by Eric Flint
* * *
The Englishmen appeared uncomfortable, thought Nur Jahan—and, notwithstanding the rising heat of the day, understandably so. Not since her husband’s rule and Sir Thomas Roe’s time as the English king’s envoy to the court had the English Company representatives been summoned en masse, and never without warning from—or at the instigation of—the English East India Company’s Surat-based president. Her eyes picked the man out among his fidgeting underlings. The red-faced William Methwold was finely dressed, by the odd and uncomfortable standards of his people, and gave the least impression of anxiety of all his party. The man even had one of the absurd hats she supposed the ferenghi found fashionable, complete with plumage, in one hand.
Nur summoned to mind the report she’d just had on him. William Methwold had risen to the presidency some four years ago. The great mortality that had been killing off so many of the residents of Surat, both ferenghi and domestic, had also claimed the previous two presidents. That had left Methwold, an accomplished linguist and trader in his own right, in charge of the Surat Factory for the Company. By all accounts, he had done well, navigating Portuguese hostility, Dutch encroachment, and Mughal indifference with equal aplomb, turning a profit even under adverse conditions.
Methwold and the English East India Company had, for those uninitiated into the secret histories of the up-timers, an inoffensive record as far as the emperor was concerned. That is, until he’d incurred the emperor’s displeasure by being slow to respond to the summons that brought him to court. Two weeks. The court had been made to wait for a full two weeks longer than anticipated before receiving the apologies and immediate compliance of the Company president and all traders currently in Surat.
She glanced along the rows of courtiers to Mullah Mohan, and found the man bright-eyed and eager for the emperor’s announcement. Nur hid a smile. She had received reports Mohan had been excited by the carefully worded letters she’d sent, but she found visual confirmation far more reassuring than reports from even the most reliable of sources.
And if Shah Jahan does something other than you think, what then? The thought, somehow delivered in Gargi’s voice, intruded on her self-congratulation. Then she would have been mistaken, and Mohan would think less of her—a loss of reputation she would scarcely notice.
She was drawn from her internal argument as the emperor had the English called before him. Nur noted the sudden increase in interest of the other women behind the jali, including her niece. That was another partial confirmation, at least, of her intelligence. Jahanara’s interests in Surat would be sorely afflicted by the loss of trade with the English.
“You answer my summons late,” Shah Jahan said even as the English were making their proper respects.
Methwold’s bow was perfectly executed despite the emperor’s angry tone. “My abject apologies, Sultan Al’Azam. I was called away on delicate negotiations, and was not present when your unexpected and unprecedented summons reached my offices.”
“Oh?”
A silence stretched for some moments after the question.
“Company matters, Sultan Al’Azam.”
“And?”
“They were concluded successfully, Sultan Al’Azam.”
“I do not enjoy repeating requests.”
“We were in negotiations with the viceroy of Goa, Sultan Al’Azam.”
“Oh? And how is Count Linares?”
“Ah—well…that is, the Viceroy Count Linares is well, Sultan Al’Azam,” Methwold answered, recovering with admirable smoothness.
“And what was the subject of these negotiations?”
The blunt and decidedly undiplomatic question cracked the Englishman’s calm. “Sultan Al’Azam, I fear I would be breaking faith with His Majesty King Charles, if I were to reveal even the barest details of our negotiations.”
“Fear?” Shah Jahan asked, voice gone dangerously flat. “When it comes to whom you should fear, you seem to have forgotten with whom you are dealing, and where you are.”
Methwold’s nervous swallow was audible, such was the quality of the silence that followed the emperor’s statement.
It took the man a moment to find his voice, and it was admirably even when he did: “Sultan Al’Azam, you may rest assured those negotiations were not, in any way, detrimental to your interests.”
Shah Jahan’s cold, humorless laughter brushed aside the tatters of the Englishman’s calm. “You will forgive me if I find such assurances lacking.”
“Sultan Al’Azam, it appears I have offended you in some fashion. Would it please you to inform me how, exactly, I have offended, so that I might make amends?”
Shah Jahan leaned forward on his throne, “Are you, perhaps, familiar with the place from the future called Grantville?”
The Englishman nodded, color slowly draining from his red face. “I have heard of it, Sultan Al’Azam.”
“Are you aware they brought with them certain histories and facts about the world we live in?”
“I am, Sultan Al’Azam.” The plumed hat he’d swept off on bowing displayed a slight quiver, now.
“Then you are aware of the depredations of your East India Company?”
“Sultan Al’Azam, I can only think that what you have been told are lies. His Majesty’s Honorable East India Company has only ever sought to trade in friendship with your generous permission.”
“You speak of the firman I affirmed on taking the throne.”
Methwold bowed again, his voice regaining confidence now it seemed the emperor had changed subjects. “And for which we have thanked you with gifts of silver and other goods not easily obtained within your mighty empire, Sultan Al’Azam. As we have always fulfilled every requirement of your generous firman of trade.”
“Except when asked to defend Our pilgrims.”
“Sultan Al’Azam, we have made every effort to protect Muslim shipping, but we are but one nation among the many sailing these waters.”
“Not for long.”
“Sultan?”
“Have you had an opportunity to read any of the works from the future, President Methwold?”
“I have not, Sultan Al’Azam. As I said, I believe much of what has been said about them to be exaggerations if not outright lies.”
“I see. Please, take a look at this.” the emperor said, gesturing. A eunuch walked forward with a relatively small, red book with white Latin characters on the front. “Please read the cover, President Methwold.”
“India Britannica, Sultan Al’Azam.”
“India Britannica,” the emperor repeated, words rolling from his lips.
“Sultan—”
The emperor rolled over him. “That second word caused me some consternation, Methwold, as the only other time I had heard it was when I was present for Sir Thomas Roe’s visit to my father’s court. You see, when introducing himself, or rather, the sovereign he was representing, I distinctly remembered a similar word. One of King James the VI’s titles was, and I do believe I recall correctly: His Britannic Majesty.”
Nur glanced around; she found the entirety of the Audience Hall silent, the gathered umara watching the Englishmen in precisely the same way a pride of lions watches a wounded antelope.
“Sultan—”
Again Shah Jahan spoke over the Englishman’s attempt to respond: “And within that book? A litany of things done by the English to the peoples of India, of rights taken, of wealth stolen and never returned, of a future dominated by a religion and culture not our own.”
The emperor slowly shook his head. “No, I will not allow it. I will not allow you nor your ‘Company’ to do anything that is in that book. I withdraw the firman of trade issued your people. I withdraw it and all other rights.
“Because I am merciful, I give you and your people one month to depart Surat with all your goods and chattel. After that date, if an uninvited Englishman sets foot on these shores, he will be hunted down and made an example of. Do I make myself clear, Methwold?”
The Englishman knew better than to attempt argument, and bowed again. “Though I believe you to have been misled by liars, I understand the reasons for your anger with us as I understand your command and injunction. I will abide by them, just as I and every other president of the Company before me have always abided them.”
Nur was impressed by Methwold’s ability to think and speak eloquently under pressure.
Looking at her old nemesis, she could tell Shah Jahan was not immune to the man’s quality, either.
“Leave us now, and depart our shores forever.”
“As you command, Sultan Al’Azam.” The Englishman performed the necessary obeisances and retreated from the hall with his countrymen in tow.
Nur hoped she was not the only one who noticed the greedy hunger in Mullah Mohan’s eyes as he watched the ferenghi depart.
Agra, Red Fort, The Harem
“What?” Shah Jahan’s shout shattered the peace of the harem. Jahanara flinched, and two of the dancing girls stumbled in their routine.
The music grated to a halt, allowing her to hear Firoz Khan repeat the message: “The Englishmen, Methwold and his men, were attacked on their way to Surat.”
“Who dares?”
The eunuch bowed. “It is not known, yet.”
“His party was too well armed and large to fall victim to a common band of bandits. Who is investigating?”
“A local zamindar posted along the Gujurat border, at the moment.”
Well done, Firoz, thought Jahanara. It was safer that her father did not know the name of this poor zamindar, not while he’d been drinking.
The diwan had gone on while Jahanara extended the mental compliment. “It was he who advised us of the attack. His clansmen reported fighting on his lands. He summoned his fighting men and rode out to the scene. The bodies of several Englishmen were recovered there. Methwold’s body was not among those recovered, but the report also indicates that a pursuit followed the skirmish.”
All the court had been present for Father’s command, and all of them had been disappointed—no, wait. A glance and sudden, satisfied smile caught fire in her mind’s eye. She followed the memory, checked what she had seen against what she might have chosen to perceive out of her bias against the man.
No, it was as I saw it.
Jahanara felt Father’s anger even from a distance. She waved the dancing girls away and returned her attention to the diwan and Father in time to hear him say, “Find out who perpetrated this violence in direct contravention of my commands. What fool would act so precipitously?”
“Your will, Sultan Al’Azam.” Diwan Firoz Khan, unable to answer the question, wisely chose to follow orders, fleeing the garden in search of messengers to carry out Shah Jahan’s inquiries.
Knowing Roshanara had already gone to bed, complaining of some stomach ailment, Jahanara looked around, assuring herself that only Father’s closest servants remained to overhear. “Father?”
“Yes?”
“May I offer an observation?”
Shah Jahan waved permission as he drank from his golden chalice.
“All of your nobles were hopeful that you would not restrain them when you stripped the English of their right to trade. Many appeared crestfallen when you gave them a month to depart.”
Father made the wine in his goblet slosh as he gestured with that hand. “I noticed it as well. Always, the court is predatory. When one umara rises, the pride is unsettled. When one falls, everyone looks to see what it is they can gain from that fall.”
“True, Father. All of your umara appeared crestfallen save one: Mullah Mohan. I saw him look from the Englishman to you to the jali behind which I sat with the other women of your court, and back to the Englishman. The smile on his face grew at each stop, as if he was made happy, or satisfied that things were going according to some design of his.”
Father set down his goblet and leaned forward. “I see. I have had reports he was most dissatisfied with my decision to lift the tax on nonbelievers, but why should he be at once satisfied with my actions against the English and still attack them?”
“That, I cannot say with certainty. Nur Jahan was, however, behind the jali with me and the other ladies of your harem. Given the order in which he looked at each party, it may be that he believes your actions confirmed some intelligence Nur provided him with.”
“To what purpose?”
Jahanara frowned. “Nur Jahan plays a deep game. One I fear I cannot penetrate.”
“Were she not so popular, I would reduce her stipend to a trifle and prevent her ever meddling in court politics again. Still, it is better to have her here where we can watch her than in Lahore left to her own devices.”
Jahanara nodded agreement.
Shah Jahan sighed and retrieved his goblet. “My Daughter, it is a fine thing to have you again lending your talents and wit to my harem.”
“It is good to be heard again, Father.”
“You have your mother’s talent and taste for politics.”
Jahanara smiled. “I do?”
The emperor snorted. “She, too, was good at asking questions that led to the answers she wished me to find.”
Her smile disappeared. “I hope you do not think that I am simply trying to get rid of Mullah Mohan.”
“No,” he said, waggling his head. “I made reference solely to that last question you asked: that you do actually take after your mother with regard to your talent and taste for politics.”
Relief flooding her, Jahanara accepted the explanation with a nod.
“Now…What to do to discover Mullah Mohan’s actual hand in the killing of these Englishmen I had extended my protection to?”
“Ask?”
Shah Jahan’s laughter came to a sudden, choking halt.
Jahanara, alarmed, half rose from her cushions before Shah Jahan waved her back to her seat, eyes watering.
“I’m all right, I just hadn’t given any thought to actually asking. Such are the machinations of the court, I am always thinking in terms of exposing the lies and deceits of my umara. I do believe I will do as you suggest. Mullah Mohan is so entirely certain of his own sanctity and rectitude, I’m sure he will respond openly. And if he does not, then he will know I suspect him of acting improperly and perhaps cease his search for those disaffected with my rule.”
“You do not wish to have him continue?”
“Better the devil I know than the devil I don’t, is that it?” he asked, cocking one eyebrow.
Jahanara nodded.
“He is so lacking in subtlety that most umara are cautious of openly allying themselves with him for fear he will reveal the relationship before it is safe to do so.” He drank again. “That is one of the reasons I am so well aware of his actions: many umara seek to curry favor by presenting his name to my informants.”
“Forgive me, Father, but not all the world’s killers are numbered among your umara. There are plenty of common folk willing to draw blood in the name of Islam, and Mullah Mohan is made more popular among them because of his lack of courtly refinement and simple, blunt manner, rather than less.”
Shah Jahan tugged thoughtfully at his beard. “My informers are far more commonly focused upon the doings of the umara and my sons than those with less advantageous positions…”
That was understandable. Which umara wished to rise in service, and which ones sought service with what princely court, was the perennial question of import for the emperor.
Chapter 35
Diwan-i-Khas
October 1635
“Do you know why I have summoned you, Mullah Mohan?”
“No, Sultan Al’Azam.” The man fairly oozed confidence.
Nur could not help but smile.
“Did you have anything to do with an attack on the English?”
“I did, Sultan Al’Azam.”
Shah Jahan blinked. Twice. “You did?”
Pride made Mohan’s chest swell. “I did, Sultan Al’Azam.”
�
��Were you not here when I specifically granted them safe passage for one month?”
“I…” Mohan’s expression closed into something not unlike a fist as he realized he’d been misled, and by whom. He took hold of his dignity and said, “You do not seem pleased by this outcome, Sultan Al’Azam.”
The emperor snorted, shaking his head. “That is because I am not pleased by it, Mullah Mohan. I am, in fact, most incensed. That you, or anyone who claims allegiance to me, would act against my express wishes…well, I find it infuriating, and doubly so because you were physically present when I made those wishes clear.”
Another deep bow. “I beg your forgiveness, Sultan Al’Azam.”
“Were you asleep when I gave the order?”
“No, Sultan Al’Azam.”
“Were you, perhaps, ill?”
“No, Sultan Al’Azam.”
“In need of a toilet?”
“No, Sultan Al’Azam.”
“Then how is it you failed to hear my express command?”
“I heard it, Sultan Al’Azam. But I believed that you were speaking for the benefit of those who did not know that you planned to call for a jihad against the infidel ferenghi.”
Again Shah Jahan’s brows shot away from wide eyes. “Whatever gave you the idea I even contemplated such a call?”
Nur held her breath, the gambler’s toss before her.
Mullah Mohan stared at the beautiful carpets at his feet, then bent the knee. “Forgive me, Shah Jahan, I but sought to do justice in God’s name. I thought that you planned to make the Christians suffer for their heinous acts against the pilgrims on Hajj.”
“By killing ferenghi I had given safe conduct to? What idiocy is this? Further, how could you think that killing the English will help pilgrims who must now brave waters crossed by the ships of a government that will shortly become our enemy solely because of your actions?”
Nur swallowed sudden fear quite unlike what she’d felt before. Risk in search of vengeance was one thing, but she should have thought about the ramifications for the Hajj. God forgive me.
Mohan bent low, flushing dark, hands clenched into fists.