The four men sat up as Wazir Khan entered the chamber. He looked tired and the pink scar across his tanned face — the memento of a sword swipe a decade earlier that had also robbed him of the sight in his right eye — stood out livid and raw as if it had been received only weeks ago. ‘Gentlemen, my apologies.’ He touched his hand to his breast and bowed to Qambar-Ali in acknowledgement of the vizier’s position as the chief among them. ‘I have posted a double guard around the fort but all is quiet. The king’s body is being prepared and everything is in readiness for the funeral tomorrow.’

‘We are in your debt, Wazir Khan. I thank you.’

‘You were speaking of appointing a regent for Ferghana?’ Wazir Khan sat down beside Qambar-Ali and fixed on him his one eye with an unblinking intensity that the vizier resented.

‘We were. Prince Babur is too young to bear the responsibility of government. And we face a threat from those dogs of Uzbeks.’ At the mention of the Uzbeks, the vizier simulated spitting.

‘It is true that the prince is young, but he is the king’s only surviving son and has been reared since his earliest days to reign. It is his destiny, and what his father would have wished. Babur is brave, determined and learns fast. I should know. At the king’s request, especially when it became clear that Babur would be his only heir, I spent much time instructing him in swordplay and archery, how to wield a spear and hurl a battleaxe. Babur is also astute beyond his years. Surely we five can guide him through the early days,’ Wazir Khan said quietly.