1636: Mission to the Mughals

by Eric Flint

  Nasi sat back in his chair, planting his hands on his thighs. “You are the one who made me your chief of intelligence. Please consider the possibility that you may have made a good selection.”

  Mike sighed, and ran fingers through his hair. Then he looked at Nichols.

  “Does opium really make that much difference, James?”

  “Yes, it does. Without a reliable source of good anesthetics, surgery in this universe is effectively stillborn. So is dentistry, for that matter. And opium is our best bet. It’s the source of morphine and there are other ways it can be used as an anesthetic.” The doctor shrugged. “There are some alternatives. Diethyl ether’s been available for almost a century in Europe. They call it ‘sweet oil of vitriol.’ Nitrous oxide wasn’t developed up-time until late in the eighteenth century, but we ought to be able to manage it. Same with chloroform. But none of them are as good as opioids and they all have various negative side effects.”

  Mike rose from his desk and went over to the window in his office. He liked to look out of the window when he was trying to come to a decision.

  Without turning his head, he now addressed the last person in the room. “Okay, Melissa, I figure it’s your turn. You didn’t come here just to provide James with moral support.”

  “No, I didn’t. For what it’s worth, I don’t have an opinion one way or the other on how important it is to open our own trade relations with India. My concern is with something a lot broader—and, I’ll say it right out before you do, something that’s admittedly a lot more nebulous.”

  “Which would be what?”

  There was a pause that lasted long enough for Mike to swivel his head around and look at Melissa directly. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “This may be the first time I’ve ever seen you unsure about something.”

  “Very funny,” she said. “And I’m not unsure about it. I’m just unsure about how to explain it—and I’m really unsure about whether there’s anything we can do about it.”

  Mike returned to his desk and sat back down again. “Now you’ve got my interest. So what is it?”

  “Well…You know how you like to say the two great historical evils that emerged in this era were New World chattel slavery and the second serfdom in eastern Europe?”

  “Yeah.” His lips quirked a little. “I got that from you in the first place. Are you now going to tell me I got it wrong?”

  Melissa looked moderately embarrassed—which was also not a common trait of the woman. As a rule, Melissa Mailey was to embarrassment what a duck is to water. Impervious.

  “No. Not wrong. Just…let’s say, incomplete.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s maybe too Eurocentric. Or I guess I should say, white-people-centric.”

  “The victims of New World slavery were Africans—Indians, too, at the beginning—not whites.”

  “Yes, I know.” She waved her hand. “But Europeans and their descendants were the agents of it, and we had to deal with the mess we created. I’m talking about something that never affected people in Europe or America—or most of Africa—very much until just a short while ago. By ‘ago,’ I mean up-time ‘ago.’”

  “Keep talking.”

  But it was Francisco Nasi who spoke. “I think she’s referring to the evolution of Islam, Michael. And if so, I probably agree with her.”

  Mike frowned. “What does India—? Oh. Yeah, I tend to forget. We’re talking about Mughal India, in the here and now—and they’re Muslims.”

  “Yes,” said Melissa. She gave Nasi a quick, thankful glance. “And he’s right—that is what I’m concerned about. We live in an era where there are three great Islamic powers—the Ottomans, the Safavid dynasty in Persia, and the Mughal dynasty in India. Two of them, the Sunni realms of the Ottomans and the Mughals, are both rather tolerant when it comes to religion.”

  Nasi nodded. “I can attest to that with respect to the Ottomans. It’s true that they favor Muslims in most respects, but their rule does not weigh heavily on Jews or Christians.”

  “That much, I know.” Mike folded his hands on his desk. “As my wife likes to say when she feels especially peeved toward bigots, after the Spanish drove out the Sephardic Jews, the Ottoman sultan welcomed them to his own land. He’s reported to have said—”

  Nasi finished the sentence for him: “‘Ye call Ferdinand a wise king, he who makes his land poor and ours rich!’ He did have a point.”

  “In a lot of ways, the Mughals are even more tolerant,” Melissa continued. “I think that’s probably because while there are a lot of Muslims in India, the majority of the population is non-Muslim. Mostly Hindus, but there are also Sikhs and other religions. The great Mughal emperor Akbar—the current emperor, Shah Jahan, is his grandson—established a policy of religious toleration and it’s been kept ever since. But that’s about to change.”

  “Change how?” Mike asked.

  “Say better: change who,” said Melissa. “In our history, the change came after Shah Jahan’s youngest son Aurangzeb took the throne following his victory in a civil war with his three brothers. Aurangzeb was a Muslim diehard, and he’s the one who broke the Mughal tradition of religious toleration. I think the world’s history would have gone a lot better if one of the other brothers had won that civil war. I don’t know if us sending a delegation to India would change that outcome, but…it might. I figure it’s worth a try, at any rate.”

  “And this civil war happened when?”

  Melissa chuckled. “Depends on which universe’s calendar you want to use. By the one we came from, it all happened long ago. I forget the exact date but it was somewhere around 1660. By this universe’s calendar, though—”

  “For Pete’s sake, Melissa!” Mike exclaimed. “You’re talking about something that’s not going to happen for another third of a century!”

  She smiled at him coolly. “All the more reason to get an early jump on the problem, wouldn’t you say? Mr. Prime Minister.”

  Mike glowered at her. “It’s just ‘Prime Minister,’ thank you. ‘Mr. Prime Minister’ is silly.”

  He now transferred the glower around the room, bestowing it in turn upon each and every occupant. Then, sighing, he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

  “Fine, Francisco. Do it. But if this scheme goes haywire, I’m blaming you. Publicly, too—don’t think I won’t.”

  Nasi nodded solemnly, as if he didn’t know just as well as everyone in the room that the threat was hollow. Mike Stearns had his faults, but passing the buck was not one of them.

  “I think it hardly matters, Prime Minister,” he said. “By the time we find out if my schemes have come to fruition—especially Melissa’s part of them!—we may all be long dead, anyway.”

  Chapter 2

  Magdeburg, capital of the United States of Europe

  Bertram’s coat was still damp when the secretary ushered him into Don Francisco’s office.

  The light Magdeburg rain pattering at the window panes failed to darken the heavy wooden desk Nasi was bent over, a small electric lamp serving to keep the shadows at bay.

  “Don Francisco,” Bertram said, bowing nervously. He had not seen Nasi since being sent to Geneva, and while they were distantly related, Bertram had never had occasion to speak more than ten words to the man. They were not far apart in age, Bertram being twenty-eight and Francisco Nasi somewhere close to that. But there was a much greater social distance, as Sephardic Jews measured such things. Bertram came from a modest family; Nasi from one of the branches of the sprawling, influential and wealthy Abrabanel clan—or Abravanel, as some people spelled it.

  Nasi looked up from his work, gracing Bertram with a thin smile that hardly settled nerves. “Bertram Weiman. Thank you for coming so quickly, and on such short notice.”

  Bertram held up his hands. “I had no other business.”

  “No, I suppose you had not. Sorry to keep you in the dark, but while that business in Geneva worked to our benefit, it was not without ramific
ations.”

  Bertram tried to hide a wince.

  Nasi did not miss it, waving his visitor to a chair.

  Bertram perched on the edge of the seat, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  Again Nasi did not miss his unease: “This is not a dressing-down, Bertram. By all accounts you did what had to be done to accomplish the job I set you. You even managed to improve our relations with Geneva and the Confederation as a whole. No, I have been slow to find you additional work because I wanted you out of reach of the Church, if possible.”

  Bertram smiled. Please let it be Anatolia, let me practice my skills against the Ottomans…

  What about Monique? The thought made his smile die a quick death.

  “I see you wonder where that might be.”

  Bertram nodded. “Of course.”

  “Ever consider India?”

  “Wh-where?” Bertram stammered.

  “Mughal India, to be precise.”

  “Ummm, no.”

  Another of those thin smiles. “No, you never considered it or, no, you are not interested?”

  Bertram shook his head. “As in, ‘No, I hadn’t considered it.’”

  “It is beyond the Church’s grasp, at least the part we are sending you to.”

  “Not Goa?”

  “No, Portuguese India has too many churchmen. Besides, Goa does not produce what we are after.”

  “And what, pray tell, is that?”

  “The latest assessment has it that we will soon need significant amounts of opium for the war effort. That, and saltpeter, of course.”

  “But I am no merchant.”

  “No, but you can fake it.”

  “Of course, but there has to be someone trained to be a merchant—”

  “There is not. At least not readily available, not needed elsewhere, and in possession of your language skills. And you will not be solely responsible for securing the trade. There is to be a trade mission made up of several up-timers, you, and your two associates, the…ah, Vieuxponts—”

  “Them, too?” Bertram blurted.

  Nasi patted a stack of papers on his desk. “I read your report, even did some digging on my own. I was most impressed with their résumés…” He looked at Bertram. “Assuming they can be relied upon not to abscond with property that is not theirs?”

  “They can, when suitably motivated,” Bertram said, wondering when he’d agreed to the assignment.

  “And what will motivate them…suitably?”

  An uncomfortable bark of laughter escaped Bertram’s lips. “Money. Lots of it. Some security, but mostly money.”

  “As I thought. Everyone on this mission will be well compensated. Besides, they need protection from the Church as much, if not more, than you. And if we get full value for that protection, why, that’s just good government.”

  “Compensated, how?”

  “Any trade concessions secured will also pay a dividend to the mission…or their heirs. Make no mistake, we are aware how dangerous this will be. That’s another reason you are going.”

  “I’m no soldier.”

  “No, but the hope is that our family connections will be of service along the route, if not in Mughal territory, then in Africa.”

  “Our Cristião-Novo cousins?”

  Nasi nodded. “Exactly so. Are you up to date on who is where?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Understandable. I have a list of our kinsmen who should at least give you the time of day. You’ll have to memorize the names—writing it down risks handing the Inquisition a death list—but some of them may be of critical help.”

  “But aren’t the Portuguese routes all owned and financed by the Spanish Crown?”

  “They are, though that’s changed a bit under Hapsburg rule, but you mistake me: I wasn’t counting on our kinsmen providing ships or other material aid, but rather providing the mission with up-to-date information on the political landscape.”

  “Seems a risk for them to even speak to me.”

  “I will provide funds for you to use in helping overcome any such minor concerns they may have.”

  “How many ships are you sending?”

  “One.”

  Bertram looked away. He thought one ship was not enough. They would have far too few resources to guarantee they could even make it to India, let alone come back safely. The Dutch went out in fleets, and rarely returned with all the hulls they shipped with.

  “I know it seems too few,” said Nasi, “but we will make certain the mission has every technological advantage we can provide.”

  Bertram mulled that over a moment before deciding to change the subject: “And what are we going to offer them?”

  “We have some ideas regarding that…”

  Chapter 3

  Hamburg, United States of Europe

  May 1634

  The door slammed behind Papa, ending another pointless argument.

  At least the rooms they were renting were nicer than their usual, giving him a room of his own for his childish sulk. Monique sighed. Gervais had been in a funk since they’d been forced to leave Geneva, bickering with both Bertram and her at nearly every turn of the road from there to Hamburg.

  Bertram shook his head. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

  She smiled. “Please, Bertram, you needn’t apologize for Papa’s childish behavior.”

  “Still.”

  “If there is fault to be found, it’s with Papa. He just isn’t happy unless he’s working on—or in the hunt for—a wealthy mark.”

  “I know, and I’ve been keeping him from pursuing his…natural inclinations since Geneva.”

  “Your payment for our travels and promise of an offer of employment are…unprecedented in Papa’s experience. Makes him nervous, waiting for things to turn sour when he’s not running a con on someone.”

  “But why?”

  “There is a reason confidence is the name of the games Papa and I play. One must have it, or the mark will start to pick at the threads weaved to manipulate them. The mark must also have confidence in what the player presents as truth, or they don’t do as the player desires.

  “Papa owes you, so he can’t run a game on you. His confidence suffers as a result.”

  “But I don’t see him as in my debt.”

  She smiled to take the sting from her next words: “Doesn’t really matter what you think about it. We might be confidence players, but we’ve our own set of scruples.”

  “What do you suggest I do?”

  “What is this employment you mentioned, this work that might be—how did you put it? Oh, yes: ‘suitable to our talents and skills’?”

  Bertram smiled. She liked it a lot. It made his normally unremarkable face light up, his brown eyes shine.

  “My relation will tell all, tomorrow.”

  “Teasing a woman that way is most unkind.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said for the second time, “but I was given strict instructions.”

  “You don’t trust me?” she asked, pouting in the manner she knew gave rise to urges he was uncomfortable with. She had, in the months since he’d rescued her from the Bishop of Geneva’s dungeon in Annecy—where she’d been kept by the Bishop as surety against her father’s compliance in the bishop’s plot to undermine the Calvinist faith—come to realize Bertram was far more knight than knave. And this despite the gift for guile he’d shown in telling the bishop outlandish lies, even to the point of claiming service to Cardinal Richelieu. That internal knight made it difficult for him to look on her as a woman who might entertain his affections, not out of a sense of obligation to her rescuer, but out of desire for the man himself.

  His serious tone surprised her. “I do, just as I trust that I will not want to feel my relation’s ire, should he discover I’ve been speaking without leave.”

  * * *

  “How much?” Monique heard her father ask again.

  It all sounded terribly exciting to Monique. Hoping to keep h
er father from ruining it, she spoke up. “Papa, you heard Don Francisco very well!”

  Her father ignored her, asked Nasi, “But why us?”

  Don Francisco set aside his glass of wine and leaned forward. “Because you like money and we’re offering a great deal of it?”

  Monique had to agree with the USE spymaster on that point: Aside from the actual payment, the offer included a tiny percentage of profits from whatever trade deal was agreed to, an incentive that could prove profoundly profitable. Yet Gervais was acting as if it were nothing special. She couldn’t let him get away with it: “Even without the promised percentage of trade, it’s more than we made on our best five jobs, and in just three years. It took us the better part of two years setting up for the Turin caper.”

  “No,” Gervais hiked a thumb at Bertram, “why us?”

  “You’re smart, have useful skills, are adept with languages, and most importantly: you’re eminently available.”

  “When I agreed to work with Bertram I thought we’d be in France, maybe the Papal States—not halfway round the world in heathen India.”

  “Muslim India, really,” Nasi said. “Mughals are Muslims, somewhat like those of my former home, though they’re not terribly oppressive of other religions just now…”

  Gervais sniffed. “I know the Mughal rulers are Muslim, thank you very much. But I am also told there are lots of Hindus in positions of power and prestige.”

  “And rich, Papa, don’t forget: fabulously rich,” Monique added. Appealing to Papa’s greed usually worked.

  Gervais turned on her, “Oh, no, don’t you try and play to my greed, that’s what got us here in the first place!”

  “If I may, Gervais: Bertram’s bit of fast-talking was effective in freeing your lovely daughter,” Nasi said. Monique’s smile at the compliment died as Nasi went on, “But it also destroyed his cover. Every priest that travels through the bishopric gets an earful, and every one of them has sent letters to their friends to be on the lookout for you.”

  “So? You do know I’m a thief, right? I’ve always had nobles and churchmen after me.”