Equal of the Sun A Novel - By Anita Amirrezvani Page 0,97

swell with pride. We spent the long hours telling each other stories and playing backgammon, and I taught him a few new game strategies to try out on the other errand boys.

One night, when we were both restless, he began to demonstrate the techniques he had been learning in combat class to block hand strikes. Still clad in my disguising chador, I raised my arm as if to hit him, and he practiced batting it away and landing his own strike. Although he wasn’t strong, he was very fast. At one point he scored a strike on my chest that I had failed to see coming.

We were so engrossed that I didn’t notice when men appeared in Hassan’s courtyard, but Massoud Ali alerted me to their movements in the dark. Stealthily the men moved toward the secret exit. Massoud Ali jumped up and raced after them, armed with a plausible excuse. I watched him until I could see him no more, a twinge of fear in my heart.

Several hours later I went to see Pari, who was wearing fine ivory cotton pajamas and a long yellow silk robe. She was sitting on a cushion, and Maryam was brushing out her long black hair, which reached her waist. Maryam must have recently applied henna to Pari’s hair, because it glistened in the lamplight like a black grape bursting with juice.

“I am very sorry to disturb you, esteemed princess,” I said, “but I have information for your ears only.”

Maryam didn’t pause her brushing. Pari said to her, “Soul of mine, you must leave for your own protection,” and only then did Maryam arise and quit the room, her face sour.

I imagined she would return to brush Pari’s long black hair, and then they would disrobe and hold each other in the dark. I tried to keep my mind away from the thought of the strong, wiry body of the one and the plump, peach-like curves of her fair-haired friend. I missed Khadijeh more and more. Aside from the pleasures of exploring her body, I yearned for the ordinary expressions of affection I used to enjoy, her back curved into my chest or mine against hers, the heat rising in the space between our bodies.

“What is it?” Pari asked impatiently.

“My nighttime vigil has taught me that the Shah leaves in disguise to pursue his pleasures in the bazaar,” I said. “Massoud Ali has discovered that he buys halva from the same sweets vendor every time he goes out.”

We discussed the merits of replacing the vendor with a man of our own, but decided it would provoke too much suspicion. Then we talked about the possibility of modifying the Shah’s opium before it was formed into balls. That, too, seemed fraught with peril.

“Have the Shah’s women been forthcoming about his other habits?” I asked.

“Not really. Mahasti talks about nothing but the baby in her belly. Koudenet is only fifteen, but she is not stupid. I whisper that I am trying to redeem myself in her husband’s eyes and insist that if she came to know me, she would agree my cause is just. She looks as if she wonders when I will strike with my snake’s venom.”

Maryam entered the room uninvited. “It is time for bed,” she announced. She flung back the velvet bedcover on the bedroll, revealing embroidered silk pillows, and stared at me.

“The princess is tired,” she said pointedly.

Pari leaned back into a cushion and closed her eyes. “Good night, Javaher. Tomorrow morning we will talk more.”

Maryam began brushing Pari’s hair with the ivory brush as if they were already alone. A small sigh of pleasure escaped the princess’s lips. I left them to one another and returned to my empty bed.

The goading look in Balamani’s eyes when I had mentioned my father made me wish to prove my skills by solving the puzzle of his death, despite what I had said. There was a gap in the information I had gleaned from Looloo, Balamani, and from Mirza Salman that bothered me. Why would the Shah choose to protect an accountant who had killed one of his men? I was haunted by the mystery and felt humbled that I, the vaunted information gatherer, could not get to the bottom of it.

I went to the office of the scribes and requested the History of Tahmasb Shah’s Glorious Reign. Abteen Agha, the sunken-chested eunuch, hadn’t looked impressed with the fine gift I brought on my last visit, so I had taken pains to inquire