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.