1636: Mission to the Mughals

by Eric Flint

  “But you aren’t just a thief, are you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Nasi’s thin smile sent a thrill of alarm down Monique’s spine. “Only that I know a little about the where, the who, and the what of your studies. Not to mention how they ended and why you took to a life of crime.”

  Gervais sat back, face gone whiter than just about any time Monique could remember, save when he’d seen her in the tiny cell in Lyon.

  Nasi wasn’t done: “Frankly, your skills at alchemy will provide a useful and legitimate reason for you to gain access to the court.”

  “All right, I’ll be useful,” Gervais looked at Monique, “and I know how much I owe your man Bertram here, but there’s no reason my daughter should be exposed to su—”

  “Papa!” Monique snapped.

  Nasi continued on the heels of her outburst. “She’s an adult, Bertram speaks highly of her abilities, and there’s a good chance that you’ll need her to gain you access to people that men would be killed for even trying to lay eyes on. The harem-bound ladies of the court are powers unto themselves. If Monique wants to go, she’ll be welcome, and just as well-compensated as you.”

  Papa opened his mouth to speak but Nasi held up a hand to silence him. “In the final analysis, while I think the mission might need your collective resourcefulness in an emergency, it’s still a trade mission, not one of your criminal enterprises or,” he looked significantly at Bertram, “some effort at espionage against an enemy power.”

  Gervais shook his head, a legitimately sad look on his face. “Do you have any idea how many of the Dutch return from trade in the East? Because I do! When in Amsterdam I watched the widows cry for lost husbands every single time a ship made port. On those occasions they actually made port!”

  Nasi shrugged. “While your concerns are certainly valid, the Dutch did not have the advantages of medical care the up-timers brought us.”

  “I don’t want my daughter dying on some foreign shore, some exotic illness eating her alive.”

  “Not when the outbreak in Milan could have killed us both with a perfectly home-grown plague,” Monique drawled.

  Gervais was struggling to find an answer to that when the door opened and a tall couple walked in. If their height wasn’t sign enough, Monique identified them as some of Bertram’s up-timers as soon as they smiled. No down-timer’s smile ever displayed so many even, straight, and above all, white teeth.

  Nasi climbed to his feet and bowed in courtly fashion over the woman’s hand. “Frau Totman.” The woman was extremely tall and expensively-dressed, if skinnier than Monique knew most down-time men preferred. The man with her was enormous. Monique wondered if he was another athlete like Tom Simpson who played that bizarre American game called “football.”

  “Don Francisco,” the man said.

  “Herr Totman,” Nasi returned with a smile, continuing around the circle of seats to make introductions. Both seemed at least as young as she was, though Bertram had said it was hard to tell with most up-timers.

  Once everyone had taken seats and been introduced, Rodney Totman spoke. His English had an accent Monique had never encountered before: “Don Francisco, was that French I heard as we came in? Sounded heated.”

  Nasi nodded, “Gervais has serious reservations about Monique participating in our trade mission.”

  Priscilla Totman looked at Gervais and asked in heavily accented French: “Maladies?”

  Gervais nodded emphatically.

  Priscilla continued in that strangely accented English, “Forgive me, but I have exhausted my French.”

  “Pray continue,” Gervais returned in that language.

  “We have medicines to defeat some of the more common sickness, if we’re careful about food and water we’ll avoid most of the ick, and as we’re not headed to Bombay or the wetter regions of India, there’s less risk of mosquito-born infections like malaria.”

  Monique watched Gervais grasping for some argument. “Less is not—”

  “Aren’t you always telling me that risk is what makes life worth living?” she snapped.

  Gervais threw his hands wide. “Oh, but it does!” He shot a dark glance at his daughter. “It’s right up there with the joy of haggling for a good price for one’s skills. A joy you killed, thank you very much.”

  Realizing, at last, that her father’s antics had—mostly—been a tactic, she tossed her curls. “Papa!”

  Don Francisco Nasi snorted. The Totmans chuckled.

  Given time and a few choice words, Gervais could charm the hardest heart. It was a gift, and a curse. She saw that he’d already worked his magic on the Totmans, and likely Nasi as well, though the man was a much harder read.

  Realizing the room had gone quiet, she turned to the up-timers. “And how were you two brought into this?”

  Priscilla took her husband’s hand in hers. “I have always wanted to travel to India. Too many movies, I suppose. I’ve always loved the idea of seeing it. I had thought, well, there was no chance it would happen since the Ring of Fire, but then we got the offer.”

  Her husband nodded. “As to why we got picked: we’re both trained medics, with some advanced medical and pharmacological training. That included a fairly intensive course in obstetrics from Dr. Adams. We’ll be along to keep everyone as healthy as we can, while maybe seeing if we can’t improve conditions for the locals.”

  Nasi cleared his throat. “And they will consult on securing our wounded soldiers a steady supply of opium.”

  Monique noticed that something about the unfamiliar word made both up-timers uncomfortable.

  “What?” Monique asked.

  “Laudanum,” Nasi tried to clarify.

  “Oh,” Monique said, still not sure what the substance was.

  “What is it about the stones of immortality that makes you uncomfortable, Madame Totman?” Gervais asked, simultaneously informing his daughter what they were discussing. It was a substance used for treatment of some ailments, and as a powerful painkiller. It was good for putting careless men to bed early, too.

  Priscilla shrugged and glanced at her husband, who tried to explain. “We up-timers are…conflicted about certain drugs.” He grinned. “Aw, hell, we’re entirely messed up about ’em. I blame Ronnie Raygun’s wife, she had a very successful ad campaign aimed at making Americans think all drugs are bad.”

  Monique’s continuing confusion must have been apparent, as Priscilla added: “A president when we were both really just kids, back up-time: his wife was a part of a propaganda campaign in what was called, ‘The War On Drugs.’ When Don Francisco says, ‘secure a supply of opium,’ we flash over to an image of a man with an egg in one hand, saying: ‘This is your brain,’ then the egg frying in oil and the motto, ‘This is your brain on drugs.’”

  “Ah,” Monique said, parsing all the unfamiliar terms.

  Even Nasi looked as if he’d learned something new.

  Rodney Totman’s laughter was loud, even in the large space: “Fancy being a drug kingpin, honey?”

  She joined her husband, those white teeth flashing.

  Monique liked the way Priscilla looked at her husband; it gave her hope for the institution of marriage.

  “Forgive me being blunt, but I foresee some issues,” Gervais said, setting his wine aside.

  Nasi gestured for him to continue.

  “Muslims, like many devoutly religious folk, have particular views on the body and its administration. Those views may render Monsieur and Madame Totman’s undoubted medical skills a commodity without a buyer. Unless you wish to call on my talents for games of confidence, it seems that aside from their skills, we have very little to sell the Mughals in exchange for their opium and saltpeter.”

  Nasi nodded. “We have some specialists arriving from Magdeburg in the next few days who will provide additional technical expertise we believe the Mughals will be interested in: several young men trained in railroad construction and engineering. They’ve just
been released from service on detached duty, and will provide additional security for the trade mission.”

  “Who?” Rodney asked.

  “John Ennis.”

  “Ah, J.D. is good people. Met him while we were in basic training,” Rodney said.

  “Just so,” Nasi said with a nod. “Along with him are three young men direct from the TacRail units: Maddox, Wiley, and Baldwin.”

  “Bobby Maddox?” Mrs. Totman asked.

  Nasi nodded.

  “Remember him from our wedding, Rodney? He’s a parishioner.”

  Monique had the impression Rodney didn’t, but the huge man nodded anyway.

  “Railroads, eh? Can’t say I know too much about them, but that I thought they required a great many up-time technical wonders to push cargo along.”

  “Pull,” Rodney corrected, “in the case of trains, but yes, they do require locomotives.” He looked expectantly at Nasi.

  “We have that settled, short-term, as well as how we’ve chosen to fulfill one of the other requirements of court life…”

  “The giving of bribes?” Gervais said as the other man drank.

  Swallowing and lowering his glass, Nasi smiled without humor. “In my experience, the courts of eastern potentates prefer calling such, ‘the giving of presents.’ That said, if they choose to give the mission the full diplomatic treatment rendered to the Ottomans or English, the mission members can expect to come away from this trip with some substantial gifts from the court, merely for showing up.”

  Gervais yawned, looking terribly uninterested. Monique recognized the expression as the surest sign her father’s greed was holding the reins of his mind.

  * * *

  “Landsmen’s legs,” Captain Strand said, watching the three young Grantville men walk up the gangplank to board Lønsom Vind.

  The captain, Gervais, and Rodney Totman were standing on the poop deck of the Danish fluyt. Well, Gervais and Strand were standing; Rodney’s nausea had him leaning at the rail.

  Seasickness made distilling the Dane’s words from his accent difficult, but Rodney persevered: “Yes, yes it will.”

  “And at the end of the voyage, more uncertainty.”

  “Yes, there is that.”

  “You talk little. This is good. Unexpected, but good.” Strand pointed a thick finger at the young men, now making their way belowdecks. “Any of them going to prove useful?”

  “At sea? Probably not. Why?”

  Strand turned to face Rodney and shrugged. “Going to be a long time at sea. Each journey made, I have lost sailors, either to the sea upon transit of the Cape or to disease caught along the way. We might have a need for young men.”

  “I think you will find your losses to illness minimized.”

  “I thought it strange, the way you insisted on spraying every inch of the ship.” The captain snorted. “But getting rid of my ratter? Sure, he was a flea-bitten mutt, but he was loyal, and well-liked by the crew.”

  “That’s just it, Captain: fleas are the carriers of many illnesses. Besides, all the rats should have been killed by the fumigation process. You did set a watch on the mooring lines to prevent more rodents coming aboard, as instructed?”

  The captain nodded, pulling a face. “Next you’ll have us eating dainties.”

  Gervais smiled. “How did you know?”

  Blond brows shot up in surprise. “An attempt at humor, only.”

  “Preserved fruits, Captain, are quite tasty.”

  “Your men will likely be in better shape, medically, once we arrive in India than they are now,” Rodney added.

  Rodney caught a glance Gervais sent at Captain Strand. Realizing too late how condescending that might have sounded, he opened his mouth to apologize.

  But Strand just shrugged. “I would say it was hard to believe, but then I look at the size and shape of you and the other up-timer men, and I believe. Is there a bent back or malformed leg among you?”

  “A few. Believe it or not, we had more health issues from being fat than from badly-healed limbs, rickets, and that sort of thing.”

  Strand patted his belly. “How is showing one’s prosperity a problem?”

  “When it leads to heart disease and diabetes.”

  Strand put a hand on his chest, brows drawing together, “Disease of the heart? Fleas carry this disease as well?”

  “Well, no…they carry…Let me see…how to explain…”

  Gervais, chuckling, broke in, “Normally I would dread the boredom of a long sea voyage, but with you up-timers every conversation will provide five more things to talk about!”

  Chapter 4

  Red Fort, The Gardens

  May 1634

  The siblings had barely greeted one another when the honeybee flew between them to land on the orchid. It crawled into the purple folds of the flower, seeking the nectar within and drawing the prince and princess to watch in appreciative silence. Long moments passed, the heavy bloom trembling. Eventually the honeybee took flight from the flower, releasing the siblings from stillness much as it scattered the flower’s golden pollen.

  As the interloping insect disappeared deeper into the gardens, wingbeats joining the hum of the others of its hive, Dara Shikoh and Jahanara leaned back and regarded one another, much as they had many times before and, God willing, would have opportunity to do for many years to come.

  Putting away her desire to immediately transcribe the beauty of the bee’s flight into poetry, Jahanara waited for her brother to speak. She noted his smooth brow was furrowed under the gorgeous yellow turban. She had not seen him so troubled since Aurangzeb’s poem had embarrassed him before all the court. Jahanara suppressed a shudder, recalling the events immortalized therein: the great war elephant, mad with rage and entirely out of control, trampling slaves and scattering the Imperial household. Her younger brother Aurangzeb, still only fifteen years old, calmly sitting his horse while everyone fled. The way clear, Aurangzeb charged the great bull elephant and struck it between the eyes, stinging it so badly it ceased its rampage.

  The later poem that shamed those that fled brought Mother’s sage advice to mind: “Men, they will always feel the bite of words stronger than steel. Steel kills, but one must live on with the words of others. Remember this, and keep your words like sharp steel, with caution and care.”

  Keeping that advice uppermost in her mind, Jahanara folded hands in her lap, waiting. It was not often that their father’s eldest son came to visit, but when he did, it was nearly always to ask the same questions.

  “And what of Father, Sister mine?”

  She smiled inwardly, not wanting to show how easily she had read him and therefore hurt his feelings. “He still pines for our beloved mother, of course. The only thing he looks forward to is the daily meeting with his advisors regarding Mother’s tomb.”

  “His remaining wives?” Dara asked.

  She smiled openly. She had been composing a verse this morning, a playful little thing, and used part of it now: “The harem persists in its perennial practices: showing their love of Father and whining at his inattention.”

  Dara nodded absently but didn’t return her smile.

  It was rare that he missed an opportunity to show his appreciation for her work. Resisting the urge to show her displeasure, she asked, “What troubles you, Brother?”

  “I wonder what it will take to shake Father from his grief.”

  She strangled a sigh. “Must he be shaken?”

  “Our family does not sit idle while one man mourns, Sister.”

  “No, but neither are they gathering armies to usurp Father’s place.”

  “Not that we know of, at least.”

  “Our friend Mian Mir, in his wisdom, would have you set aside your fear, Brother.”

  Dara sniffed. “I know. I would argue: it is no sin to fear for one’s family.”

  “If you only feared for your family, rather than fearing certain members of it.”

  Another sniff, this one companion to a bit
ter twist of the lips. “It has always been thus for the sons of our house.”

  Thinking on the unfairness of that remark, Jahanara refused to let him see how much his self-pity annoyed her. “But our father would have it otherwise, for you.”

  Looking through the walls of the garden, Dara whispered, voice so low it nearly drowned in the buzz of industrious insects about them: “Some days, I fear he might have chosen the wrong son…”

  Red Fort, The Harem

  Things were quite quiet in the harem, as they had been each evening since Mother had passed. Father had eaten his fill, and was in that state between sleep and wakefulness that a full belly and few puffs of the pipe always brought him to.

  Shah Jahan had released the outer circle of the harem to find their own entertainments. The only remaining residents were Namrah and Netri, Shah Jahan’s body-slaves, and they could be relied on to keep confidences.

  The time appeared right, just as Ratna had predicted. The harem astrologer had made no less than six readings before recommending this night to Jahanara.

  Realizing she was thinking of other things instead of facing her fear, Jahanara spoke. “Father?”

  “Yes, Daughter?”

  “I would ask a favor, Father.”

  “Oh?” he asked.

  Jahanara swallowed sudden fear and rushed on. “I would ask that you allow me to oversee the finances of the harem.”

  Shah Jahan roused, propping himself up to look across at her in the lamplight. “Why?”

  She looked down. “In all honesty, I find little to challenge me.”

  The emperor smiled. “You have exhausted poetry, then?”

  Uncomfortable, she shrugged. “I will not marry, so what use the endless talk of love the poets engage in?”

  “Daughter, look at me,” he said.

  She did as he bid.

  He was smiling, dark eyes sad. “You are the jewel of the world, this court, and my heart. When you pine for marriage and love, remember that it was the perils of the birthing-bed that took your mother from us. I thank God that you shall not face such danger. I do not think I could bear to have you taken to Paradise before me.”

  Jahanara felt tears rising even as she bowed.