Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Man Bai, the first wife of Prince Salim, was hysterical. She had always been a delicate creature with a high-strung personality, subject to fits of depression. Her servants sent for her beloved aunt, Jodh Bai, the Mughal's wife, who was also Man Bai's mother-in-law.

"My child! My child!" Jodh Bai gathered her niece into her embrace, stroking Man Bai's silky, perfumed dark hair soothingly. "What has distressed you so?" she asked.

For a time Man Bai could not answer. She simply wept on in a tragic, heartbroken fashion. The older woman comforted the younger as best she could.

"You must make the emperor s-stop!" Man Bai said finally.

"Stop what, my child?" Jodh Bai asked patiently.

By a supreme effort of will, Man Bai pulled herself together and said, "The emperor is angry with my lord Salim again. He is threatening once more to set my husband aside in favor of our son, Khusrau."

Jodh Bai felt a stab of irritation. She was disgusted with this game her husband and son played between them. Still, for her niece's sake she had to remain calm. "My lord Akbar is always saying he will disinherit Salim for one offense or another, Man Bai. He has never done it, nor will he ever really do it," she reassured the distraught woman.

"But this time," Man Bai told her, "my son, Khusrau, and my brother, Madho Singh, have joined forces. They speak openly about ridding the Mughal lion of the thorn in his paw. Oh, Aunt! I have raised my son to be loyal to his grandfather and his father. My wicked brother leads him astray. I am so ashamed!"

"The shame is not yours, Man Bai, but rather my grandson's and my nephew's. Do not fear, my child. There will be no rebellion against Salim, and my lord Akbar will never disinherit him. I will speak with my brother, your father, the raja of Amber. He will speak most forcefully, I assure you, with Madho Singh."

Man Bai, however, did not long remain reassured. That very evening, the evening of the first full moon of spring, the women of Salim's zenana gathered together to celebrate in the open courtyard. All were garbed in pink, and other than the moon itself, there was no light.

Nur Jahan, Salim's favorite wife, found herself next to Man Bai. "That traitor you have spawned deserves to die for his disloyalty, not to be rewarded with a rich and nubile princess!" she hissed in sweetly venomous tones.

"Do not dare to speak of my son so," Man Bai responded spiritedly. "He is a good boy and loves his father."

"An unnatural son who would rebel against his father," Nur Jahan retorted angrily. "Khusrau is no fit heir for my lord Salim.

"My lord looks among his other sons for a worthier heir. He is quite pleased, I am told, with Prince Khurram in particular. The emperor loves the lad too." Laughing at the stunned look on Man Bai's face, Nur Jahan danced gaily off.

Man Bai broke away from the other women to seek out her husband. "Is it true," she demanded, "that you seek to replace my son with Prince Khurram?"

"At least Khurram is too young yet to rebel against me," he told her, meaning it as a jest.

Man Bai paled. Nur Jahan, bitch that she was, had obviously been speaking the truth. Salim had turned against their son, and why not? He had been appallingly disloyal. "Ahh, the shame of it," Man Bai whispered to herself hopelessly. Without another word, she fled the festivities. They found her in the morning. Dead. She had taken her own life by eating a lethal quantity of opium.

Salim was inconsolable over Man Bai's suicide. He fell back into his old habits of excess drink, now laced more heavily with opiates, and a general self-indulgence of the worst kind. His new companions were the absolute dregs of his father's court. They were greedy, ambitious sycophants who pandered to Salim's blackest moods, supplying him with whatever he desired, be it wine or young girls. A court news writer who was foolish enough to report the prince's behavior publicly was brought before Salim and murdered by being flayed alive.

Learning of his heir's latest atrocious behavior, Akbar decided to teach Salim a lesson once and for all. If his eldest son was to inherit his throne, his behavior had to radically change. If he was incapable of that change, then it was time for Akbar to settle the succession upon one of his grandsons. His other surviving son, Prince Daniyal, a charming, sweet-natured man, was an alcoholic incapable of little other than writing rather good poetry. Prince Murad had recently died from his overindulgence. Akbar shook his head in despair, and canceling his plans to visit his daughter in Kashmir, marched from Agra on August 21, 1604, toward Allahabad, where his eldest son held his own court.

The river between the two cities was low, and Akbar's boat stuck upon a sandbar. While he waited for it to be floated free, word came from Agra that Mariam Makani was ill and desired her son's presence.

"Is she really ill?" the emperor demanded sternly of the hapless messenger. He glowered at the man. "Or is this one of her ploys to wheedle around me so that I will not punish Prince Salim?"

"I will not deny, most high, that the dowager is upset by this new estrangement between you and the prince; but she is indeed quite ill," the messenger told Akbar. Then tears came into his eyes, for Mariam Makani was greatly loved. "My wife," the servant told the Mughal, "has served the dowager for forty years, most high. She fears that her mistress may be dying."

Akbar grew pale at the man's words. "This is true?" he half whispered fearfully.

The messenger nodded somberly. The emperor sighed deeply and sadly. Then he gave the order to return to Agra, and he hurried with all possible speed to his mother's side. Salim would keep.

Mariam Makani had shrunken into a mere wisp of a woman. She was so frail that she was unable to walk any longer. She had not left her bed in two months. Her skin was like delicate parchment. Her once fine black hair was now sparse and snow white. The pink of her scalp was quite visible to the naked eye. Only her dark eyes showed signs of vibrant life. As Akbar sat by her side, she clutched at him with a small, clawed hand.

"Salim!" she whispered.

"Safe from my wrath for now, Mother," he told her with a small attempt at humor.

"He must come … after you," she said hoarsely.

Akbar shook his head. "I become more unsure each day as to whether he is fit to follow me, Mother. You know that I love him, but he seems to have inherited all the worst of the Mughals and the Rajputs. I may have to pass over him in favor of one of my grandsons if the empire is to survive."

Mariam Makani shook her head fiercely. "No!" she said. "Barbur. My Humayun. Akbar. Salim!"

He understood the importance of the Mughal succession to her, but Salim was half Hindu and most of his sons had even more Rajput blood in their veins than Mughal. It was a different world from the world of his grandfather and his father, who had spent most of their lives fighting for territory on the subcontinent of India.

As if she sensed his thoughts, she rasped out to him with her last bit of strength, "Find a Mughal girl for Salim. Make their son your successor after Salim. These Rajput princesses weaken our blood." Then she closed her eyes and fell asleep, for the conversation had been much too much for her.

How simple it all seemed to her, he thought. Find a Mughal girl for Salim. Make their child your heir after Salim. Akbar sighed. If he were ten years younger himself, perhaps it would be possible, but not now. His mother, having lived to a great age, tended to forget that he was old too.

And then there was Salim. They had been at swords' points from the moment Salim realized that what Akbar had would one day belong to him. And Salim, impatient, had wanted his father's power and possessions from that time on. His mother's words, however, made Akbar realize that he would have to come to terms with his eldest son. Neither Khusrau nor any of his other grandsons were really old enough to rule India. His kingdom must have a grown man to come after him.

Mariam Makani never regained consciousness after her conversation with her son Akbar. She died on August 29, 1604, in her seventy-seventh year. Akbar shaved his head, his beard, and his moustache as a sign of filial respect; and led his nation in the brief, general mourning of his mother, whose death was much lamented by the general population. Mariam Makani had been loved for her kindness and her charity to all.

A messenger was dispatched to Kashmir to inform Yasaman Kama Begum of her grandmother's passing. Yasaman wept at her loss. "You would have loved her," she told Jamal Khan. "Everyone did." Then she brightened. "But in the spring you will at least finally get to meet all of my family when we go to Agra for Papa's fiftieth-year celebration of his rule. Ohh, what a fine time we will have! And Mama Begum will come with us and be able to catch up on all the court gossip she so loves!"

"And I will finally get to meet your brother, Salim," Jamal Khan said to his wife.

"Yes," Yasaman replied. "It is important that you know Salim and that you like each other. Mama Begum says that Papa will confer the governorship of Kashmir upon you at the special Darbar that is to be held during the celebrations. We must choose a very special gift for my father, Jamal. It must outshine everyone else's. My brothers will give him elephants, as they always do." She laughed. "My father loves elephants, particularly good fighting elephants, and people who wish to please him are always gifting him with the beasts. The royal stables at all Papa's palaces are filled with elephants. Papa is always giving them away as gifts himself because he simply has too many of them. We will not give the emperor elephants."

"No," Jamal Khan agreed, thinking he liked the sound of her chuckle when she was happy and amused, as she was now. "A sapphire," Jamal Khan replied. "The finest sapphires in the world are mined here in Kashmir. Recently a particularly beautiful stone was brought to me. It weighs over three pounds and has been cut to show its perfection. I have named it the Wular Blue after this lake upon which we live."

He clapped his hands sharply and told the servant answering his summons, "Go to the high steward, Adali, and tell him to bring the Wular Blue to me."

"Very good, my lord," the servant replied.

Several minutes later Adali appeared and set a box before them upon the ebony table. The box was painted to a high gloss with black lacquer, and decorated with scenes of snow-covered mountains, lakes, and the natural flora and fauna of Kashmir. The corners of the lid were adorned with gold filigree which matched the lock. Adali undid the catch and slowly lifted the box's lid. Within, nestled upon a bed of white silk, was an enormous deep blue sapphire of such perfect beauty and clarity that Yasaman found herself at a loss for words.

"What do you think?" he asked her, smiling.

Yasaman finally managed to find her voice. "I have never seen anything so beautiful," she said. "It is rightly named, my lord. My father will treasure it."

"It is better than elephants?" he teased her.

She laughed. "Far better than elephants! My brothers will be green with envy at your cleverness. I, however, am not certain that I am not angry with you." She was unable to take her eyes from the magnificent sapphire.

"And why is that, my jasmine blossom?" he asked, his eyes twinkling at Adali, who was unable to restrain a quick grin.

"Why, my lord, you are to gift my father with this wonderful sapphire when you might have given it to me," she said, pretending an outrage she did not feel.

"The Wular Blue is a very special jewel," he told her in serious tones. "It is meant for an emperor." He nodded to Adali, who withdrew a flat ivory case from his robes. "This necklace, however, is meant to grace the pretty neck of a princess of Kashmir," Jamal Khan said, taking the box from Adali and handing it to his wife.

With a delighted little shriek, Yasaman snatched the box from him and opened it. Within was a marvelous necklace of perfectly matched deep blue stones set in pale white gold. "Ohhh, Jamal! They are wonderful!" she told him, lifting the necklace from the box to fasten it about her throat.

"The stones in the necklace are called the Stars of Kashmir," he said. "My father gave them to my mother when I was born. I thought you would enjoy wearing them to court in Agra. The wife of the governor of Kashmir should outshine all the other ladies."

"Yes!" Yasaman agreed, flinging herself into his arms and kissing him enthusiastically. "I will put all those gossipy old crows who are married to my brothers to shame. Even Nur Jahan will envy me the Stars of Kashmir. I know she has nothing half so fine," Yasaman gloated.

"Ahh, greedy one," Jamal said, taking her into his arms and cuddling her, "I am helpless before you. You have captured my heart. I shall never love another. Surely children born of such a love will be great in this land."

Children. Yasaman wanted children, but at first she had deferred to Mama Begum's wishes in the matter. Rugaiya Begum had worried that if a barely pubescent Yasaman became pregnant, it might injure, weaken, or even kill her. Consequently, Yasaman had taken a noxious brew that Toramalli made fresh every morning. It would, Rugaiya Begum told her daughter, prevent conception as long as she took it. Yasaman had dutifully followed her mother's instruction in the first year of her marriage, but shortly after her fourteenth birthday and the celebration of her first year as Jamal Khan's wife, she had ceased taking the medicine.

"I want his children!" she told Rugaiya Begum, and the older woman finally acquiesced, for Yasaman was obviously healthy.

* * *

In the company of her daughter and son-in-law, Rugaiya Begum traveled south to Agra during the early winter thaw. Akbar was to celebrate the beginning of his fiftieth year as India's ruler on the eleventh day of March. Both women knew that at this particular time Akbar would settle his affairs publicly a final time. Barring any further lapses in behavior, Salim would be declared once and for all his father's heir. That very open declaration should end any further attempts on Khusrau's behalf, hopefully putting a stop to the younger prince's thoughts of superseding his father to the throne.

Salim had been properly chastised for his horrendous behavior of the previous summer. In mid-autumn, using his grandmother's death as an excuse to see his father, he had come to Agra to pay Akbar a condolence call. He appeared publicly at the emperor's weekly Darbar bringing many gifts, including a fine diamond and two hundred elephants. Publicly, Akbar forgave his son; but he was not about to let him off as easily as Salim had anticipated. Elephants were not enough this time to placate the emperor.

The heir was arrested on his father's orders and brought to the zenana, where Akbar was awaiting him in Jodh Bai's apartments. The presence of his mother reassured Salim that he would not be harmed, but he was forced to listen to a catalogue of his sins as both his father and his mother chastised him.

His head ached from a night of debauchery and particularly strong wine. He was also aggravated because his father had ordered the arrest of his current best friend, Raja Basu of Mau. Fortunately, one of Salim's court spies had warned him in time, and Basu had been able to flee home. Knowing that sincere repentance was expected of him, Salim forced tears to his eyes. Weeping, he begged his parents' pardon for all the misery he had caused them. Tears and avowals of better behavior always seemed to work.

Jodh Bai, trusting and ready to forgive her son as ever, also wept. Then embracing Salim, she immediately forgave him.

Akbar was not so trusting this time. "You always say that you regret your bad behavior, Shaikho Baba, but I note you only regret it when you are caught and brought to account for that behavior."

"It is true, my father," Salim admitted, squeezing a few more tears from his eyes. "I seem slow to learn, but this time I swear I have done so. Never again will you have cause to chastise me."

"What kind of a ruler will you be," Akbar wondered aloud, "if you constantly give in to your own desires over the knowledge of what is good and right? Power is a gift, my son, but use that gift for ill rather than good, and eventually you will find your power taken from you. I have built this country province by province using all kinds of methods to gain my ends. Some pieces of land have cost me in the blood of my fighting men. Others I have won with the virgin blood of former enemies' daughters or sisters whom I have taken to wife.

"No ruler ever maintains total peace, Salim, and so he must be at peace with himself at least. The religious war constantly for men's souls and for the power it brings them. The Mughals and the Rajputs are never entirely comfortable with one another. The different castes struggle against each other. Now the Europeans have come, and I must balance them along with all the rest. It has never been easy, Shaikho Baba, but I have maintained control by virtue of my own self-discipline. This is a strength that you seem to have difficulty marshaling."

"I really will try harder, Father, I promise you," Salim said, his voice dripping with sincerity.

Akbar laughed, but there was little humor in the sound. Then he said, "And I will help you, Shaikho Baba, as I have always helped you." He signaled to the two guards who had brought Salim to him and had been discreetly awaiting his direction. "You have your orders," the emperor said. "Take the prince now."

Salim flung himself at his father's feet, his heart pounding. Had he finally gone too far? "Father!" he cried out, frightened. "Do you mean to murder me?"

Akbar looked pityingly at his eldest child. "No, Shaikho Baba. I will not harm you, but for your own salvation you will be locked away with my physician and two servants until such a time as I truly believe you have indeed repented your evil ways."

Salim looked to his mother, and when she smiled reassuringly, he let himself be led off, for of one thing he was certain. Jodh Bai had never in his life lied to him. So he was to be incarcerated for a brief time. It would not be difficult to endure, and then his father would be satisfied.

Salim quickly found, however, that his imprisonment was not to be one of luxurious restraint. He was brought to a marble bathroom which had been outfitted with several pallets for sleeping and nothing more. The food brought him was simple. Rice. Boiled chicken. Fresh fruit. Bread. There was no wine.

"I want wine," he demanded of his captors.

"The emperor has ordered that your system be purged of all evil humors, my lord," the physician, Sali-Vahan, told him. "He believes that wine and opiates cause a rotting of the brain. Your younger brother, Prince Murad, died of an excess of wine; and your youngest brother, Prince Daniyal, is so addicted to wine that he sees things that others do not see. Some of them are quite frightening, I am told. You may have either water or hot tea to drink."

"Wine!" shouted Salim. "I demand you bring me wine!"

The two servants restrained the prince, pinning him to his pallet as he first raved and demanded, then wept and tried to cajole, and finally threatened them with the most horrible of tortures if they did not instantly obey him. Dr. Sali-Vahan sat cross-legged next to his patient and began reading to him from the Koran.

For the next few days Salim alternated between anger and despair. Self-pity overwhelmed him for a time as, forced to face himself, he felt serious guilt over Man Bai's death. He wept for her, and he wept for himself. He thought of Khusrau, their son. He remembered the tears of joy she had cried upon his birth, proud to have given her husband a healthy son and heir. He recalled how loyal Man Bai had always been to him. He always came first with her. Once when he had been angry over some slight he imagined his father had given him, she had said, "Your father is India, Salim. One day you will be India and you will do things differently." There was a lesson to be learned here. India must come first. Man Bai had said it, and his father had said it. It had to be right.

Jodh Bai came to visit her son and was shocked by his drawn appearance. "What has happened to him?" she demanded of the doctor.

"Do not worry yourself, gracious lady," Dr. Sali-Vahan told the prince's mother. "He had become dependent upon the delights of wine, and now that it has been taken from him, his body rebels. Soon both he and it will be in concert once again. When that happens, he will gain weight and be well."

"I will die from this treatment, Mother," Salim complained. "If I could just have but a tiny sip of wine to strengthen me."

Reassured by the physician, Jodh Bai was not taken in by her son's plea. "Wine is not good for you, Salim. We all know it." Then she said brightly, "Preparations have already begun for your father's fiftieth-year celebration. Yasaman and her husband are coming from Kashmir for the event."

"Yasaman is coming?" Salim's eyes visibly brightened.

"Yes," his mother told him. "You want to be well and healthy for your sister, don't you? She would be very distressed to see you in this condition. I know you will be pleased to learn that her marriage to Prince Jamal is a very happy one." Jodh Bai looked closely at her son, wondering if he still harbored a secret passion for his sister, as Rugaiya Begum had once claimed he did. Salim, however, showed only brotherly interest in the fact that Yasaman was coming.

"It will be good to see my little sister," he told his mother. "I look forward to meeting her husband. If my little monkey loves him, then he must be a good young man."

Jodh Bai was satisfied that whatever romantic notions Salim had once entertained for his half sister were now gone. "Tell me, Doctor," she asked the physician, "may the other ladies of the zenana visit with my son?"

"I think their visits would do him good, gracious lady," the doctor agreed.

Shortly thereafter, Akbar found himself assailed each time he visited the women's quarters by his wives, his daughters, his various female relatives, and his slave women. They pleaded with him to release Salim from his incarceration. The prince had at last learned his lesson, they argued. Too much more of the harsh treatment, and he would be a broken man. He must be released, the women chorused daily to the emperor.

Finally Akbar gave in, for he was weary of their constant pleas and growing short-tempered with their inability to comprehend that what he was doing to Salim, he was doing for his own good. The prince was paroled in the company of Dr. Sali-Vahan and rowed across the river Yamuna to his own palace, where he was, his father told him, to live in peace and sobriety or be disinherited. One more incident, the Mughal warned his heir, was all it would take. Salim swore he was a reformed man. Akbar, nonetheless, kept his eldest son under surveillance.

He need not have bothered, for having been forced to regain control of himself, Salim meant to remain in control, because his time was coming. The women in the zenana had been quite chatty. His father was not well at all, although he strove to hide it. Soon, Salim thought, I will be the Mughal. AndYasaman was coming! He did not want to be like his youngest brother, Daniyal, who was now so addicted to wine that despite his attempts to give it up, he could not do so. A man not in control of himself could not enjoy the power of the Mughal. And Yasaman would be disgusted by a drunkard.

The delegation from Kashmir arrived in Agra the first week in March. They were housed in a guest house within the palace grounds. Their quarters overlooked the Yamuna River and had terraced gardens that descended to the water. Jamal Khan was astounded by Agra, for he had lived his entire life in Kashmir and had never seen a great city. Kashmir's own capital of Srinagar could not begin to compare to Agra.

It was a very ancient town, having been in existence in one form or another for over a thousand years. The major portion of the city was located on the east bank of the river and was made up of three- and four-story buildings. It was densely populated, and its streets were dirty. The warm climate encouraged whatever lay rotting in the streets to quickly become odoriferous. There were no city walls, but Agra was surrounded by a wide moat, and entry to it could only be gained by six gateways that had been erected by Akbar.

Every sort of business operated within the city. There were artisans of all kinds, iron workers, jewelers, miniaturists, goldsmiths and merchants who sold anything a person could desire. There were bazaars and shops of every description. The traffic, both two-footed and four-footed, was crowded and constantly on the move.

Yasaman hated it. Jamal Khan, however, was mightily impressed; and suddenly very aware of the total power his father-in-law wielded. He had never before realized Akbar's true strength. Now he was certain he should be a little afraid of this man who welcomed him so warmly, calling him "my son."

Jamal was particularly impressed by the great red sandstone fort that Akbar had caused to be built on the west bank of the river. It had been erected on the foundations of an older fort. The Mughal himself proudly showed his son-in-law the structure.

"The foundations go very deep, and the outer walls are nine feet in thickness," he told the Kashmiri prince.

"How high are the walls?" the younger man asked, craning his neck to look up.

"One hundred and eighty feet," Akbar said. "They are utterly impossible to breach, and there are only two gates: a private gate on the south side for the family, and the public Delhi Gate on the west."

Jamal Khan admired the Delhi Gate, which was made up of two octagonal-shaped towers separated by an archway. The interior side of the gate had a beautiful facade with arcaded terraces above it, and soaring pinnacles, and kiosks atop the terraces. It was all highly decorated with patterns of white marble inlaid in the red sandstone. Above the gates the walls rose rife with battlements, breastworks, and loopholes for archers.

Red sandstone from Fatahpur-Sikri and gray stone from nearby Delhi had been used in the construction of the fort. It was surrounded by a moat sixty feet wide and thirty feet deep. Within the walls were five hundred separate buildings in the styles of Bengal and Gujarat. They housed the government and the court.

"I have never seen anything like this," Jamal Khan told his father-in-law. "It is magnificent!"

"Yasaman hates it," Akbar told him. "She has never really liked Agra, which is why she has spent most of her time in Lahore or Kashmir. She seems to have inherited her mother's constitution and dislikes the hot, sticky weather we have here in Agra."

"Yasaman does not like cities at all, I have discovered," Jamal Khan replied.

Akbar smiled at the young man and said, "Have you fallen in love with my daughter, Jamal Khan? When you speak of her, a soft look creeps onto your face and your voice is somehow different."

The prince flushed beneath his golden skin. "Yes," he said slowly, "I do love her, my lord." Then he smiled and a small chuckle escaped him. "I certainly must love her. Did you ever hear the tale of how Yasaman sold off my zenana women?"

Akbar burst out laughing. "No," he said, "I did not hear that story, but I cannot deny that it sounds just like the sort of thing she would do, my son."

"Yes, my lord. That sweet innocent you gave me as a wife can be a fierce, wild creature," Jamal Khan said. "You did not tell me that when you dangled her beauty before me. Oh, yes, I love her!"

"Tell me about the sale of your zenana women," Akbar said.

Jamal Khan proceeded to do so, first describing in detail each woman and her sexual prowess. When he finished, the emperor was laughing harder than ever.

"She used the profit to decorate her rooms!" he wheezed, delighted. "Her mother, Candra, had just as hot and spicy a temper," he told his son-in-law. "Ahh, I miss her!" Then he grew suddenly silent as sadness crept into his dark eyes.

For a moment Jamal Khan feared he had somehow offended the emperor. He did not know what to say.

The Grand Mughal broke the spell. "You will bring Yasaman to see me tonight? My son, Salim, will be with me. You have not yet met Salim. If you are to be the Imperial Mughal governor in Kashmir, you and Salim must like each other."

"I am certain we shall," Jamal Khan assured the emperor. "Yasaman loves him very much, and how can I fail to like someone whom my beloved so adores? With your permission, my gracious lord, I will pledge my fealty not only to you, but to Prince Salim as well."

"It is good," Akbar said, nodding.

In the evening, Yasaman, gowned in a rich, deep purple sari banded in gold, a necklace of large amethysts set in gold about her neck, went with her husband to visit her father. All of the Mughal's wives, surviving children, and grandchildren were also there. Yasaman was warmly welcomed, and her husband, particularly handsome and dressed all in white, was admired and fussed over. Rugaiya Begum beamed proudly as her daughter introduced Jamal Khan to her two elder sisters, Shahzad-Khanim Begum and Shukuran Nisa Begum, who had not been at her wedding nineteen months ago.

"He is beautiful, I will admit," Salima Begum said, coming to stand by Rugaiya Begum, "but you should have been a grandmother long since."

"Yasaman was just thirteen when they wed," Rugaiya Begum reminded her fellow wife. "They waited a time before consummating the marriage."

"Aiiiii!" Salima Begum sighed lustily. "The way he looks at her! Did Akbar ever look at any of us that way?"

"He looked at Jodh Bai and Candra that way," Rugaiya Begum said, her tone amused. "I remember it well."

"You remember the pain it caused in your heart," Salima Begum said low. "It is always that way when a first wife loves her husband too well. You do, old friend, but then our dear lord loves you back. He loves you enough to let you remain in Kashmir with Yasaman."

"I like it there," was the reply. "I am my own mistress now, Salima. I run my palace to suit me, and I answer to no one any longer. Yes, I quite like it!"

"I almost envy you," Salima Begum said, "but if I lived alone in my own palace, I would have no one to talk to, and there would be no gossip to brighten my life. No, I think I must remain as I am and where I am." She chuckled.

"The most gracious, the most honorable, the most high, Prince Salim Muhammad, enters the gathering! Make way! Make way!" intoned the servant at the door.

Salim stood for a moment, his dark eyes sweeping over the guests. He was dressed all in white, his jama coat brocaded and worked with both gold and silver threads. His patka sash was cloth-of-gold sewn all over with tiny diamonds. The small turban on his head was white silk with a decorative fillet of gold brocade sewn with pearls and diamonds, wound transversely about the turban. On his feet he wore slippers with pointed toes, which were decorated with gold and silver threads to match his coat. The slippers were called Salim Shahi in his honor.

Yasaman. Where was Yasaman? There!He spied her speaking with their sisters. A young man was with her. Salim strode into the room and went directly to his father, who sat upon a cushion beneath a gold canopy. He prostrated himself humbly before Akbar. The old man certainly did not look well at all. It would not be long now, Salim thought. Soon he would have everything he had ever wanted. He would have India. He would have incredible power. He would have Yasaman!

He felt himself being raised up, and lifted his head to look into his father's tear-filled eyes. "Father," he said, and kissed Akbar.

"Shaikho Baba, my most beloved son," the Mughal replied, and returned his kiss. "You are most welcome in my house. Now go and greet your mother and the rest of the family."

With a smile and a most correct bow, the prince obeyed his father. He saluted Jodh Bai quite affectionately. Having seen Yasaman, he was feeling very expansive now. He kissed each of the aunts and salaamed to his wife Nur Jahan and the Khandesh princess who was the mother of his second son, Khurram.

"Shahzad! Shukuran!" He hugged his two eldest sisters.

"Salim! Salim!" There was an impatient tugging of his sleeve.

"Aram-Banu, my dear, you grow lovelier each day!" he complimented the lady Waqi's daughter as he gently detached her clutching fingers.

Aram-Banu beamed with pleasure at his flattery.

"And who is your beautiful companion, my sisters?" he teased.

"Salim! Do you not recognize our little sister, Yasaman?" Aram-Banu giggled innocently.

"This cannot be my little monkey," the prince declared, pretending surprise, much to Shahzad and Shukuran's amusement and Aram-Banu's delight. "My Yasaman was an ugly little girl the last time I saw her."

"Villain! I have never in my life been ugly," Yasaman said. "Why, I am told I was even a most unusually beautiful baby!"

"Who grew into a vain young girl," he teased her.

"Salim!" Yasaman stamped her brocaded foot. "Is this how you greet me after almost two years, my brother?"

"No!" he told her, and swept her up into his arms. "This is how I greet you, my Yasaman!" He kissed her, his lips taking possession of hers, his tongue quickly darting in and out of her mouth with incredible sensuality. Then he released her. It had all been done so swiftly that Yasaman wasn't even certain she hadn't imagined the unseemly passion in his embrace.

She laughed nervously, pushing away the uncomfortable thoughts that had suddenly crowded into her head. "I am happy to see you, too, my brother," she said, forcing a smile onto her face.

Their sisters had melted back into the crowd of relations and close friends as the prince took Yasaman's hand in his. "You have grown more beautiful, if that is possible, my sister," he told her. His glance was warm. Nay! It was hot! "Marriage, I can see, agrees with you," he continued. "Your husband is a good lover, then?"

His words, and the attitude behind them, made her feel edgy. She was not imagining things, and for the first time in her life, Salim discomfited her. "I am very happy," she said stiffly.

"Do you love him?" Salim pried further.

"Yes, I love him, my brother." This was becoming most bothersome.

"Where is he, this little princeling of Kashmir? I would meet him, Yasaman, and decide for myself if he is the right man for you, and if he is the right man to govern one of my provinces for me."

Yasaman's turquoise eyes flashed angrily. "Your provinces?" she said softly. "Our father sits upon his throne yet, brother. He is no shade, or do you plan another of your little rebellions even as we come together to celebrate Father's fifty years upon his throne?" She yanked her hand from his grasp.

"A woman capable of great anger is also capable of great passion," he murmured.

"Your words are unseemly, my brother," Yasaman told him, and turned away from him.

His hand fell upon her bare shoulder, for she had chosen to wear no choli in the heat. His fingers pressed cruelly into the soft flesh. "I would meet your husband, my sister," he said.

She could not face him, but she still asked, "What is it you want of me, Salim?"

"That you sit by my side when I inherit the throne, Yasaman. You know that I have always wanted that," he told her.

"I am your sister, Salim. My place is by my husband's side," she answered quietly, unable to believe what she was hearing.

"I want you!" He spat the words urgently.

She could not keep from facing him, and so she turned about, only to be shocked to her core by the desire she saw in his eyes. "Salim!" she repeated. "I am your sister!"

"In ancient Egypt royal brothers and sisters wed," he said to her. "Have you forgotten all that I told you when you were a child, my beloved Yasaman?"

Yasaman suddenly softened, thinking that Salim's affection for her might make him understand the impropriety of his passion. "I am not a child any longer, Salim. We both know that what you are suggesting is a sin against nature and against all the religious faiths of the world. This thing you want cannot be. Put it from your heart and mind, I beg you, my brother. Look at our father. Though it pains me to admit it, he is dying. Soon you will be the Grand Mughal. My husband and I will rule our beautiful Kashmir most faithfully in your name." Reaching up, she stroked his cheek in a soothing gesture. "Come now and meet Jamal Khan, my brother. You will like him, I promise you. You can trust him, I can assure you. Come."

Taking his hand in hers again, she led him across the room to where her husband stood speaking with his own father and brothers, who had been invited to Akbar's celebration.

Seeing her, Yusef Khan salaamed, but Yasaman said, "No, father of my husband. It is not necessary that you salute me thusly. It is I who should honor you." Folding her hands together, she bowed to him. Then looking up, she smiled and greeted her two brothers-in-law, Yaqub and Haider. She had only met them briefly once before, but she had decided she did not like them. For Jamal's sake, however, she was pleasant.

Yusef Khan and his two elder sons now salaamed to Prince Salim, who nodded politely in return.

"Brother," Yasaman said, "this is my husband, Jamal Khan." She turned to the younger man. "My lord, this is my dearly loved brother, Salim, of whom I have so often spoken."

Jamal Khan salaamed politely to the brother-in-law who would one day be his overlord. "I am happy, gracious lord, to finally meet you. I pledge my fealty, as Allah is my witness."

Salim felt bitter jealousy pouring through him as he surveyed this handsome, polite, most correct young man who had stolen Yasaman's heart away from him. More than anything, he wanted to destroy Jamal Khan, but he had not survived this long by being stupid. His mouth turned itself up in a cordial smile. He held out his hand to the Kashmiri prince. "Younger brother," he said, "it is I who am pleased to finally meet the man who has made my little monkey so happy. I gladly accept your fealty and promise you that whatever my father ordains will remain in effect as long as you live, even after the Mughal passes from memory."

The two men shook hands, and Yusef Khan rejoiced in his heart of hearts. Kashmir was once again his family's, and without another drop of blood being shed. Jamal had pleased the very difficult Prince Salim, who had publicly promised that even after the Mughal's death, Jamal Khan would remain ruler of Kashmir. Yusef Khan beamed happily upon the prince, his three sons, and the adorable princess who had made it all possible. His kismet had taken many turns, but he was satisfied.

He did not see the bitter looks shared by his two elder sons. Salim Muhammad did, however, and smiled to himself, well pleased.

"Your brother Salim was most cordial to me," Jamal Khan said to his wife later that night when they had returned to their guest house. Yes, he thought, Salim had been pleasant. Yet some inner instinct warned him to beware. He could not shake it off.

"Salim can be very difficult, even with those of whom he is fond," Yasaman said slowly. "He is my brother and I love him, but you must never trust him entirely."

"But I must remain on his good side, my love," Jamal Khan answered. "Despite what he says, I think that what the lord Akbar gives, the lord Salim can take away."

"When he is Mughal," Yasaman told her husband, "my brother will no longer be called Salim. He decided a long time ago that he would change his name to Jahangir, which means World Seizer. It is not inappropriate. Salim has been seizing everything he could get his hands on since childhood, my aunt Jodh Bai says."

Jamal Khan laughed. "You do not seem to dote upon him like all the other women in your father's house. Why is that?"

"I love my brother, but I also know that he is nothing more than a man like other men," Yasaman said carefully.

"Not quite like other men, my blossom," Jamal Khan replied. "Your brother will inherit a great kingdom and have the power of life and death over us all. No, he is not like other men."

The night was sultry, particularly for early spring. Yasaman wore a peshwaz with nothing beneath it. Jamal Khan had divested himself of his court finery as well and wore a dhoti.

"I do not want to continue speaking of my brother," she told him, smoothing her hands over his chest. "It is hot inside. Let us go out onto the terrace. Perhaps there is a breeze off the river to cool us."

The sky was clear and silky black. A full white moon made it almost as light as day and blocked their vision of all but the brightest stars. The terrace off their bedchamber hung over the river, although to the right and left there were gardens that ran down to the water. A bird, tricked into believing it was day by the moon, sang sweetly in a tree somewhere nearby. There was the scent of roses in the warm air. The river below flowed smoothly by with but the faintest whispery sound. Across the river and around them the city was almost silent. The occasional sound of music from some tavern floated on the gentle wind.

The tiles of the terrace floor were still warm beneath Yasaman's feet. She threw off her gauze peshwaz, complaining, "How I hate this heat so early in the season! It is a damp heat unlike that of our Kashmir summers. On our lake it does not even feel this hot in my birthday month, and it is but spring here. Can you imagine what it will be like two months from now? It will be totally unbearable."

"Your father told me that you have your mother's constitution," he answered. Allah! She was the most beautiful woman he had ever known. In the time that they had been here in Agra he had seen many lovely women, but there was no one like Yasaman Kama Begum. Already his loins were tightening in anticipation.

She flung her head back, rotating it to remove the stiffness from her neck and shoulders. Her breasts thrust themselves forward temptingly, and he succumbed, his hands fastening about her waist, his dark head lowering, his tongue snaking out to lick at her nipples.

Yasaman murmured and she lay her hands upon his shoulders, arching her body with pleasure.

"Temptress," he groaned, and she laughed softly.

"Would you rather I not tempt you, my dear lord?" she asked.

He nipped gently at her breasts, and she squealed even as he slid to his knees before her. "You are mine, woman!" he growled into the soft flesh of her belly.

Yasaman shivered, and wondered if all wives enjoyed their husbands as much as she enjoyed Jamal. Did passion always get better? How innocent she had been before her marriage. Other than her brief encounter with Salim, she had really known nothing. A Pillow Book told a woman nothing of reality. Every time she and Jamal made love, Yasaman realized that she still had so much more to learn.

He slid his hands down to fondle her buttocks, drawing her closer. His cheek rubbed against her belly as he nuzzled her. Instinctively she shifted in his embrace, parting her legs just slightly. His head moved lower and his thumbs gently parted her nether lips. She quivered again with anticipation even as the tip of his tongue touched the sentient little jewel of flesh her plump mont had concealed before being exposed to his view.

"Ahhhh," she breathed softly, her body arching slightly.

His tongue began to tantalize that tiny nub, tormenting her deliciously and provoking a surprisingly quick burst of pleasure that left her feeling warm and content. He laughed happily and said, "You are such a greedy creature, wife. Can you never wait?"

She kneaded his shoulders, replying, "Can I not have more, my lord?"

"You may have as much pleasure and as much passion as your little heart desires, my jasmine blossom," he promised extravagantly.

"Get up, Jamal!" she ordered him impatiently. "It is now my turn to take the edge off of your appetite so we may enjoy the rest of the night at our leisure."

He arose and, wrapping her in his arms for a moment, they kissed deeply, their lips almost bruising in their intensity. Then Yasaman slipped to her knees before him. His lingham was totally engorged and thrust out to her.

"Ohhh," she said in a teasing tone, "this naughty fellow is every bit as eager as his female counterpart." She grasped her husband's male member in one hand, the other hand moving around to stroke his taut buttocks. Her tongue snaked out and encircled the deep ruby-red tip of his manhood. "Hmmmmmmm," she murmured, and then took him in her mouth.

Jamal Khan stiffened with almost painful pleasure as her mouth began to draw upon him. Her skill was such that had he not been absolutely positive of her virginity when they had first come together, he would have believed her the most skilled of courtesans. But she had been a virgin. A virgin with an incredible appetite and an equally incredible aptitude for sensual delights. There was little she did not enjoy or was not willing to do. He groaned as her tongue and lips worked him to a fever pitch. Being encased in her mouth was, he was certain, like being in the mouth of a volcano. Her tongue was like silken lava, swirling and flowing all around him. When he found himself in danger of imminent explosion, he grasped her dark head with his fingers and begged her through gritted teeth to cease her wonderful torture.

Reluctantly Yasaman obeyed him through the mists of her own desire. Bending, he raised her to her feet again and they looked deeply into each other's eyes. This silent communication between them had been there from the beginning. Jamal Khan lifted his wife into his arms and carried her over to the striped silk double couch where he lay her down. Yasaman held out her arms to him and he came into them.

Near their terrace was a small tower used by the Muslim clerics attached to Akbar's court to call the faithful to prayer five times daily. Within the tower Prince Salim stood viewing the terrace of the guest house. Hidden within the deep shadows of the structure, he watched his sister and her husband through the carved latticework, his face dark with lust. Jamal's buttocks contracted and relaxed as his lingham thrust back and forth within Yasaman's yoni. Salim half closed his eyes and imagined himself in his brother-in-law's place. Her love passage would be hot and tight, but she would gladly accept his mighty lingham even as she was now accepting that of her husband.

Jamal's seed overflowed his wife's womb, and, laughing together at the wonderfulness of their passion, they bathed each other's parts with the love cloths their servants had thoughtfully left earlier upon the terrace along with a basin of scented water. Once more they began to make love, kissing and caressing each other with growing fervor while the man in the tower above them continued to observe their deep and increasing desire for one another. Salim reached down and began to massage his own lingham, which was hard with his need.

Jamal Khan lay on his back upon the couch. Salim watched, fascinated, as his sister roused her husband once again, her dark hair spilling over his loins as she teased him with lips and tongue. When she deemed the time appropriate, Yasaman mounted him, lowering herself over his manhood, absorbing him slowly, inch by precious inch, her firm thighs grasping his narrow hips to hold them both steady. Leaning back upon her arms, she began to ride him, her beautiful face a mask of tempestuous, excited feeling. Her head thrown back, Salim could see her eyes were closed, her lips half parted. He could hear her small mewling cries in the stillness of the night. Jamal Khan reached up with both hands and, grasping her full breasts, began to fondle them as she moved upon him. Very shortly thereafter Yasaman collapsed upon him, once more spent.

Everything he had believed her possible of, Salim thought, she was indeed capable of doing. Yasaman was absolutely his match upon the field of love. He could scarcely wait to conquer her himself. Strangely, he found, he did not resent his young brother-in-law's possession of Yasaman. Virgins were generally boring. Now she would come to him somewhat experienced in the sensual arts, thanks to Jamal Khan. He looked back to the terrace to find that although Yasaman had been satisfied in her last bout with her husband, Jamal Khan was not.

Salim smiled and his lingham tingled with anticipation as he saw Yasaman turn onto her belly. Leaning forward and resting upon her arms, she arched her back, raising her bottom to her master for his pleasure. Jamal Khan knelt behind his wife, and then grasping her hips in his two hands, he thrust hard into her fiery yoni. Salim heard his sister cry out, but the sound she made was not one of pain. His own lingham was burning his hand and he groaned low, the erotic tableau before him arousing him in a way he had never been aroused before.

For a moment Salim thought that his brother-in-law was resting, but then peering closely through the moonlight he realized that Jamal Khan was thrusting with quick, tiny movements into his wife's yoni. The older prince nodded to himself with approval, silently admiring the younger prince's skill. The boy knew how to wield his lance well.

"Yes," Salim hissed softly to himself as Jamal Khan leaned forward over his wife's bent body and, reaching out, grasped her breasts.

Yasaman began to whimper in her inflamed need for release. Her graceful back curved more deeply and she pushed her bottom back at her husband with increasing rapidity as the intoxicating ecstasy engulfing them began to reach its climax.

"Please!"

Salim distinctly heard her even from his vantage point.

"Please!"

Jamal Khan's thrusts became faster and fiercer. His hands moved back again to her hips as he drove deeper and deeper into her burning body. Then suddenly they cried out in unison, their mutual heaven attained. And in his tower, still hidden by purple shadows, Salim Muhammad, heir to his father's throne, spilled his own seed. It spattered against the stone of the structure's wall, making a creamy puddle between the upturned toes of his slippers. He looked at it dispassionately, then he looked down onto the terrace where the two lovers, satisfied, had entwined themselves within each other's arms and had fallen asleep.

"Enjoy her while you can, my brother Jamal," he said to himself. "You will not have her much longer." Then he exited the tower as silently and as secretly as he had come, to return to his own palace.

Several days later the great celebrational Darbar honoring Akbar's fifty years of rule was held in the Hall of Audience at the Agra fort. A great procession preceded Akbar's formal entry. Every noble who could manage to come to Agra was there, and every one, whether he could afford it or not, had brought a gift for the emperor. Many were raised in rank, promoted to higher offices and given more land to have charge over. All had been warned beforehand of the honors to come, so no one honored was missing from the festivities.

The procession began with the clergy: Muslim muezzins, priests of the Hindu faiths, the Buddhists, the Jains, the Christians, and even rabbis from the two ancient Jewish communities of India. These were followed by those Akbar honored the most in his kingdom, the scholars. The one leading them, an ancient gentleman with a long white beard, recited Akbar's royal lineage that none doubt his right to his throne, or for that matter, Salim's right to follow his father.

The ladies of the royal household were seated in a balcony overlooking the Hall of Audience, where they had an excellent and unobstructed view of all that was going on below them. They had dressed themselves in their best finery, but in the heat of the new day, Yasaman thought, the commingling of the different and various scents was quite overpowering. She had had to arise early to be here and was uncharacteristically tired after another long night of lovemaking with her handsome husband. Nur Jahan was next to her, reeking of roses. Yasaman's head was beginning to ache terribly as the royal heralds entered the hall, preceded by drummers who beat upon their skin instruments, calling all to attention.

"Be aware! Be aware! There approaches the Protector of the People! The Provider of Grain! The Dispenser of Justice! The Pearl of Purity! The Diamond of Restraint! The Shadow of God on Earth!" the herald cried.

Behind the heralds came the standard bearers carrying the symbols of Akbar's monarchy. There was a large open hand carved realistically from ivory, the nails stained red, set upon a bejeweled golden pole that indicated the administration of the empire. Silver heads representing the elephant, the crocodile, and the tiger symbolized the Provider. There were standard bearers with glorious full sheaves of peacock feathers and beautiful white horse tails that fell gracefully from gold cones. These were the symbols of war and conquest. Finally came the fabulous royal sword of the kingdom, which stood for Justice.

At last Akbar was carried into the Hall of Audience, seated in his golden palanquin which blazed with diamonds and emeralds, the royal umbrella held high over his head. The pale blue silk parasol represented the sky, which was, of course, the emperor's direct access to God. His conveyance was set down. The Grand Mughal, garbed all in white and sparkling with diamonds, got out to seat himself cross-legged upon the simple red silk pillow set on the raised dais that was his throne.

Rugaiya Begum shook her head worriedly. "He does not look well," she whispered to Jodh Bai. "This is too much for him."

"I know," her friend agreed, "but you cannot tell our dear husband anything he does not want to hear."

Rugaiya Begum nodded, for Jodh Bai had spoken the truth.

The presentation of the gifts began. As Yasaman had mischievously predicted to her husband, there was a preponderance of elephants offered to Akbar. Salim presented his father with one quite magnificent fighting elephant, and his brother, Prince Daniyal, sent his father two female elephants and a fighting male. Daniyal was absent from the Darbar because he would not come to Agra while his brother was in residence.

Yasaman preened proudly before her female relations when her husband presented her father with the Wular Blue sapphire.

"What is it? What is it?" demanded Salima Begum. "I am unable to see clearly from here with these old eyes."

"Jamal Khan has given the emperor a sapphire as large as a cat's head," Rugaiya Begum answered.

"Aiiiii!" hissed Salima Begum. "He does well, Yasaman's handsome young husband." She turned to the girl. "Does he love as well?" she teased, and then she cackled. "I can see he does from the purple circles beneath your eyes! Heh! Heh! Heh!"

Yasaman blushed, but she smiled. Salima Begum meant no harm.

The gift-giving continued. There were smaller jewels, and animals, and birds, and carved ebony and ivory boxes filled with pearls, and bolts of beautiful cloth, and rare books, and slaves of all races and both sexes, most young and beautiful, as well as chests of silver and gold coins.

Then came the honors Akbar was to bestow upon the loyal and upon those valuable civil servants without whom the Mughal could not have administered his vast empire. Prince Khusrau was honored. It was but the gesture of a loving grandfather. Akbar had already told those closest to him that in a few days the diwans of revenue, ministers, and officers would be placed under Salim's jurisdiction. Jamal Darya Khan was created governor of Kashmir for life, and publicly pledged his fealty to both Akbar and Prince Salim.

Yusef Khan could scarcely contain his pride, but his two elder sons were openly unhappy at Jamal's success. Salim noted this and several days later called Yaqub Khan and Haider Khan to him secretly. The two Kashmiri princes came, afraid, yet unable to refuse a royal summons.

Seeing them, Salim knew he had found the tools he needed to rid himself of his brother-in-law. "Sit down," he told the two men before him. "You will have wine, of course." He poured them goblets of a particularly good vintage he had imported from Europe, which had already been mixed with a very strong opiate.

"Wine is forbidden by the Prophet," Yaqub Khan said piously.

"Is not the forbidden usually the best of experiences?" Prince Salim rejoined. He raised his goblet. "To the new governor of Kashmir," he said and smiled toothily at the pair before him.

Reluctantly they raised their goblets to drink. What hypocrites, the prince thought to himself. He knew that both these Kashmiri lords drank regularly. He watched them over the rim of his goblet for a long moment, then lowering the vessel, he said, "You do not seem pleased that your younger brother has been appointed by my father to rule Kashmir."

Yaqub Khan and Haider Khan remained silent.

"Are you not relieved that one of your own is to again have charge over that land your ancestors have ruled for so many generations? Jamal Khan's mother was the daughter of one of your father's civil servants, wasn't she? Admittedly you are the eldest, Yaqub Khan, but still, even having the youngest rise above you to govern your homeland is better than having strangers sit in your father's palaces, is it not?" Salim smiled again at his two guests, wondering as he did so how long it would take for them to show their true colors. It was obvious that they were both terribly jealous of their youngest sibling. He did not have to wait long.

"I am my father's heir," burst out Yaqub Khan angrily. "It is I who should have been made governor of Kashmir by the Mughal!"

"You are a fool, Yaqub Khan," Salim replied coldly. "I remember you when you came to my father's court. You were cowardly and you were pompous. My father remembers it well too. You rebelled against the emperor even after he had conquered Kashmir. Your father had already sworn fealty to mine and taken a command in his army; but you rebelled, hiding out in the hills for months. Why would my father appoint you his governor? He cannot trust you."

"I have since proven my worth," Yaqub Khan said sullenly.

"How?" Salim answered him mockingly. "By lolling about your palace with your women and causing no further rebellions?"

"I am my father's firstborn," Yaqub Khan said angrily. "It should be I who received Kashmir back yesterday and not Jamal!"

Salim burst out laughing. "There is your greatest weakness, Yaqub Khan. Your overweening pride caused you to rebel in the face of defeat. Will it once again defeat you, I wonder, or can you be of use to me?"

"What do you want of us, gracious lord?" Haider Khan asked, perhaps a bit too eagerly. He had been silent until now.

Salim eyed him speculatively. Was this brother the wiser of the two? "You are ambitious, Haider Khan, are you not?"

"I must be ambitious for myself, gracious lord. I am a middle son. There is little for a middle son if he does not take it," came the honest reply.

Salim nodded. "And what do you want of me, Haider Khan?"

"A generalship in the future Mughal's army," Haider Khan told him frankly. "I enjoy war. There is still land to be taken in the Mughal's name. I like women, and I like good wine, gracious lord, but best of all I like to fight. I have no conscience at all where killing is concerned. Men, after all, are born to die."

"And what would you do for that generalship, Haider Khan?" Prince Salim demanded. He really didn't have to ask. He already knew.

"Whatever my gracious lord commands of me," came the predictable reply. Now Haider Khan smiled, showing strong white teeth.

Salim turned his dark gaze to Yaqub Khan. "And you, my poor disinherited friend, what would you do to regain Kashmir for yourself and for the sons and grandsons who will follow you?"

"Anything!" Yaqub Khan spat out. "Anything you want me to do!"

"Kill Jamal Khan?" Salim said softly. "Would you kill your own flesh and blood, Yaqub Khan, to regain your rightful inheritance?"

"Yes! But why?"

Salim considered a moment, but then he decided it was best to answer. His real reasons must remain secret for now, but he would give Yaqub Khan an explanation to satisfy him. "My father and I do not agree on many things, and I have on several occasions struggled against him," Salim said. "It is an open secret that Akbar is dying. He has passed many of his responsibilities on to me already. Jamal Khan was not my choice to be governor of Kashmir."

"Who was?" Yaqub Khan asked.

"You were," replied Salim cleverly. "I, too, am an elder son, Yaqub Khan. Recently my own father has threatened to disinherit me because of our disagreements. I know how you feel. I told my father that your rebellions were a thing of the past; that I trusted your sworn word to us to keep the peace. Still, he would not listen to me. I do not want my brother-in-law as Kashmir's governor. I want you!"

"Then why not simply replace Jamal Khan with me after the Mughal's death?" Yaqub Khan demanded suspiciously.

"My father sealed Jamal Khan's fate when he appointed him Kashmir's governor for life. I cannot override that appointment even after Akbar's death. Therefore, the only thing I can do is have Jamal Khan killed," Salim explained reasonably.

"Why not hire an assassin?" Haider Khan asked.

"An assassin could later betray me," Salim said quietly, "but the new governor of Kashmir and one of my most powerful generals would not betray me, would they, Haider Khan?"

"I want the girl then too," Yaqub Khan told Salim.

"The girl?" Salim was puzzled.

"Your sister, Yasaman Kama Begum," Yaqub Khan answered.

"You would make her your wife?" Salim said, restraining his anger. Did this fool actually think he would give him Yasaman? Yaqub Khan's reply almost rendered Salim apoplectic, but because of what was involved, he managed by a supreme burst of will to remain calm.

"I have four wives. I see no advantage in divorcing any of them," Yaqub Khan said. "They have all given me sons. No, I want your sister as a hostage to ensure your kindness toward me. I will make her a concubine in my zenana. She will be well treated, I promise you. I am not unaffected by her beauty. I will probably give her several sons, which should bind us even closer once our blood has commingled. It is not that I do not trust you, gracious lord, but I am certain were you in my place, you would do all you could to protect yourself and your family."

"Of course! Of course," Salim said. "I suppose Yasaman would not object to remaining in Kashmir. She likes it there. Very well, Yaqub Khan, I will give you my sister for a concubine; but you must understand that I cannot let you have her until after my father is dead. I do not have that power. Besides, she will want a time to mourn her husband, as is only proper. She is young and fancies herself in love. Girls always feel that way about a man with a skillful lingham." He chuckled, and then as suddenly turned serious. "So it is agreed? You will kill Jamal Khan as quickly as possible?"

"Yes, gracious lord," the two brothers chorused.

"I have a suggestion," Salim told them. "It is best that it look like an accident. Find your brother and go with him to visit the emperor's elephants. The keepers are rarely in evidence at midday because of the heat. Render Jamal Khan unconscious and then throw him among the beasts. If they do not panic at the sight of his prone form, then stir them up so that they crush him beneath their mighty feet. When he is found, it will be assumed his death was a terrible happenstance."

Yaqub Khan nodded. "Yes," he agreed. "That is a fine suggestion, gracious lord. How soon afterward will I be appointed Kashmir's governor?"

"You must be patient, Yaqub Khan. There will be much distress over Jamal Khan's death. My sister, his wife, will grieve greatly at first, and my father's health may be affected by the tragedy. Trust me, my friend. I will be in your debt. I cannot betray you. When my father is ready to listen to reason, I will put forth your name again."

"And what if he again bypasses me in favor of another?" Yaqub Khan demanded. "I could do your bidding and once more find myself the loser. What guarantees do you give me, gracious lord?"

"You have my word, Yaqub Khan. I will not allow my father to appoint anyone else governor of Kashmir after Jamal Khan's death. Remember, Akbar is dying. We have time on our side. Trust me."

"I trust you, my lord!" Haider Khan told Salim.

"If you betray me, Salim Muhammad," Yaqub Khan said softly, "I will find some way to repay your treachery, even if I must come out of Hell to do it."

Salim smiled broadly. "You will have your due, Yaqub Khan, I swear it. Everything you deserve will shortly be yours, I promise."

The two brothers left him as secretly as they had come, and Salim sat contemplating his plans. Soon he would have everything he wanted. Soon he would be Grand Mughal and Yasaman would be at his side to share his life and his triumphs. He needed to be patient just a little longer.