about his taste in sweets. This time I brought white nougat studded with pistachios from his favorite sweets vendor. He raised his eyebrows at me as he whisked away the gift. “More business for your princess?” he asked sarcastically as he delivered the documents. I ignored him.
I found the entry for Kamiyar Kofrani easily enough and read through it. He was born in Shiraz and had been an accountant until he retired. He had married a woman who was unnamed and had four sons. Presumably two of them had died, since Balamani knew of only two living sons. He had assisted the late shah with some financial reforms that allowed the ledgers to be read and understood more easily, making it possible to uncover fraud. He had retired and died a few years later in Qazveen.
There was no mention of my father’s murder, which was odd, and no reason to think that high status or family connections had prevented the Shah from punishing him for it.
Something was bothering me, something just beyond my grasp. Mirza Salman and the histories averred that the killer was dead, but Looloo’s suggestion that he might be living had taken root in my thoughts. Unable to make sense of this contradiction, I returned to the entry about my father.
Mohammad Amir Shirazi: Born in Qazveen, he served the Shah for twenty years, becoming one of his chief accountants. Many colleagues praised the accuracy of his accounts and his swift dispatch of court business. He seemed destined to rise up through the ranks of the men of the pen, until one day he was accused of crimes against the Shah and executed. Later, doubts were raised about the truth of the accusations. In his world-illumining mercy, the Shah did not execute his accuser, but it is also possible that his decision was influenced by the fact that the man had powerful allies whom the Shah didn’t wish to offend. Only God knows all things with certainty.
I scrutinized the words, but the mosaic didn’t form a clear picture; a critical piece of tile was missing. I stared at the words again, which seemed to reveal and conceal the truth at the same time. It seemed to be right there—the pieces going in and out of focus, until suddenly, I shouted out loud.
Abteen Agha’s rounded shoulders spasmed, and he glared at me. “What is your problem? You could make a scribe ruin an entire page by hollering like that.”
“I—finally found the answer to a question.”
“Next time, keep the good news to yourself.”
I looked down and reread one fragment of a sentence: the Shah did not execute his accuser. . .
What if the paragraph referred to two different men? The murderer was Kamiyar Kofrani. The accuser was a man with powerful allies who was probably still alive. The way the paragraph had been written suggested that someone, perhaps a scribe in the accuser’s pay, had purposely obscured the truth. If so, I realized with growing excitement, I could pursue the man after all.
The next morning, I had just begun strategizing with Pari when we heard a series of long, anguished cries, followed by the sound of running. I jumped up and ran to the door, my hand on my dagger. Azar Khatoon came rushing in, out of breath.
“What is the trouble?”
“Sultanam. She is in a woeful state.”
“Show her in right away,” Pari said.
The moans became louder and Sultanam burst into the room, her leather slippers still on her feet. She stepped onto Pari’s best silk carpets as if she didn’t know they were there. Her kerchief had fallen off the crown of her head, and her white hair was a nest of snakes around her face. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, her mouth as wobbly as a suppurating wound.
“Eldest mother of the palace, what ails you?” Pari said, rising to her feet, as it was her duty to be solicitous. “How can I ease your suffering?”
“My heart has been torn out of my chest and eaten by a wolf,” cried Sultanam. “Help me! By God above, help me!”
She fell to the floor on all fours like an animal and beat her fists against the hard ground. The princess tried to coax Sultanam to a cushion, but she shook Pari’s hand off her arm as if the very touch burned her.
“Has someone hurt you, revered mother? Let me know who it is. I will render justice.”
“Yes, you must render justice!” Sultanam cried, raising herself to a seated position. “I am