the cord at Mahmood’s young throat, the poison in Khadijeh’s belly, and the dagger in my father’s chest. Why couldn’t Pari tell me what she knew?
I lit a lamp and opened the Shahnameh to the page about how Kaveh had stood up to Zahhak and chastised him for his bloodthirstiness. Kaveh’s boldness in the face of injustice had so surprised the tyrant that he hadn’t been able to stop him. One man had to stand up to Zahhak so that others would finally gain enough courage to fight for justice.
I marveled at the bravery of that humble hero of old, who had neither nobility nor money nor friends—nothing but his sense of justice to guide him.
Well before noon, I arose, dressed, and went to see Pari. When I arrived at her house, she was wearing the same blue robe as the night before, and the hollows under her eyes were even darker. She was just where I had left her.
“Princess, what ails you?”
“I couldn’t sleep. Every time I heard a noise, I expected news. Just now, Mirza Salman sent a message that he needs to speak with me urgently. I must discover the reason.”
“Could he have unearthed our plans?”
“No. He would have sent the royal guard instead, and he wouldn’t have asked permission.”
It didn’t take long for Mirza Salman to arrive. He came with only one servant rather than the usual large retinue that accompanies a grand vizier. My pulse quickened when I noticed a few stray hairs hanging out of his normally impeccable turban. I showed him to his side of the lattice in Pari’s birooni and stayed to better observe him.
“Esteemed servant of the realm, your visit is welcome.” The princess’s low, sweet voice filled the divided room.
“Princess,” Mirza Salman replied in a sober tone, “an unprecedented situation has occurred at the palace. Your brother, the light of the universe, hasn’t shown the sunshine of his face this morning, and everyone at the palace is worried.”
My heart soared with hope.
“Indeed?” Pari said, sounding surprised. “When did he go to sleep?”
“A few hours before dawn. By midmorning, his retainers had gathered outside his rooms as usual to await his emergence, but there has been no sound. They don’t know what to do.”
“Has someone knocked at his door?”
“No. They have been fearful of disturbing him.”
“For God’s sake!” said Pari, her voice rising in what sounded like distress. “What if he has fallen ill? You must knock on his door immediately.”
“And if there is no answer?”
“Break it down, and tell him you did so at my command. Go now without delay, and take my vizier with you. He will report to me what has happened.”
“Chashm,” Mirza Salman replied, and said his farewells.
I followed Mirza Salman and his man out of Pari’s door. He hadn’t said where the Shah had gone to sleep, but he crossed the courtyard, marched toward Hassan’s house, and banged loudly at the wooden door. It was opened by the servant who usually attended to tradesmen. We passed into the courtyard, which I had observed so many times from Pari’s roof. The servant showed us deep into the house’s andarooni, the most private quarters. The furnishings were opulent, but I could not focus on them.
When we arrived at the rooms that adjoined the bedroom, we greeted the Shah’s physician, Hakim Tabrizi, as well as two of the most esteemed qizilbash amirs, Isma‘il’s uncle Amir Khan Mowsellu and his new Ostajlu chief, Pir Mohammad Khan. The Shah’s bedroom lay behind a thick carved wooden door, which even the amirs did not dare approach.
After greeting the men, Mirza Salman said, “Has there been any sign?”
“No,” said Amir Khan.
“Is it possible the light of the universe has already departed through another door?”
“That is the only one,” replied Hakim Tabrizi.
“In that case, by order of the highest-ranking woman of Safavi blood, I am going to knock.”
The men’s eyes widened with awe; probably no one had ever dared to disturb Isma‘il Shah before. Mirza Salman strode to the door and rapped on it with two polite taps.
We waited a long time with no reply. He knocked on the door again, this time more firmly, and when all remained quiet, banged with his fist. I was filled with hope and fear.
“What now?” asked Amir Khan.
“Hush!” replied Mirza Salman. “Listen.”
A weak sound reminiscent of a sheep’s bleats emerged.
“Help!” I thought I heard. Was it the voice of the Shah?
“Hassan Beyg, is that you?” asked Mirza Salman.
“The d-d-door! H-h-help!”
Mirza Salman directed a “four-shouldered” soldier to take