Baring set down Alan Wilson's examination paper and studied it for a moment, his expression unreadable. He had given the young man every advantage — the questions in advance, a generous interpretation of "open book" — yet the answers showed more than preparation. They showed judgment. An instinct for the machinery of power in South Asia that was rare, even among older men.
"Hyderabad is not a large posting in terms of numbers," Baring said at last, voice level. "Barely two hundred British personnel in the Residency, fewer than a thousand across every post combined. But it is important. Very important. Your first duty is to maintain cordial relations with His Exalted Highness, Mir Osman Ali Khan. That will do more for the Crown than any decree from Delhi."
Alan inclined his head, all quiet confidence."True cordiality requires sincerity, sir — and in that I am prepared. Hyderabad issues its own currency, commands its own railways, post, and armed forces. The Nizam's attitude toward London will influence the other five hundred princely rulers. I will ensure he sees no cause for discontent."
"Good." Baring's eyes narrowed with something between approval and warning. "Three days, and you'll have your appointment in hand. I understand you've been recruiting at Delhi University — all young men?"
"And women," Alan corrected mildly.
"Mm. Then a word of caution. Youthful arrogance must be checked. British rule in India has endured because it is not solely a matter of force. Flexibility matters as much as authority. Sometimes… one must work with tradition, not against it."
Alan allowed himself the faintest smile. The British were masters of using the smallest lever for the greatest effect. Even in their failures, they learned quickly where not to meddle.
Hyderabad, he reflected, was the perfect example. A Muslim ruler over an eighty-percent Hindu population; wealthy beyond measure, yet politically isolated. It was the inverse of Kashmir, and equally precarious. The Nizam's independence would never survive the tide of events — but his friendship could serve the Empire, and Alan, well enough in the meantime.
Osman Ali Khan's fortune was legendary. Time magazine had once called him the richest man alive — two billion dollars in contemporary terms, and that before counting the vaults of jewels. His family had ruled the state since the eighteenth century, and he alone among Indian rulers held a royal title from London without ever having set foot in Britain. During the Great War, he had gifted the British Treasury vast sums — unasked and without condition.
An ally worth cultivating.
Baring leafed through the list of assistants Alan had submitted: ten young graduates, all from Delhi University. Their inexperience was obvious, but the real concern lay elsewhere.
"No Soviet sympathies?" Baring asked, glancing up.
"None that would survive the train ride to Hyderabad," Alan replied dryly.
The older man's mouth twitched. The fear was not misplaced — Cambridge had its "Five," and Moscow never ceased probing for cracks. The Empire had been guarding against Bolshevik influence since the day the Soviet Union was born.
Alan, of course, was thinking of the Cambridge Five too — but in a different way. Someday, he might use such people to advance his career… or destroy them to polish his own record. That day was not yet. First, he needed results here, in the Empire's most valuable — and soon to be lost — possession.
When the security checks came back clean, the appointment was sealed.
Standing before his team — ten sharp-eyed young men and women, all improbably close to his own age — Alan finally felt the weight of command settle on his shoulders. In another time, it might have been laughable. But this was wartime, and the absurd had become normal.
"Our destination," he began, voice carrying just enough official gravity, "is the princely state of Hyderabad, in the Deccan plateau. Before we depart, there is one principle you must understand. When dealing with the Nizam, you will show courtesy. That is not optional. We may advise; we do not interfere."
One of the men — Andy, if Alan recalled correctly — muttered, "It's just a princely state. We represent the British Empire."
Alan's gaze cooled."His Exalted Highness is a guest of London, and is treated with honor even by the King-Emperor. The princely states are not provinces. Their rulers' authority within their borders is absolute. Unless you believe your own authority exceeds that of His Majesty…"
Andy had the sense to look away.
Alan straightened, the smallest hint of a smile ghosting across his face. The role fit him better than expected.
The ink on his appointment was barely dry, and already — to some — he was the embodiment of imperial authority.
Yes. This was how it began.