1637: The Peacock Throne

by Eric Flint

  She decided it wouldn’t serve to get distracted, and went on without pressing the matter. “Rest assured, Nadira and I would not normally allow him to make such a rash move, but we will not pressure him to do the right thing in light of the intelligence just received from Aurangzeb’s camp.”

  Salim was silent, handsome features thoughtful instead of fearful. “What news is it that will stay your hand and see me exiled, then?” He somehow managed to ask the question lightly, without rancor.

  Quelling the desire to tell him how much she admired him, she explained, “We have confirmed the rumors that the Portuguese are supporting Aurangzeb with supplies and food brought through the passes of the Western Ghats from the interior of Goa. Only with great effort and expense, I might add.”

  “And they’ve been successful, otherwise Aurangzeb’s army would have ceased to exist.”

  “You are correct. What is important—and not so well known—is that my brother the pretender has been slow to reward them for their service and his Portuguese and English allies are represented by an angry Christian priest and the Englishman, President Methwold.”

  “Methwold is a skilled diplomat. I would not underestimate him.”

  “I do not think we do, but from all reports he’s representing the junior partner in the enterprise.”

  Salim waggled his head. “Understandable. Given Shah Jahan’s revocation of the English Company’s firman, they could hardly be expected to offer support to equal the Portuguese.”

  “True, though I believe they are trying to make up the lack using goods and treasure taken in acts of piracy against the Hajj pilgrims traveling to Mecca.”

  “God forbid,” Salim said.

  “God forbid,” Jahanara agreed.

  “Still, I am sorry, Begum Sahib, but I fail to see how these disparate things—my exile and Aurangzeb’s support—connect to our advantage?”

  “If you are exiled, you will naturally be expected to take your followers with you. News of the departure of Dara’s strongest umara with his many sowar will surely be welcome when it reaches Aurangzeb’s camp.”

  Salim gave a slow nod. “But my exile will be a ruse?” he asked, rubbing his beard. “And instead of riding north I will be attacking…?”

  “…Aurangzeb’s supply lines between here and Bombay.”

  “Bombay?” he asked.

  “A minor Portuguese port, though the up-timers tell me it became an enormous metropolis and trade center during the British Raj that, God willing, will never come to be.”

  “God willing,” Salim repeated. He fell silent, looking thoughtful, then said, “If we can keep it secret, and not just from the court, but from the scouts he will certainly have covering his advance, it might work. Might work very well indeed. But then he will just forage for what he needs here, will he not?”

  “There is little left to gather. We have not been idle in bringing supplies into the fortress, and this heat makes grazing hard to find.”

  “True. I need a map…” he mused.

  Jahanara pushed her map box toward him and gestured at the cushions once again.

  He sat with a rueful smile.

  She watched him as he rifled the contents of the box and selected several maps for consideration. Pretending an ease she did not feel, Jahanara busied herself loading the water pipe with fresh tobacco. In truth, she was anything but relaxed. Dara’s rage had continued, even after he’d slept. Even Nadira’s calm presence had scarcely appeased the emperor. Would that what had made him so angry had no foundation in fact. She could barely admit, even to herself, that everyone, from Smidha to Atisheh to Salim himself, had been correct: she should not have been taking these insane risks to meet Salim alone. And now she had to worry that her efforts to retrieve the situation would merely make things worse.

  He was watching her when she looked up.

  “What vexes you, Begum Sahib?”

  Those eyes. So perceptive.

  “Am I so transparent?”

  “To the eye, no.”

  She smiled.

  “But your sighs are perhaps more audible than you intend.” He gestured at the water pipe. “That, and the pipe you pretend to work upon has been ready to smoke for some time now.”

  She bowed her head, thankful for her veils as she felt a flush creep up her neck and color her cheeks. “Perhaps you should not make me sigh, then.”

  “What fresh error of mine upsets you, Begum Sahib?”

  She swallowed fear and blundered on. “You are so very handso—”

  He came to his feet, interrupting her. “Begum Sahib, forgive my interruption, but what you are about to say will lead to exactly the kind of situation your brother raged against. His imaginings about what we did last time brought on his collapse…”

  “If I may finish, Salim?” she asked, more shortly than intended, more gently than he deserved.

  “Apologies, Begum Sahib,” Salim said, eyes sliding to hers and then leaping away. His glance carried gentle rebuke, and the regard of those grass-green eyes made her heart thump even faster in her chest.

  She recovered, said, “First: be seated. I should not have to crane my neck to speak with you.”

  “If I…” he began.

  Jahanara resorted to one of Mother’s favorite ploys to gain compliance: she sat entirely erect, squared her shoulders, mustered her most imperious expression, and raised one brow in question.

  He bit off his next words, glanced at the place she had indicated and eventually settled among the cushions.

  Hiding a smile, Jahanara Begum watched him as he complied with her command. The technique had performed admirably upon her father, recalcitrant princes, and palace servants alike, so she was not surprised he complied. The grace and strength of every movement of his swordsman’s body made it difficult to look away.

  God help me, but just watching him is enough to fill the chambers of my heart to bursting!

  “That’s better,” Jahanara said past the catch in her throat. “As to what caused me to sigh: the reasons I gave at our first private meeting are even more valid in light of this afternoon’s events. Dara’s unreasoning rage can be of service.”

  “Unreasoning?” he said. “I have known men of power who incited their tribes to kill their neighbors for less insult to their honor than your brother’s suspicions.”

  “Suspicions aside, you are his faithful servant, your only transgression to meet with me upon my command.”

  He grimaced. “Yet that meeting is all the grounds the Sultan Al’Azam needs. Indeed, none would call him tyrant if he were to have me executed, not merely exiled.”

  “Dara Shikoh would not dare punish you for acts you have not considered, let alone committed,” she exaggerated. In truth, her brother had grown erratic enough she could no longer tell with absolute certainty what he might dare. Indeed, if he were to learn of this meeting, he might very well order them both executed.

  “Considered?” Salim said, his tone bringing her back from dark thoughts. “Would that I was so pure in thought that I could truthfully say I never considered what”—he swallowed, taking his lovely green gaze from her face again, and continued—“your brother believes already accomplished fact.”

  She blinked, the admission catching her off guard. So much so that she had to shake her head to clear away the implications.

  “My…I…” She let the words trail to a stop, unable to find those that would serve to convey the depth of her feeling.

  “I know I am not wort—” he began, misinterpreting her mumbles and the shake of her head for a denial of his feelings for her.

  “No!” she said, interrupting him with one hennaed hand atop his larger, scarred one, willing him to look at her and believe. “Salim, no! I…I have—wanted—thought…” She could not finish the statement, despite all her experience of court, of exchanges of witticism and poetry. She could no more tell him her heart than conquer him in a contest of swordplay.

  He smiled down at their joined hands,
turning his own palm up to lace his fingers with hers.

  She sighed, reveling in the strength and warmth of his hand, the rough ridges of a fighting man’s callouses. She let one finger trace the thin ridge of a scar that ran across his first two fingers, knowing the injury had been earned in the battle at Mother’s tomb.

  He opened his mouth, on the verge of saying something, but then stopped.

  “What is it you wish to say?” she asked, voice suddenly as husky as if she’d smoked for hours.

  He shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “Oh?” she asked, unable to keep the disbelief from her voice.

  “No, I…mean it, I wish we could remain this way forever. That nothing would change. That nothing would have to be said.”

  Jahanara felt tears well.

  “Oh, no…I didn’t mean…I have never claimed a courtier’s tongue, but rarely have I proved so incapable of finding the words to serve my heart, even when the purpose is to avoid hurting you.”

  “No, I do not cry because I am hurt—or rather because it is so bittersweet—I cry because you say exactly what is written on my heart.”

  “I do?” he asked gently, running a thumb across the back of her hand.

  “You do, Salim. I, too, wish this moment could last.” She sighed, knowing that, however much power she might exert from the harem, no one could stop the natural advance of time. There was only this moment and the next, on and on until God received her soul—or didn’t.

  Seeking solace from thoughts of the future and the state of her soul, she lifted his hand under her veil and kissed his knuckles.

  His hand trembled, or perhaps hers did. She could not tell.

  Their eyes met. She knew she shivered this time, the sensation running along her spine to her every extremity like the long grass bending in the wind that presages the storm.

  Jahanara Begum, Princess of Princesses, reached up and pulled her veil away. Lips yearning to meet his, she pulled herself to him by their clasped hands.

  “We cannot—” he began, hunger in his eyes vying with the desperate control evident in his voice.

  She buried his protest under the press of hungry lips, glorying in the feel of his beard, his lips, the taste and smell of him. The ache she had sometimes felt when thinking of or looking at him exploded, a wildfire that consumed all thought and robbed her lungs of breath.

  Chapter 30

  Asaf Khan’s camp west of Patna

  “What the hell is going on?” Bobby asked as another troop of sowar marched out of Asaf Khan’s tent and down the hill.

  “I ain’t got any more information than you, Bobby,” Ricky said, wishing the rainclouds building to the south would arrive and relieve some of the heat.

  Bobby turned to look at their host. “What about you, Jadu?”

  Jadu waggled his head. “We’re supposed to be presented to Asaf Khan, that is what I know. I admit that this fresh activity is worrisome. I had thought Shaista Khan had settled matters, but perhaps something has occurred to change how things stand.”

  “You seem awfully relaxed, Jadu.”

  “I believe I mentioned dharma before,” the older man answered, smiling. Ricky noticed a bit of sweat just trickling from beneath the merchant’s finest turban, however.

  “What is it, Jadu?”

  “What? Oh, nothing.”

  “You sure?”

  “I am,” Jadu said absently, waving the up-timers to silence as Asaf Khan’s diwan appeared at the opening to his master’s tent.

  The diwan summoned them with an imperious gesture. He then walked back into the enormous tent Asaf Khan resided in.

  “Here we go,” Ricky muttered.

  “About fucking time,” Bobby groused under his breath. “I about sweated through these robes Jadu made me buy.”

  “Want some cheese with that whine, Bobby?” Ricky asked as the guard standing just inside the entrance told them to disarm.

  “Now you sound like J.D.”

  “There’s worse people to sound like,” Ricky said, gladly giving up his sword.

  “Sure are,” Bobby said, handing over baldric and blade with his own contented smile. Both up-timers were happy to be rid of the trip hazard a scabbarded sword proved to be, if only for a little while. Who knew that simply wearing a sword was so hard? Like swordsmanship itself, it proved to be a skill neither of them had mastered nor cared to master. They wouldn’t have been wearing swords at all, but Jadu had insisted the bearing of such arms was necessary for anyone wishing to be taken seriously.

  Which makes me think…

  “Jadu, why did we have to have swords for this audience if they were just going to take them away?” he asked.

  “Because all things are observed and remembered,” Jadu replied.

  Ricky, thinking there was a warning in Jadu’s tone, bit his tongue.

  Jadu handed his own scabbarded sword and dagger to the guard.

  Each of the party was given a small wooden chit with writing on it. Ricky assumed they would be used to collect their arms when the audience was over.

  One of the guards went through to the next chamber, presumably to check with someone higher up the food chain whether they were ready to receive the mission party.

  “Can you be less cryptic?” Bobby said, once it was clear they would be spending a few minutes cooling their heels.

  “I meant that we must keep up appearances, because every one of these people serves someone.” He waved one beringed hand to include the surrounding camp. “Serves…and makes observations of our behaviors, of our dress, of our character, our place in life, in the order of things. You are expected to appear and behave as emissaries and umara of the Swedish king’s court, late of the court of Sultan Al’Azam Dara Shikoh. So, the more things that are out of place or do not correspond to the expectations of the observer, the more excuses those who control access will find to hinder our cause, either directly by denying us communication or through delays such as we have faced these last few weeks.

  “So: Just as I made sure you both had the fine robes Bobby complains are making him sweat, I made certain you both had swords. Swords that, when the guards asked for them, you had to give. All so that your appearance and behavior do not raise questions as to whether we should be allowed in the presence of power in the first place. Such is the way of things in the halls and tents of the powerful.”

  In the thoughtful silence that followed Jadu’s patient explanation, Ricky felt another surge of appreciation for the man. They would really not have accomplished a God-damned thing if not for Jadu’s immense store of knowledge, experience, and ability to simply talk to people. Thoughts of how much they owed the down-timer made him feel a sudden surge of—he supposed it couldn’t be called homesickness—but he did miss the rest of the Mission folks something fierce. Things had been easier when he and Bobby hadn’t been out here with only the one guy, however capable, they could count on as friend and ally among all these strangers.

  The guard returned shortly after, and ushered them through the next set of hangings and into the presence of Asaf Khan.

  The brother to one empress, father to another, and grandfather to the current crop of competing claimants to the throne reclined on cushions set upon a low dais at the far end of the chamber. Shaista Khan sat below him at his right while the diwan who’d summoned them was behind one of the little low writing desks the locals used on Asaf’s left.

  Ricky didn’t know if that was significant, and didn’t have a chance to ask Jadu, as they were announced just then.

  Ricky checked the old man out as they advanced together and made their bows. Asaf Khan did not look well. The white in his luxurious beard made the unhealthy pallor of his skin obvious, even at a distance. His eyes were sharp, though, flitting from one member of the mission to another.

  The man behind the desk bade them sit and had slaves offer them food and drink. All three gratefully accepted drinks. The day was scorching hot, even in the shade of the tent.


  “You are here on behalf of which of my daughter’s sons?” Asaf Khan demanded. The man’s voice was rich and strong, though his accent challenged Ricky’s shaky comprehension. Ricky assumed the accent was a result of the man being an actual Persian, rather than learning the language in order to fit in at the Mughal court.

  “Dara Shikoh, ghazi,” Jadu said, bowing deeply.

  “I see. And what would my daughter’s eldest son have of me, that he sends a Vaishya to my tent like I need more trinkets for my wives?”

  Jadu smiled serenely in the face of the unsubtle reference to his class and the gulf between their stations.

  “As I have told your fine son, ghazi, Dara wishes only to affirm the mutual friendship, love, and regard he holds you in.”

  “Well said. Of course, a Vaishya would know that to peddle tawdry goods, one must speak with a smooth tongue.”

  Ricky saw Shaista Khan twitch, but Jadu’s expression might as well have been carved in stone.

  The uncomfortable silence that followed went on too long, making Ricky sweat.

  “You do not speak?” Asaf Khan said.

  “Father,” Shaista Khan cautioned.

  But Asaf ignored his son to smile at Jadu. “My son would have me be polite, but tell me, is the lion polite to the jackal?”

  “If he wishes his dinner brought to him, perhaps?” Jadu said, returning a disarming smile.

  Asaf Khan snorted. “Keeping one’s nerve in a trying situation is yet another trait of the best merchants.”

  “I had no idea you knew so much about merchants, Father,” Shaista Khan drawled.

  Asaf Khan waved at Jadu but spoke directly to his son. “You forget that my father—your grandfather—brought us to this land of opportunity from our homeland in order to sell his wares. That both he and my mother were of storied lineages made no difference to him, as he was forced to succeed as a merchant!”

  “And faced many, many challenges, not least of which was the loss of all his stock,” Shaista Khan said, with an air of someone who had heard it all too many times. “I forget nothing of our origins, Father. I am impatient to learn what my cousin wants of you.”