Hearing a horse in the courtyard below, he stepped to the window at the end of the hall in time to see the physician ride out of the torch-lit courtyard. Good riddance. The man had proved almost worthless, failing, even, to see what was plain to Salim and anyone else with experience of court life: Baram Khan had been poisoned.
It wasn’t even entirely the pompous courtier’s fault he was dying. Baram Khan’s tasters had all died in various mishaps before the envoy even entered the Germanies. Then, understandably angry at being robbed by Grantville’s mercenaries-which the Mughal noble could only see as confirmation of the histories Salim was translating for him-Baram Khan departed the wonders of Grantville before new tasters could be found.
No one knew who had killed Baram Khan but, like everyone else in the man’s entourage, Salim had an idea who it might be.
Salim shook his head. Regardless of the who and the how of the current situation, decisions had to be made.
Rehan Usmani, Baram’s first servant, would want to return immediately to Aggra and report events to Nur Jahan.
Fear seized his heart at the thought. Little could be worse for the Empire and Mian Mir’s hopes than that woman possessing proofs Aurangzeb would, in his hunt for the throne, imprison his own father and murder his brothers.
Baram Khan’s exile on what the court had believed a fool’s errand had led to this much, at least: Salim had the books from the future, he had the pictures.
He could return to Mian Mir and ask the living saint what to do, couldn’t he?
Finding his answer in the question, Salim turned from the window, started for his chamber.
Grantville’s mercenary company might have stripped Baram Khan of everything of value he’d carried on his person, but his servants had passed largely unmolested. Salim still had several small pouches of fine gemstones, and knew where to sell a few.
At least five hours remained before morning prayers. He would pack quickly, walk a couple of the pathetic excuses for horseflesh from the manor and, once out of hearing, be on his way.
A long, dangerous journey lay ahead.
He smiled to think of it.
The siblings had barely greeted one another when the honeybee flew between them to land on the orchid and crawl into the purple folds of the flower, seeking the nectar within and drawing the Prince and Princess to watch in appreciative silence. Long moments passed, the heavy bloom trembling. Eventually the honeybee took flight from the flower, releasing the siblings from stillness much as it scattered the flower's golden pollen.
As the interloping insect disappeared deeper into the gardens, wingbeats joining the hum of the others of its hive, Dara Shikoh and Jahanara leaned back and regarded one another, much as they had many times before and, God willing, would have opportunity to do for many years to come.
Putting away her desire to immediately transcribe the beauty of the bee’s flight into poetry, Jahanara waited for her brother to speak. She noted his smooth brow was furrowed under the gorgeous yellow turban. She had not seen him so troubled since Aurangzeb’s poem had embarrassed him before all the court. Jahanara suppressed a shudder, recalling the events immortalized therein: the great war elephant, mad with rage and entirely out of control, trampling slaves and scattering the Imperial household. Her younger brother Aurangzeb, barely sixteen, calmly sitting his horse while everyone fled. The way clear, Aurangzeb charged the great bull elephant and struck it between the eyes, stinging it so badly it ceased its rampage.
The later poem that shamed those that fled brought mother’s sage advice to mind: “Men, they will always feel the bite of words stronger than steel. Steel kills, but one must live on with the words of others. Remember this, and keep your words like sharp steel, with caution and care.”
Keeping that advice uppermost in her mind, Jahanara folded hands in her lap, waiting. It was not often that their father’s eldest son came to visit, but when he did, it was nearly always to ask the same questions.
“And what of Father, sister mine?”
She smiled inwardly, but not wanting to show how easily she had read him and therefore hurt his feelings, she didn’t let the smile curve her lips. “He still pines for our beloved mother, of course. The only thing he looks forward to is the daily meeting with his advisors regarding Mother’s tomb.”
“His remaining wives?” Dara asked.
She smiled openly. She had been composing a verse this morning, a playful little thing, and used part of it now: “The harem persists in its perennial practices: showing their love of Father and whining at his inattention.”
Dara nodded absently but didn’t return her smile.
It was rare that he missed an opportunity to show his appreciation for her work. Resisting the urge to show her displeasure, she asked, “What troubles you, brother?”
“I wonder what it will take to shake Father from his grief.”
She strangled a sigh. “Must he be shaken?”
“Our family does not sit idle while one man mourns, sister.”
“No, but neither are they gathering armies to usurp Father’s place.”
“Not that we know of, at least.”
“Our friend Mian Mir, in his wisdom, would have you set aside your fear, brother.”
Dara sniffed, “I know. I would argue: it is no sin to fear for one’s family.”
“If you only feared for your family, rather than fearing certain members of it.”
Another sniff, this one companion to a bitter twist of the lips, “It has always been thus for the sons of our house.”
Thinking on the unfairness of that remark, Jahanara refused to let him see how much his self-pity annoyed her. “But our father would have it otherwise, for you.”
Looking through the walls of the garden, Dara whispered, voice so low it nearly drowned in the buzz of industrious insects about them: “Some days, I fear he might have chosen the wrong son. ”
****
The stream, swollen with the last of the monsoonal rains, presented less of a challenge than climbing the far bank, an unstable slope of dark, wet earth. Salim stood in the stirrups as his recently purchased and exceedingly expensive Arab slipped sideways half-way up the bank.
Something pointed made a dangerous whistling as it hummed through the space he’d just left, cutting off all thought of cursing his as-yet-unnamed horse.
He heard the snap of more bowstrings as he heeled his mount up the bank. Powerful hindquarters bunched, released, sending mount and rider surging up over the lip of the ravine and out of the path of the arrows.
Two men rushed from the tree line with spears, another emerging from the wood behind, urging them to the attack.
His horse’s scrambling leap had landed them perpendicular to the charging men. He added their position to the tally of the many things he would have to thank the Almighty for when next he had opportunity to face Mecca.
For now, though, the sword. It hissed from sheath and to hand.
His horse, shying from the shouting men, curvetted. Salim leaned sideways, using the mount’s momentum to bring his curved Persian steel sweeping across in a cut that connected with a spear shaft. Surprising him, the crude iron head flew free and over Salim’s shoulder, wielder staring at the cloven wood stump just above his hand. From the youth’s open-mouthed expression, he was clearly imagining what might have been had the sword struck below where he held it.
The other spear-bearer bored in and stabbed. The blade swept past Salim’s nose by a hand’s breadth.
While the first man stared at his severed spear, Salim’s still-spinning horse clipped his companion with a hoof, folding him with a grunt that ended in a roll down the riverbank.
Mindful of the target he now presented to the archers on the opposite bank, Salim spurred the Arab into flight. He angled away from the track and any additional brigands who might be lying in wait.
He heard the horseman pound into pursuit behind him.
An arrow flew past from the far shore, then another. A thi
rd traced a hot red line across his forearm, making him drop the reins. Thanks be to the Almighty, the horse had drawn his own conclusions about where safety lay and ran flat out through the narrow opening among the trees.
Out of sight of the archers, Salim spared a glance for his wound. It would keep. Leaning low over the horse’s neck, he retrieved the dropped rein and glanced behind.
On an inferior mount, the horseman had fallen behind in Salim’s short gallop to cover. Now, however, the tight confines of the trail favored the shorter horse and the rider with more intimate knowledge of the land.
At least the other wouldn’t be able to ride up alongside to strike.
There being nothing for it but to ride, Salim did just that. Long moments passed, the blowing of his horse and the pounding of hoofbeats beneath and behind his only company.
With a suddenness that hurt the eyes, the pursuit exploded from the wood and into bright sunlight. He felt his mount lengthen stride and gain speed, hoping it could see better than he could. Knowing he was gaining distance, Salim kept his face in the mane, hoping to present as small a target as possible in case his pursuer had a horse-bow.
Eyes adjusted, he looked back and saw the other rider was letting his horse slow, giving up the pursuit in a storm of curses.
Bandits, then.
Good. For a moment he’d worried that-despite all the measures he’d taken to avoid it-one of the prince’s rivals knew of his return and sought to kill him before what he carried could be explained.
He let his mount slow to a walk once he was certain the chase was ended. Remaining in the saddle, he spent some time dressing his wound and eating some of the food he’d purchased at the last caravanserai.
Many kos remained between him and Lahore, but he was at last nearing home. Checking the straps of his saddlebags, Amir Salim Gadh Visa Yilmaz rode on, contemplating suitable names for the horse.
****
Her favorite garden was quiet but for the buzz of insects and the musical sounds of water on stone. Most of the court were at Mother’s tomb while the emperor oversaw some detail of its construction. His absence and the oppressive heat left the Red Fort unusually quiet. Jahanara was taking full advantage of that quiet, enjoying a mango julabmost, idly crunching the flavored ice between her teeth while pondering the next few lines of the poem she was composing. The scroll lay ready before her, as were ink and brush.
She would commit nothing to paper until the verse was ready in her mind.
One of the harem eunuchs entered the garden and approached her small pavilion. As was proper, he knelt some distance away and waited to be recognized, sweating in the afternoon sun.
Taking pity on him, she handed the remainder of the julabmost to one of her Tartar guard-maidens and said simply, “Speak.”
“Begum Sahib, your brother’s wife, Nadira Begum Sahiba, inquires whether you are available to come to her sometime this afternoon?”
Sudden concern stabbed her. Nadira was pregnant with Dara’s first child. “Did she say why?”
“It is some matter that Shahazada Dara Shikoh brought to her attention, Begum Sahib. Something between him and one of the amirs of the court,” a brief hesitation and licking of lips, “whose name escapes this witless servant.”
“Oh?”
The eunuch bent forward over his large belly, head nearly touching the grass. “Begum Sahib, I beg forgiveness; it is a worthless slave who forgets too much of his mistress’ business to ever warrant the trust placed in him.”
Jahanara nodded, understanding the subtext quite well-Nadira had not told the slave the name of her husband’s guest, clearly wanting to surprise her. Or the prince himself wanted to limit the ears that would hear the Amir’s name.
Interest piqued, she spoke: “I will attend Nadira Begum once I am finished here. Take word, and know that she will not hear of your lapse in memory from me.”
“You do me great honor, Shahazada Dara Shikoh,” Salim said, bowing low over rich carpets. It was not often a lowly amir found himself invited into the inner chambers of one of the Princes of the Blood. So private was the interview that only the beautifully carved sandstone of a jali separated the men from the prince’s harem. A rare honor indeed.
“It is I who is honored by your fine service in the face of terrible obstacles.” Dara waved a hand at a cushion beside him. “Please, take your ease and tell us of your travels and the fate of Father’s mission to the west and this city the Jesuits claim appeared with a snap of Shaitan’s fingers.”
A wordless sound of surprise escaped the jali at this announcement of Salim’s most recent adventures. Careful not to look too closely at the screen and therefore see the forbidden, Salim crossed to the offered seat and bowed deeply again. Hedecided it was better not to ask who was watching from the harem, assuming the prince would tell him if the prince wished him to know.
So close was the rich cushion to the Dara Shikoh that Salim was suddenly very glad he’d had opportunity to bathe and perfume himself before the audience. He leaned on his injured arm as he sat, wincing as the movement pulled at the wound. He ignored the pain, hoping it had not been pulled open: far easier to replace a bit of blood than the cotton tunic purchased for this interview. Or worse yet, to spill blood on a cushion or carpet worth more than his entire clan’s yearly income.
The prince’s slaves entered and presented refreshments on ornate trays of plate of gold. “First, take refreshment before you tell us of your adventures and the fate of Baram Khan.”
Salim protested, only to have the Dara direct a mischievous grin at the jali while speaking to him: “Salim, allow me to fill your belly before you fill our ears. It will serve to whet our appetite for your news.”
A throaty, musical note of feminine laughter issued from beyond the jali.
Dara ate little himself, but encouraged Salim to try some of the more exotic dishes.
Too nervous to take note of what he was eating, let alone enjoy the delicacies offered, Salim managed to eat a few sweets and was sipping a deliciously cool drink when a soft voice issued from beyond the jali. “The amir is hurt, brother.”
Dara stopped packing his pipe of opium and looked at Salim, brow arching.
Mortified, Salim glanced at his arm. Sure enough, blood stained the sleeve. “It is nothing, Shahazada, a momentary disagreement between flesh and arrow.”
“Arrow?” Dara asked, setting aside his pipe.
He answered carefully. “Robbers on the road, Shahazada.”
“A plague. Some hillmen never learn.”
Salim nodded. “They are a problem in every kingdom.”
The voice returned. “Hillmen or robbers?”
Unsure if he should respond directly to the woman, Salim did not answer.
Another wicked grin from Dara. “My sister, the Begum Sahib, would have an answer, I think.”
Clearing his throat, Salim spoke, “Begum Sahib, not all robbers are hillmen, though it has been my experience that the more successful are.”
Another woman giggled, but the penetrating questions continued through it, “Then you were not attacked by hillmen, were you?”
“I thought them Bhils, from their lack of horses and skill at archery. I would not be before you if they had such knowledge.”
“And you are a proper hillman, are you not?”
Salim nodded. “My village is just this side of the Khyber Pass, Begum Sahib.”
“Pashtun?”
He nodded again. “Yusufzai, yes.” He glanced at Dara, found the young prince looking at him, eyes glittering.
“Our forebear passed through there after many great battles.”
“A similar tale is told in my family, Begum Sahib,” Salim answered, thoughtlessly.
The Princess of Princesses pounced on it. “Similar, only?”
Salim’s heart seized.
“Oh, you’ve done it now!” Dara chortled.
“Stop it, Dara! I will not beg Father to have this man trampled by elephants simply for dis
agreeing with me on points of history!”
Dara laughed outright, then held his breath.
Salim prayed silently.
The moment stretched like the skin of a drum.
Softly, Begum Sahib spoke again: “Though I might consider going to him if the amir doesn’t answer promptly.”
The prince doubled over on his cushion, laughing hard and loud at Salim’s expression.
“Yes, Begum Sahib. Our family history claims that Emperor Babar took for one of his ten wives the daughter of one of our greatest chiefs, a beauty named Bibi Mubarika. Thus, he and his armies had the way opened for them through the Khyber.”
“Don’t let my little brother-or my father’s generals-hear you say that,” Dara said between fits of laughter.
A delicate sniff from beyond the jali. “Aurangzeb will not hear it from me, Dara.”
Hoping to return the conversation to safer ground, Salim ventured, “It is that marriage, in a roundabout way, which brings me to serve the Emperor’s firstborn, Begum Sahib.”
Dara gestured at his guest. “The amir Salim is also a fellow student of Mian Mir’s teachings, sister.”
Salim nodded. “The saint is wise, and asked me to accompany Baram Khan on his mission.”
Dara looked at the jali. When there was nothing further from Begum Sahib, he gestured Salim to continue.
“Nur Jahan’s man, Baram Khan, is dead. Poisoned by someone in the kingdom of Thuringia. It was done so that he would not bring back word of the future and what happens to this land.”
“Thank you, Sahazada Dara Shikoh,” Amir Salim Gadh Visa Yilmaz said with a bow. The man turned and faced the jali, bowing nearly as low as he had for Dara.
She willfully turned away from the impure thoughts that rose up as she looked into the man’s pale green eyes, aided by the fact that he could not see her strong reaction.
Nadira, sitting beside her, nudged her with an elbow.
She looked at her sister-in-law. A great beauty, she was also a great friend to Jahanara. When Mother died, Jahanara had been left with responsibility of planning Dara’s marriage celebrations, during which she had come to know and appreciate the kind and gentle spirit of her sister-to-be. Such spirit was not common in the harems of powerful men.
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