Equal of the Sun by Anita Amirrezvani Page B

voice.
    Since his sister Sultanam was Isma‘il’s mother, it was no surprise that Amir and his allies heeded her call. But some of the other men did not join in, and they began whispering and conveying their disapproval with a flick of their hands, precisely the kind of discord we had feared.
    Mirza Salman arose to speak. “You have my pledge of loyalty as well,” he replied, “and perhaps I can help others by posing a question. Noble daughter of the Safavis, sometimes men are misguided in their choices. How can you expect them to support Isma‘il if they fear for their lives because they threw themselves behind the wrong man?”
    “That is right!” came a chorus of voices.
    “It is true that men are sometimes ill-advised,” Pari replied. “Since the situation was confusing, I don’t wish to punish those who made the wrong decision if their intentions were to act for the good of the state. Therefore, if you are all willing to pledge your loyalty to Isma‘il, I will promise to advocate on behalf of those who supported Haydar and to help break the rod of royal displeasure.”
    “What guarantee do we have that he will listen to you?” asked Sadr al-din Khan, an Ostajlu leader who had dared to show his face.
    “I have been in communication with him.”
    “But did he offer amnesty? Show us the letter!”
    “I don’t have an offer of amnesty. I will ask for one.”
    Some of the men paused to think about that, knowing how powerful Pari’s advocacy could be. But Sadr al-din Khan was not satisfied.
    “That is not good enough,” he replied.
    Pari was silent behind the curtain. I suspected she didn’t know what more to promise to assuage him and avoid a revolt. Both Majeed and Shamkhal looked at a loss. My heart seemed to flip-flop like a fish on dry land. I had never had an official role in a meeting of such importance, and I did not know what to do.
    Pari’s cousin Ibrahim Mirza stood up to speak. He had beenTahmasb Shah’s favorite nephew and had even been permitted to run his own bookmaking workshop long after Tahmasb had lost interest. He had the ancient Iranian mien—thick black curls, smooth wheat-colored skin, rosy cheeks, and shapely lips, but his good looks could not hide that he had supported Haydar.
    “Now wait a minute,” Ibrahim said in a loud voice. “Amnesty is only the concern of people who were on the wrong side. But it is hardly the most pressing issue, is it? Almost no one has laid eyes on the prince for twenty years. How do we know he is not blind, sick, or a crazed fool?”
    “That is heresy. He was a hero to all of Iran when he was young!” shouted Amir Khan Mowsellu.
    “Maybe so, but what about now? A just leader is the only thing we should care about when the future of our country is at stake!” Ibrahim replied.
    From the conflicted looks on the men’s faces, I understood that not everyone agreed. Most nobles wished to advance the interests of their own people. As a “double-veined” child, with intertwined Tajik and Turkic strands, I wanted a shah who wouldn’t be swayed by petty jockeying for power.
    “Isma‘il will be such a leader!” declared Amir Khan Mowsellu, but his words met deadly quiet.
    “Who knows?” asked Sadr al-din Khan. “The prince isn’t even here. Why doesn’t he arrive and claim his throne?”
    “He will enter the city any moment now,” argued Kholafa Rumlu.
    “It is easy for you to say—you who can expect a fat reward!” complained Sadr al-din Khan.
    Kholafa had been the mastermind who spread rumors that Isma‘il and his troops had arrived, thereby dooming the Ostajlu. He smiled at Sadr al-din Khan. “That is because I used my head.”
    “Some would argue that you were merely blessed with luck.”
    The two men jumped to their feet and began hurling insults at one another. Some of the Takkalu began poking fun at Sadr al-din Khan, delighted by the disgrace of their longtime Ostajlu rivals.
    “Choke yourselves!” commanded Shamkhal, but no