1637: The Peacock Throne, стр. 42

Her beautiful eyes did not so much as narrow. “Salim…may I call you Salim?”

He nodded, mouth gone suddenly dry. He very much liked to hear his name upon her lips.

“Salim, we are in your debt. I wished to express my personal gratitude for the actions you took…openly, without the constraints of conduct any such expression would find were I to engage in it before the entire court.

“But beyond that expression, I thought it wise that we establish a dialogue now, an understanding that will permit us to work more closely toward our common goal: the preservation of my brother’s reign.”

Red Fort, Rosharana’s quarters

“So, you should not leave it too long, Roshanara Begum.”

Roshanara nodded. Then, realizing the man was not able to see the movement from behind the thick veils that had been placed over his head for this visit, said, “I understand, Doctor Gradinego.”

“Excellent. Do you have other questions of health I need answer?”

“I do not.”

“Very good. With your permission, I will withdraw, Shehzadi?”

“Of course.”

Blindly, the Venetian reached out as he made to stand.

Roshanara caught the hand in hers on the pretense of helping the man to his feet. The note passed from his palm to hers smoothly. Slipping it into her sash, she handed him off to Sabah, the warrior woman Atisheh had set to guard her. Ostensibly there to protect her, Roshanara knew better: the woman was, if not a spy, then a watchdog reporting her every move.

“See the doctor out,” Roshanara commanded.

As if to provide proof of the validity of the princess’s suspicions, Sabah summoned a eunuch to escort the ferenghi from the harem instead of doing it herself.

Pretending a lack of interest in the guard’s activities she certainly didn’t feel, Roshanara returned to the calligraphy project she’d been working on before the Venetian had been admitted.

The qalam was light in her hands, the paper smooth and thick awaiting the ink. Roshanara tried to find the calm required for her best work, but the meditative state eluded her. Gritting her teeth and willing herself to calm, she began to copy out the passages from the Akbarnama, the chronicle of Akbar the Great’s reign.

But thoughts of the note in her sash and the messenger who had delivered it intruded. Gradinego had been summoned to advise her regarding certain respiratory health issues. The time and skills of the up-timer physicians had been monopolized by her elder siblings, so Roshanara and Dara’s other courtiers had been forced to settle for their hangers-on, of whom Gradinego was not only the most popular for his skills and close connection to the up-timers, but also the most eager to avail himself of the favor of lesser lights like Roshanara Begum, who was still in some disfavor with the court.

Most of the court thought it odd that there were not more men like Gradinego among the ferenghi, social climbers who used the reputation of their associates to improve their own situation. There was a man among the merchants, but he’d been Salim Yilmaz’s man even before the arrival of the up-timers, and never claimed any knowledge beyond that of his caste and position.

Roshanara began the next page, irritated that none of her activities would bring her any closer to knowing the contents of the note the ferenghi had passed. A glance showed that Sabah was still watching her closely enough to observe any surreptitious move to retrieve and read the note.

She muttered an imprecation as her irritation and wandering attentions led her into error: the light, loose grip on the qalam had shifted into a tight, heavy hand, ruining yet another page with an ill-formed stroke. The qalam clattered in its cradle as she set it down harder than intended.

Seeking calm, Roshanara sat back on her heels. A gesture summoned a slave with a goblet of julabmost, which she drank without tasting.

She picked up the qalam once more, thinking to clean it, but delayed as she saw a messenger entering the chamber. Atisheh often used that one for ordering the harem guards about. Dipping her instrument into the ink once more and placing another thick sheet of paper before her, she watched the messenger approach Sabah from the corner of her eye.

As the child eunuch spoke in the square-shouldered woman’s ear, Roshanara slipped her hand into her sash and retrieved the paper. She flattened the missive out on her work surface and quickly read it through.

Should this whisper reach your ears,

I will not suffer the night’s fears,

Alone, four times and never alone again,

I have but to think of your eyes and the wisdom seen there,

To be restored to my faith in love,

For word shall surely come to me—as on the soft wings of the dove!

Heart skipping a beat as she sifted the possible meanings of the rather poor poem. To be sure she took the proper message from it, Roshanara reread it. Once certain she had it committed to memory, she gave another—false this time—sigh of frustration and used the message paper to clean the qalam, taking her time to be sure she obliterated the writing.

Her hands began to tremble as the ramifications of the message sank in.

Just months ago she’d been certain that Jahanara would have her executed for her part in Father’s death. Certain to the point of asking that an architect be sent for in order to plan a humble tomb for her remains to find their eternal rest. But weeks had passed without Dara giving the order for her execution. Then she’d grown afraid to eat, thinking she would be poisoned, murdered to save the family public embarrassment. It was only in the days since Nadira’s birthday celebrations that she had begun to breathe once again. In saving Roshanara from the fall, Jahanara had proven herself uninterested in her death. Her elder sister was not happy with her, and blamed her for Father’s demise, but she was not inclined to seek vengeance on Father’s behalf.

This one message would have wiped out any ideas of