Equal of the Sun (58 page)

When I was shown into Fereshteh’s private guest room, she was completely veiled; I couldn’t even see her face because she had covered it with a white silk picheh.

“You may leave us,” she told her maid, who shut the door as quietly as if it were a shadow.

“Fereshteh, is it you?” I said lightly. “I have never seen you so covered.”

She did not reply. A chill froze my heart as she slowly removed the picheh from her face. Her right eyelid was the color of a rotten pomegranate, and the area underneath it was yellow and black. Her bottom lip was swollen to twice its normal size and cleft by a dark scab. Her eyes glistened with what could only be tears.

“By God above!” I roared. “Who did this to you? I will kill him.”

Her hands were shaking, I suspect, from the pain. “Remember how I met Sultanam the first time?”

I thought for a moment before recalling that a client had beaten her so badly that she had gone to the royal mother and demanded her help.

“You went back to that terrible man?”

“Yes.”

Slowly she removed her outer robe, revealing that one of her pale arms and the top of her breasts were covered with eggplant-colored blotches.

“Fereshteh, who would do such an ugly thing? Tell me and I will petition to have the monster punished.”

She shuddered as one of her long sleeves grazed a tender part of her forearm.

“I feel much better today than I did a few days ago. The pain has hardly been the worst of it. It was what he insisted on doing while having sex. I will omit the ugly details. I have paid very dearly for the information you wanted.”

The pit of my stomach filled with bile. “I would never have asked you to sacrifice your person, not even to save my own life.”

“I know,” she said. “That is why I didn’t tell you my plans. I decided that a week of pain would be worth the chance to win my freedom. Perhaps I have.”

A smile of triumph illuminated her face and made her look almost beautiful again despite her ghastly injuries.

“Fereshteh! I would rather have sacrificed myself for you instead.”

“Never mind that now. Here is what I have learned,” she said excitedly. “When Mirza Salman was wooing Mohammad Shah
and his wife, he was also working on a plot to elevate their eldest son, Hamza Mirza, to the throne instead. In short, he was betraying them.”

I was seized with hope. “Is there proof that would allow me to get Mirza Salman dismissed?”

“No one will come forth and admit it. The best thing you can do to get the mill is tell Mirza Salman you have proof without telling him from whom. I know enough details about the plot that he will realize your source is impeccable.”

“How do you know it is impeccable?”

“The nobleman I saw was in on the plot with him. He is angry at Mirza Salman because he relinquished the plan to elevate Hamza Mirza when the Shah and his wife offered to keep him as grand vizier. I shall not reveal the nobleman’s name for fear that he would kill me if it came out.”

A shiver of fear went through her. She shook it away and began narrating the details of the plan, which I committed to memory. When the pain became too great for her to bear, she ate a few poppy seeds to relax and rubbed some liniment onto her poor bruised body.

“Thank you, Fereshteh. Your sacrifice has been far greater than any I deserved. I will do everything in my power to live up to what I promised.”

“A silken cord has bound us since we were little more than children,” she said gently.

I gestured toward a glass vase shaped like a tear-catcher that adorned one of her shelves. “I don’t want you to collect any more tears for me, though.”

She smiled. “So you know the story about the origin of the tear-catcher?”

“No.”

“Once there was a shah who was jealous of his queen and uncertain of her love. One morning he went off on a hunt and told his men to report to the queen that he had been torn apart by wild animals. The queen was sick with grief. She ordered her artisans to design a glass tear-catcher in which to collect all her tears. A few
days later, the Shah’s spies reported that her room was filled with dozens of glass tear-catchers in shades of blue and violet, which glowed with her sorrow. Chagrined by the grief he had caused her, the Shah returned and promised to trust her and love her until the end of their days.”

I paused. “I wish that every terrible story had such a happy ending.”

“So do I.”

When I returned to the palace, I sent Mirza Salman a message saying that I had urgent information that could threaten the very foundations of the court, thereby obligating him to see me. He had just claimed one of the best offices near Forty Columns Hall, one with high ceilings and windows made of rare multicolored glass. I sat in his waiting room filled with deadly calm, thinking how pleased Balamani would be to know how resolute I felt.

When I was finally shown in, Mirza Salman frowned. I noticed that he had purchased a fancy silk carpet, which felt as soft as a baby’s skin, and he had positioned himself at the long end of it so that visitors would have to admire it while talking to him.

I didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “I have heard you have been speaking out against me.”

“So? I say what I think.”

“So do I. I am here because I need that mill—the one that Khalil Khan claimed as his reward for murdering Pari.”

Mirza Salman shuddered as if I had mentioned something indelicate. “Khalil Khan is one of the richest men in the country now. Why should I challenge him for your sake?”

“Because the mill belongs to me.”

He guffawed. “Can’t you think of a better reason?”

“Do you really want to make an enemy of me?”

“I am the grand vizier, remember? It is not even worth my time to smash your balls.”

I did not raise an eyebrow. “You have to help me,” I demanded. “It is the law.”

“I don’t have to do anything.”

I gestured to his eunuchs, who looked ready to grab me and throw me out of the room. “I have something to tell you that you will prefer to keep private.”

He sent them to the corners of the room so that they could not hear, but kept his hand on his dagger.

“I know about your plot to bring Hamza Mirza to the throne,” I said quietly. “Don’t you think that news might upset the Shah?”

Mirza Salman’s chin snapped into the air and his back stiffened as if he were riding a horse. “Nonsense.”

“Your plan was to bribe the Ostajlu guard inside the palace at the same time that you sent an army of supporters to guard all of its entrances, having learned from the mistakes that Haydar made. Once you had the palace secured, you were going to declare Hamza Mirza the new shah, with yourself as grand vizier.”

I began describing the minutiae of the plan, watching his face change from assured to ashen, until finally I had convinced him that I knew everything.

“Enough! I am not to blame, but you are a good enough storyteller to make it sound like a competent rumor. So you want the mill? Very well, then. I will see that you get it, but only under one condition: You must leave the court.”

It was exactly what I hoped he would say, but I pretended to equivocate. “You want me to relinquish my post at the palace? Why should I?”

“That is the deal. Otherwise you can fend for yourself.”

I pretended to look as if I felt cornered. “This is my home. Where else is a eunuch supposed to go?”

“Out of my sight.”

“I intend to stay.”

“Then I won’t help you.”

“Very well, then,” I said angrily. “When shall I expect to receive my orders to depart?”

“Right away.” He dismissed me with a flick of his wrist, and as
I reached the door, he hissed, “You are very lucky.” His gaze was as chilling as the highest peaks of Mount Damavand.

“It is not luck.”

A few days later, Mirza Salman contacted Pari’s
vakil
and asked to see her letter about the mill. When it arrived, he had an expert at court verify her handwriting and declared the letter sound. I didn’t know what form of persuasion he used to wrest the mill away from Khalil Khan, but I suspected he was compelled to demand it as a personal favor. It didn’t take long before Mirza Salman sent a messenger to me with the deed. Once I had it in hand, I immediately sent a message to Fereshteh telling her of our success.

    
Kind lady, know that the tears shed by your loving eyes

    
Have transformed into oceans that rival the skies.

    
Because of your sacrifices and your pain

    
Those oceans rematerialized as sweet summer rain.

    
That rain fell upon my desert of woe

    
Your waterfall of kindness made things grow.

    
Allow me to thank you for the gift of your tears

    
With a shower of good news: Our liberation nears!

That afternoon, Balamani informed me that Mohammad Shah had commanded me to present myself before him the next day. I was surprised, having thought Mirza Salman would arrange my dismissal and save the Shah the trouble of seeing me. Now I would have to prepare for any eventuality. Would the Shah chastise me for being Pari’s servant? Worse yet, would he accuse me of disloyalty or of murder? I hastily penned a letter to Pari’s
vakil
instructing him that my sister, Jalileh, was to inherit the mill in the event of my death. Then I gave a copy of the letter to Balamani for safekeeping. After reading it, he tucked it into his robe.

“May God protect you from harm,” he said, and insisted on
spending every moment of that evening in my company, as if afraid it would be my last.

The morning of my meeting, I dressed in the dark blue head-to-toe that Pari had given me, hoping that some of her royal farr would protect me, and into my sash I tucked one of her handkerchiefs embroidered with the lady reading her book. Mohammad Shah was too blind to be able to see my attire, of course, but I imagined it would impress his wife. I arrived and waited in the guest room where I had gone with Pari so many times to petition Isma‘il. Nothing had changed; the paintings and furniture were the same, only the occupants were new.

When I was shown in, I was surprised to see no sign of Mohammad Shah. Khayr al-Nisa Beygom sat on a gold-embroidered cushion, where the Shah would normally sit, and was surrounded by her ladies and her eunuchs. She was wearing such a bright red robe that it made her skin look as white as a ghost’s; her lips were red like a gash.

Now that she was queen, I greeted her as Mahd-e-Olya, the Cradle of the Greats, which was fitting since she had given birth to four royal sons.

“Thank you for the opportunity to bask in the royal radiance,” I continued in Farsi, her native language, knowing my fluency would please her.

“You are welcome,” she said regally. “It is time for me to decide what to do with you. Before I do, tell me why you are so valuable to the court.”

I realized right away that she was making good on her promise to take control. The word around the palace was that her husband was shah in name only.

“I can write a letter in three languages, procure sensitive information, and give sound advice on strategy. No wall stops me.”

“I have heard much about your talents. The only question is where you should serve.”

I was taken aback. I had expected her to question me and get rid of me.

“Thank you. I thought you should know that Mirza Salman
advised me that leaving palace service would be for the best,” I said euphemistically. “He said he would speak with you about it.”

“He did, but my decision is the only one that matters.” She stared at me as if waiting to be challenged.

“My eyes are yours to be stepped on.”

“Good. Let us return to the problem of where you should serve.”

Sensing a trap, I struggled to get what I wanted. “Kind lady, I apologize for burdening you with my problems. A grave concern demands my presence away from court, if you are kind enough to grant it.”

“What problem?”