Nadira bent close, whispering, not unkindly, in her ear, “Do not make your brother kill the honorable-and handsome-amir for loving what he cannot have, Begum Sahib.”
Jahanara winced.
Obeisance paid, Salim departed with a horseman’s rolling gait.
The Princess of Princesses tried-and failed-to avert her gaze from his strong, broad back.
Nadira giggled softly, shaking her head.
Dara, meanwhile, picked up one of the books the Amir had left behind and muttered, “Fascinating.”
Fingers twitching with the desire to read them for herself, she cautioned him, “And dangerous, brother.”
He glanced at the jali, frowned, “Well, of course.”
“If it is true, how do we present this information to father?”
“If?”
“Well, I haven’t seen the images he gave, and his story beggars belief.”
Dara, more excited than she had seen him since his wedding day, picked up the books and two flat pieces of paper Salim had called “photographs” and walked toward the jali. One of his eunuchs opened the concealed portal, ensuring his master did not have to slow. A few more strides and Dara was standing over his wife and sister.
He handed Jahanara the image. It was on a piece of paper, glossy on one side, no bigger than a large man’s hand. The subject within was of a large white-marble building of enormous size and great beauty, surrounded on all four sides by matching minarets with a great giant onion of a dome in the middle. Lettering in the Latin alphabet, inked in lurid red, lined the top of the image.
Nadira, leaning to look over her shoulder, asked, “What did he say this reads?”
“Greetings from the Taj Mahal! Greatest of The Seven Wonders of the World!” Dara answered from memory, smiling fondly at his wife. “They even have the coloring of the letters the correct red, to honor the family war-tent colors.”
“But what-”
“It is a corruption of mother’s title,” Dara answered her question before it was fully voiced.
Nadira even scowled prettily, “Mumtaz Mahal becomes Taj Mahal? How does this happen?”
“I presume it happens after near four hundred years and across several languages, my love.”
“But how do you know it’s accurate, light of my heart?”
“Father’s plans are set and construction begun.” He tapped the photograph. “Mother’s tomb will look like this, though I do not see the MoonlitGarden across the river.”
Tears filled Jahanara’s eyes. To think her father’s grief had carried across the centuries and thousands of kos to peoples so distant caused her heart to ache-not for her father-but for her own fate. She would, as a daughter of her house, never marry, never know the heat of a love that would make a man like her father to grieve so terribly he would build a monument to their love that would last through the ages.
She lowered her head, shamed by the depth of self-pity she felt. It seemed extraordinarily sinful in the face of what the amir had told them the future histories contained: that two of her brothers would be executed-and her father left to wither and die-while Aurangzeb expended the strength of the Empire in bloody attempts to suppress the Hindu religion and conquer the remainder of the sub-continent.
Fear and concern for the future of her family rode self-pity and shame down under flashing hooves. Jahanara cleared her throat. “I am willing to believe the amir, but how do we tell father?”
“Don’t you mean what?”
“No, I mean how.”
Dara shrugged, “I didn’t think he needed to-”
She interrupted: “Father will not be inclined to overlook anything less than full disclosure, Dara. The amir told us that the remainder of Baram Khan’s followers should return within the month.” She gestured at the books. “And that they have more of these.”
“Yes, but-”
She held up a hand. “Father will find out if we withhold information-Nur Jahan will make sure of it-first Aurangzeb, and then Father, will be told what we have learned today.”
Dara sighed so deeply his wife laid a hand on his arm. “I still hold hope that we might yet get Aurangzeb to abandon his religious bigotry and open his heart to Mian Mir’s teachings.”
“An admirable-even saintly-hope, Dara. Unfortunately, there are far fewer saints in the world than sinners.”
As his hired boat turned in toward Agra’s docks, Salim noticed a boat that had departed Red Fort just after his was now changing course for shore. Two armed men stood behind the boatman paddling at the bow, but there was no visible cargo for them to guard, and both looked away when Salim turned his face in their direction.
He leaned over and spoke to the boat’s master, “If you can push the men hard for shore without appearing to, it will mean another rupee for you.”
The boatman, likely experienced with court intrigues, simply bobbed his head and started pulling deeper and harder with his paddle. His men took their lead from him and did so as well. Salim, not wanting to give the game away, looked straight ahead and fished in his sash for the payment.
During the last hundred paces to the dock, his boat had to maneuver around an outgoing craft. Salim took the opportunity to cast a surreptitious glance at the other boat. The distance between them had grown to nearly fifty paces, but he could see one of the armed men was bending their boatman’s ear about closing the distance while the other openly stared in Salim’s direction.
Now certain they were following him, Salim wondered who they served, Nur Jahan, would-be chooser of emperors, or her brother, Akbar Khan, the emperor’s first minister-or perhaps Mullah Mohan, Aurangzeb’s strictly orthodox teacher and advisor?
Not that it mattered if they were sent to do him harm. And, as they were armed and lacking in subtlety, just watching him go about his business didn’t seem likely.
Their lack of skills at intrigue did seem to rule out Nur Jahan, but she might be running short of skilled servants this long after being consigned to the harem with her grandniece.
Asaf Khan was still in favor at court, and therefore had no need of subtlety, but Salim knew of no reason the wazir would want him accosted or killed.
No, the more he thought on it, the more likely it seemed that Mullah Mohan was behind these men. The mullah had no love of Mian Mir’s accepting policy toward the Hindus and other religions of the land, and had tried to get the living saint removed from his position as teacher to Shah Jahan’s children on more than one occasion.
As the boat nudged the dock, Salim dropped payment in the master’s lap and stepped off. The man’s breathless but cheerful thanks followed him as he turned for the crowded market at the foot of the docks. He glanced back as he neared the first of the merchant’s stalls. The men had made landfall and were hurrying to catch up, shoving people out of their way.
Salim merged with the crowds of shoppers, bearers, and traders. The market had the frenetic atmosphere such places took on before the muezzin called the faithful to sunset prayers. Not that all, or even most, of the people shared faith in Allah and his Prophet; but the Hindus of the capital were cautious, not inclined to even the appearance of disrespect toward the religion of their ruler, and would slow or cease business during the hours of prayer. That could pose problems once the call to prayer began.
He lost track of the men within three steps. Hoping they would do the same, he started in the direction of his lodgings. The sun continued its dive to the hills beyond the river.
Salim saw the boy hanging by one hand from the trellis of an inn as he was leaving the market. He wouldn’t have thought anything of the skinny urchin but for the fact the boy pointed straight at him and continued to do so as he moved through the crowds.
“Paid eyes,” he muttered. Were he given to cursing, Salim would have. Instead he quickened his steps, hoping to get out of sight before the boy could direct the men to him.
“There!” It wasn’t a shout, but the word was spoken with an air of command.
Salim
turned. It was one of men from the boat. The man was already pounding his way, naked steel in hand. The more distant man was waving an arm, most likely summoning more men.
Breaking into a run, Salim looked for places to lose his pursuers or, if he must, make a stand. Nothing looked promising in the first length of road but he hesitated to take one of the side streets for fear it would dead-end. He held little hope of outrunning the pursuers. Had he a horse, even a nag, under him, things would be different. Afoot though-he could already hear the first man closing the distance.
He picked a spot, decided it was as good as any. Placing his back to a stack of great clay urns, Salim turned to face his pursuer, blade flickering to hand.
The younger man didn’t slow, charging in, howling, “God is great!” as he swept his blade down in an untrained and fatally stupid overhand cut.
Salim deflected the blade to his outside right and twisted his wrist, sending his own slashing across the man’s torso.
Unable to stop, the man ran up the blade and opened his gut to the evening air, battle cry becoming a wail for his mother. The man staggered another step, tripped in his own entrails and fell to his knees.
Salim took a two-handed grip, brought the sword down with all the power of back and shoulders. The blade nearly severed the man’s neck, ending the cries.
As the corpse fell he turned and saw the easy killing of the one had given his other pursuer pause.
Knowing he was done for if the man waited for help, Salim spat in his direction.
The man didn’t respond to the insult.
Salim rolled his wrist. Steel hissed as it parted air, casting a thin line of blood in the dust of the street. By happenstance instead of intent, a drop of blood just reached the other man’s boot.
Eyes went wide with rage. Uneven teeth bared behind his thick beard, the man advanced. Despite his anger, this man was a far more capable adversary.
Salim was forced to retreat, working to deflect several fast and powerful strokes. Timing them, he found an opening and chopped a short hard strike at the other man’s hand. It missed the mark but slapped the inner curve of the other’s sword, sending it out of line.
Reversing direction, Salim stepped close and forced the other man’s sword away. He shot his free hand around the back of the man’s neck and pulled, hard, even as he threw his own head forward and dipped his chin.
Cartilage and bone ruptured under his forehead.
Fireworks exploded and danced.
Blinking, he chopped a blow that had more of savagery than art at his reeling opponent. His sword cleaved the man’s collarbone and hacked through the first three bones of the upper ribcage before lodging fast.
“Heretic!” the man burbled, mouth filling with blood.
Mullah Mohan it was, then.
The dead man collapsed, eyes still full of hate. Salim put boot to corpse to wrest his sword free.
The muezzin called the faithful to prayer as Salim turned and resumed his run.
Father settled himself, the unrelenting white of his robes of mourning making him stand out among the reds and golds of the cushions like a lily among orchids. Prayer beads in hand, he nodded at Jahanara.
Two slaves-selected by Jahanara for their pleasing manner and skill at anticipating the emperor’s needs as much as their desire to serve as tasters-knelt to either side of him, ready to serve the choicest morsels. At her direction, others of the harem slaves entered carrying tray after tray of delights for his meal.
Beyond ensuring the service was faultless, Jahanara spared no thought for the food. Instead she watched Father closely from under long lashes. There were lines on his face and white in his beard that had not been there before mother passed. The thought of Mother, especially at this moment, brought a hollow ache to her spirit.
Instead of turning from the ache, she embraced it, armored herself in it, knowing her mother would approve of her actions today, despite what woe she might bring to Father. And Jahanara had no doubt the plan would add to Father’s woes, just as she had no doubt that what she was about was absolutely necessary for the survival of the family, most especially if her family were to mean more to history than a divisive, degenerate, and despotic dynasty that left the varied nations under their care open to occupation and subjugation by Europeans.
Jahanara glanced down the line of women to her left, those who were not his wives but lived under Father’s protection in the harem. As she had arranged, Nur Jahan was not present due to an upset stomach. It had been the one point of failure of the plan. It was never certain exactly when her woman in Nur’s service could administer the mild poison, and harder still to judge when it would take effect. That difficulty combined with the fact that Dara could not very well linger in the harem led her brother to grant permission for her to speak to father on behalf of both of them.
God, of course, quickly made them glad of their careful plotting. No sooner had Dara agreed to let her speak for him than Asaf Khan, Father’s wazir and their maternal grandfather, had invited Dara to a hunt a few days from Agra. He had only departed this morning, so it had been just barely possible Prasad would find Dara and return in time. Father finished the main courses, began to indulge in a few desserts.
Time was nearly up.
Weeks of preparation and planning had led to this moment. Despite Dara’s absence, she must move forward.
Mustering courage, she spoke. “Father?”
He turned his head to look upon her, eyes warming ever so slightly as they lit on her face. “Yes, daughter?”
“I have something I wish to show you, something important.”
He waved a hand, granting her leave to approach.
She rose and padded to him on henna-painted feet. The slave-girls rose gracefully and retreated to stand with their backs to the wall of the Red Fort.
Father watched her, sad smile making his beard twitch. “You are so like your mother, Jahanara.”
The princess knelt before Father and bowed deeply, smiling in return. “It is good to hear you speak of her without such pain.”
He punched his bearded chin in the direction of the growing monument to his love. “The heart heals as the walls of her monument rise, daughter.” He blinked, spoke to the distance. “Even so, I will never be whole again until we are together in Paradise.”
She bowed her head again, suddenly uncertain.
He sighed, the sound bearing more of quiet contentment than pain. He took her hand. “What is it, beloved daughter?”
“Father, I would show you a picture.”
“Oh?”
“But first- you remember sending Baram Khan on his errand?”
Shah Jahan’s grip tightened on her hand. “To the village the Jesuits reported had sprung into being someplace in Europe?” he asked, a little sharply.
“Yes, Father,” Jahanara answered, wondering if she had not chosen the wrong entry to the conversation. The Jesuits and their hosts, the Portuguese, were only recently returned to, if not favor, then the tolerance of the emperor. The Portuguese and their priests had proved faithless when Father requested their aid in his rebellion against Jahangir and his step-mother, Nur Jahan. Possessed of a long memory, Shah Jahan had ordered punitive raids into the Portuguese colonies along the coast almost as soon as he took the throne, taking many prisoners.
“What of it?” he asked, more calmly, gaze already drifting over her shoulder to the distant site of her mother’s tomb.
She took a breath, dove in. “It did come from the future, as mother’s astrologers claimed.”
His gaze snapped to her face, locking her eyes to his like chains of hardened steel as he snapped questions at her. “And where is Baram Khan? Where is that craven supporter of the pretender to power, Nur Jahan? Does he think to avoid my eternalanger by telling my daughter his report in my stead? I am not the broken man I was when his perfidy was discovered. I will not fail to punish him this time!”
Jahanara, shaken by the heat of him, spoke quickly, “Dea
d, Father. Baram Khan sickened and died in that far-off land that is host to the village from the future.”
Shah Jahan looked away, sniffed.
Released from his gaze, Jahanara felt as if she had stepped from a cold darkness into warm sunlight. Remembering her purpose, she gathered her tattered calm and summoned her body-slave to bring forward the ‘postcard.’
Father’s anger was not entirely gone. “Who brings his lies before us, if he is dead?”
She took the card. “I beg your indulgence, Father. Decide after you have seen the proofs before dismissing the claims.”
“Who?” he asked, still insisting, but more gently.
“No one you know, Father. He is another disciple of Mian Mir, one who has proven an honest and loyal servant to the living saint and, by extension, your person. He took great risks-at hazard of his own life-to bring word ahead of Baram Khan’s remaining servants.”
Clearly still skeptical, the emperor opened his mouth to ask another question.
Greatly daring, Jahanara spoke over him. “This, Father, is one of the proofs.” She lowered her head and presented the postcard.
His hand left hers, pulled the photograph from her outstretched hand.
She left her hand extended, hoping he would take it again.
Long moments passed in a silence Jahanara barely dared breathe into.
A tear struck her palm.
Jahanara looked up.
Shah Jahan, emperor of the Mughals, cried a river of tears in total silence, postcard in hand.
Sole Heir
Terry Howard
Grantville, Early Spring 1636
"I got a letter today from Wolmirstedt. They wanted me to know that Otto Schmidt died. His shop is sitting empty. They are asking if we're coming back. And, they want to know what we're going to do about Anna," Arnulf Meier announced to his family, and everyone else at the dinner table.
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