1637: The Peacock Throne, стр. 25
“Speaking of which…” Salim cocked his head. “Where is that adornment of gardens, the woman I know you must have kidnapped and held to ransom to make her accept you as husband?”
“Surat, my friend. I would not have her here should our emperor’s brothers arrive and take issue with his rule.”
Salim grinned through his beard. “Over her protests?”
“No, on her insistence. We agreed our grandchildren will be safest there under the protection of Dhanji and his wife. There is also the family business to see to, and she has a nose for deals.”
“But Surat has hardly any defenses,” John said, clearly confused.
Jadu nodded. “And they know it. Surat will go to whomever approaches it with an army, avoiding unnecessary fighting.”
That produced some thoughtful expressions from the Grantville folks around the table and a sage nod from Salim.
“But won’t that piss Dara off?” Bobby blurted, earning a quelling look from J.D.
Jadu waggled his head and answered without seeming to take offense. “It might. But then Surat serves the empire best as a conduit for trade, wealth, and Hajj pilgrims. Any long-term disruption of that trade from a sacking would prove far more problematic than a season or two of revenues going to another claimant.”
“Seems very…practical,” J.D. said. Rather diplomatically, Ricky thought. J.D. might say he was a simple, hardworking-if-ignorant hillbilly, but he was one helluva lot smarter than most people—including John Dexter Ennis—gave him credit for.
“Things will change once the empire secures deep-water ports along the mouths of the Ganges. But for now, the Assamese privateers and the outright pirates that infest Bengali coastal waters all the way up through the giant river valley of the Ganges make Mughal trade in the east a chancy thing. It’s one of the reasons Asaf Khan was sent there with so many sowar.”
And why we’re to follow in his footsteps, trying to find out just which side he will back…
Part Three
April, 1636
Thorny and dark the path is!
—The Rig Veda
Chapter 9
Western Ghats, the Deccan
Southwest of Aurangzeb’s camp
“And what does the comte want with me?” Carvalho asked as he shifted in his saddle, tone and bearing utterly insolent.
“The crown and Christ both wish you to provide an introduction for us at court, Captain Carvalho,” De Jesus said.
“And this one?” the artillery captain waved a hand at William Methwold.
“Company business aligned with that of Father De Jesus,” Methwold answered. More calmly than the priest, he hoped.
“And why, besides my fierce devotion to king and Christ, should I endanger my position with Shehzada Aurangzeb?” Carvalho asked, returning his gaze to De Jesus. Methwold was impressed with the man’s ability to say such things with a straight face. According to the intelligence he’d had from De Jesus and the other papists, Carvalho’s reputation was for mercenary self-interest first and foremost, with his skill as an artillerist a distant second.
De Jesus, an earnest priest if ever Methwold had met one, either didn’t acknowledge Carvalho’s irony or flat-out didn’t recognize it, saying, “The Comte Linhares has authorized an offer of certain incentives and perquisites in exchange for your assistance, Captain Carvalho.”
“Such as?”
“A title, lands, money, the blessings of Mother Church.”
Carvalho’s demeanor did not change. In fact, Methwold thought he detected some anger at the mention of Mother Church.
“You do not seem moved,” De Jesus said.
“I was waiting to see if you were done.”
Methwold hid a smile.
“I am.”
Carvalho’s mount twitched an ear, but the man himself sat still, expressionless. Eventually, he looked at Methwold.
“And you?”
“Me?” Methwold asked.
“What does the English Company’s president in Surat offer?”
“What would you have of me?” Methwold asked, deciding not to correct the mercenary.
“What, you do not offer silver or gold for my service?”
“I await knowledge of what it is that you want in exchange for rendering us this small assistance.”
“So you think it small, the assistance I can offer?”
“Without you to tell me differently, I can but proceed on my assumptions.”
The corner of Carvalho’s mouth turned up. “What manner of title can the English Company offer me?”
“None.”
“And with your firman revoked, how much can you afford to pay?”
“Very little.”
Carvalho nodded, seeming unsurprised with Methwold’s honesty. He eventually looked back at De Jesus. “And the viceroy? What does he offer?”
De Jesus did not hesitate. “The comte will seek royal permission to elevate you to knightly orders, give you lands in Goa, as well as offering a healthy stipend of cash for your support.”
Still the mercenary showed no interest. He had to be the coldest fish from the Iberian Peninsula Methwold ever met.
“What you fail to realize is that I have all these things already from Shehzada Aurangzeb.”
De Jesus shook his head angrily.
Methwold covered an exasperated sigh that, despite his efforts, made his gelding toss its head.
“Will you tell us what would move you to assist our cause?” Methwold asked, laying a soothing hand on the gelding’s neck.
De Jesus just grated out,“What, then, can we give you?”
“You may think it cheap, should I tell you…”
De Jesus colored, clearly impatient. “I tire of these games. What is your price?”
Carvalho dropped his insolent manner, his eyes flashing as he answered, “I will take what is offered, but I have one additional condition.”
“And what is that?” De Jesus asked, anger sharpening his tone.
“That the viceroy find some pretext for the removal of Father Vittorio di Roma from Goa and the Estado,” he snarled, deep-seated passions overcoming iron control. “That the viceroy put a stop to the burnings of the Nuovo Cristao in the Estado.”
Father De Jesus must have flinched, because his mount sidled sideways in Methwold’s direction.
The Englishman narrowly avoided having his leg pinned between the two horses. When Methwold looked up from controlling his mount, Carvalho was expressionless once more.
His own mount under control again, De Jesus apologized to Methwold, but his voice failed him and all color drained from his face when he looked at Carvalho once more.
Methwold wondered why the priest was so discomfited by the mercenary’s requirement, but could not fathom it. He knew, of course, about the Spanish