1636: Mission to the Mughals

by Eric Flint

  He heard Shuja’s bowstring slap bracer. A moment later Shuja muttered angrily.

  Ignoring all distraction, Dara’s world shrank to the chest of the beast he’d chosen. Finding it, he moved his point of aim two hands ahead along the shallow arc of its jump.

  He pulled the lever and averted his eyes at the very last moment.

  The gun thundered.

  Dara handed it off to Talawat as the blackbuck fell, heart shot. The gunsmith handed him another piece.

  Shuja shouted, his second arrow striking the lead buck in the belly.

  Dara ignored the cheering of his grandfather’s entourage, chose another buck, aimed, fired. Another clean hit to the chest. The antelope collapsed after a few strides.

  “Well done, Talawat. Your guns speak truly,” he said, passing the weapon off.

  Talawat bowed, presenting another piece. “Shehzada is too kind.”

  Taking the third gun in hand, Dara waited a moment, allowing the smoke to clear. Behind him, Talawat’s apprentices busied themselves reloading the discharged weapons.

  “Your modesty is a sign of fine character, but”—Dara tapped a knuckle against the gun’s hardwood stock—“in this instance, misplaced.”

  Talawat smiled and bowed again before gesturing at the field. “I merely prepare the weapons, Shehzada; it is not everyone that has your fine eye for shooting.”

  Shuja downed another of the blackbuck with an arrow that nearly passed through the animal. The first beast he’d hit finally collapsed, blood frothing from its muzzle.

  The remains of the herd cleared the firing line, only to run into Aurangzeb and his mounted party. Dara’s brother took an antelope with his spear as its herd mates ran past. Leaving the weapon behind and spurring his horse into a gallop, Aurangzeb switched to the horse bow. The prey were far faster than his mount, stretching their lead even as Aurangzeb drew, aimed, and loosed twice in quick succession. Each arrow struck home in a separate neck, a fine feat of archery.

  Asaf’s cronies cheered, as did Shuja, who had approached Dara.

  Cradling his gun, Dara smiled, despite himself.

  Aurangzeb cased his bow while sending his finely trained mount circling back among his followers with just the pressure of his knees, an act of understated pride in its own right.

  “I should have ridden instead of standing here with you and your guns,” Shuja grumbled, loud enough for Dara to hear.

  Dara did not answer, even when his younger brother ordered his horse brought up and left to join Aurangzeb.

  He watched his grandfather instead, pondering the old man’s place in the family history as well as his possible future. Abdul Hasan Asaf Khan had turned against his own sister to support Father when Dara’s paternal grandfather, Jahangir, passed and the succession came into question once again. Dara had himself been hostage and surety against his father’s loyalty after that first rebellion, and was no stranger to the price of failure for princes engaged in rebellion. Shah Jahan and his allies had emerged victorious, but it had been a close-run and uncertain thing, all the way to the end. Asaf had been rewarded with position, titles, and power, though recent failings had reduced his favor at court. Father was considering removing him from the office of wazir and sending him off to govern Bengal.

  As if sensing Dara’s thoughts were upon him, Dara’s grandfather turned from watching the slaves collect carcasses and approached Dara.

  Talawat bowed and silently withdrew a few paces, giving them some privacy.

  Asaf pushed his beard out toward Shuja’s retreating back, “Well, first among the sons of my daughter, it seems your brothers would hunt as our ancestors preferred.”

  Dara nodded. “I would as well, but for this,” he said, gesturing with his free hand at the new gun on its tripod.

  Smiling, Asaf bowed his head and squinted at the weapon a few moments. “Big ball?”

  “Large enough to down nilgai in one shot…or a tiger.”

  “Brave man, hunts a tiger with powder and shot rather than bow and spear.”

  Dara shrugged. “Surely not in the company of so many men, Asaf Khan?”

  Asaf Khan waved a hand. “Abdul, or…grandfather…if it pleases.”

  Catching the plaintive note in his grandfather’s voice, Dara smiled. “Surely, Grandfather, I would not be at risk among so many men.”

  “Jahangir once lost three favored umara to one, a great she-tiger. And they were all armed to the teeth and born to the saddle. Tigers do not feel pain as we do; most wounds merely madden them.”

  Dara was about to answer when another herd, or perhaps the larger body of the one just harvested, emerged from the wood line, dashing for the open space between the watering holes. At the rate they were fleeing, the beasts would be in range in moments.

  Asaf Khan stepped clear as Dara raised his gun. He felt, rather than heard, Talawat edge closer with his remaining light pieces.

  He sighted along the barrel. That part of his mind not engaged with aiming noted an anomaly: the blackbuck were running straight and true rather than bouncing back and forth along a line of travel.

  Just as he was ready to squeeze the lever, a thundering of hooves caused him to lower his muzzle. Aurangzeb and Shuja were riding to meet the herd, bows in hand.

  Aurangzeb and Shuja had split up to either side of the herd, and were standing in the stirrups, loosing. Where their arrows fell, antelope staggered out of the herd, dead or dying. Shuja ended up on the near side of the herd, Aurangzeb disappearing into the dust kicked up by both prey and hunters.

  Dara shook his head. While impressive, their antics were denying him a shot. Not that he couldn’t rely on his skills and shoot anyway, it was simply not a good idea to go firing into a field occupied by two princes, whether the shooter was a brother or not.

  He briefly considered taking to his own horse while summoning a drink from one of his body slaves.

  “Don’t want to take to your own horse?” Asaf Khan asked.

  Having already decided against it, Dara punched his chin toward where his brothers were now racing back towards the firing line in a cloud of dust. “When their horses tire, there will be other game.”

  Asaf nodded, looking sidelong at his eldest grandson. “Married life agrees with you, Grandson.”

  “Oh?” Dara asked, taking the gem-encrusted goblet full of iced fruit juice from his servant.

  “You are more patient than you were. I may presume too much when I think it your wife’s doing,” he said, shrugging, “but there are worse reasons for change in the behavior of men.”

  Dara hid his smile by slaking his thirst. Smacking his lips appreciatively, he answered: “Yes, many things are put in their proper places, now I have a son on the way.”

  “A son? You are so sure? The astrologers tell you it is so?”

  “Yes,” Dara half-lied. The up-timer history had it that his son rode to battle with him in his war against Aurangzeb, many years in the future.

  “You must send me—” Asaf stopped in mid-sentence, peering into the dust beyond Shuja.

  Dara followed the line of his gaze, saw it a heartbeat later: something gold-orange flowing along in the wake of Shuja’s horse.

  “Tiger!” Asaf bellowed in his general’s voice, pointing at the great beast stalking his grandson.

  Dara tossed his goblet aside and scrambled for his newest gun.

  Shuja, hearing the shout, did the wrong thing: he reined in to look at Asaf Khan. The tiger was within twenty gaz of Shuja. When he came to a stop, it did as well. In fact, it went forequarters down, hunching its rear end.

  Asaf was screaming, as were more and more of his men. He started running for his own horse and household guard.

  Dara knelt and lifted the butt of his gun, surging upright.

  Shuja was looking around, trying to identify the threat. His horse tossed its head, shied sideways, uneasy.

  Dara pressed his shoulder into the stock, trying to cock the lock, find his target, and get his hand on the fi
ring lever—and had a moment’s panic when he couldn’t find it: Not a lever, a trigger, you fool!

  The tiger was rocking its hips, getting ready to charge.

  Talawat was beside him, quietly urging: “Shehzada, please do not try to do too much at once. Slow down. Calmly.”

  Dara stopped. Breathed out. Found his aim point and his target. Slid his finger inside the trigger guard.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Talawat’s silhouette nod. The gunsmith cocked the hammer back for Dara. “She kicks like a mule, Shehzada. Now kill us a tiger.”

  Dara squeezed the trigger. The lock snapped forward, steel and flint sparking into the pan. A half-heartbeat later, the gun discharged with a thunderous roar and brutal kick to Dara’s shoulder.

  The tiger leapt.

  Smoke obscured Dara’s sight for a moment.

  Shuja’s horse bolted, riderless, into view.

  Talawat stepped forward and turned to face Dara, hands busy as he reloaded the piece with quick, economical motions. He could hear the gunsmith praying even over the shouts of Asaf’s men.

  Asaf had stopped his rush to mount. It was too late.

  The smoke cleared.

  The tiger lay prone, part of one of Shuja’s legs and a boot protruding from beneath it.

  Dara’s heart stopped.

  It seemed years later when Shuja sat up from between its paws, face as white as bleached linen. Hands shaking, the young prince heaved the heavy corpse aside and stood, apparently unscathed.

  Suddenly thirsty, Dara wished for strong drink.

  The line erupted in crazed shouts of joy. Asaf came charging back toward Dara, teeth bared in a smile that split his beard.

  Shuja was walking, somewhat unsteadily, back toward the line.

  Placing powder in the pan and stepping back, Talawat murmured, “Fine shooting, Shehzada.”

  Dara pointed a trembling finger at his sibling. “I will give you its weight in silver, Talawat. Were it not for you, I would have surely rushed the shot and missed.”

  Talawat bowed his head, clearly aware of how badly things might have turned out. “God is merciful and loving-kind, to place one of my tools in the hands of one so gifted in their use. I will use the silver to make more fine guns for your use, Shehzada.”

  Aurangzeb rode into view behind his dismounted brother, stopping over the tiger for a moment. After a moment’s examination, he nudged his horse into motion. Quickly catching up to Shuja, he said something the other responded to with an angry shake of the head. Shrugging, the mounted brother rode on toward the firing line.

  As he came closer, Dara noticed his quiver was empty and his face had a thin smile drawn across it. For dour Aurangzeb, such an expression was a broad smile of unrestrained glee.

  “I see we each took a tiger this day, Brother.”

  “What?” Dara asked.

  Aurangzeb nodded his head in the direction he’d come from. “Another one, possibly this one’s mate or nearly adult offspring, took the last blackbuck in the herd. He took some killing: all my remaining arrows are in him.”

  Asaf Khan arrived in time to hear the end of Aurangzeb’s speech, sweating from his exertions. Pausing to catch his breath, he was still beaming when Dara remembered to be civil: “Congratulations, Brother, I’m sure it was a fine kill.”

  “And to you on yours, Dara, though it appears your beast had an old wound to slow it—an arrow in its flesh, turned to poison.”

  “Might explain why it went for Shuja with wounded game at hand,” Asaf gasped.

  “Anger is the poison that stirs the killer residing in the hearts of both man and beast,” Dara said, trying not to look at his brother as he did so.

  Part Two

  Fall, 1634

  Some bore the story to their king:

  “A mighty creature of our race,

  In monkey form, has reached the place.”

  Chapter 13

  Surat, River Tapti

  September 1634

  “Right then, it’ll be a while.” Captain Strand sighed. “The easiest passage I’ve ever made, only to rot under the sun in Surat.”

  John spat over the rail into the river Tapti after the retreating official’s boat. “Pain in the ass, this shit.”

  Bertram frowned. While he agreed with the up-timer’s assessment of their situation, John had scarce said anything positive since foiling the pirate attack. Gervais had commented that even Ilsa, John’s wife, appeared unable to lift the man’s spirits.

  John turned from the rail and stalked back to the gangway, leaving the sun-baked deck for the oppressive heat of his quarters. Bertram had listened while Rodney explained why John remained so upset, but it just didn’t make sense to him. The youth he’d killed had been a pirate. Bertram understood the up-timers placed a higher value on life than benighted down-timers did—or, to look at it another way, they’d come from a gentler world that allowed such luxuries. But the fact remained that the boy would not have shed a tear for John and his folk as they were led into slavery.

  Gervais emerged from the hold, blinking. The Frenchman had been checking one of the wonders the USE had sent along with the mission while the captain and Ennis met with Laksh Menon, the Surat tax farmer.

  “Well?”

  Bertram gestured at the departing small craft. “The powers that be are considering our request, apparently.”

  “Five months locked aboard ship getting here, and they won’t let us even come ashore?” Gervais said.

  “Not yet, no,” said Captain Strand.

  “Did you offer a bribe?”

  Strand looked at him angrily. “After all this time aboard my ship, you think me a simpleton?”

  Gervais held up his hands in surrender. “I apologize. I’m impatient, and let my tongue wag ahead of my manners.”

  Strand shook his head. “Apology accepted. I am not usually so touchy, but their translator set my teeth on edge. Damn Venetians, each thinking it was them who invented trade.”

  “Venetian?” Gervais asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you get his name?”

  Strand referred to his log. “Gradinego.”

  “Ha!” Gervais smiled, shook his head, “Can’t be!”

  “What?”

  The grin disappeared as Gervais pounded a fist on the rail. “I knew I should have been up here.”

  “Why?” Bertram asked.

  “It is just possible that I know the man. We worked together in Venice…some years back.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes,” Gervais said, expression bland: a sure sign he was thinking very hard.

  “And?”

  “What?”

  “Did you part on good terms or did you…” Bertram trailed off, glancing at the captain.

  Gervais sniffed. “There is only one real rule we all abide by: never swindle those who choose to work a dodge with you. I have never broken that rule.”

  Strand was looking at both of them, scratching his beard thoughtfully.

  Gervais changed the subject: “Did they say why we can’t off-load?”

  “They insisted that no one trades here without a firman from the emperor.”

  “Not quite accurate,” Strand corrected. “The diwan’s tax man said something about a requirement that traders hold a firman from Shehzadi Begum Sahib…That’s a princess, I believe.”

  “But we’re not here to trade in Surat, are we?”

  “No, we’re not. When we tried explaining that to the diwan’s man, he was unmoved.”

  “So what do we do?” Bertram asked.

  Strand shrugged. “Hope that when they come back tomorrow, Gervais’ friend is the translator, and that the Venetian has some pull with the locals.”

  Bertram looked significantly at the ship anchored a few hundred yards upriver. “And the English?”

  “They aren’t likely to be a problem, and even less likely to be helpful.”

  “Not to contradict you, but won’t they complain to the…the di
wan, is it? They own sole rights to trade here, don’t they?”

  Strand shook his head. “The Portuguese and Dutch hold firmans as well. Firmans are not necessarily exclusive. They are more like a license to trade than a royal charter backed by the crown such as the one the Danish East India Company has. If we were flying Portuguese colors, we might have problems, but we’re all of us rather far from the fights and concerns of home.” The broad-shouldered captain shrugged again. “Most of the time, we all just go about our affairs,” he gestured at the very busy docks, “there being plenty of trade for all.”

  * * *

  Gervais grinned as the boat came alongside. Angelo Gradinego cut a slim figure beside the most richly dressed man on the small boat.

  Passengers on the smaller craft required a bit of a climb to get to the deck of the Lønsom Vind. Due to the strict order of precedence, Angelo boarded well in advance of the man he was translating for.

  Gervais made certain that he was standing across from Angelo when he reached the deck. Angelo looked him over, assessing his value and position in the mission automatically before it registered who he was actually looking at. When it did, he peered closer: “Gervais?”

  “Angelo Gradinego!” Gervais beamed, holding his arms out.

  “Gervais Vieuxpont! What are you doing here?” the Venetian cried, stepping into his old friend’s embrace.

  “Trying to make friends and influence people, of course!” Gervais said, clapping Angelo on the back.

  The Venetian stepped back, smiling. “You turned me down when I asked you to come see the wonders of the Mughal court with me!”

  “I did.” Gervais shrugged. “Things change.”

  “They do, my friend, they certainly do!” Angelo’s brows drew together, concerned: “Monique?”

  “Well, and here with us.”

  Angelo gestured with one tanned hand at the ship’s colors. “But, Hamburg?”

  “Things became a bit uncomfortable in the south.” He glanced significantly at the rail, where the dignitary was just climbing into view. “We could use your help expediting our transition inland.”