“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!”