1637: The Peacock Throne

by Eric Flint

  Methwold opened his mouth to reply but stopped when Aurangzeb sent a sharp look his way.

  “Of that I have no doubt, but—”

  “You forget yourself, priest. I have yet to win this war.” The emperor’s delivery was mild, but only a fool could mistake the words that followed the interruption for anything other than a threat and a promise: “When I do, all who have been steadfast and true to their salt will see themselves rewarded and raised up in station and regard.”

  “And when will you declare your victories sufficient to deliver what was promised?” De Jesus spat, proving he was a bloody idiot. “When you’ve conquered all of Hindustan?”

  Methwold tried to silence the priest with a look, but De Jesus was glaring at the emperor with an expression so dark and flushed with anger it seemed he must burst at the seams.

  The tone of the priest’s words was so disrespectful the guards to either side of Aurangzeb tensed, armor chiming faintly as they anticipated a command to seize the bloody idiot priest.

  The command did not come. The emperor’s regard was silent and calm, prompting Methwold’s guts to churn all the more. The priest might forget, but the merchant knew damn well the deadliest adder lies silent until it strikes. He drew a ragged breath, trying to think of something to say to break the tableau.

  He was just clearing his throat to deliver he knew not what platitude when Aurangzeb looked at him and broke the collective silence: “From his color, it seems Father De Jesus isn’t feeling well. I think you should take him and retire to think on what has been said here today.” Aurangzeb’s voice was calm, but the iron command of his words was not to be ignored.

  How can one so young maintain such a passionless facade? At his age I wasn’t even aware my face could be read like a book, let alone be in control of it…

  Part Seven

  August, 1636

  Excellent chiefs, commanders of my line

  —The Rig Veda

  Chapter 33

  Horse trader’s enclosure

  Camp of Asaf Khan

  The more or less constant drone of bidding stuttered to a stop, gaining Ricky’s attention. He looked for the source of the interruption but, unable to see anything for the press of bodies, had to step to the bottom rail of the fencing around one paddock.

  Just as he started to look around someone shouted, “Dead?!”

  A general hubbub started then. Ricky was unable to understand anything more than the fact someone of importance had died. Praying it wasn’t Dara, he stepped down from the rail and listened intently, trying to pick up more details. Far fairer and slightly taller than the average, he stood out as a ferenghi despite long since having abandoned up-timer clothes in favor of the locals’ comfortable dress. Even amongst the cosmopolitan horse traders his appearance set him apart from others. Unsure where to place him in the pecking order of caste and religion, most folks just ignored him.

  “Mourn, for the old lion is dead!” a cooper wailed.

  “Who’s dead?” Ricky asked the nearest buyer, fairly certain it was Asaf Khan they were talking about, but wanting to be sure. The man looked him up and down, but didn’t deign to answer before walking away from the ignorant ferenghi.

  “He is dead!” Others took up the cry. Some began to openly weep.

  “Who?” Ricky asked. Having no response, and realizing that a group of competitors who assumed everyone knew what they were on about were not likely to be forthcoming with information, Ricky started jogging back through the mud to their tents. His legs were heavy after the first hundred yards or so, mud from the nonstop rains of the last couple days clinging to his boots. The sun had yet to dry the camp’s thoroughfares despite what had to be temperatures in the nineties, but it was doing a good job of drying him out. He paused to mop sweat from his brow. Sticking his bandanna back in his pocket, he decided cleaning his boots now wouldn’t get him across the huge camp any faster. While impressed with the organizational planning of the Mughals, he still wished the horse trading enclosures were closer to the tents for traders in fine goods, but supposed it wouldn’t do to have the stink of horseshit vying with the delicately scented goods some of the luxury traders were peddling. And the sheer volume of horseshit was breathtaking. Of course, not all horseshit came from the south end of northbound horses: there were a ton of charlatans and snake-oil sellers amongst the legitimate merchants, not to mention fakirs and other assorted holy men of different stripes all spouting various levels of nonsense to any that looked prosperous or paused to listen. A couple such men approached him when he paused, forcing him to shoulder past them.

  They didn’t take offense, just turned and sought someone else to sell to. Before he’d made it another ten strides he noticed a change in the noises of the camp, a murmur that rose to a more general wail.

  Figuring such generalized wailing was only done for great men, Ricky picked up the pace. Not that Jadu needed them there, but he’d been sent to gather information at the horse market, and this was as big a bit of news as they were likely to get.

  Tent of Jadu Das

  Camp of Asaf Khan

  “Ricky, good timing!” Bobby called as Ricky came to a sweaty halt in the shade of the awning set out before Jadu’s tent.

  “Not really,” Jadu Das said, waggling his head as he stepped out from behind the larger up-timer’s back. “Very little time remains for him to change into proper court attire.”

  “Wh-What?”

  “We are summoned to Asaf—pardon, Shaista Khan’s tent.”

  “So soon?” Ricky asked, mentally nodding as the older man confirmed his suspicions.

  Jadu nodded, expression unreadable.

  “But why?”

  “Best get changed, buddy,” Bobby said. “The messenger didn’t explain shit to us.”

  Ricky turned toward the tent he and Bobby shared and saw Vikram emerge from it, the chest the up-timers used to store their finery carried between him and another man.

  Cursing the sweat he knew would start staining the fine silk robes the moment he put them on, Ricky entered Jadu’s tent and sat on the carpet. He’d barely gotten one boot off when Vikram entered and deposited the chest next to him.

  The servant went to the rear of the tent and returned a moment later with a goblet of cold watered-down wine. Ricky thanked him and drank it in a few gulps before opening the chest and putting on his Sunday best, as he jokingly called the array of bejeweled silks.

  He was putting on baldric and blade when he heard Bobby stage-whisper: “Hurry up. The guy Shaista Khan sent is coming back, and he doesn’t look patient.”

  Tent of Shaista Khan

  The faint smell of corruption greeted Ricky’s nose on entering the tent, but there was no sign of Asaf Khan or his corpse.

  Shaista Khan was in his father’s position on a slightly raised dais at the other end of the tent’s largest chamber, and waved them forward without comment. There were only a few of Shaista Khan’s favored sowar present, and all of them were studiously ignoring the presence of Ricky and his companions. A quick glance confirmed that none of the bevy of usual attendants were around.

  Making this as private an audience as we’re ever going to get. I hope he isn’t going to have us killed for advising them to wean his father off of the opium. I assume Mughal malpractice suits are prosecuted a little more harshly here than they ever were back up-time.

  Ricky glanced at Jadu for guidance, but the merchant had already stepped forward to bow before Shaista Khan.

  With a nervous glance at one another, Ricky and Bobby followed suit.

  Shaista Khan gestured for them to be seated, the expressive face drawn and, if Ricky was any judge, sad.

  “Our condolences on the passing of your father. He was a great man and will be missed by all who knew him,” Jadu said cautiously.

  Shaista Khan accepted the merchant’s condolences but quickly moved on: “We have little time to settle our business, Jadu Das. I accept the conditions set forth in the documents yo
u provided and will be henceforth supporting Dara Shikoh as the rightful emperor of India.”

  What conditions? I didn’t know we’d presented any offers for there to be conditions?

  Ricky looked a question at Bobby, who gave a tiny shake of his head. They both shifted their gaze to Jadu and tried to divine what the hell the down-timers were talking about.

  “Indeed,” Shaista continued, unaware or ignoring the consternation his answer had sparked in the up-timers, “I look forward to seeing my intended once more. We have a great deal of catching up to do, but for now I must see to my father’s funeral arrangements.” He paused, seemed to consider, then asked, “Will you be staying with us as we march to support Dara or riding ahead to report to him of our arrival?”

  Jadu bowed his head. “We are at a disadvantage at this moment because I do not have a great deal of intelligence regarding how things stand in the greater political arena.”

  “Gwalior Fort has fallen—or rather, been handed over to Aurangzeb’s forces.”

  Jadu’s dismay was evident despite the man’s excellent self-control. “When was this?”

  “Not a week.” A sad smile appeared from behind the beard. “It seems my cousins are in a hurry to discover who should rule.”

  Ricky tried to mentally calculate exactly how far away Gwalior Fort was from Agra, but couldn’t.

  Jadu waggled his head. “By the time we could return with our goods, it is likely Red Fort will be besieged. I would hate to travel all that way only to be taken prisoner and my goods seized.”

  “And I would hate for you to be taken, what with you bearing word of my plans.”

  “We could ride ahead,” Ricky suggested, gesturing at Bobby.

  Shaista looked at the up-timers and waggled his head. “I did not know you up-timers could ride so well.”

  “So well?” Ricky asked, confused.

  “Aurangzeb’s army is certain to have many outriders, among them the best light cavalry in the world: Maratha, Persian, Afghan, Turkic, every man of them born in the saddle, or as close as makes no difference. And they will have superior mounts as well as remounts.”

  Jadu leapt into the momentary pause: “And I am loath to leave my baggage unprotected.” He waggled his head. “Did you know, Shaista Khan, that my friends almost single-handedly fought off a bandit attack on our way here?”

  Shaista looked from the two younger men to Jadu. “I did not.”

  “A local zamindar thought to obtain my goods. These fine men sent his entire troop packing, those few that remained after they started shooting, that is.”

  Why is Jadu talking us up? We only did for a couple of the guys.

  Another slight smile. “They do not look like sowar.”

  “No, they do not. Indeed, I believe you’ll not find a bandy-legged horseman among the up-timers. They’re bad riders, but veritable demons in a fight. That said, I think we’ll travel with you, if that is acceptable?”

  “It is. We are mere weeks from Agra.”

  “You will proceed with your foot and baggage?”

  “Of course,” Shaista Khan said, a slow smile spreading across bearded lips, “How could I be sure you, your wares, and your friends could keep up, otherwise?”

  Jadu bowed.

  “Now, if you will excuse me? I must see to the arrangements…” Shaista Khan let the statement trail off, his smile fading to a grim line and eyes welling with tears.

  “Of course,” Jadu said, forestalling any responses from his companions.

  * * *

  “What the hell is going on, Jadu?” Bobby asked as soon as they were clear of Shaista Khan’s tent.

  Jadu motioned him to silence but Bobby wasn’t having any of it. “I walked in there thinking that maybe we would be killed for having changed the old man’s treatment, only to find out you’ve been running some kind of game behind our backs.”

  Ricky saw Jadu frown but wasn’t about to stop Bobby asking the hard questions.

  “Jadu, what is going on?” Bobby asked again.

  “Salim asked me to arrange certain diplomatic niceties on behalf of Dara Shikoh,” Jadu explained. “I was not to inform anyone what I was about. That included you, my friends. I am sorry that duty required that I remain silent, but I had promised to keep silent.”

  “Salim? Why wouldn’t he trust us to know?”

  Jadu sighed. “I do not know. I can guess that there was some concern that one of your companions in Agra might have spoken out of turn and thereby allowed Dara’s enemies to know what it was we are about.”

  “Jesus,” Bobby said. “We left Agra months ago, you could’ve told us after we left.”

  Jadu shook his head. “Do you not write letters back to the Mission? Granted, you two write nothing like the volume of letters that I do, but surely you understand the need to ensure you did not accidentally reveal some portion of Dara’s plan in your correspondence.”

  Ricky missed a step. “Wait a second! What exactly did you arrange? What is it that Dara’s planning?”

  “I acted as the emperor’s envoy in this.”

  Exasperated, Ricky grabbed Jadu’s wrist and made him stop. “And what, exactly, is this?”

  Looking around, Jadu said, “Not here. Please, let us get to my tent and we will discuss it.”

  Ricky shot a glance at Bobby, who nodded. Releasing Jadu’s arm, they resumed walking.

  The uncomfortable silence that followed in the wake of the confrontation persisted until they entered Jadu’s tent. The merchant sent his servants from the tent and sat, inviting his guests to do the same.

  Bobby remained standing but Ricky took a seat across from Jadu.

  “Where to begin?” Jadu asked.

  “How about with the truth?” Bobby snarled.

  Ricky shot another glance at his friend, but Bobby was too pissed to notice.

  “I, perhaps, deserve your anger. But you must know, my friends, that I took on this duty and obligation before I knew either of you. It pained me to keep the truth from you but there it is.”

  Ricky shook his head.

  Jadu tossed his head, asked, “What is it, Ricky?”

  The up-timer smiled. “Just that you still haven’t told us what the hell it is you were doing.”

  “Can you guess?”

  Bobby grumbled something inaudible, but Ricky thought back to the conversation. “He said something about intended, didn’t he?”

  “Exactly so.” Jadu nodded. “I was sent on behalf of the emperor to negotiate Shaista Khan’s—or, rather Asaf Khan or his heir’s—support. Part of the inducements I was authorized to offer was a royal marriage.”

  Ricky rocked back on his cushion, considering the ramifications of that.

  “But, he’s like, forty,” Bobby said.

  Jadu gave a soft chuckle. “Interesting that your mind immediately leaps to marrying one of the princesses.”

  Bobby shook his head. “I keep forgetting you all are polygamous.”

  “Not all of us,” Jadu corrected. “Not even most of us. But the royal family, yes.”

  “So he’s got a daughter he wants to marry to Dara?”

  “Not one of marriageable age, no. I just thought it interesting that you immediately thought he would be marrying.”

  Bobby growled again, but Jadu held up a hand. “Need I remind you that we are at war? When I say I am intrigued by your responses to my statements, I am trying to figure out what it is that our enemies would deduce from the information you have. Neither of you is an idiot, yet it seems the deception Salim asked me to practice upon you worked. And if it worked on you, who became intimately familiar with me and how I behave, then does it not follow that our enemies would have even greater difficulty in divining our intent?”

  “You people think in circles.”

  “I am but a humble merchant. I am not entirely used to thinking in these ways myself. It was my honor to do this service for Dara Shikoh and the throne, but I am not used to thinking in terms of espionage and spi
es. At least not on this scale and with this much at stake.”

  Smiling, Ricky shook his head. “So what Bobby said still stands: Shaista Khan is at least twenty years older than Jahanara Begum.”

  “It is not so uncommon these days, my friend. And if I recall correctly, he is not yet forty.”

  “Wait, if Asaf Khan is their grandfather, isn’t he her uncle?”

  Jadu shrugged. “It’s not that unusual, even among those who have nothing so important to keep in the family as the Peacock Throne.”

  “And people used to make cracks about us hillbillies!” Bobby said, disgust evident.

  Ricky fought against his own revulsion. He often forgot how different down-timers were in general, and those of different religions and cultures were an even greater departure for a hillbilly from twentieth-century West Virginia. Add to that the fact the family they were discussing was perhaps the richest and most powerful in the world. So powerful he could still recall the high school history lessons that taught him that when people in the twentieth century said “music mogul” and the like, they were talking about the merest shadow of these folks and the very real power they wielded over the lives of millions.

  Jadu smiled questioningly. “What?”

  An irritated shake of the head, then Bobby said, “It’s just…People from West Virginia mining towns were seen as backward and inbred by those who lived in big cities.”

  Jadu’s brows rose to meet his turban. “Astounding. I suppose I should not be surprised that people still try and find someone to look down upon, even in your time.”

  “Damn straight,” Bobby said.

  A brief silence descended on them.

  Ricky grinned, shaking his head in wonder.

  “What makes you smile, my friend?” Jadu asked.

  “You still haven’t told us just who you arranged to marry Shaista Khan.”

  “I haven’t?” Jadu asked, voice and gaze full of entirely false innocence.