1637: The Peacock Throne, стр. 15
Another wave at the army around them. “Your many armed friends would indicate otherwise.”
“Shah Shuja will see my arrival as a threat however many messages I may send to the contrary. Of that there can be no doubt.”
“Just so, Shehzada.”
“Perhaps I would have us return to the old way? Each prince a sultan in their own right, carving the carcass of my forebear’s empire into petty sultanates and ignoring the inheritance laws Akbar set down for the dynasty.”
Habash Khan’s smile dimmed slightly. Petty sultanates and their many, many wars would mean easier pickings for some, but such unrest had already cost the Deccan untold lives and treasure, and was the reason the Mughal armies were in the Deccan in the first place.
“Or perhaps I will hand this army to Shah Shuja so that I might realize my long-held dream and retire to a life of study and contemplation of the Quran.”
The deeply religious Habshi’s smile disappeared entirely as he intoned, “A life would be well spent in such pursuits.”
“Indeed it would.”
“But yours will not, I think.” The man said it quietly, so quietly his prince could ignore it if he wished.
He chose not to: “Let us hope that my brother does not see through me as easily as you.”
* * *
“I am summoned?”
“Yes, mistress,” Tara said.
“Quickly, then: my best robe,” Nur said, getting to her feet. She swayed slightly, exhaustion weighing on her like a millstone. It was a well-earned exhaustion: she’d spent the better part of the last two months in motion. Not since the last days of Shah Jahan’s rebellion had she been forced to ride so hard or so often. Pride kept her standing as much as the rest she’d snatched at every opportunity.
She mastered herself while the few servants she could afford busied themselves with her commands—showing fatigue was one thing, but showing concern and worry would be entirely unacceptable.
Within moments she was presenting herself before her grand-nephew.
Aurangzeb was as alone as any prince could be, his personal guards the only ones in earshot. He waved her forward with one hand, the other holding a sheaf of dispatches.
“You requested I attend you, Shehzada?”
“I did. Sit.”
She did as he commanded.
He continued reading, ignoring her, the slave who lit the lanterns nearly an hour later, and those others who entered bearing platters of food.
Nur did not take it personally, his ignoring her. Though she would have wished for more rest before being summoned to the stifling warmth and quiet stillness of the tent, decades of power had given her an abiding appreciation for the techniques, trappings, and challenges of its employment. If he was making her wait to render her off-balance and unsure, that boded well. And if he was instead applying his thought to thorny problems of state, so much the better. And finally: if he was doing both these things at once, then she had every confidence that the prince she had chosen to back would defeat his siblings and rise to be the greatest Mughal ruler since Akbar.
“What do you think of the Portuguese?” He asked the question quietly.
“In what context, Shehzada?” she asked immediately, glad she had not given in to fatigue and dozed off.
He held up a news writer’s slip. “Their viceroy wished to convey to me his hopes that I prevail over my enemies.”
She smiled. “You can be sure he sends such messages to each of your brothers.”
He looked at her, expression unreadable. Such a youth should not be so proficient at hiding his thoughts. “Can I?”
“He does well to remember what happened at Hugli when your father took his vengeance for their refusing to aid him against my husband.” Something about his attitude gave pause. “Though your question makes me believe I am not in possession of all the pertinent facts.”
The faintest hint of a smile cracked his masklike expression. “What would you deem significant enough an event to make the viceroy of Goa sing solely for me?”
Put off by his reference to music, she hesitated. Aurangzeb’s opinions on song and dance as unseemly and improper were well known, even to those who—unlike her—had not been responsible for his early education. “I merely hazard a guess at your command, but perhaps we are closest to the lands and people under his care and such proximity makes him fear you will decide Goa would serve as a base of operations?”
He cocked his head. “Setting aside the stupidity of marching farther from the sources of men and horses that make up the backbone of any army in the empire, fear is not outside the realm of possible reasons he would have to treat with me alone. Right below significant bribes.”
Knowing how much silver he had been required to put in play to attract the allies that made his speedy victory in the Deccan possible, Nur knew that his treasury was much depleted, despite taking several small treasuries of the petty sultans and chieftains on the campaign south. There were only so many men Aurangzeb could finance out of his personal establishment, especially without additional fresh infusions of cash from the imperial treasuries at Agra, Surat, and Lahore, all of which were out of reach and under Dara’s control.
That was another of the pressing logistical concerns underpinning their rush northward: Aurangzeb and the men of the army he’d marched south with were remunerated by jagirs—proceeds from land grants—in the north and east of the country. Jagirs allotted by Shah Jahan, and with the pretender Dara Shikoh sitting astride the imperial administration, any claims to those jagirs not already assigned were unlikely to be heeded until a clear victor emerged. All the brothers could issue new ones, but Shuja and Aurangzeb were not in possession of the paperwork, much less the coin, to make good on them.
“I might have suggested bribes, Shehzada, but did not think the ferenghi’s