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 thatwoman 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 everyonefled. 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 foryour family, rather than fearing certain members ofit.”

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 third 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.