“Ah, you see, it’s a small matter…Ah, our drink is here!”
Only after the wine was poured and goblets touched did Jadu resume speaking. “This small matter I spoke of…” Jadu paused again, this time the sound of his document chest being opened filling the pause, then the sound of shuffled papers. “A matter most delicate. Delicate, but minor…One that this humble servant wishes to clarify with someone of wisdom and intelligence. Someone like you…”
“What is this?” the tax man asked.
Jadu’s lowered voice was still audible. “That, neighbor, is a firman exempting my trade in opium and saltpeter from any and all taxes normally levied in the empire, signed by the emperor Dara Shikoh.”
“Ah.”
Ricky had always wondered what writers meant when they wrote stuff like pregnant pause, but figured the silence that followed Jadu’s statement must qualify.
“You see my problem, my good man?” Jadu asked, after a moment.
“I think I do.”
“Well, have you some wisdom to share with this poor merchant?”
“I, perhaps, do.”
“Please, then, share it.” Ricky heard the faint clink of coins being passed. “For I know not what to do.”
“Well, it is quite clear, here…You see…”
“Please, do tell.”
“This morning, I myself was at the palace…”
“You were?”
“Indeed I was.”
“Among the exalted of the empire, then?”
“Indeed, though I do not step above my station. No, I was there to receive instruction.”
“Oh?”
“Indeed. We were all told that every merchant trading in Patna was required to resume payment of the emperor’s taxes.”
“And, dear neighbor?”
“Well, there was no mention of which emperor. So, clearly, your firman takes precedence and all prudent men will abide by its terms.”
“But, then, where does the money go if not to serve the emperor in Agra?”
A loud snort. “Sooner ask where the monsoon rains go as ask where the taxes paid go, in the end!”
Ricky thought Jadu laughed harder than the weak joke warranted, but the tax collector must have enjoyed it because he continued, “The money is collected by Asaf Khan’s wazir at the palace.”
Ricky stifled a sigh of disappointment. This they knew within hours of entering the city.
“And where is Asaf Khan and the great army he was sent here with?”
“In the east, still. Everyone says so. Though no one knows where, precisely.”
“And so, who then, is this wazir?”
“And why do you ask?”
“Well, who is he, to be trusted with the revenue of so many merchants? And why now? I have not seen a single one of your fellow tax men about…”
“So interesting that you should ask, my dear friend merchant…”
Another pause followed.
This time Jadu must have retrieved additional coin from the strongbox he kept on the table, as the hinges squeaked loudly (a security measure, he’d assured the up-timers).
“Shaista Khan, Asaf Khan’s son, returned two days ago. He promptly ousted the man Asaf had left behind when that most famous general sailed down the Ganges.”
“Oh?”
“Shaista had the old hand whipped from the palace. I’m surprised the market gossip had not already spread.”
“It will now,” Bobby mouthed, grinning.
Ricky nodded back, still listening.
“Did you, by chance, learn when the legendary Asaf Khan will be returning? I saw him several times, from afar, in Lahore. A most impressive figure.”
“Soon, I think. Why, only yesterday evening I recognized one of his most famous captains—the commander of his personal guard, I believe—at the horse market.”
“I am impressed by your acumen, neighbor. Not every man is as aware of the comings and goings of great men. I count myself very lucky to have made your acquaintance.”
“Humbly, I try to be…My father made sure to teach me that every man must take note of the doings of great men, if only to avoid being swept aside by their activities. I still have rounds to make, but rest assured that your firman will be honored by this humble collector of taxes…”
Jadu was staring unseeing at something in the distance when the up-timers emerged. Seeing he was busy, Vikram gestured them to take seats and poured them drinks while they waited.
“Never thought I would get used to drinking so much wine,” Bobby said, gesturing with his cup, “but I can’t remember the last time I had a hangover.”
“I still remember the first time I got wasted.” He dropped into English on the last word.
Bobby answered in the same language: “Me too. Freshman year. That party in the cut after homecoming, right?”
“Yup.” Ricky shook his head, rueful. “God, but I got sick.”
“I’d still prefer that brutal hangover to the squirts I got from just an accidental sip of the river.”
“I was told the waters of England are no better,” Jadu said, a defensive note in his voice.
Bobby turned to face Jadu and raised his hands. He apologized in Persian and continued in that language: “It wasn’t an attack on the quality of the water here. Really.”
Ricky nodded and tried to explain further. “I’m amazed we weren’t sick more often when we came to this time. We were so used to having everything cleaned for us it’s a wonder that we aren’t sick all the time.”
Jadu waved a hand and changed the subject. “You heard my conversation?”
Picking up on the fact Jadu didn’t want to go down the rabbit hole of yet another discussion of the many differences between the time they came from and those they found themselves in, both up-timers nodded and gladly let the matter drop.
“Your thoughts?” Jadu asked, his thoughtful tone suggesting he wanted to use the young men as sounding boards.
Bobby looked at Ricky, who answered for them both. “Seems like someone must have won whatever fight was going on in Asaf Khan’s camp.”
Jadu’s brow arched under his turban. “And what makes you say that?”
“Because we didn’t see blood in the streets, or hear about fighting at the palace,” Bobby said.
“Explain.”
“I figure if the guy who was running things in Asaf Khan’s absence thought he had a chance at a
