1637: The Peacock Throne

by Eric Flint

  When she didn’t seem moved by those arguments, Gervais went on. “Besides, a great number of the Banjaris are strung out between here and Dara’s brothers. What happens to them, and those actually in camp with Aurangzeb or Shuja, when the supplies stop?”

  “Historically, the dynasty has proven very lenient toward those serving a princely master who subsequently loses, especially when those people really only declared for the losing prince because they had no choice, being in their power.”

  “But—”

  She cut Gervais off. “This is not any of the courts of Europe, Papa. Princes here are expected to vie for control even before the succession comes to question, and so long as no one outside the dynasty tries to take power for themselves, changes of allegiance are seen as acceptable, even expected. It is yet another advantage Dara has—if he’ll just use it! His treasury is massive, and neither of his brothers have anything comparable to the fortune at his fingertips. He also has all the imperial bureaucrats standing by, ready to do his bidding…”

  Bertram cleared his throat. “Not all, Monique. Some have left the city. He has had the khutba said in his name, but only just ordered coins minted in his name, and was slow to confirm or remove the people in high positions under Shah Jahan. In the uncertainty, some left for greener pastures they imagine they’ll find with either Shuja or Aurangzeb.”

  Papa crossed his arms across his chest and cast a knowing look at her, a good sign he was struggling to find some way to refute her points.

  Bertram was looking at her with clear admiration. “I take it Jahanara is an excellent instructor on court politics?”

  She nodded, smiling. “And I, an excellent student.”

  “Without question.”

  Despite herself, Monique blushed.

  “Stop that, you two,” Gervais said, glowering.

  “Stop what?” they asked, in near unison.

  Papa threw up his hands. “Just get it over with!”

  “Get what over with?” she asked.

  Gervais directed his words at Bertram, though: “You clearly wish to court my daughter.”

  “Papa!” she cried, so loudly she nearly missed Bertram’s far quieter response.

  “I do.”

  “You do?”

  Bertram nodded, emphatic.

  “Of course he does, girl! And now that I formally accept his designs on you, we can all get on with business without you two failing—miserably, I might add—to pretend you are not interested in one another.”

  “Damn you!”

  Genuine shock flashed across Papa’s face. She rarely cursed him.

  “The one time I manage to upstage you with my education, you steal my thunder entirely!”

  In a flash, Papa’s infuriating smile returned.

  She hugged him and leveled a stare at Bertram. “I am a woman of means, now, Bertram Weiman. You will need to win me.”

  He met her eye. “I shall endeavor to do so, Monique Vieuxpont.”

  Gervais cleared his throat. “Very well, now we have that out the way, may we return to discussing the present strategic situation?”

  “Certainly…in a moment,” Monique said.

  “What?” Papa asked.

  “Jahanara is…” She thought how best to describe the princess’s mental state, sighed, and continued blandly, “The princess is at the ragged edge of her patience, ability, and power. She needs help covering for Dara’s lapses. I offered ours.”

  Both men went silent.

  Bertram was pale under his tan, but it was Gervais who eventually broke the quiet with, “To borrow an indelicate, yet precise term from John: shit.”

  Monique nodded. “Yes. Lots of opportunity to make a mess of things. Lots of opportunity to do a great deal of good.”

  “She agreed, then?”

  “Readily, yes.”

  “Well, we shall have to prepare a few methods to make good on your offer to conceal his condition.”

  “And how do we do that, Gervais?” Bertram asked, a little sharply.

  Gervais answered without rancor, “To begin with, we’ll invert some of the swindles we’ve used in the past: while the one person feigns illness, the other accomplishes certain tasks while attention is focused on the supposedly sick person.”

  Papa’s answer made Bertram look thoughtful, and perhaps a bit rueful as well.

  “I will run possible ruses by you before Monique presents them to Jahanara. I’m sure you’ll have a role to play in them, and that wicked sharp mind of yours will find embellishments we haven’t considered.”

  “I’m not so sure about that, but it’s probably a good idea to include anyone who will be in on it to be as knowledgeable as possible on the plan,” Bertram said, pulling his lower lip in the way that told her he was worrying over something.

  “What?”

  “We need to run Jahanara’s request past John, Priscilla, and Rodney, at minimum. More likely we need to bring everyone in all the way so that there’s no surprises on our end…”

  “Of course,” Gervais said, though Monique was half-certain he’d not thought to ask. Papa could be very single-minded when he believed the stakes high enough. Single-minded to the point where he did not stop to consider the thoughts, let alone feelings, of others.

  “I’m not sure Priscilla will like the idea of going back into the harem for any length of time. She chafes at it more than the rest of us.”

  “Regardless of what we decide on her request,” Gervais said, “we need to finish going over the rest of the intelligence we have to present at the weekly meeting.”

  Bertram nodded. “Asaf Khan was my priority this week, but there’s not a lot to report: word has it that his army is still inching its way back from Bengal. We have slightly more detail on Aurangzeb and his army, reports indicating his forces are somewhere south of Shah Shuja’s in the Deccan. This is particularly alarming as Shah Shuja alone has three times the men Dara has raised so far, and if his younger brothers join forces against Dara, he will be unable to meet them in the field.”

  “Can we count on them to come to blows before they get here?” Gervais said.

  “One can hope.” Bertram shrugged. “I can see Aurangzeb handling it one of two ways: either he tries to bring Shuja to battle immediately and—if his victory is incomplete or Shuja evades battle in the first place—run the risk of starvation while chasing his brother. Then again, if they do meet, they may not have a pitched battle, but rather form up and negotiate some kind of disposition.

  “Or he could hole up in one of the former Deccan sultanates and try to gather power to himself. But the governors assigned to the southernmost Subahs of the empire who served Shah Jahan have declared for Dara, so anything that allows Dara time to consolidate power is probably not Aurangzeb’s first choice of strategy.

  “Both ideas carry risks, and it’s hard to say which way he’ll decide, but everyone seems to agree on one point: Aurangzeb is the greater threat, even with Shuja athwart his logistics train.” Bertram used the up-timer term with ease, knowing his audience would understand.

  Gervais looked a question at Monique.

  She nodded. “That’s the essence of what Jahanara’s people are saying as well.”

  Of course, it went unsaid that Dara’s people were also Jahanara’s, though Dara could hardly say the same about Jahanara’s people. With Nadira Begum entirely occupied with Dara’s care, and Dara himself still unsteady from his head injury, Begum Sahib Jahanara had become the power behind the throne—a status Monique and the other ladies of the Mission were entirely comfortable with but that the other ladies of the court were still adjusting to.

  “Does anyone have any idea which way Aurangzeb will jump?”

  “No,” Monique and Bertram said, at almost the same time.

  “And what about improving our knowledge of the whereabouts, goals, and condition of Asaf Khan and his army?”

  “Certainly seems to be a great number of armies running about, eh?” Bertram said with a
smile.

  Monique had what she hoped would be, if less humorous, than at least more helpful, to offer: “Jahanara thinks we can help Dara on that particular score.”

  Chapter 7

  Agra

  Red Fort, Diwan-i-Khas

  “We are most pleased to raise you to the rank of one thousand zat and five hundred sowar, Abdul Khan.”

  Jahanara, shielded from the court by jali, winced. Dara had reversed the ranks he’d agreed, in consultation with his advisors, to give. Setting the young Afghan’s salary at one thousand zat put him among the most respected of courtiers, while settling the maintenance salary for the number of sowar under his command at only five hundred meant Abdul Khan would not be obliged to recruit any of the additional men Dara—and his supporters—needed to bolster his forces. To be sure, Abdul Khan wouldn’t have easily recruited enough kinsmen to fill his sowar in any reasonable timeframe anyway, but Dara’s mistake had just removed the formal requirement for any further recruiting on Abdul Khan’s part. Afghan fighting men were scarce on the ground at the moment, and not just from the recruiting Salim and his kinsmen had done, but from the large armies both Dara’s brothers had drawn up for their Deccan campaign…and then there were those recruited into Asaf Khan’s army.

  Dara only seemed to realize he’d made some error when Kwaja Magul shifted his bulk. Even then, he only glanced around and licked his lips, confusion scrawled across his features. Even from her place, Jahanara did not miss the glazed look in her brother’s eyes.

  She bit her lip in frustration. Dara was still having bouts of dizziness and terrible headaches from the mostly healed head wound concealed under his turban, but there was nothing for it. He’d had the khutba read in his name, and the coins struck. If a new-made emperor was uncertain, he must not be seen to be. And if he was weak, he must not show it. If Dara was to rule, he must be seen to publicly wield the power and majesty of the dynasty. To do otherwise was unthinkable.

  And yet, Dara’s thinking was slower. He was easily confused and quicker to anger than ever before. He was trying, but his efforts often led to frustration when progress wasn’t as quick or as great as he believed it should be.

  The emperor’s closest advisors and family were left with a situation that, as the up-timer John Ennis had put it to his wife, was a matter of fake it until you make it. While she found the up-timer’s speech often lacked the poetic beauty of the average courtier’s, certain of their sayings were colorful, memorable, and, in this case, entirely apt.

  The ceremony of elevation completed, Kwaja Magul led the freshly made courtier to his proper place in the ranks of nobles, adjusting on the fly to the emperor’s departure from his plan. The heavy eunuch had remained with Dara after Father’s assassination, and was already enjoying the traditional rewards of such loyalty: increased salary and power, not to mention increased proximity to the emperor’s person.

  Jahanara was reasonably sure the eunuch could be relied on, but the court’s loyalty had yet to be tested. She suspected most of those bureaucrats of the imperial apparatus Father had appointed to her brothers’ courts would find it easier to remain with whichever prince they had been assigned to than strike out for another’s camp. At least until they were close enough to their preferred prince to defect: Mughal successions were replete with nobles changing sides on the eve of—or, less frequently, in the midst of—battle.

  Dara brought the session to a successful conclusion without further lapses, and Jahanara departed the Diwan-i-Khas. Smidha fell in behind her with a slight grunt of effort. Her longest-serving servant and most trusted confidant, Smidha had taken to complaining of stiffness of late. Jahanara was not unsympathetic to her situation and slowed to accommodate her. A wordless sigh was Smidha’s thanks.

  Red Fort, the harem

  As they entered the Rose Court, Nadira Begum called out a greeting over the head of her infant son.

  “Greetings, Nadira. My brother will retire to the Hammam-i-shahi before joining us for further refreshment.”

  “Excellent,” Nadira said, her tiny nod telling Jahanara she understood the coded message: Dara was not well. Rising to join her sister-in-law, she handed the boy off to one of his milk mothers who in turn bundled him off to the nursery apartments with his kokas.

  The cabal of Dara’s inner circle had, of necessity, developed a coded lexicon in the weeks since Dara’s injury. If Father’s death had taught Jahanara anything it was this: Even here in the harem, that most sacred of places for the emperor’s repose, there were those who would inform for their enemies. Everyone was watching—and listening—for signs of weakness, and the more Jahanara could do to conceal his condition, the better for everyone.

  “Shehzadi Begum Sahib, the Amir Salim Yusufzai awaits the Sultan Al’Azam’s pleasure in the Hammam-i-shahi,” Firoz Khan provided as they entered the shade of the zenana.

  “Very good,” Jahanara answered.

  Firoz Khan’s gesture launched another trusted servant to find Rodney or Gervais and tell them to meet their patient in the Hammam-i-shahi—the imperial bathhouse, where only the emperor’s doctors and closest advisors would have tongues to speak of what counsel was given there.

  Smidha had carefully culled the imperial household for illiterate mutes who could be placed in service in the Hammam-i-shahi, and if they were not aesthetically pleasing to look on, nor particularly well trained to their tasks as yet, at least they were certain not to speak or write of what they heard there.

  “Sister, my husband expressed the wish to have a quiet evening tonight, with only the very best dancers and his favorites in attendance,” Nadira said.

  “As he wishes, sister of my heart and light of my brother’s life,” Jahanara said, pausing a moment to examine her brother’s wife as they took seats in one of Jahanara’s favorite chambers.

  Nadira Begum was only four years her junior, already married, and mother to a prince. She had every right to assert control over her husband’s harem, yet she allowed Jahanara to persist as head of the imperial harem and her appointees remain in their positions. What’s more, she’d done so with grace and, more importantly under the current circumstances, without question.

  “Firoz Khan?” Jahanara said, still watching Nadira.

  There would have to come a time, though, when Jahanara would have to step aside and let Nadira be mistress of her husband’s affairs. That moment would come sooner rather than later if, God willing, Jahanara’s current plans came to fruition in timely fashion.

  “Yes, Shehzadi?”

  “Nadira Begum and the Sultan Al’Azam will dine privately this night, with only his favorite dancers, players, and body service. I will take my meal in my quarters with my nephew and anyone else that was to attend the Sultan Al’Azam’s dinner tonight and will settle for my paltry company.”

  “Your will, Shehzadi.” The eunuch bowed and departed. Smidha ordered refreshments and took a seat behind Jahanara to watch that all was done according to her command.

  Nadira met her gaze, smiled gently and reached out with hennaed, lovely hands to take Jahanara’s in hers.

  “What is it, dear sister?”

  “I marvel at you, who has so many cares, and yet carries through with such grace.”

  Nadira released Jahanara’s hands to point at the jeweled ceiling above. “God as my witness, it is only because my husband’s sister loves him so, and takes such pains to be of greater service than any save Him could possibly command.”

  Two women entered and deposited golden plates laden with dates and other fruits beside the women before retiring to sit just out of easy earshot.

  “You are too kind.”

  “I only return the kindness given to me…perhaps with some polish upon it,” Nadira said, an impish grin on her face as she mimed polishing one plate with the hem of her silks.

  The very idea was so ridiculous, Jahanara chuckled. Smidha, too.

  “Truth, now! You have some fresh worry, do you not?” Nadira asked, sobering.

/>   “Beyond our already frequently discussed problems, no.”

  Smidha cleared her throat.

  Nadira looked from her to Jahanara. “It seems your conscience has it otherwise.”

  Jahanara glanced over her shoulder at Smidha and stuck her tongue out.

  Smidha, unperturbed, said, “I have asked my mistress repeatedly to let me send a letter to her old suitor, Nasr Khan.”

  “Oh?” Nadira said, smiling mischievously.

  “He is rumored to have taken service with Asaf Khan, and would certainly return to fight for Dara.”

  Jahanara shook her head. “Nasr Khan serves our uncle, Shaista Khan,” she said, hoping to shift the subject from old wounds.

  “Who, in turn, serves Asaf Khan,” Smidha insisted with a sniff.

  “And both Dara and I have written Asaf Khan already, ordering his return that he might show the proper submission to Dara’s rule. I see no point in muddying the waters with personal requests for men already in service to those who are honor bound to serve us.”

  “And yet…”

  “And, as of yet there has been no reply.” Jahanara did not want to think about what that meant, just as she did not want to think on Nasr Khan.

  “Surely messengers would have reached him with the news.”

  “It is barely possible they have not. Bengal has killed many a horse and rider through the ages, imperial messenger or no.”

  And if not, the up-timers have promised to help discover what is going on with Asaf Khan.

  An uncomfortable silence descended, each woman alone in her thoughts. Rather than let it persist, Jahanara decided to tackle yet another of the problems assailing her brother and caught Nadira’s eye.

  “Sister of my heart, there is another problem.”

  Nadira grinned. “Just one?”

  “Indeed.” Jahanara smiled at the joke. Nadira was in rare form today. Shaking her head ruefully, she plowed on: “Your husband has yet to approve any of the marriage prospects I have set before him.”