At the threshold to the chambers, she chased thoughts of Soleiman away and waited for the king’s permission to enter. He raised his head from a massive map spread before him. Colored flags marked strategic positions and different-sized blocks followed the future progress of the army. She let herself in and slipped next to him. She remained silent not to disturb him. He rose and paced the chamber, his eyes radiating determination. The thought of being forced to fight an invading army of strange creatures instead of honorable soldiers mortified him. He was beginning to harden into a warrior.

“My shah,” Gold Dust began, “you, of course, are aware that Teymour is a renowned horse- and bowman.”

“Yes, yes, we are. Do you know he invaded Esfahan, beheaded seventy thousand men, and constructed minarets from their skulls? In Neishabour and Harat, he erected light-houses made of human skulls. This time we will display his own Tartar head!”

“And you are aware, my king, that he sent, with no remorse, his fourteen-year-old son to war.”

The Shah stroked his falcons. “Rumors are dangerous. We don’t pay attention to them.”

Gold Dust heard the tremor in his voice; saw the flutter of the thumb that caressed the bird. “Are his handicaps and how he makes up for them rumors, too?”

“No, they are not.”

Gold Dust went into a detailed account of the sword her mother had described that must have made up for the loss of the soldier’s two right-hand fingers and conjectured on how he must have mastered the art of fighting by wielding the sword with his left hand. She described the stirrups—one side shorter—that held Teymour’s injured right leg, and she reminded the Shah of what he must have known, that the Tartar was a man who never smiled.

“We will annihilate him with no difficulty,” the Shah replied.

“Of course, my lord, I do not worry about your tactics. I am trying to grasp the mental state of a man who never laughs. He must be cold and ruthless. For him war must mean survival and death the climax of his life. Does any other solution ever form in his mind?”

“Other than?”

“Victory. Or death.”

The Shah’s fierce laughter sent the falcons into a flutter. Gold Dust lowered her eyes. Had she offended him? The falcons’ heads stooped to touch the Shah’s chest, and she realized his heartbeat must have escalated. Now he would banish her.

“My shah, may I share a detail you might find interesting?”

“Amusing! Yes, yes, continue!”

Gold Dust paused to allow the king time to collect himself, turn his ear to her, and maybe even prepare himself for his next response.

“Your Honor, Teymour the Lame detests sprigs of mint. Their sight brings tears to his eyes and causes his collapse.”

“And why is that important?”

“I am not a soldier, my lord; you will know how to use this information.”