1637: The Peacock Throne, стр. 41
For another, Salim was used to secrecy by now. He wondered what was to be gained by meeting with a messenger face-to-face here, rather than receiving the message among others, thereby concealing any importance.
Unless the messenger is more important than the message. The thought chilled him, as it called to mind only one, or perhaps two, people who might fit that description, both of them women.
And the location of the secret chamber took on an even more ominous meaning in light of that thought. During the time he’d spent in service to Shah Jahan, translating the up-timer documents almost nightly, he’d gained a fair degree of working knowledge of the layout of the harem precincts. He suspected he was very near those precincts if not within them even before Atisheh had shown him through the secret door he’d had no idea existed. The warrior woman, most trusted of Jahanara’s guards, had told him she would be outside, to avail himself of refreshment, to relax, and that he should only have a short wait. That it had been Atisheh who showed him here made him more nervous, not less. Granted, the warrior woman would never betray her mistress, but Salim could not imagine Atisheh acting in so clandestine a manner for anyone but Jahanara, and that was a problem in and of itself.
He could not shake the remembered feel of Jahanara Begum’s skin under his hands nor the touch of her body as she clung to him the night he’d tried, and failed, to defend Shah Jahan from the assassins sent by Mullah Mohan.
The sound of her voice issuing from behind the jali while giving counsel to her brother had been indicative of a sharp, inquisitive mind that was certainly superior to his, at least in regard to formal education. But that voice also brought to mind the shape of her nose, her eyes, her…
It required an effort of will to stop his thoughts from pursuing the path they’d turned to. He closed his eyes and offered an unspoken prayer: God, please don’t let it be Jahanara Begum who wishes this meeting, for I am weak, and she is exactly that which waters the parched plains of my desire.
He heard a sound from the short passage he’d entered from. Dreading who he would see, Salim looked and then cast his eyes heavenward.
God, you make no effort to save this poor petitioner from himself!
She was veiled and swathed in silken robes that protected her modesty, but he recognized her from her graceful movements and, when she drew closer, her eyes—the color and shape of them as well as the lovely long lashes that she lowered demurely.
“Shehzadi Jahanara Begum,” he said, coming to his feet for a deep, respectful bow that also gave him time to gather scattered wits.
He glanced surreptitiously beyond her in search of some escort, but was disappointed to see the secret door closing, and not so much as a maid or guard to protect her reputation.
“Amir Salim Yilmaz, honored commander of five thousand,” she returned, gliding forward to the cushions opposite him. The smell of roses traveled the air in her wake, as if flowers bloomed in honor of her passage. She did not so much sit as gracefully fold herself onto the cushions.
Salim remained standing, frozen in place. Caught entirely unprepared for this private meeting and, frankly, unmanned by the strength of his reaction to her presence.
An instant later his mind thawed enough to run through the dire repercussions of discovery: repercussions that started with execution and ran heedless and fast down a mountainous slope from there.
The political ramifications alone could potentially cripple Dara when he needed to appear, at all times, to be fully in charge of everything that occurred in his household, especially to those of his followers—and they were in the majority—who set great stock in such things.
This meeting was breathtakingly dangerous—
“Do you like the tobacco?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts while picking up another of the water pipe’s stems and slipping it under her veil. The pipe burbled as she drew on it.
Realizing he still held the other stem of the pipe in his hand, Salim said, “I do, Begum Sahib.”
“It is my favorite,” she said, regarding him through the smoke she exhaled. “You may be interested to know that it is from Nur’s personal stores. Procured through some family connection in Persia, no doubt.”
“Begum Sahib, I don’t know how to say this…”
“Then don’t.” She gestured with a hennaed hand for him to sit across from her. “We do not have a great deal of time, and I would prefer to spend it speaking of important matters rather than your advising me that I endanger my brother’s cause with this meeting, so please…” She waved again, eyes sparkling.
“Begum Sahib, I am your servant.” He sat and took a long draw on the pipe to avoid meeting her eyes and losing himself in them.
“You have been a most worthy servant to me and my brother. I wanted to thank you once more for your efforts on the night my father was assassinated. Beyond that service, which nearly cost you your life, you have continued to aid my brother in his time of need, keeping our secrets and working consistently to secure our future.”
Salim sat, silent, ruminating, drawing on the pipe once more.
When he did not respond even after filling his lungs, she said, “Say what you will. You will not anger me with sincerity.”
Oh, I think I will, but as you ask…
“While I thank Begum Sahib for her kind words of thanks, I do not know that they required such risks as this meeting to convey,” Salim said, each word punctuated by a puff of