1637: The Peacock Throne, стр. 22
“Huh. Didn’t realize you all imported horses.”
“Oh, the empire imports something like eight in ten of its horses. The trade is quite lucrative,” said Salim. “I myself came down from the high country with a herd to sell. India is not considered very healthy for most breeds, and the better areas have to compete with farming intended to feed the people rather than livestock. Besides, Uzbeks, Persians, Arabs, Afghans, and even the Turks provide better horseflesh than any domestic bloodline.”
“The Rathores may differ with you on that, Salim. They do think the world of their Marwari breed!” the emperor pronounced, entering the chamber with a pair of attendants on his heels.
“Greetings, Sultan Al’Azam!” Salim said, unsure how to proceed. His protocol lessons, while thorough, hadn’t covered nakedness before the emperor.
“Did my doctors prescribe the cold baths for you, too, my friend?” Dara asked with a wave at Gervais and Rodney that almost struck one of the attendants removing his robes of state.
“Indeed, Sultan Al’Azam,” Salim answered, watching closely as one silent eunuch raised his hands and waited for permission to unwind the turban covering Dara’s head. The emperor leaned over slightly to allow the young slave to work. They made no sound as they finished disrobing the emperor. That part of his mind not examining the scar Dara had taken trying to save his father’s life began to wonder after a moment if they were all mutes or something.
Dara’s scar looked like some of his own, but Salim knew the head injury was more problematic. He had hoped to find Dara fully recovered, but knew from earlier conversations that the up-timers were concerned about the wound. A “severe concussion,” they called it.
“We really just want you as rested, relaxed, and comfortable as you can be, to better speed your recovery, Sultan Al’Azam,” Gervais said, approaching his patient with a smile.
“How are your energy levels? Your thinking remain clear?”
“Sultan Al’Azam, are you certain you wish your doctors to speak so freely—” Salim said before he could answer, glancing significantly from the emperor to the attendants.
“I am.” He gestured at the slave to his right, who bowed and leaned his head back, revealing a thin white scar beside his Adam’s apple. “They are all mutes, by one cause or another. I was told that Ishaan here was stabbed in the throat by some street rat when but a child, yet through the grace of God, survived.”
The mute nodded, bowed, and withdrew with the emperor’s clothing.
Dara lowered himself into the cool bath beside Salim.
Gervais bent to examine Dara’s head from beside the pool.
“I apologize, Sultan Al’Azam. I should have guessed that you would be well protected in your own harem.”
“I count it no sin to err trying to protect me, even from myself. I might have said Jahanara was being paranoid just a few months ago…”
“A wise thing, then, to take such precautions.”
Gervais cleared his throat.
“My doctor wishes an answer, Amir.” He pushed off from the bench, turned, and submerged himself. He came up, long hair dripping, and said quietly, eyes haunted, “I tire easily. I am easily confused. I cannot concentrate. My head aches abominably from time to time.”
“What happened to make you confused?”
“I made a mistake today in court. Then, after, I could not recall what that mistake might have been, only that I had made one.” Dara let himself sink beneath the surface again.
Salim looked over his shoulder and caught Rodney and Gervais sharing a look of concern.
“A complex task can exhaust even a well-rested, healthy brain,” Rodney said as the emperor resurfaced.
“This was not complex. It was simple. I had only to carry through with what Jahanara and I agreed—not an hour before—was the best course. Instead I reversed the man’s ranks, and then could not remember what my mistake might have been…Such mistakes frighten me, my friends.”
“The brain is a mysterious organ, Sultan Al’Azam, and your recovery not yet complete. Be patient. Wait for it to heal,” Gervais said.
Dara’s expression darkened, scar pulsing scarlet. “The war for my throne will not wait for anyone or anything, least of all for me to recover my strength.”
Chapter 8
Agra
Mansion of Jadu Das
“Jadu, my friend, how are you?” Salim said, dismounting and striding up to the shorter man.
Jadu bowed, smiling. “Welcome to my home, Amir Yilmaz. I am well enough. Well enough. Your friends are already present.”
“Your friends, too, Jadu,” Salim said, eyes on his host’s stable hand as that worthy took charge of the Arabian Salim had just purchased at great expense. He had yet to decide whether he liked the tall black horse for his primary mount, but the stallion was certainly handsome to look upon. The other courtiers might say he was uncultured behind his back, though none would dare say it to his face. But none could say he was a poor judge of horseflesh.
“With all the upheaval caused by their coming, I wonder if they are truly anyone’s friend,” Jadu said with a note of sadness. “Though I suppose my brother would say that upheaval allows opportunity to take root like the fresh-tilled soil.”
“How is Dhanji?” Salim asked as they mounted the broad, lengthy staircase.
“He is well, though I quote another of my brothers, not Dhanji.”
Salim chuckled. “Well, many blessings on your father for having sired so many sons.”
“My mother would argue that her six sons were less a blessing than a plague when we were young, but she now lives very well at our expense, so there is that.”
Salim laughed, surprised to learn the many brothers of Jadu were not half-siblings birthed by some concubine or other wife.
“Wait, which brother?”
“Sundar.”
Salim stopped dead in his tracks. “Sundar? Sundar Das?