1637: The Peacock Throne

by Eric Flint

  He considered ordering them to withdraw, but discarded the idea as worthless. Carvalho would consolidate his remaining men with the larger guns being brought up—or not, according to God’s will. Indeed, as he watched, the first of the heavier guns was drawing into position to fire, its thirty-man crew struggling with the mighty weight of metal.

  Drums sounded the advance. A moment later, ten thousand sowar rocked into motion, the rumble of their hoofbeats drowning the drums. They would be at the walls in minutes.

  “God willing, we will have an end to this, brother,” Aurangzeb breathed. This time, his messengers remained silent.

  Gun line

  “Can’t shift her, Captain,” Farshad said. “Not without more men.”

  “Still more of Dara’s bastards to kill where she lays,” Carvalho said, pitching in to reload. The next minutes were occupied with hard, sweaty work.

  Finished, he stepped back and pulled his linstock from his belt. The cord had gone out, drowned in his sweaty robes. He bent to shelter it as he struck grinder and flint. A bullet whizzed by in the space he’d occupied, making him sweat all the more.

  He put the dragon to the touch and skipped back as the powder caught and the charge exploded. He missed where the ball struck, the target lost in dust and smoke and the chaos of battle.

  The next long while passed in a blur of reload, fire. Reload. Fire.

  Sometime later, something reached through the raw repetition and roar of battle. Something felt in his bones, not heard. He staggered from the gun and wiped the sweat from his brow. It was then that thousands of horsemen rode past his position, charging toward the wall and battle. Even at speed, it took the better part of two minutes for the mass of men to ride by.

  “Only enough powder for a few more shots, Captain!” Farshad croaked.

  An oxen’s low turned him round in hopes of seeing a supply cart laden with powder and ball. Instead it was Islam’s Whore of Babylon, the largest of Aurangzeb’s guns to arrive in camp before the attack.

  “Get that great big bitch into line and start shooting, Islam!” Carvalho yelled. Another round whistled by his head, too close to bear thinking about.

  “Yes, Captain!” Islam yelled back, eyes gone a little wild.

  With a sound like two great wood blocks being slapped together, the lead oxen of the team dropped stone dead, skull pierced by a sniper’s bullet.

  “Jesus!” he screamed. “They must have had every Atishbaz from here to the Himalayas making powder and shot for those damn weapons! How did we not know?”

  Busy commanding his men, Islam did not respond to the question. None of the rest of the gunners seemed inclined to offer an opinion either, being busy cutting the ox from its traces.

  Frustration and rage vented and ignored by an indifferent God and universe, he gestured for his remaining crew to join Islam’s men.

  The backbreaking labor that followed caused him to lose track of time, but it passed nonetheless, and at a cost: two more oxen were killed and a man wounded. That cost paid, they had the great beast of a gun in position.

  Carvalho stood back, panting.

  Islam’s men were more efficient, or at least less tired: they immediately set to loading. The powder went in quickly enough, but the two huge, muscle-bound men carrying the first ball from the wagon struggled to lift it to the muzzle.

  “Well done!” Carvalho yelled as the men stepped back.

  A smiling Islam ignited his linstock and stepped to the touch.

  Carvalho looked expectantly at the wall but the cannon did not fire.

  Carvalho looked back to see Islam on his knees, blood pouring from his mouth and a red stain growing beneath his breastbone.

  “God!” Carvalho cried as he ran to Islam’s side. He was too slow, and Islam’s face struck one of the monstrous wheels of the gun carriage as he fell forward.

  Grinding his teeth, Carvalho snatched the still-smoking linstock from the dead man’s hand and laid it to the touch.

  The cannon roared his anger and rage, propelling the nearly fifty-pound ball across the intervening distance to crash into the wall. The red sandstone facing of the wall sloughed away, the top bucking before dust and smoke obscured it from view.

  Aurangzeb’s camp

  Tent of Nur Jahan

  Nur opened the next message and brought it to the light. It did no good, however. It was her attention that was lacking, not the light.

  She had not slept well, having had a strange dream in the night. It had started well enough: seeing Jahangir as he’d been when she first knew him, powerfully handsome, with eyes that pulled her in and held her in their regard. He’d been riding a white stallion across a vast plain of wind-waving grasses, riding to join her. Nur had enjoyed watching this young Jahangir ride to her, a shadow of the thrill she used to feel on seeing him rising up her sleeping spine. He was yelling something she could not comprehend. She did not mind the yells, at first, thinking he was only as excited to see her as she was to see him. But then the wind turned stiff and cold, plum clouds stacking higher and higher on the horizon and making the grass ripple wildly, as if in the wake of half a hundred unseen tigers.

  The darkness closed in.

  Sudden fear raked her soul. Those invisible predators caught her husband, drew Jahangir and his brilliant white mount down in a welter of blood, his voice ringing in her ears even as she startled awake.

  Like all nightmares, it was far easier to remember the fear than any message, but her mind had eventually unraveled the words her love had been screaming. So she had risen, prayed, and returned to her tent.

  Methwold had been waiting for her. He had been trying to see her since arriving at camp. She had consented to a morning meeting last night mostly because she knew his presence during the most important battle of Aurangzeb’s fledgling reign would help distract her from her inability to influence the battle. For his part, Methwold had been so eager for an audience he’d been waiting for her. Still, she’d made him wait, had him made comfortable and served refreshments while she read the latest correspondence from her spies and servants.

  He shifted slightly. That was the first sign of impatience he’d shown in the hour and more she’d made him wait. She reread the missive she’d been failing to comprehend and, failing to get any more from it than she had the last three times, looked at him.

  “What is it I might do for you, President Methwold?” Nur asked, cocking her head as much to listen to the sounds of battle as what her guest had to say.

  “I wish to ask a favor of you, Nur Jahan,” he said.

  “Oh?” Nur was disappointed that he’d opened with precisely what he was here for. She’d been hoping for more…more intrigue, more distraction. She glanced at him. He was squinting into the dawn’s light. Nur’s eyes fell again on the report, noting the light had improved enough the lamp she’d been reading by was superfluous. Craving warmth, she turned her own face to the dawn, glad of the whim that had made her command the tent be placed just so. She had an excellent view of the red-yellow brow of the sun as it began to peep over the horizon. It also prevented her from seeing the walls of Red Fort and the battle being waged there while the great awning sheltered them from the morning dew.

  “The arrangement the Company had with the Estado da India ended the moment they cut ties with the Sultan Al’Azam.”

  “And as it ended badly, you will suffer for having agreed to it?” She asked, eyes closed, wishing she could feel the sun on her lips.

  “I don’t know that ‘suffer’ is the right term, but I will certainly have some explaining to do if the Sultan Al’Azam does not see my efforts as worthy of compensation.”

  “You are unusually direct today…” She allowed the words to trail off, inviting him to fill the silence as she watched him once more.

  He smiled and accepted the invitation: “I suppose it is the battle and my own impatient desire to learn its outcome that makes me so.”

  “You were not inclined to take to the battlefie
ld yourself?” she asked, tossing her head to indicate the walls behind them, beyond her tent and, if not out of mind, then at least out of sight.

  “Carvalho refused my offer to join him.”

  “He did?” She turned her face to him, entirely focused now. “What grounds did he give?”

  “He thought it best I was not with him at the guns. I am not known to his crews, and so would have been in the way as they took up positions in the night. Besides, I am not gifted at the artillerist’s art and he assured me he had men enough to handle Dara’s defenses.”

  “I think the young wags all agreed the fighting would be over by dawn,” Nur said. They were fools.

  “Well, Carvalho was not so sanguine as all that,” Methwold said.

  Something clicked into place behind Nur’s eyes. Something she had studiously avoided considering so the back of her mind could unravel it.

  She allowed a small frown to edge her lips and spoke while things moved behind her eyes. “He is far wiser than most of Aurangzeb’s umara, then.” A louder explosion rent the air.

  “It does not sound as if they were entirely correct, does it?” Methwold’s eyes were on her tent as if trying to peer through it.

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Shall we go and see for ourselves?” The Englishman’s impatience to see what was happening was apparent.

  “Perhaps later. First, though, what is it you want me to do with regard to your situation? Do you want me to ask the Sultan Al’Azam if he is inclined to provide compensation for your services?”

  “If it isn’t too much trouble. Or, if you think he might rather hear it directly from me, I could make the request myself.”

  “I will see to it he learns you hope for clarification of your position.”

  He smiled. “I bow before your greater experience.”

  “And the Company?”

  “I am sorry?” Methwold asked.

  “With the Portuguese firmly against him, it may be useful for the Sultan Al’Azam to retain the Company and its ships as friends.”

  The smile grew broader. “My thought precisely.”

  She nodded.

  “I must tell you how happy I am that you are here, working on behalf of Aurangzeb,” he said.

  Nur allowed her own smile to greet his. “It can be hard to avoid coloring your perceptions when events appear to serve your self-interest.”

  He shrugged. “There is truth in what you say, but that truth is not the only one. However gifted, the Sultan Al’Azam is young and impressionable. He needs people of experience about him, ready to lend him their wisdom and experience. I have watched you provide sage counsel these last months—”

  She spoke over him before the Englishmen could repeat himself. “While I have striven mightily to aid Aurangzeb in his struggles against his brother, I have no wish to hear more praise for my efforts.”

  Methwold drew breath to protest.

  Nur stopped him with a raised finger. “Oh, I know what and how I have contributed, but the time when I let myself preen in response to such flattery is long past. I will do what you request because I appreciate you as a man of quality as much as I see the benefit in retaining such a relationship with the English Company.”

  The Englishman’s skill at hiding his feelings failed him this once, his fair complexion coloring at the compliment.

  They sat in silence a few moments. For her part Nur did not feel the need to add to the noise of the battle nor force him to acknowledge the fact she’d scored against him. She used the time to actively consider what her subconscious had been working.

  Methwold grew impatient, and spoke before she was able to unearth the meaning. “If we are done complimenting one another, perhaps we can go see what progress the forces of the Sultan Al’Azam have made?”

  Something surged forth to her, startling Nur.

  “You may. I do not think I will.” Her smile began as an attempt to reassure him, but ended on the bitter surge of emotion that threatened to close her throat.

  Nur thought she caught a glimpse of an incredulous look and, driving down a sudden surge of anger, said, “What is it, President Methwold?”

  “Only that your reputation would have you watching, avid to see the results of your work.”

  His answer was so direct, and so disarming, Nur knew she had covered the flash of emotion quite completely. Still, it struck a chord in her—a wellspring of anger Nur had thought herself immune to. She had been at or near the center of power and politics for the majority of her life.

  One would think such remarks would no longer sting so.

  “Reputation?” she mused.

  “Please forgive my impertinence.” Methwold clearly saw he’d made some kind of error, and struggled to recover. “But I can see the utility of a certain kind of reputation at court.” An apologetic smile appeared while his eyes searched hers for some sign of either an impending explosion of temper or agreement.

  Feeling no need to bury her anger before this perceptive foreigner, Nur spoke directly from the heart. “Who better to know the reputation I have built than I? I, who built it with acts of deceit large enough to mislead entire nations and small enough to pluck the strings of my lover’s heart, one contest of wills at a time? Oh, I know what my reputation is, and what it has cost me. I also know what it means to hold the reins of power and lose them.”

  She smiled. “I much prefer them near to hand, President Methwold. One price of that proximity is a reputation that has, in the past, worked against me as much as for me. But then, I have lived a long time, and no one builds a reputation—for good or ill—without experiencing life. When I went to bed last night I thought that the outcome of this particular contest was a forgone conclusion. This assumption on my part was based upon the relative reputations of the involved generals, but now…Now I begin to question the validity of not only my reputation, but that of Dara and Aurangzeb as well.”

  Methwold nodded slowly, opening his mouth to comment again, but she silenced him with a shake of the head. “Is it possible for one night—nay, just one unpleasant dream—to so shake and shape one’s thoughts?”

  “Would that not depend upon the dream as much as the dreamer?” he asked.

  She looked at him sharply. “Spoken like a guru, President Methwold. It seems you have learned more than most ferenghi in your time among us.”

  “You are kind,” he said, clearly relieved her anger had gone, if it had ever been present.

  “Am I? Truly? I think not. The life of the true guru, whatever their reputation, is rarely comfortable.”

  Methwold was so distracted by the sounds of battle, and his desire to see it for himself, that she was almost certain her words did not register with the younger man.

  “With permission, Nur Jahan, I will take my leave of you, and discover for us both how our hopes fare…”

  Nur waved him on.

  He fairly sprang to his feet and was gone in an instant, leaving Nur with the residue of nightmares, dreams, and unfinished business.

  Chapter 46

  Red Fort

  Lahore Gate

  John coughed, hard. Then again, so hard he bent double.

  Something very heavy shrieked through the air and crashed into the wall just below the crenellations with such weight and power that the stone construction buckled and slowly slumped outward, away from the wall, carrying two screaming men with it.

  Ignoring fear, fatigue, and the dangerous footing, John lurched across the last section of wall toward the door. He and Bertram had, with a handful of other survivors, fled the middle gate what seemed like hours ago.

  Knowing that, if everything had gone to plan, the inner gate had long since been completely blocked up by the defenders, they’d been forced to run the gauntlet of fire that flailed the wall that defended the courtyard between the middle and inner gates. The iron-sheathed door that would get them off the freestanding structure and into the relative safety of the earth-backed walls to the west of
the gates seemed, when glimpsed through the dust, smoke, and madness, to always be just a little farther away.

  Drifting clouds of smoke and dust obscured everything for a few steps, bringing their progress to a crawl yet again. They were feeling their slow way forward when Bertram hit something and staggered backward into John’s injured shoulder.

  Biting down on the urge to scream and shove Bertram, John saw the down-timer had run blindly into their goal. Wanting to weep, he stepped past his friend and thumped his good fist against the iron-shod wood.

  No response.

  “The password, John!” Bertram shouted, levering himself up.

  John leaned his forehead against the cold iron, unable to recall his own name, let alone a password he’d tried to memorize over breakfast yesterday.

  He was saved from further frustration when the door swung slowly open under his full weight.

  Inside, a sweating Gujarati stood blinking at him, shaking arms pointing one of the long-muzzled guns at John’s chest.

  John opened his mouth to greet the man.

  The arquebusier pulled the trigger.

  Without thinking, John stepped inside and thrust his hand between match and pan.

  Three things happened then. The match snapped down to burn his hand, his shoulder told him in no uncertain terms what it thought of violent, sudden movement, and his left fist connected with the man’s hairy jaw.

  The arquebusier fell unconscious at John’s feet.

  “Shit!” John said, the grating pain in his shoulder making it a very bad idea to try and shake the still-smoldering coal from his hand. Dropping it might let the cord strike powder and result in a discharge, so that was out. He instead reached across with his other hand and yanked the match cord from the snaphaunce.

  Bertram pushed past, the remaining men filing in behind him. John handed the arquebus to one of them.