1636: Mission to the Mughals Read online

  “Still, you did not come to me asking after a marriage, but control of the harem funds. The eunuch appointed the position of Khan-i-Saman has served us for some time.”

  She surreptitiously wiped away tears, nodded.

  Father was looking at her again. “Why this sudden desire for control over your finances?”

  “Not so sudden, really.” She left unsaid the reason why she had delayed in telling him—neither of them had any desire to speak more of Mother’s loss. “I suppose you can put it down to boredom alone, but I also believe I will do a better job of it than Diwan Garyan.”

  “Has the Khan-i-Saman somehow failed in his duty?”

  Jahanara paused a moment. She did not hesitate for the sake of Diwan Garyan, but for her own plans—much relied on her father reacting just calmly enough to her news. “I have read the reports myself, and it appears he has failed to protect Mother’s investments.”

  A gross understatement, but I don’t want Father executing—

  As if reading her fears, Shah Jahan said, “I shall have him executed.”

  “Father, please do not. At least, not yet.”

  “Why?”

  “If you decide to leave these financial matters to me, I will need him as an example when I move to establish my authority over the harem.”

  “If I say you have the authority, then you shall have it.”

  She shook her head. “It is not the same thing, Father: if I am the one seen to discover his failures and find reason to ask you for permission to execute him, then those who serve in the harem will know who it is they must obey, and act promptly in response to my direction.”

  Father was silent for some time. So long, in fact, that Jahanara worried he’d fallen asleep. When he spoke, his voice was so clotted with emotion she flinched. “I doubt you realize how much your counsel sounds like that of your mother.”

  “You are too kind, Father.”

  The Seizer of the World cleared his throat. “No, it is true. Your mother was always wise to the ways of the harem, and always gave good counsel regarding management of it. Tell me, who do you recommend as the face of the harem in its financial affairs?”

  “I had thought to recognize Firoz Khan.”

  “Who?”

  “The eunuch you placed in charge of collecting the rents from the jagir you gave me last year, Father. It is due to his diligence that I discovered the…errors of Garyan.”

  “And as one away from our court, he has less chance of being under the sway of some other woman of the harem, and certainly will not be Diwan Garyan’s creature.”

  She smiled. “No.”

  “Still. Is he not still in Surat?”

  “No, Father. I asked him to return here in order to explain to us the discrepancies I noted in my incomes.”

  “Well then, it seems you have given this much thought. I grant you permission to the manage the affairs of the harem. Let me know when you wish me to announce it publicly.”

  She took his hand. “Thank you, Father.”

  Red Fort, The Harem

  “What is she doing here?” Roshanara asked her younger brother as they watched the massive procession of their kinswoman entering the Lahore Gate. A contingent of sowar led the procession, helmets shining in the sun.

  Aurangzeb tossed his head. “Nur Jahan asked to be here for the celebration of Father’s weighing, and he did not refuse her.”

  “But she—”

  “Is a respected member of the family, and Father wishes us to make her welcome.”

  She frowned, spoke the words she believed he wanted to hear: “She has too much to do with the Hindus.”

  Aurangzeb looked at her, keeping any expression from his face. “The same could be said of our grandfathers.”

  Roshanara ignored—or missed—his tone. “She should have remained in Lahore, maintaining Grandfather’s tomb like a proper widow.”

  “You prefer her in Lahore, hatching plots with Mian Mir?”

  She looked at him, eyes wide. “They conspire together?”

  He grinned, shrugged young swordsman’s shoulders. “No, Mian Mir is far too peace-loving to join causes with a tigress like Nur Jahan, not since she refused to heed Mian Mir’s counsel during Father’s rebellion.”

  “But you do not deny he plots.”

  “No, I do not.” He pointed over the railing at the gilded howdah strapped to a massive bull elephant. “But there sits the true blade. She is not some old sufi waiting to die in Lahore. She is here for some purpose.”

  “Blade?”

  He pulled his katar from his sash and held the double-edged punch dagger up between them. “It cuts both ways, this blade, just like our great-aunt.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Aurangzeb returned the dagger to its sheath. “Perhaps you should pray for guidance, then.”

  Roshanara stared at him a long moment, reaching for the meaning behind his words. He saw no light of understanding in her eyes as she turned away. “I will.”

  Aurangzeb concealed his satisfaction: It would not do to have her—or any of the family—be aware that Nur Jahan was here at his request.

  * * *

  Jahanara watched as Diwan Garyan made his approach to the open-fronted tent she’d caused to be erected in the garden. He was flabby, as many eunuchs were wont to get after reaching a certain age. Heavy perfume wafted to her on the breeze, announcing his proximity, if not his good taste in scents.

  She felt the sheer mass of his presence as he bowed before her, and drew comfort in the presence of her guardians. Even if she decided to spare his life, Garyan would be ruined, and possibly seek to avenge himself upon her. While not as given to violence as full men, the eunuch’s size made her glad of the presence of her warrior women guardians, chief among them Atisheh.

  She glanced at the auburn-haired Turki, who nodded almost imperceptibly. If it came to that, her guardian would happily spill the fat eunuch’s guts in the garden. Atisheh bore Garyan no love.

  “Speak, Diwan Garyan.”

  “Begum Sahib, trade has been excellent this year.” Garyan said, waving a hand glittering with jeweled rings toward the records a slave held in her arms.

  Having read the actual reports and planned for this moment for several months, Jahanara knew she could not trust a word the eunuch said. The trading concerns she had inherited from her mother had barely turned a profit this last year, despite having little to no competition. To add insult to her intelligence, the meager returns she’d gained were moved off the books, none too subtly, and into Garyan’s personal treasury.

  She would not let it continue: “How so?”

  A look of surprise crossed Garyan’s fleshy face. As the harem’s long-established Khan-i-Saman, the Manager of the Household, he had gained far too much power during Father’s long foray into grief. He had secured the position of the diwan responsible for her financial matters as well, and because Jahanara had taken so long to work up the courage to ask Father for leave to take responsibility for her and the harem’s finances, Garyan had no experience of being questioned on matters of finance and trade.

  “Do not look at me so, simply answer.”

  “We have made profitable trade in indigo, Begum Sahib,” Garyan waved to the reports, his hand glittering with jewels, “but trade in betel has been off this last season.”

  “The profits from which are intended to cover the costs of underwriting Hajj passage for those less fortunate than us.”

  Garyan nodded, his usual control over his expression reasserting itself. “Such are the vagaries of trade, Begum Sahib.”

  Jahanara knew his words for a lie. Incomes from her jagir of Surat had been up this last year. Father had given her the tax incomes from the port, through which the majority of the empire’s sea-born trade passed. And the tax on betel had shown the strongest return. This, when the reports Garyan prepared regarding her own personal betel farms all pled poor harvest and poorer prices.

  “I am not pleased, Gar
yan.”

  “I humbly beg your forgiveness, but Mumtaz Mahal was content to—”

  “My mother?” she snapped. “Do not think to bring even her name into this! Did you think I would not learn how you deceived her?”

  Jahanara saw dawning fear in Garyan’s eyes. “I—I—” he stammered.

  She continued, the words an angry torrent, “Did you think to succeed? That I would not learn how you embezzled funds meant for her support, for my projects? Funds given us by our father, Shah Jahan, for our maintenance and pleasure?”

  “But—”

  Jahanara’s henna-marked hand gestured at his expensive robes and ostentatious rings. “You must think me a fool, to come before me wearing wealth you have stolen from us! I will not have it. I will not.”

  “But, Begum Sahib, your father—”

  “Has given me the right to dispose of you as I see fit.”

  Garyan at last realized how far he had fallen, and threw himself flat on the ground before her.

  “Rise!” Jahanara hissed. “I have not given you leave to grovel.”

  When he refused the order, Atisheh advanced and stood over the prostrate eunuch. The warrior woman slapped the eunuch’s turban from his head and drew a wickedly sharp dagger from her hip. She grabbed the erstwhile diwan by his hair, pulling him upright with a grunt of effort.

  Stifling a cry, the eunuch continued his verbal retreat: “I beg your pardon, Begum Sahib, I am but a humble servant, tasked with great things. Tasks far above my abilities. If I have failed, it was—”

  “Stop. Your lies no more excuse your malfeasance than your groveling.”

  Garyan spluttered to a stop, encouraged by Atisheh, who placed her blade along his throat.

  Jahanara leaned forward, looking him in the eye. “You are removed from your posts and titles, Garyan. All jagirs awarded you are returned to the emperor. All authority lent to you is likewise returned. All wealth that you possess is forfeit. You are nothing and no one.”

  “What is to happen to me?” Garyan cried, tears flowing.

  “That is for Father to decide, and the emperor is most unhappy with you.”

  Garyan wailed.

  Jahanara waved to Atisheh, who, with the assistance of another of her tribe, dragged Garyan bodily from the garden. Atisheh would see to it he was dragged through the harem and into the custody of the eunuch guards at the gate to the harem.

  Now, Jahanara thought as Garyan’s cries faded, everyone will know who they will answer to should they choose to go against my wishes.

  Chapter 5

  Northwest African Coastline

  June 1634

  Bertram hissed in pain as his salt-stiffened shirt sawed across the raw meat of his neck. He looked heavenward. Four days almost without wind, baking in the sun. Even the crew was starting to grumble. Seeking distraction, he glanced at Rodney, who was bent over the port side rail, the dirty white line of the coast of Africa inching slowly by beyond him.

  This devil’s own sunburn was still better than Rodney’s endless puking. The poor man hadn’t been right since they boarded. Everyone was a touch miserable when they sailed right into that rough weather getting round Ireland, but Rodney had been a class apart the entire time.

  A snort from the poop deck above drew him from thought. “This sun will make you look a redneck, that’s for sure.”

  Bertram turned, craning his sizzling neck, and saw it was John Ennis speaking. The oldest of the up-timers with the mission for their technical expertise, Ennis had a set of the telescopic contrivances up-timers called “binoculars” hanging from his neck.

  Bertram returned the smile. “In appearance only, I’m told. Randy and Ricky say there’s more to being a proper redneck than a sunburn.”

  “A ‘proper’ redneck? Now there’s a contradiction in terms.” John beckoned Bertram to join him, stepping back from the ladder to make room.

  Bertram scrambled up the ladder, finding Captain Strand, the first mate, and Gervais keeping company round the tiller. He gave the knot of men a nod and turned to John. “Could you explain that?”

  “Yes, please do.” Gervais said, stepping over to join them, leaning against the rail. He didn’t seem the least bit uncomfortable in the heat, and his neck was already nut-brown.

  John pursed his lips slightly. “Well, the term’s much more popular among southerners in…the nation we came from, than it was among West Virginians. We generally prefer the slang term ‘hillbilly.’”

  “Yes, I have noticed that is a title all you up-timers seem to bear with pride.”

  A broad smile, full of teeth. “Not all of us, but,” a slow nod, “yeah, most of us who came from Grantville do take being called hillbilly with a degree of pride. It was, my father told me, originally an attempt by some city flatlanders to describe ignorant mountain folk, just like ‘rednecks’ was a sneer at dumb farmers whose necks were burned red by the sun.

  “Over time, things change, and the two terms had mixed meanings when I was growing up—which partly depended on where you grew up. The term ‘redneck,’ especially, got mixed in with attitudes during the civil rights movement.”

  “Which was…?”

  John waved his hand. “I don’t want to go into that right now. Hillbilly, though, more or less kept its original meaning. Sometimes people would try and insult me with it, but I always took it as something to be a bit proud of: Most hillbillies I knew were more willing to help their neighbors than most city-folk, were clever with their hands, and not above bending their back to work for a living.” He shrugged. “So it wasn’t a bad thing, for me, being called a hillbilly.”

  “Me neither,” Rodney gasped, between retching sessions at the rail below. “Except I was born in Georgia so I’d go with ‘redneck.’ But for the love of God”—he managed to fight down another retch—“don’t ever call my West Virginia-born wife a ‘redneck’ or you just restarted the civil war. ‘We seceded from you damn secessionists!’ is the first thing she’ll say, and it’ll go downhill from there.”

  Bertram was looking a bit confused again. John chuckled and said: “I’m afraid that’s another up-time history lesson we’ll gave to postpone for the moment.”

  “But, with all the wonders you have brought to us, it’s hard to imagine someone…” Bertram trailed off, trying to find the correct phrase.

  “Looking down on us?”

  “Exactly so.”

  “Well, there were a lot who did. Small towns had a reputation for being backward, just like today…and we Americans didn’t have the best reputation overseas, either.” Another shrug. “Hell, Grantville still ain’t anyone’s idea of a cultural center.”

  “Plebeians, then?” Gervais offered.

  “Huh?” John asked.

  Finding it endlessly interesting how these up-timers, so highly educated in matters technical, could be so ignorant of terms common to every modern down-timer’s education, Bertram explained: “The Roman Republic had patricians and plebeians. The former looking down on and fearing the latter, who were the majority. The patricians would do whatever possible to keep the plebeians from capitalizing on their numbers and seizing power, including bribing them with food and putting on entertainments like gladiatorial combats and circuses.”

  “Oh, so that’s where that bread and circuses thing comes from?”

  Bertram smiled. “Exactly so.”

  John looked thoughtful a moment, then shrugged again. “Seems people have always been looking for ways to make themselves special, even at the expense of others.”

  “True…” Gervais murmured.

  A sailor in the rigging shouted something that, between the accent and the nautical term, Bertram missed.

  But he couldn’t help but hear Strand cursing as the captain pulled out a telescope and stood to the rail along the port side next to Gervais.

  There was another shout from above.

  “Where away?” the captain bellowed.

  “Port, three points.”

  St
rand adjusted the telescope, muttered, then said clearly: “Damnation.”

  John appeared on the deck. “What is it, Captain?” he asked, bringing his binoculars up in the direction the captain was looking.

  “Not good,” Strand muttered, chewing one end of his mustache.

  Bertram squinted, but could not see anything. “What?”

  “One of those ships with both sail and oars—” John said.

  “Pirates,” Strand said.

  “How can you tell that at this distance?” John asked.

  Strand snorted. “Xebec with her oars out, pulling hard for us.”

  “And?” John said.

  “Damnation,” Bertram breathed.

  Strand ignored them both, stomping over to his first mate. “Open the arms locker and man the guns. We’re in for a visit from the slaver scum.”

  “I still don’t understand what he saw,” John said, peering at the horizon again through his binoculars.

  “Would you want to row in this heat?” Bertram asked.

  John let the binoculars hang from his neck and looked at him. “Hell, no.”

  “Exactly so.”

  Bertram saw understanding dawn in the up-timer’s eyes.

  “Shit.” John scrambled down the ladder and disappeared belowdecks.

  Bertram heard a mechanical click, followed by a gentle whirring from just below. He looked over to see a blue-steel pistol had appeared in Rodney’s hand, the cylinder opened to reveal shining brass.

  Satisfied with the state of his loads, Rodney snapped the revolver closed with a practiced motion. “I’ll make sure the boys are ready.” He staggered off.

  “And I’ll see to the women,” Gervais muttered.

  First Mate Loke shouted from the rail, “Malte, Short Leif, Ulf, Lukas with me to the weapons locker! The rest of you, to your guns or stations!”

  Bertram watched as the mast of the pirate slowly grew to reveal a ship as men leapt to their posts all over the Lønsom Vind.

  “Knew we should have stood further out to sea,” Strand grumbled.

  “Not much choice; what with the weather, the English, the Dutch, and the Spanish,” Bertram said, fear squeezing the words through a suddenly tight throat. He had no wish to be killed or, worse yet, watch Monique and the others gang-raped and sold into slavery.