1637: The Peacock Throne

by Eric Flint

  There were many spies in the harem now. So many that Roshanara felt a rising paranoia. It had begun as sensible caution, but now…Roshanara’s experiences of harem politics had been, up until getting caught between Nur and Jahanara, petty in nature. Harem life was always rife with intrigue, but she’d been too young to fully comprehend imperial politics when Father had vied with Jahangir and Nur for the throne. This was the first time Roshanara played for such massive, and permanent, stakes. It frightened her, but also made her feel very…alive. Alive in a way she hadn’t felt since…she could not remember ever feeling quite this way. Certainly, there had been moments of fear; when her sister beat her, when she’d nearly fallen from the horse at pulu, and the lengthy, if low-grade terror of not knowing if she would be executed by her brother for her role in the events that led to Father’s death. Those fears, however severe, were not the same as the constant state of tension she found herself in as she struggled to secure her own place in the world. A place outside the shadow of her sister or any other who wished to cast her back into obscurity.

  I, too, am a daughter of Shah Jahan.

  Mission House

  Waiting for her moment to strike, Ilsa smiled and took another bite of tikka, watching her companions fondly.

  Agra’s nights were blessedly cool after the scorching heat of the day, so the Mission members had made a habit of eating together on the long gallery above the inner court of Mission House.

  Everyone but Ricky and Bobby were present, though they’d been receiving reports from the youngest members of the Mission or Jadu Das on a regular basis.

  Even Rodney and Priscilla, who had been busy enough they’d missed the last few such gatherings, were present. The couple had their heads together, sharing a rare quiet moment. Not that anyone complained of their absences or their lack of participation this evening, as they had been training the medical corps Jahanara had commanded into existence, and everyone suspected Dara’s growing army would need trained medics before too long. Dara had created a new precedent, and named Priscilla to a military rank, admitting her to the ranks of his umara. The salary was not the equal of her husband’s but it was still a substantial sum, and allowed her to pay for the medical corpsmen out of her own salary. Those she had trained directly were now themselves training the rest of the corps, which was to number a few thousand, even leaving out the staff being trained to work in the hospital.

  Farther down the table, Bertram and Gervais were talking with Monique, who was clearly enjoying illustrating some fine point of politics to Bertram. Gervais gazed upon his daughter and her suitor with an air of bemused happiness. The three of them were fixtures at court, serving both Dara and Jahanara as advisors. Both men had been given formal rank and salaries, just like John. Because they were not expected to command in the field, neither man possessed the military rank and salary John had been given, but they were still very well paid on the imperial administrator pay scale, called zat.

  Even Angelo Gradinego had stopped by earlier in the day. His visits had become less frequent over the last few months as Bertram and Gervais mastered the languages and politics of court. He was still friendly, but Ilsa was not sad his visits had grown infrequent. The Venetian made her uneasy, what with his easy airs and assumption of superiority to all things female. If Gervais felt the lack, he made no report of it to the rest of the Mission.

  John’s hand found hers under the table and gently closed on it. She put thoughts of the others aside and looked at the strong hand on hers, then let her gaze travel up his muscled forearm. The silk robe of state he wore concealed his broad shoulders and muscled chest right up to his strong neck.

  The square jaw she loved so much was covered in a well-trimmed beard that left his lips visible. Lips that curved in a smile for her.

  “Love you,” she said, meeting his gaze with her own.

  “Love you, too.”

  “Two, my love?” she said, holding up thumb and forefinger.

  John’s smile faltered slightly, handsome features showing a lack of understanding.

  “Do you love us both?”

  “Both? Wha—”

  “I am pregnant, husband,” she said, kissing him.

  “What?” he said, loud enough the rest of the table grew silent.

  “I am carrying our child, John Dexter Ennis,” she said, equally loudly, punctuating the statement with yet one more kiss.

  “Uh—buh—” he sputtered, stunned.

  She touched his face as the rest of their friends stood and moved to surround them, faces bright with happiness, and congratulated them both.

  “How far along?” Priscilla asked.

  “Just about a week past the first trimester.”

  “But—” John said, still struggling with the news.

  “Awww, so nice that he’s forming complete words again…” Priscilla mocked, ever so gently.

  “Be nice,” Monique said, rapping her fan against the table.

  “I didn’t, I just…”

  “Thought I was getting fat, did you, John?” Ilsa asked with a playful pat on his cheek.

  He tilted his head against her hand, smiled and said, “Really?”

  She smiled back, and nodded, feeling tears well in her eyes. “Really.”

  “I’m going to be a father,” he said, voice thick with emotion.

  Ilsa kissed him gently.

  Rodney clapped him on the back with one shovel-sized hand, the other men pressing in to congratulate him.

  “I’m going to be a father,” John repeated.

  “Yes, you are,” she answered, actively refusing to consider any outcome but the one she desired for him, for herself, and for the child they would have together.

  * * *

  Pris couldn’t help but smile at the look on John’s face.

  Rodney nudged her, brows raised in question, then moved aside to let Monique, Gervais, and Bertram congratulate the expectant couple.

  “Just trying to find the word that best describes John’s expression,” she said, smiling up at him.

  He chuckled. “J.D. does look pretty stunned.”

  “You bet he does, but I think I will settle for pleasantly bemused.”

  “Settle?” he asked, wrapping her shoulders with one arm and hugging her to him. “You’re not one to settle.”

  “Well, at first I was thinking poleaxed, but I don’t think one can be happily poleaxed, do you?”

  Ear against his chest, she felt as much as heard his chuckle. He kissed the crown of her head and asked, “Did you know?”

  Pris nodded. “She told me this morning, but I half suspected the last few weeks.”

  “Oh?” he asked.

  “This place isn’t that big.”

  He pulled away slightly and looked another question at her.

  She shrugged. “Not so big I didn’t hear her getting violently ill after breakfast every day I was home to hear.”

  “Oh.” He shook his head.

  “What is it, Rodney?”

  “Just thinking how clueless I can be, even with my training.”

  She pulled herself back into his embrace. “It’s normal. You don’t have ladyparts, so you miss some clues.”

  “Ladyparts?” he asked.

  She nodded gravely, cheek sliding across the silk of his robe and the hard muscle underneath. “The new technical term. I will spread it through the harem!”

  His chuckling grew to laughter, then to great guffaws.

  Ilsa and the rest left off their conversation to stare at him, which only made him laugh harder.

  Priscilla stepped back from him, wondering what she’d said.

  “What’s got him laughing?” Ilsa asked, smiling tentatively.

  “Spread—parts.” Rodney gasped, tears at the corners of his eyes now.

  “What?” John asked.

  “I don’t know. I was telling him—” Her eyes widened in shock as she figured out what had struck him so funny.

  “Oh, Jesus, Rodney!” she c
ried, slapping him on the shoulder. Then she stifled a mad laugh herself. It was funny, but what made her lose it was his attempts to control himself, as he rarely suffered such attacks. It wasn’t that he was humorless; he was constantly making her laugh with his dry humor.

  Their friends waited, with various levels of patience, for an explanation. At least all of them were smiling indulgently.

  Rodney sobered enough to gasp out, “She”—he pointed at Priscilla, who was still laughing too hard to speak—“threatened to spread”—he bit a broad knuckle and eventually managed to gurgle—“her ladyparts.” He gnawed on his knuckle once more, then said, quite clearly, “Through the harem,” and fell to laughing again.

  Ilsa’s bright, infectious laugh silvered the air first, quickly followed by that of the rest of their friends.

  Chapter 26

  Asirgarh

  Nur’s tent, Shuja’s camp

  “There is only so much I can do, Nur.”

  “I know this as well as you, perhaps better, Shehzada.”

  The look he gave her was not meant to put her at her ease, nor show understanding.

  Nur, tired in her bones, accepted his disapproval without bowing to it. She busied her hands by plucking a folded letter from between her toes and proffering it, knowing early news of the explosion outside Agra would cover many sins.

  He did not take it. “From who?”

  “One of your many friends at court,” she said, offering it again. Unsurprised that he need not bother to ask which court. He was very clever, this great nephew.

  He took the letter in hand, but did not open it.

  “You will want to read it, Shehzada.”

  “What I want, Nur, is assurances.”

  Nur fought the urge to shrug. Aurangzeb—indeed, most princes—did not respond well to an apparent indifference to stated desires from subordinates. “The ferenghi want what they want. I report to you what they conveyed to me, as you require.”

  He leveled a stare at her, dark eyes glittering in the lamplight.

  Nur was struck by the fact he’d grown into a magnetic, handsome young man. This, despite the severe piety that drove him to suck all pleasures from life but the thin ones prayer provided.

  Five heartbeats he stared at her. Five heartbeats she returned his regard. One does not show fear to the lion unless one wishes to be eaten.

  He was the one who broke the silence. “There is a limit to a prince’s patience, Nur, just as there is for the ferenghi whose questions you choose to convey to me.”

  “Of that there is no doubt, Shehzada. We are all run low on patience. I…” She stopped, thinking it was not yet time to make that particular offer.

  “What is it, Nur?”

  “Shehzada, I…” He is not ready, but you’ve given him the opening.

  He cocked a brow. “You are not one to speak unless you wish to say something in its entirety.”

  “Shehzada, a question, first.”

  He gestured her to proceed.

  Nur took a moment to marshal her thoughts, as the proposal was dangerous to even think of, let alone discuss.

  “Speak. Your hesitation makes my teeth itch,” Aurangzeb said.

  Nur could not tell if he joked with her or not, and so continued: “I may have the means, Shehzada, to provide an opportunity…”

  “That is as vague a statement as I have ever heard from you, even knowing your penchant for indirectness. Cease these prevarications and tell me what it is that makes you dither so.”

  “I have someone in a position to place something in Shuja’s food or drink.”

  “Something? You mean poison.”

  Nur shook her head. “Something so obvious as a deadly poison would surely mean an end to the servant if they could be deceived into doing such a thing. And if they are caught, then more of the network I have built for you will be exposed than would be prudent, Shehzada.”

  “Then what?”

  “If he were to become so intoxicated that he acted outside the bounds of propriety, before witnesses…” She trailed off, wondering if Aurangzeb would recognize the danger: Shuja could simply order his death in a drunken rage.

  “The emperor sets the standard for propriety,” Aurangzeb said, shaking his head.

  “A low bar, then,” she said, forcing a smile.

  He did not return it.

  “We would have to choose the timing most carefully,” he said, surprising her.

  “Most carefully,” she agreed. “And yet I cannot help but think this may be the time God has chosen.”

  “Oh?” he said, managing his tone and expression with admirable control.

  “Make no mistake, I claim no special ability to divine God’s plan, but…I am ready for God to present the moment you will step forward and take what we have worked so hard to obtain.”

  Speaking so openly of his desire, and of the delays God had seen fit to set in their path, put a fine crack in his self-control. She, who had spent so much time observing him and attempting to gauge his mood and mind, recognized it the moment Aurangzeb looked away.

  Having stoked the fires of his ambition, she set about putting any unease to bed, adding: “And I shall be certain the substance is only placed in those beverages forbidden to good Muslims, thereby making Shuja the author of his own fate…” Nur winced inwardly, wishing she’d used different phrasing…

  “A man’s fate is as God wills it.”

  Nur was relieved that Aurangzeb’s correction was automatic and devoid of heat, his thoughts obviously elsewhere.

  “What, then, is in the letter?” he asked, eyes falling on the note in his hand.

  Smiling was less of a trial this time. “Good news, Shehzada. News that may address your concerns regarding timing…”

  “Is it too much to ask that you stop playing, even for a moment?”

  “What game do you believe I play, Shehzada?”

  “The only one that matters.”

  “Then, with respect, you answer your own question, Shehzada.”

  Carvalho’s guns, siege lines

  Carvalho spat as the remnants of his second gun fell to earth about the emplacement twenty yards to his left. He didn’t curse aloud, though. In truth, he was surprised they’d made it this long without a failure. The heaviest of his guns had been hard-used these last weeks, and one was bound to fail at some point.

  A ragged, jeering cheer rose from within the fortress as the defenders watched the aftermath of the explosion.

  Carvalho was happy he could not understand the Rajputs, but it was easy enough to guess what they were cheering about. The garrison was no doubt happy to see the gun visit destruction upon its crew after so long suffering under their fire.

  “Not like you had anything to do with it!” Carvalho bellowed at the defenders as he ran over to check on his crew. He’d silenced the last of the fortress’s big guns last week, and was within a few days of reducing the gate to rubble, so he only had to brave a few shots from a few long arquebuses to get there.

  Rodrigo, the mestiço bastard who captained Carvalho’s second gun, was dragging himself to his feet as his commander entered the smoking hole that used to be the gun emplacement.

  “What?” Rodrigo shouted, eyes unfocused and blood sheeting down the side of his face.

  Carvalho took Rodrigo by the shoulders and sat him, unresisting, on the ground. He stepped past, only to set a boot in the remains of one of the crew.

  Rodrigo moaned, swayed, and fell back against the berm thrown up to protect the gunners.

  “Christ!” Carvalho grunted. Slipping in gore and choking back the horror-spawned urge to vomit, he checked on the rest of the men. The examination only required a moment: No one had survived the breech explosion that sent two forearm-length shards of metal sweeping through the gun pit like twin reaping blades, removing limbs and disemboweling the man Carvalho had put his boot in.

  By the time he returned to Rodrigo, the man was unconscious, though breathing. The head wound had alm
ost stopped bleeding, too. He pulled the man up and drew him over both shoulders, carrying him out of the gun pit and toward the rear of the siege lines.

  “Keep firing!” he shouted at the rest of his crews.

  A ball from some skilled or very lucky arquebuser cracked against a stone at his feet, making his nuts draw up into his belly.

  Fucking useless, unnecessary siege! Had I wanted this kind of fight, I’d have stayed in Europe.

  No mercenary gunner—and Carvalho was still a mercenary at heart—enjoyed a siege. The daily cost in money, material and men, not just from combat, but from the sickness that often struck armies encamped for too long. And the longer the siege, the more likely an event like that which had claimed the gun and all but Rodrigo of its crew.

  Rodrigo, who was with me when I jumped ship in Goa and first came to Mughal lands. Rodrigo, who saved my life twice, no, three times, at least…

  Minutes later he staggered, panting, into the tent Aurangzeb had set up for the relief of wounded men. He passed Rodrigo into the hands of someone who might be able to help.

  God knew he could not.

  He stood in the entrance of that tent and stared at his hands. Shaking, bloody and clenched into fists, they offered no answers.

  Much later, Aurangzeb found him standing there. Found him, and, in a vastly unusual move, took Carvalho’s fisted hands in his own. He said something, something that penetrated the darkness filling the ferenghi umara’s heart.

  The eyes Carvalho stared at Aurangzeb with were full of desperate hope.

  The prince repeated himself, the words for Carvalho’s ears alone, and they lit a fire in the artilleryman’s heart.

  The Red Tent, Shuja’s camp

  “The ferenghi wizards have killed themselves, and with them all Dara’s remaining hopes!” Shuja gloated, wine dribbling through his thin beard and onto the naked chest of the dancing girl on his lap.

  Occasioned by the news of the setback Dara’s cause had suffered, the festivities had grown in intensity in the hours since, Shuja leading the debauchery with drink after drink.