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Chapter 10



Agra

The Red Fort


The gunsmith’s factory was dark after the noonday sun, and loud with hammering and the constant hissing roar of several furnaces.

Unsure where to go, John led Atisheh and Bertram deeper into the gloom in search of Talawat.

“He said to meet him here, didn’t he?” John asked. His Persian had improved to the point he didn’t need a translator for most things, but he was glad Bertram was here to make sure he made none of the big mistakes of communication poor language skills often led to.

“He did,” Atisheh said.

Talawat said something from Atisheh’s elbow, startling them all. John and Bertram jumped. Atisheh’s response was more practical: she turned, blades appearing in her hands.

“So sorry. I did not mean to startle you!” the thin gunsmith shouted as he backed from the warrior woman.

Atisheh checked herself with visible effort and a curse John didn’t understand.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you,” John said, interposing himself between Talawat and Atisheh to give them both a moment to recover.

If Talawat was offended, he did not show it. Lowering his hands, the gunsmith smiled and rendered another and lengthier apology to his guests.

Atisheh grunted and returned her weapons to their sheaths.

Bertram just nodded.

“I have the first of the guns ready, Mr. Ennis,” the gunsmith went on, gesturing his guests toward a set of large doors leading out into a sunlit court behind the factory.

“So soon?” John asked as they walked into the long, narrow space between low walls. Aside from the color and quality of the stone, it looked like a lane at the shooting range his uncle used to take him to, right down to the wide bench at the near end. A trio of long lumps that John took to be guns rested under a silken sheet of some sort, something he never would have seen on his uncle’s range.

“Well, I followed your advice and didn’t try and recreate the pistol or even the Remington,” the man said with another smile.

“You did?”

“Instead I copied the weapon your associate, Randy, left behind. The L.C. Smith.” He pulled back the sheet, revealing his handiwork.

The first was, indeed, Randy’s gun: a hammerless side-by-side double-barreled break-open twelve-gauge shotgun, lovingly maintained but still bearing the scarred wood of too many generations tramping through West Virginia in search of game birds. Randy had been very proud of the piece, it having been in his family for three generations. He’d lugged it all the way to India even though the pump action Remingtons they’d all trained with were far more practical for the kind of shooting they had expected.

The second gun was a stunning, nearly exact copy of the original. Nearly, because instead of the plain blued steel of Randy’s shotgun, this one had the endless wave pattern of Damascus steel.

The third one had the same patterning, but looked odd. The same basic structure as the shotgun, but it was single-barreled, and had a ladder sight at the rear. Without looking down the barrel, he could only assume it was chambered for, at most, twenty gauge. On second glance, the barrel looked significantly longer, as well.

“Wow,” John said, fingers twitching with desire to touch the magnificent-looking tools.

Bertram let out a low whistle, eyeing the odd-looking one. “The craftsmen at home would be hard-pressed to manufacture a copy, and never with this quality on the first try, and certainly not in a few months.”

“Firearms are loud, and can fail at the worst moment. I prefer the blade or the bow,” Atisheh opined.

Talawat’s grin only grew wider on hearing her. “These are something entirely better than the usual products of my establishment, warrior.”

“They sure are pretty. May I?” John asked, engrossed in the fine workmanship and the endless patterns in the steel.

“Of course.”

John picked up the first copy, surprised that it wasn’t heavier.

“Amazing,” he said, flipping the gun up and enjoying the smooth action that ended in a deep clunk as the barrels locked against the breech. John sighted along the long groove between the barrels and smiled. Lowering the weapon, he pushed the breech lever sideways, releasing the barrels and watching as the shell extractor rose smoothly from the opening breech.

“I thank you for the praise, but this weapon itself was not the most difficult part of this particular weapon.” Talawat waved at the open doors, summoning someone.

“The shells?” Bertram guessed.

“The shells,” Talawat confirmed.

A younger version of Talawat emerged from the workshop. The young man was carrying a set of belts or bandoliers. One was studded with dozens of brass-based shells while the other long brass cartridges. He lay the belts with the shells on the table in front of John and the other in front of Bertram. Talawat retrieved two of the shells and presented them to John.

Taking them, John took a closer look. Each shell had a high brass base, but the hulls appeared to be something like an odd plastic.

“Shot?”

“Yes.”

“And the”—he looked at Bertram for help translating, who supplied the word after a moment’s thought—“hulls?”

“Waxed paper,” Talawat said, pride evident in his voice even as he spoke slowly and more clearly than his excitement inclined him to in deference to John’s language skills. “Settling the process was a great challenge. It still fails to extract the empty shells too often for complete contentment, but we are still making improvements to the formula.”

“May I?” John asked again, holding the shells up and gesturing with the shotgun.

“Of course.”

John dropped the shells in, closed the break and shouldered the shotgun, admiring how smoothly the action worked. Aiming down the lane at a man-sized target that looked something like a scarecrow, he took up the front trigger with his finger and squeezed.

The resulting bang was loud, the recoil tolerable, and the target gave a satisfactory shiver before smoke obscured it. He pulled his finger from the first trigger and took up the second with similar results. Thick, cottony smoke obscured the firing lane for a few seconds, but cleared to reveal still more damage to the target.

“See, loud,” Atisheh said. John noted that, for all her disapproval, the warrior woman was paying very close attention behind that chain veil.

In answer, John pressed the lever to release the break. The shells extracted flawlessly, flying a few feet before tock-tocking on the tiles of the courtyard. John pulled another two shells from the belt with one hand and dropped them in, snapping the action closed with an almost negligent flip of the hand holding the gun.

“Just like that, I’m ready to shoot again.”

“Almost as fast as a bow,” Atisheh answered, the grudging respect coloring her tone robbing the words of any insult.

Talawat looked like he might burst with pride.

“And these?” Bertram asked, waving at the gun and cartridges in front of him.

“Well”—he touched the gun in front of Bertram with a prideful smile—“I looked at the cartridges for the handgun John showed me last year…and thought I might make something similar but that fire from the same basic principles as the shotgun.”

“Wait, the barrel is rifled?” John asked, reverently returning the shotgun to the silk-covered table and picking up the gun in question.

“It is. I used the larger caliber pistol cartridges for the .45 revolver you showed me as the model for the cartridge…” He pulled a brass cartridge from the bandolier. It wasn’t very wide, but was longer than a pistol cartridge, making it look like an absurdly long .45 round.

“So big?”

“I tried to use slugs through the shotguns, but they were not effective with the amount of powder I had to use. Nearly killed myself with one breech explosion among many,” the gunsmith said, clearly excited to explain his craftsmanship to someone who might appreciate the technical achievement for what it was.

“Our black powder can’t match the velocity of your smokeless powders, and the bullet from that gun, even when I lengthened the cartridge to add more powder behind it, was too light to do much at range, so I decided on the bigger round. The results were…more than satisfactory, I think you will find.”

John smiled and reached for the cartridge in Talawat’s hand, deeply impressed.

Talawat did not hand it over, however, shaking his head. “Not in here. This range is too short for shooting these.”

“Really?” John said, surprised. The range was about a hundred feet long.

“Well, these are accurate, when aimed, to about two hundred and fifty of your ‘yards,’ and there is only stone behind our target here. I would hate for a ricochet to kill or wound one of us.”

“Two hundred and fifty?” John said, incredulous.

“Well, a shot will likely kill a man at sixteen hundred yards, but no one could hit someone on purpose at that range.”

Sixteen hundred?”

“Yes. What use a rifle if not to reach out and touch someone from great distance, eh?”

“But, sixteen hundred?”

Talawat’s smile was broad and happy. “You’d look like you were shooting at the moon, but yes.”

Bertram looked thoughtful. “How many can you make?”

The smile faded as the gunsmith waggled his head. “Depends upon how much time the pretenders give us. Far fewer of the rifles than the shotguns, of course. The true challenge is making the primers for the ammunition. It is dangerous, painstaking work, and I despair of making enough shells and cartridges to make a real difference. Especially in light of the work I am doing to copy those delightful cannon shells your ship’s master sent along.”

John was sobered by the reminder that Talawat, genius that he might be, was still a lone man running one shop. He could never be expected to produce enough guns to make a real difference. The thought was depressing.

“Of course, I have all of the smiths of the Sultan Al’Azam’s establishment working on producing these weapons and their ammunition. It goes slowly, as I am having trouble convincing my fellows to forgo treating the steel in order to best show off the lovely patterns.”

“So, a hundred or so?” John said, gloomy.

“Of the rifles, yes. The shotguns: a thousand, perhaps more if given time.”

“Holy shit! A thousand?”

Talawat’s brows shot up as he asked for the meaning of the English words.

Atisheh coughed to cover a chuckle.

Embarrassed by his outburst, John shook his head. “Nothing, sorry. I simply had no idea you could make so many.”

“Not me alone, of course. The emperor Dara Shikoh, long may he reign in wisdom and the light of God’s good graces, has a great many artisans working for him, and I have some…small weight with them.”

“A great many?”

A diffident shrug. “Seventy Atishbaz families, their servants, and their apprentices. Not to mention the European, Persian, and Afghan tradesmen who are not, technically, members of our caste or clan. Nearly four-hundred-odd tradesmen worthy of the appellation ‘master,’ all told.”

John stifled another expletive. Even Bertram looked surprised.

Talawat looked at John in puzzlement. “Why this shock? Surely you knew the emperor for the richest man in all the world, and as such, the supreme patron of crafts, sciences, and the arts. It is only natural that he be the epicenter of all such things as interest him.”

“Guess I never thought of it that way,” John said, thinking that it was a wonder India hadn’t become the leading world power up-time. Gooseflesh rose on his arms as he considered that with such men as Talawat, and knowledge of the weapons from the future he had supplied them, they just might.



South of the Red Fort


“So, you have all the men you need, John?” Salim asked, reining in. His entourage, trailing behind their master and the up-timer, halted as well. He’d told them to stand off a bit, wanting to have a private conversation with John.

To think I now have a flock of lackeys to do my bidding!

Then, because of his time spent in the company of Mian Mir and in study of Sufi wisdom: Do not succumb to the pleasures of this fleeting world, Salim.

All things from God, to God.

“Sure,” John had said, rubbing his chin. “There won’t be enough guns to go around for a while yet, anyway. Ammunition will become the real bottleneck once we get into live-fire training.” His horse tried to sidle sideways, but the up-timer controlled him with barely a thought.

“John, I hope you’ll forgive me for saying it, but you’ve become a far better horseman these last months than ever I thought you’d be,” Salim said, smiling to overcome any insult the words might offer. Indeed, John seemed to be far more at ease than Salim had ever seen him before.

“Well, thanks. Still wish I had the Ford Mustang I bought in high school.”

“What’s that, a breed of horse?”

John laughed. “No, a car.”

“Car? Oh, like the ones in Grantville?” Salim asked. The vehicles had been insanely fast and very loud. In short, something he would greatly enjoy.

“Only faster.”

Salim’s brows drew together. “Faster?”

“I had souped mine up. My family had some history running moonshine, see…”

He shook his head, gesturing at the men Salim had kept at bay. “Never mind. I assume you wanted to talk to me privately about something more important than missing my old ride.”

Feeling the press of time upon them, Salim reluctantly agreed. Hoping his sincere desire to hear more came through, he added, “I do want to know, John. You’ll have to tell me the rest when we have more time.”

“But,” John said, smiling.

“But,” Salim agreed with a sigh. “For now: Dara assures me Talawat and the rest of his establishment are producing ammunition as fast as they can.”

“Is that where you’re taking me?” John asked, nodding at the tall berm rising up before them.

“It is. Talawat and Begum Sahib thought it wise to keep ammunition production some distance from the fort.”

John looked along the mile or so upriver toward Red Fort.

Salim joined him. It was a grand sight, with the many manors and gardens of the court spread along the river to the cleared land near Red Fort, and beyond it rose the magnificent beauty of the Taj’s proud onion dome. The umara of the courts of two great emperors had spent great sums to build ever-grander manors in the area, as proximity to the emperor was a physical representation of one’s favor, so the gardens and mansions only grew more ornate and beautiful the closer one was to Red Fort.

“Is that stone at the top?” John asked, drawing Salim’s gaze back to the berm, which John was examining with a builder’s eye.

Salim regarded the berm as well. Each one rose to a height of about thirty gaz and had a core of stone walls, either previously existing or built from rubble.

“Yes.”

“Where from?”

“Talawat used some preexisting structures to build the factory and its berms.”

“Preexisting?” The up-timer looked again at the manors to the north and south. “You mean someone’s mansion?”

“Exactly so,” Salim answered.

“What, they get tired of it?”

“No. They were dispossessed for choosing to throw their support to Shah Shuja.”

“I…see.” John looked uncomfortable.

“Such are the risks involved in any succession war, John.”

“But, what of the family that lived here?”

“This particular man is with Shuja’s army in the Deccan. His wives, children, sister, and mother are now in the emperor’s harem.”

John looked alarmed.

“They are treated well and respectfully, John,” Salim said, hoping to forestall an angry outburst. “We are not barbarians, and the keeping of wives, sisters, mothers, and children of those who support your opponent is considered a sacred obligation. They are almost never used as hostages unless that is their agreed-upon status before being brought into the harem. Akbar started with peace, and his descendants have kept it.”

“Almost?” John asked, seizing on the qualifier as Salim had known he would.

He shrugged. “There are those who have done wrong, certainly.”

Patting his horse’s neck, Salim continued thoughtfully, “The men, of course, receive less mercy from the victorious. But even then, being stripped of rank and incomes is the norm, imprisonment uncommon, mutilations even more unusual, and executions rare. Admittedly, Shah Jahan was more…comfortable with bloodletting than his predecessors. At least, Asaf Khan was never punished for doing away with Shah Jahan’s potential rivals.”

“Seems like it’s all been thought out,” John said, irony twisting both tone and expression.

Salim chose to ignore his friend’s tone. John was an up-timer, with an up-timer’s strange ideas about some things. He answered carefully, trying to explain his own convictions on the matter. “The empire has had some recent experience with succession struggles. The dynasty that stagnates is soon to perish, and the way they’ve done it here tends to leave the common folk more or less alone relative to what I know of similar succession wars in Europe and elsewhere. Of course, our emperor and his siblings are relatively young. Why, Aurangzeb is nearly as young as Babur was when he started the empire, if I recall correctly.”

“So, Salim, I really don’t want to be rude, but why do you keep saying ‘they’ when you refer to the empire?” He hiked a thumb at the cluster of messengers and servants. “Looks like you are an integral part of this empire’s machinery by now…”

“I do, don’t I?”

Seeing that he’d never had to explain it to someone else, he spent a moment collecting his thoughts before speaking further. “You may recall Shah Jahan informing you that he was Sultan Al’Azam of many peoples, not just one?”

“Sure do.” John nodded. “Can’t forget his angry look when I made that particular mistake.”

“He got angry because it’s important. The Mughals themselves are a mix of Turco-Mongol, Persian, Rajput, and other bloodlines. Your wife can tell you how many languages she hears daily in the harem. The Timurids rule over hundreds of different peoples, each with distinct dialects if not utterly different languages, differing religions and practices thereof, not to mention the entirely different lives the nomads, farmers, and the city-dwellers live. So many different languages are spoken that the very language of the empire’s northern sowar is translated into the other languages as ‘camp tongue’ because it’s a combination of so many local tongues.

“All bow before Timurid power. Some are happier with that state of affairs than others, but all recognize that the Timurids are, historically, excellent overlords who have, on the whole, improved conditions for everyone under their rule, not just Muslims, or Rajputs, or a particular caste. Everyone. And, in the successions the old order, those that supported the last emperor, are joined by those outsiders who threw in their lot with the victorious prince. My own people are not a bad example: Shah Jahan fought the Yusufzai when a young prince, and we have since fought for the empire against the Safavids under his command.”

“I get it, it’s a melting pot.”

“No, it’s not, not really.” Salim struggled to ignore the dismissive tone and explain for his friend. “The Timurids themselves are, I suppose. They’ve assimilated so much of what it means to be Indian, in that they have more in common with the people here than many of their central Asian ancestors.

“Akbar’s Sulh-i-kul, or ‘peace with everyone,’ is a fine example: rather than force all these people, with their different laws and customs, through the needle’s eye of Mughal custom and legal precedent, Emperor Akbar chose to invite the religious leaders, the lawmakers, and the lore keepers of India to discuss what was fair and righteous for all. He wasn’t trying to make everyone melt together, just provide them with a framework in which to prosper without tearing the empire apart or unduly repressing one group or another.

“The following generations have lived up to that ideal with greater or lesser success, so the lives and customs of the peoples within the empire are allowed to continue as they always have done, so long as they pay homage and taxes and offer no violence to their neighbors. That last is especially important, as it was not something that was common practice before Mughal rule. Beyond that, each person has their place in India, but the Mughal system allows the best talent to rise, and rewards those talented people who work within the framework of Mughal rule.”

“For most people, anyway.” John’s smile was more honest this time, and took the sting from the words.

Salim returned the smile, adding, “I do believe your up-time democracies benefitted most people, most of the time. We can scarcely do better without the benefit of the three hundred and more years of experience your predecessors had.”

“Lot of blood shed to learn from those mistakes,” John said. He shook his head. “Don’t mind me, Salim. I’m just some hillbilly from a small town in West Virginia.”

“If I had a hundred rupees for every time I have been called a simple hillman by some fop thinking it an insult, I would be a—well, I would be even more rich than I am.”

John chuckled. “You do dress better than any hillbilly I ever met.”

“Or at least more expensively, my friend?” Salim said, knowing the up-timers thought the khalats and robes of distinction handed out by the emperor and eagerly sought after by courtiers garish and overly opulent.

The pair shared a moment of laughter, clearing the air between them.

Salim, careful with his words in case he shatter the mood, said, “We can only try to do better, and in order for us to be here to make those efforts, the man I believe to be our best chance at lasting peace and thoughtful change must emerge victorious.” He pointed at the berm. “Hence, the work going on in there, and the work I ask of you.”

“Salim, I know you need someone with experience in infantry stuff, but I am no drill sergeant. In fact, I got out of basic training back in the USE and felt like I hadn’t learned anything about being a soldier.”

“I know you think you are not qualified, but you are. At least, in all the ways that matter here and now.”

“You said that when you first asked me to do this. I still don’t get it.”

“And I thank you for not requiring that I explain it in front of the court. They do not need to know the particulars of Dara’s reasons.”

“I can’t believe I have to ask, but what—exactly—does he think he’s getting in me?” John asked.

“The Mughals often recruit military specialists from outside the limits of the empire. There are not many here with Dara’s military establishment, but Aurangzeb and Shah Shuja both have artillery parks and other specialist troops overseen by and composed of ferenghi.”

John shook his head again and shifted in his saddle. “I don’t know anything about cannons, friend.”

“Let me finish, if you please, John.”

The up-timer gestured apologetically for him to proceed.

“The common sowar and, possibly more importantly, the umara of the court are used to seeing foreign experts training their comrades. They were used to it even before the arrival of such technological marvels as those Talawat created in copying your L.C. Smith shotgun.”

John’s eyes widened. “Oh, hell.”

“Yes. So you see, it is as important you are seen to be training the men as providing it in the first place, not because we cannot figure out a way to adapt to the technology ourselves, but because those who are in Dara’s camp expect to see you in charge. If you, an up-timer, are not visibly in charge, then they will not have much faith the weapons will serve to redress some of the imbalance of forces we face. Without faith in that strength, Dara will be abandoned for one of the pretenders.”

John nodded. “And word will get back to the brothers that I am in the thick of things, maybe making them cautious.”

“Exactly so, my friend. Keeping the appearance of strength is as—if not more—important than actually being strong right now. Everyone is holding their breath, hoping to see who will make the first error and thereby indicate the eventual winner.”

“I get it.” A sly grin spread across his lips.

“What?” Salim asked.

“You’re not going to insist I wear one of those silly robes, are you?” he asked, gesturing at Salim’s clothing.

Salim laughed. Then laughed harder, making their horses shy.

“What?” John asked as he got his horse back under control.

“Dara may! In fact, I will suggest the very thing to him this afternoon if you cannot beat me to the manufactory!” Salim called over his shoulder, snapping heels to his horse and riding for the gap in the berm.


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