“Forgive me, Bobby. I was not laughing at you. Your question caused a strong memory to surface.” He sobered further. “One that should serve as a firm reminder to me of the perils of man’s stubbornness and basic assumptions regarding reality.”
Bobby’s expression eased at the apology, but Ricky could read his friend’s expression. Bobby still needed to know what was so funny before he’d forgive the man.
“Given the reputation you up-timers have for technological wonders, I had assumed you knew all the properties of saltpeter, and that those several properties were the reason you sought the substance in the first place, and why I was instructed to purchase so much on your behalf.”
“Saltpeter…” Bobby mused, looking at the ewer. “You put saltpeter in the water?”
“Yes. Stirring a sufficient quantity of the substance into water causes it to grow quite chill, though it does not solidify into ice.”
Endothermic reaction. The phrase bubbled up from Chemistry 101. And here I thought I’d forgot everything I ever learned in Chem.
“So, to answer your question without laughter: no blood was spilled or lost to make your drink cool, my friend.” His grin grew and he waggled his head. “A lot of piss, however, was poured.”
Bobby looked uncomfortably at the ewer, making Jadu chuckle again. “They use urine to speed production of saltpeter. Vast quantities of it, from both humans and livestock.
“In fact, with every purchase of saltpeter we made for the Company, the English factor I used to work for always muttered”—he dropped into English, the King’s English—“‘This will drive the God-damned and Devil-loving petermen out of business for good.’”
“Petermen?” Bobby asked, interested despite himself.
Jadu returned to Persian. “To hear him tell it: Men who were licensed by the English king to enter a man’s home and property to collect saltpeter wherever it may lay. They were even allowed to damage that property in order to collect the substance. Given how our own imperial jagirs are managed, I find it easy to imagine quite a few instances of corruption that might have led to my employer’s low opinion of petermen.”
“No offense, but I still don’t see why you found my question so funny.”
“Forgive me, I was recalling a similar conversation with my former employer, who was, in his own parlance, a tight-fisted bastard. When available, he insisted on purchasing ice instead of using any of the Company’s wares. When it wasn’t available, or too dear—which was most of the time—he went without…” Jadu trailed off, looking sidelong at the up-timers.
“And?” Bobby asked.
“And he died of heatstroke, sitting atop a cart containing enough saltpeter to cool a good-sized pond.”
Both up-timers stood silent a second, then burst into laughter.
The wisdom of his long-ago choice to avoid the fermented grape confirmed by the antics of those he served, Vikram left the pitcher behind and departed, smiling.
Patna market
The market was busy even in the heat of the afternoon, though most of the traffic consisted of the servants of the great merchants, rather than the men themselves.
Ricky enjoyed watching the activity, if not the powerful odors that accompanied them: spices, unwashed flesh, strange incense, and weaving through it all, the moist, mud-laden scent of the Ganges.
Jadu was busy finalizing the arrangements for taking possession of another shipment of saltpeter. At least, he was supposed to be—but he seemed to be spending more time complaining, loudly and at length, of the cost. They’d run out of goods to barter with and Jadu hated, absolutely hated, spending cold, hard cash. He liked to claim that making a profit was easier when he could talk up the value of his goods and denigrate the value of those goods offered in exchange than when offering coin.
While he complained on the market side of the awning set up for his trade along the edge of the market, Ricky and Bobby were on the back side, along the stone stairs that led down to the river. They were watching the river, just as they had done for weeks, keeping track of the number of troop barges arriving from farther south and east, which was slow and stupid-boring make-work, but it might prove useful, eventually. Jadu said so, at any rate.
“What’s that, you say?” Jadu barked. Voice raised, not in complaint, but in question. “You are the tax collector here?”
Bobby started to get up, but Ricky grabbed his arm and kept him still.
“And to whom will my taxes go, then?” Jadu said, just as loudly, but without the biting tone of his earlier question.
Ricky smiled. The clever merchant was speaking so loudly, not from thoughtlessness, but for the benefit of the up-timers. Bobby smiled back a beat later, and together they snuck to a position where they could better hear what was being said without revealing themselves.
“I am not saying I will not pay the tax! I only ask to whom it will be paid!”
“The governor,” the tax collector said, voice tight.
“The governor, you say?”
Ricky’s grin grew wider. From his tone, you’d never guess he hates revenuers at least as much as my pa.
“I do. Now, I will see your books, that I may make a proper assessment.”
“Of course, my friend. Perhaps something cool to drink while you do?” Ricky heard the snap of Jadu’s fingers.
“I would not refuse such a kindness.”
“Good, good. Perhaps a seat in the shade as well? Here, take mine.” A brief pause in Jadu’s patter, filled with a creaking sound as Jadu’s camp chair had a heavy load placed upon it, then he continued, “As we speak of kindnesses done from one to another, I would ask a small one of you. A trifle, really.”
“A trifle?” the man asked, voice full of resigned suspicion. Probably expecting the usual plea from merchants, a request that Jadu be exempted from taxes just this once.
Vikram stepped into view from the front of the
