Free Empire of the Moghul: Ruler of the World by Alex Rutherford

back in the flask – some drops always escaped. Whatever the case, they had shattered his peace of mind, making him think the unthinkable – that the youth he had grown up with and loved as a brother might be his foe. After all, it had been Adham Khan’s mother who had warned him against Bairam Khan. But he had just made one terrible error of judgement that had cost him a friend. He must not rashly make another.

    ‘Akbar, look! I told you my hawk was the best,’ shouted Adham Khan. High above their heads, the bird swooped like an arrow on the pigeon it had been pursuing. ‘I win!’
    A few minutes later, Adham Khan held out his left arm and hisyellow-eyed hawk landed on the elbow-length leather gauntlet, curved beak bloodied and more blood staining the leather jesses trailing from its legs. Still smiling triumphantly, he returned the bird to a wooden perch driven into the ground, tied the jesses to the plaited leather leash attached to the perch and placed a tufted cap inlaid with tiger eyes over the bird’s head.
    ‘I concede. Your hawk makes the faster kill,’ said Akbar.
    ‘I told you your new falconer hasn’t been training your birds properly to follow the lure. Let mine have care of them for a few days, then you’ll see the difference.’ Adham Khan’s wide-jawed, strong-featured face was split by a broad grin.
    ‘Perhaps.’ Akbar smiled back. It was as well that Adham Khan couldn’t see into his mind, he thought. It was also good that his swaggering milk-brother was too conceited to wonder why Akbar had recently been seeking his company. In the aftermath of the victory over Hemu and the triumphal progress through Hindustan they had seen relatively little of each other, but as Akbar’s doubts had grown about the cause of Bairam Khan’s death he had deliberately invited Adham Khan hunting or hawking, or to join in games of polo on the banks of the Jumna. All the time, while seemingly focused only on the sport in hand, Akbar had been observing his milk-brother carefully, but Adham Khan had done or said nothing to rouse his suspicions. He was merely his usual boastful, ebullient self.
    But in that case, whom had he so offended that they wished to damage him in Akbar’s eyes with their scrawled note implying his complicity in Bairam Khan’s death? Akbar frowned as he watched his milk-brother dig his heels into his horse’s sides and canter over to where the falconers were waiting with fresh birds. Though he had offered a huge reward – enough to feed an entire village for ten years – even after three months there was still no intelligence about who had slaughtered Bairam Khan.
    Thoughts of conspiracy – however shadowy and insubstantial – never left him, but he must learn patience. Across such a vast and in places untamed land as Hindustan, information took time to travel. Perhaps Ahmed Khan and his network of spies and scouts wouldsoon have news. He had promised his mother he’d not rest until he’d found and punished the murderers and he would keep his word. Should he have told her about the curious warning on the piece of silk? he wondered yet again. Often he had been on the brink of it but each time had drawn back, fearing it would only distress and alarm her. And, of course, he could say nothing about it to Maham Anga either . . .

    The council meeting had seemed especially long and tedious. Akbar’s head was aching and he wanted to hear nothing further about caravanserai construction or revenue gathering. But as he left the council chamber and made his way to the women’s quarters his mood lightened. A few days ago, a new ally from the hill country beyond the Jhelum river had sent some concubines to join Akbar’s
haram
. The party had reached Agra three nights ago and now Akbar was eager to see the women for himself. His first bashful though passionate love-making with Mayala seemed to belong to another life. She was still his favourite but he had found many other women to please him