1637: The Peacock Throne

by Eric Flint

  “Indulge me. I only test the mettle of this man, the one Dara Shikoh chose as his…messenger?” Asaf Khan asked, returning his attention to Jadu.

  “When the usual messenger fails to obtain a response, there is work for the unusual,” Jadu said, waggling his head.

  “And what does Dara want of me, unusual messenger?”

  “Only your continued love and affection,” Jadu said.

  “Meaning he wants me to come pull his toes from the fire.”

  “It is more than his toes in the fire, ghazi,” Jadu said.

  “Ah, the greatest truth is spoken at last.”

  “I have only spoken honestly.”

  “Honesty is not truth,” Asaf said, dismissively. “One can speak clearly and in complete honesty, yet speak falsehoods the Adversary would be proud of.”

  “Could you please allow him to speak, Father?”

  Asaf’s chuckle ended in a coughing fit. Ricky watched Shaista Khan’s expression shift from mild annoyance through deep concern, before settling back into the courtier’s mask.

  With a start, Ricky realized that Shaista was staring directly at him.

  “You, up-timers,” Shaista Khan said. “I have heard that you can cure the sick. Have you brought some miracle cure to treat my father?”

  “We cannot work miracles,” Ricky said carefully. “And neither of us are as deeply trained in medicine as those that saved Dara.”

  “And what are you trained in?”

  “They are road builders,” Asaf put in. “They attempted to sell such skills to Shah Jahan.” He coughed again, but only a few times.

  “Your father is right,” Ricky said. “But we do know some basics about medicine that might be helpful, if you will allow me a few questions?”

  Asaf waved permission, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief.

  “Do you smoke?”

  Asaf nodded, another coughing fit silencing him.

  “Stop.”

  “But we were advised that it helps with the digestion,” Shaista Khan said.

  “It might, but is a gut problem killing him or are his lungs?” Ricky said.

  “His physicians say it is a combination of things, and they recommended smoking a mixture of opium and hashish to calm his—”

  “Jesus!” Ricky blurted.

  “What?” Shaista Khan asked.

  “Are you in much pain?” Ricky asked Asaf Khan directly.

  “Only when I cough,” Asaf Khan said.

  “Well, I am no physician,” Ricky said, “but the doctors back hom—er, up-time, were very certain that smoking anything was bad for your health. I mean, so sure about it they managed to pass a bunch of laws about where and how you could smoke regular tobacco. Not in West Virginia—some parts of the state were too dependent on tobacco as a cash crop—but out in California, they were working to make it damn near illegal.”

  “Cali—”

  “A state in the…” He shook his head. “There is too much to tell in one night. Please trust me when I say, the physicians of the future all agree that smoking is bad for you.”

  Shaista looked at his father. “No more bhang for you!”

  The older man grinned. “Deny a dying man his pleasures, will you?”

  “I will, if it means you’ll be around a bit longer.”

  “Ricky,” Bobby said, looking uncomfortable.

  Ricky looked a question at his old friend.

  “Withdrawal?” Bobby said, in English.

  “Shit,” Ricky answered in the same language.

  “What is it?” Shaista and Jadu asked at the same time.

  “My friend reminds me that…Well, how much are you smoking?” he asked Asaf.

  “Four to six pipes a day,” Shaista answered for his father.

  “All right, then…you should drop that off by, say, one pipe a day each week for the next five weeks. The…” He racked his brain for the Persian word for withdrawal but couldn’t figure it out and had to work around it. “The absence of opium may make him very ill if you cut him off completely.”

  Shaista did not look surprised by this revelation. “I had wondered. We are familiar with the illness that comes after long use of opium.”

  “Meaning: you were testing me.” Ricky said the words carefully, hoping to avoid giving offense.

  “Of course I was, and will be,” Shaista said, equally neutral. “Whatever proofs were provided to Shah Jahan were not provided to us. We would be fools to simply take you at your word.”

  “And no one ever took Asaf Khan for a fool,” Jadu said.

  “God willing, there is still time,” Asaf Khan said.

  They laughed together, and Ricky felt more hopeful about their mission for the first time since arriving in Patna.

  Chapter 31

  Agra

  Red Fort, Harem

  The balcony was crowded with harem inmates, everyone watching as more than a thousand horsemen rode away from the fortress. Jahanara and her favorites were notably absent. There was much muttering and some consternation, but no tears.

  Shedding a tear for an exile, no matter how important he was thought to be, would not be politic. Not in light of Dara’s commands. Roshanara had to hide a feral, vindicated contentment behind a bland expression and false utterances of worry for their future.

  For there was much for Dara’s supporters to be concerned about. The palace had been abuzz with rumors of Aurangzeb’s approach for days now, and every road out of Agra was swollen with people fleeing the conflict and siege everyone knew would not spare the city, so the gathered women watched and worried as Dara threw the best part of his forces away.

  To an outsider, the exile of Amir Salim Gadh Yilmaz must appear the absolute pinnacle of folly, but to those who knew the first thing of life at the imperial court, it was quite clear Dara had been left with very little choice. Rumor or not, an umara, no matter how highly placed, having—or even attempting to have—relations with an inmate of the imperial harem was a matter of honor that must be treated with the utmost seriousness. It did not matter that the woman was not a wife or concubine of the emperor, for any harem was meant to be sacrosanct, the sole preserve of the man for whom it was sanctuary. The merest rumor of impropriety had been enough to shake the court to its very foundation.

  Exiling the man was excessive only if Dara were absolutely certain the rumors about what had gone on between Salim and Jahanara were purely a fabrication, a dark fantasy concocted by their enemies at court and beyond.

  But he could not know. Not for certain. That was the deadly brilliance of it. Roshanara spent a giddy instant wishing she had been the author of such a daring play. But then reconsidered in light of the great stakes at risk, and was glad enough she had not tried to spread such talk.

  Which set her to thinking…Roshanara knew Nur, for one, would have been overjoyed to use her allies in just such an effort. To discredit the Afghan so thoroughly and disrupt the court to such an extent was a victory worthy of Nur’s skill and experience, but Roshanara had no proof that it was the older woman’s intrigues that had led to Salim’s exile. She was certain someone had made the story up, though, because if such a rumor had held even the tiniest grain of proof, Salim would not have ridden from Red Fort with his head, let alone the sowar sworn to his service.

  That last was a surprise. She would not have thought so many men would choose to remain with their exiled leader when he was unable to pay them. Salim Gadh Yilmaz had been a penniless adventurer before entering imperial service, and so had no great personal wealth to support his followers out of his own coffers. Dara had revoked all Salim’s ranks—zat and sowar alike—and made certain, by royal decree, that the proceeds and title to all jagdirs given to the outcast Salim Gadh Yilmaz were to revert to the imperial offices. He must be quite the leader, to inspire so many to follow him into exile.

  Unless…the umara were so certain of Dara’s defeat that following Salim into exile was far preferable to remaining here?

  That though
t made her bite her lip to stop a joyful noise.

  I simply must pass this on.

  Red Fort, Delhi Gate

  Ilsa paused on exiting the shade of the interior gateway of Delhi Gate, casting about for the escort John and Gervais had arranged to protect Mission personnel on their travels between Mission House and Red Fort.

  She sighed. It was the changing of the guard, and, if they were even here, the men of her small escort were lost in the sea of two-hundred-odd men occupying the courtyard. John had said the design of the courtyard—which required a hard left turn from her position and then a hard right turn and shallow descent in order to enter the outer gatehouse—was not only intended to prevent an elephant from making a full-speed charge at the inner gate, but to force the creatures to advance one at a time, all while being stung by arrow and shot from defenders on all sides. She glanced at the shadowed gateway she’d departed, shaking her head. If one of the majestic giants were killed there, its massive corpse would block the passage as well as any boulder.

  Shaking her veiled head free of thoughts of the siege that was to come, Ilsa looked again for Ahmed and her escort. The smell coming off the court was a pungent mix of sweating men and stale horse piss that made her queasy.

  Her hopes rose momentarily, only to be dashed when she spied what she thought was Ahmed’s signature dirty green turban, but the wearer turned out to be an imperial messenger walking a short string of horses to the stables lining one edge of the courtyard. The man stared at her when he caught her looking at him. Veiled or no, these people had a real problem with women who went out in public without an escort.

  Ilsa sighed again. She understood the need for them, but didn’t like the way the men the Mission had hired behaved around women in general and her in particular, so the last thing she wanted to do was wander in search of them among other men who clearly saw her as an interloper at best and a game animal at worst.

  A stable hand approached. She asked for her mount and spent the next few minutes letting her eyes travel in a fruitless search for Ahmed or one of the other guards she knew by sight.

  I’ll be damned if I’m going to walk among them in search of him, no matter how badly I want to get away from here.

  Harem life had become oppressive in the days since Salim’s exile, and while Dara didn’t treat the married women of the Mission any differently, Jahanara, and, to a lesser extent, the other unmarried women resident in the harem like Monique, were suffering from Dara’s displeasure with Jahanara. It all led to an atmosphere of distrust and uncertainty in the harem that set everyone’s nerves on edge. She’d remained as long as she could, but her pregnancy already made Ilsa uncomfortable and tired, so however much she might want to support her friends, she had to take care of herself, too.

  On top of which, she wanted to be alone with John as soon and as much as possible before the siege, and there was only so much time remaining to them before Aurangzeb and his army arrived to make privacy next to impossible for everyone. The rumors had it that Aurangzeb was approaching Gwalior, and if that fortress fell as quickly as Burhanpur, then they would be under siege in months if not weeks. In light of the approaching threat, John’s schedule had grown even more difficult. Training, drills, and long war councils with Dara consumed nearly every waking moment of John’s day. He’d arranged for this time only by taking the men into the field for the day on something called “close-order drill.”

  “Heading back to Mission House?” Atisheh asked from above, startling Ilsa from her musings. The warrior woman was already mounted on a fine bay gelding, and armored cap-à-pie.

  “I am,” Ilsa said. “But my escort is nowhere to be found.” She gestured up at the surrounding walls and the many fighting men in the tiered galleries overlooking the killing ground.

  “If you like, I will escort you to Mission House.”

  “If it will not take you away from some other duty?” Ilsa said, grateful for the woman’s offer.

  “Hammerfall needs exercise,” Atisheh explained, patting her horse’s neck. She nodded at the stables. “And so does your mare, from the look of her.”

  Ilsa turned, watching Flower, the deaf mare she’d preferred since that fateful day in the hills, as the horse was led from the stable. She did look out of shape.

  “I’ve barely ridden her except to get back and forth between the palace and home,” Ilsa admitted, feeling a twinge of guilt. Her teamster father, were he alive, would have given her one of those looks.

  “You can have the diwan of stables exercise her for you,” Atisheh said.

  “I can?” She was not used to the level of service Red Fort provided even temporary visitors to the palace. None of the Mission members were. Perhaps if one of them had been nobility in Europe, they might have been. But none of them had been remotely of that class, so they tended not to think that they should be waited on hand and foot.

  “Indeed. They should have offered, really, but someone was obviously being lazy or…”

  Ilsa mounted. “Or what?”

  “Just a passing thought,” Atisheh said with a shrug of armored shoulders, setting her horse in motion without apparent command.

  The soldiers parted for her as meat from a cleaver.

  Flower was not so well trained nor her rider so confident, and required Ilsa to put heels to her flanks before she would advance into the milling mass of men. Even then, the mare tried to follow in Atisheh’s wake rather than carve her own path through the men.

  “I would know your thoughts,” Ilsa said as they rode into the shade of the gatehouse.

  “Are you certain? It’s really not that important.”

  “Not important, but you do not wish to tell me? These things, as my husband might say, ‘does not compute.’”

  “You mean like a mathematician?” Atisheh said as they exited the gatehouse into the heat of the afternoon sunlight.

  Ilsa squinted. “John says it’s a line from a show, supposedly said by a very complex machine that does computations.”

  “A machine?”

  “You’ll have to ask John. I never watched the show, so I don’t know the details well enough to explain.”

  “Perhaps I will,” Atisheh said, spurring her horse to a canter as they cleared the traffic lined up to enter the fortress.

  Flower, given her head, gamely set out to catch the bigger gelding. After a few furlongs she began blowing hard and Ilsa reined her in.

  Atisheh, instead of immediately reining in to a matching pace, rode a wide circle before returning to the road and Ilsa’s side. Watching the warrior woman ride, Ilsa realized Atisheh hadn’t answered the question she’d posed.

  “Fine day for a ride if it were not so hot,” Atisheh said.

  “And for avoiding answering questions?” Ilsa said it lightly, not wanting to alienate the big warrior woman.

  Atisheh grunted, then shrugged. “I merely wanted to be sure you were…certain you wanted to know.”

  “I am.”

  “There are those at court who resent you and the rest of your companions for your rapid rise to the pinnacle of power. Some of those resentful fools play the usual petty games, cutting at you with minor inconveniences, such as refusing to offer proper care for your mounts and circulating foul rumors behind your back.”

  “You’ve heard such rumors about us?”

  “No, not me. But then I am known to be an ally to you and yours, not to mention to Jahanara Begum, so I would not be a likely target for those looking for ears to pour such poison into.”

  “But you know such rumors circulate?” Ilsa asked, hating how veils, even chain mail ones, made it so hard to read expressions.

  “They always do. Do not take it personally.”

  “I don’t. Just interested to confirm it’s been going on.”

  They rode in silence for a little while, then Ilsa twitched the reins as an alarming thought occurred. Flower tossed her head in irritation.

  “We aren’t a liability for Begum Sahib, are we?”<
br />
  Atisheh looked across at her. “No, not at all.”

  “Good,” Ilsa said. Even as she said it something pricked at her mind. Something in the other woman’s tone that was less than reassuring.

  “How goes recruitment?” Ilsa asked, more to give herself time to think than out of any real interest.

  “More slowly than I would prefer.” Atisheh’s immediate answer told Ilsa the issue had been weighing heavily on the warrior woman’s mind. “My tribe is not as large as it was in my youth, so my kinsmen have taken to recruiting from among clans that are not counted among the friends of my own kin.”

  “Things are that desperate?”

  “Desperate, no.” Atisheh said, then sniffed. “But even in my tribe, women like me are not common.”

  “No, I don’t think anyone could ever call you common,” Ilsa said, laughing at the thought. “God broke the mold when He made you.”

  “You should have known my aunt. I am but a rough-hewn imitation.” Atisheh’s voice was thick with emotion, surprising Ilsa.

  “She must have been a most formidable woman,” Ilsa said quietly.

  “She taught me everything I know about riding and fighting.”

  “Not your father?”

  Atisheh sniffed derisively. She was silent a moment, then said harshly, “When he was not drunk, my father was, at best, a passable swordsman, though he did know a thing or two about horseflesh and riding.”

  “My father taught me a great deal about horses, too,” Ilsa said, hoping to navigate the sudden angry turn the conversation seemed to have taken.

  “Oh, he didn’t teach me anything. The only and best thing he did for me was sell my services, and that only because he was paid handsomely by the recruiter.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Fifteen—no, seventeen years ago now.”

  “That would have made you, what, ten?”

  Atisheh snorted. “I was fully sixteen. Old enough my father despaired of finding me a husband…”

  “And here I thought you only in your twenties.”