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 julabmostto 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 jaliseparated 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 jaliat 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 jaliwhile 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 disagreeing 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.