was, as long as he did not declare for one or another faction, a knife at everyone’s throat.

  “We have received word from several friends at Red Fort that Dara does not know any more about his whereabouts than us,” Shuja said, dismissive.

  Fool. Ignorance does not equate with absence. He is out there, readying himself to strike.

  Feigning agreement, Aurangzeb nodded. “I have heard the same from my sources.”

  “Well, the—” He stopped, seeing his younger brother’s raised hand and waggling head. With ill grace he waved Aurangzeb permission to continue.

  “What if our informants have been deceived? What if our wily great uncle merely waits to spring some devastating trap upon us?” He looked at the faces of the men of Shuja’s inner circle, seeing many expressions of interest and concern. “I needn’t remind any here of what he, with his experience and intellect, has proven himself capable of.”

  The nods this wisdom solicited among his brother’s advisors were no surprise to Aurangzeb. Brother to an empress, father to another, vizier to two emperors, successful general, and favored great uncle to all of Shah Jahan’s children, Asaf Khan and his extended family had cast a long, deep shadow over dynastic politics over the last three generations. His name was the perfect lever for conjuring fear and concern among Shuja’s advisors.

  “You shelter his sister, do you not?” Shuja asked.

  “I do,” Aurangzeb replied. He had expected this question, and the tone that insinuated so much.

  “Nur Jahan…” Shuja mused.

  “Asaf Khan and Nur remain at odds, out of communication since shortly after Asaf backed Father’s successful bid for the throne.”

  “So she says.”

  “Indeed.” Aurangzeb said nothing more, waiting for Shuja to speak himself onto the killing ground he’d prepared.

  Shuja leaned forward. “As she would be bound to, given that she is reliant on you for her continued maintenance.”

  “Just as she was to Father, and to Jahangir before him.”

  “She encouraged the one to kill himself with drink and opium, and made every effort to keep Father from the throne. Successfully, the first time.”

  Aurangzeb hid contentment. “Yes, she did. Only to have Asaf Khan put her in her place, eventually. Something she has yet to forgive him for.”

  “Oh?”

  “She has expressed the
hope that you will strip him of his power and position,” he explained, lying for the first time in the conversation.

  “And if, instead, I choose to reward him for staying out of our current conflict?”

  Aurangzeb shrugged. “Then that is your will, Sultan Al’Azam. I will certainly not resist it, and she could not even if she wished to.”

  “But you do not approve of the idea?”

  “Sultan Al’Azam, the approval of your vassals is irrelevant. I—like every one of your worthy umara—serve at your will.”

  “Of course. But you”—Shuja sneered—“you, would approach Asaf Khan differently?”

  “If we had reliable—and trustworthy—means of communicating with him, then all my reservations regarding your stratagem would be as the last full moon, done and gone, a mere memory.”

  “Very poetic, brother. Yet I do not hear the alternative I know you must have hidden in your sash alongside your ever so piously simple prayer beads.”

  Several of Shuja’s umara stirred. Regardless of their own fatih, they did not like this assault on Aurangzeb’s religiosity any more than its target.

  Stung despite his earlier resolve and mental preparations, Aurangzeb opened his mouth to reply.

  Shuja wasn’t done: “So spare me your false smiles and crooked tongue as you chivvy me down the path toward whatever end it is you seek. I will listen, but only if you drop this pretense and speak with a straight tongue.”

  Several men winced to hear the venom in Shuja’s voice, looking from their emperor to his brother. Many were obviously thinking Aurangzeb could not ignore such a public, vicious slight. Some, Shuja’s most foolish toadies included, had been looking forward to this moment in hopes they could seize advantage from the eventual break.

  Others—more important men, wiser men—watched with carefully concealed interest, but no less avidly.

  Almost there, my brother.

  Aurangzeb took firm hold of his anger and his surging hopes and said simply, “As you command me to, Sultan Al’Azam, I will reveal my idea: I think the army should approach Agra with care, dispatching a column to discover the whereabouts of Asaf Khan’s forces. Should they meet with that force, the leader should be of sufficient rank to treat with Asaf Khan, and wise enough to identify any potential snares laid to entrap the unwary…”

  “So you think I should send you?” Shuja said, cynicism dripping from the words like honey from the comb.

  “No, of course not. I make no claims to wisdom, and he is likely to still think of me as a child fresh from Father’s harem. No, some other from among your umara would be more suitable.”

  Several of the more ambitious men among the court stirred, excited by the prospect of an independent command and the chance to win honor and glory.

  The wiser among them spared Aurangzeb glances of, if not approval, then certainly respect.

  The wisest were silent and spared no glances for anyone, keeping their motives and thoughts closed off from the world behind shuttered expressions of cool disinterest.

  “Perhaps there is some merit to this idea,” Shuja said. “I shall think further on it.”

  Methwold’s tent, Shuja’s camp

  “Aurangzeb wants his aunt to address our concerns with still more empty platitudes,” De Jesus muttered, eyes flashing angrily.

  Methwold waited, holding his tongue until after the messenger conveying Nur’s invitation to pay her a visit had withdrawn. While doubting in the extreme the man spoke any Portuguese, one’s tone—especially an angry buzz like De Jesus’—could give away too much.

  Once the man had gone, Carvalho glanced at Methwold, who returned the slightest of nods.

  “Father,” Carvalho said, “you need to be more careful of letting your anger show before these people.”

  De Jesus twitched at what, from the angry set of his shoulders, he perceived to be a rebuke rather than a brotherly bit of caution.

  “I, of all people, understand your impatience. You know I do,” Carvalho said, making oblique reference to the fact that De Jesus had informed him the viceroy and archbishop had tabled his request without proffering a decision date.

  On spending more time with the mercenary-cum-nobleman, Methwold had learned to respect the man’s patient intelligence far more than De Jesus’ intellectual and linguistic achievements. In fact, he’d grown to suspect the man knew the viceroy and archbishop of the Estado da India wouldn’t—couldn’t—ever approve his request the Inquisition be barred from the Estado, but felt the opportunity to ask was one he simply could not, in good conscience, pass up. William knew he wouldn’t have in Carvalho’s place.

  “I do not want to listen to some woman repeating lines she’s memorized from her betters!” De Jesus said, tone that of a petulant boy. Methwold was growing to detest the priest’s antics, especially in light of the man’s excellent mind.

  “Nur is no mere woman, Father,” Carvalho said patiently.

  “No matter who she is, she is not Shah Shuja, emperor of the Mughals. She is not Aurangzeb, would-be emperor of same. No, she is an elderly woman sent to insulate Aurangzeb from our righteous anger at these unconscionable delays and stall us seeking an audience with Shuja!”

  Methwold, seeing this as ground already well trod, thinking it not worth his time to address the priest’s tirade himself, only made a small gesture for Carvalho to continue. Perhaps his countryman could talk some sense into the priest.

  “Perhaps you should remain here and write another letter to the archbishop and viceroy reiterating the humble requests I made of you?” Carvalho asked, making it obvious he wasn’t as interested in mollifying the priest as he was in advancing his own agenda.

  Methwold hid the smile that a glance at De Jesus’ stricken expression threatened to summon.

  “Nur is, by all reports, a formidable personage, having once wielded great power,” Carvalho said.

  “How? With the constraints of purdah, she must act through intermediaries to obtain her every need!” De Jesus said, Carvalho’s reminder of his personal failures to deliver on promises not enough to silence him.

  Carvalho nodded placidly. “Women of a certain age are far more free of the restraints of purdah than women of marriageable age.

  “And, to answer how she remains powerful: She is still the closest female relative either brother has in camp. Mughal courts traditionally rely on their aunts and grandmothers for certain…restraints as well as courtly refinements. And, while Nur is firmly in Aurangzeb’s camp, she does spend some of her time interacting with Shuja, as the emperor Shuja has only the ladies of his umara with us, and the fathers of such women require marriages before they allow their daughters to exercise such power on behalf of a man outside their family. Shuja, for whatever reason, has been slow to take wives…”

  “Do you think Nur will provide us an answer for such queries?” Methwold asked, interested. He hadn’t thought to apply to Nur for assistance navigating court politics. She had certainly figured large in Company fortunes on occasion, but before Methwold had ever set foot in India.

  “She will surely know. She might be forbidden to answer, though.”

  “Interesting,” Methwold said. “Perhaps I should have considered her earlier.”

  “Perhaps? Perhaps you did not because she is even further from the throne than the prince who keeps promising but never delivers. I, for one, will not see her.”

  “Shall we make your excuses, then?” Carvalho asked, expression blank. Something, perhaps the speed of Carvalho’s question, led Methwold to believe the older Portuguese had intended to leave his countryman behind all along.

  “Feel free. I will busy myself with more useful pursuits, like prayer.”

  Methwold cast a searching glance at De Jesus but the priest didn’t seem to be speaking ironically nor did he seem to have noticed Carvalho’s manipulations.

  “Very well,” Carvalho sighed. “Will you join me, William?”

  “I will,” Methwold replied, schooling his expression
to show less interest than he felt at the prospect.

  Chapter 23

  Agra

  Red Fort

  Harem precincts

  The dancers stopped, golden bangles and sweating bodies catching the light of a hundred lamps and scattering it back across.

  Dara and Nadira rose to their feet, eyes shining, and sent slaves bearing gifts to reward the dancers for their exquisite performance.

  Already standing, Jahanara smiled behind her veil, glad to see the pleasure the dancers she’d commissioned had elicited in her brother and his wife. Dara had been greatly upset by the explosion in the factory. Dashing many of his hopes in one blow had so upset the emperor that he’d suffered a seizure the doctors—both up- and down-timer alike—claimed was a direct result of too much stress. She swallowed past a knot in her throat at the memory of his collapse when she informed him of the incident. The guilt-ridden hours that followed had been painful, not least because, with Dara incapacitated even for a few hours, the rest of his inner court had been hard-pressed to cover for him.

  Without conscious thought, she found her eyes searching for Salim. The proud Afghan profile was easy to pick out, standing as he was among the up-time men of the Mission, none of whom—aside from perhaps the giant Rodney, and that merely a result of his prodigious size—had anywhere near Salim’s presence.

  She caught her own smile widening to match his as he grinned at something Bertram said.

  “Your promised man is a treasure, Monique,” Jahanara said, turning to look at the woman she’d grown closer to than any other outside the family. Monique knew all but her most personal of secrets, and was, in fact, more deeply involved in her current intrigues than any other.

  “Perhaps,” Monique said, lips curling in a half-smile.

  Jahanara sniffed. “As I am not in line to compete for him, you hardly need to play down his many virtues.”