"For your sake I trust this is a jest, Highness. You dare not carry it out." Ghulam Adl slammed his glass onto the carpet, spilling his wine. The Rajputs around Jadar stiffened but made no move. "I have the full support of the Moghul himself. Your current position in Agra is already talked about here in the south. Do you think we're so far away we hear nothing? Your return this time, if you are allowed to return, will be nothing like the grand celebrations three years ago. If I were you, I'd be marching back now. Leave the Deccan to those who know it." "You're right about Agra on one point. It is far away. And this campaign is mine, not the Moghul's." "You'll never raise the troops, young prince: Only I can induce the _mansabdars_ to muster." "I'll muster the men. With full pay." "You'll muster nothing, Highness. You'll be Ambar's prisoner inside a month. I can swear it. If you are still alive." Ghulam Adl bowed low and his hand shot for his sword. By the time it touched the handle the Rajputs were there. He was circled by drawn blades. Jadar watched impassively for a moment, and then signaled the guards to escort Ghulam Adl from the audience room. "I'll see you dead." He shouted over his shoulder as the men dragged him toward the door. "Within the month." Jadar watched Ghulam Adl's turban disappear through the torchlit opening and down the corridor. His sword remained on the carpet, where it had been removed by the Rajput guards. Jadar stared at it for a moment, admiring the silver trim along the handle, and it reminded him of the silver shipment. And the Englishman. Vasant Rao blundered badly with the English captain. He should have found a way to disarm him in advance. Always disarm a _feringhi_. Their instincts are too erratic. The whole scenario fell apart after he killed the headman of the dynasty. My Rajput games almost became a war. But what happened in the village? Did the _feringhi_ work sorcery? Why was the caravan released so suddenly? The horsemen I had massed in the valley, in case of an emergency, panicked after the eclipse began. They became just so many terrified Hindus. Then suddenly the caravan assembled and left, with Rajputs from the village riding guard, escorting them all the way back to the river. And even now Vasant Rao refuses to talk about what really happened. It seems his honor is too besmirched. He refuses even to eat with the other men. Allah the Merciful. Rajputs and their cursed honor. But I've learned what I need to know about the English _feringhi_. His nerve is astonishing. How could he dare refuse to attend my morning durbar audience in the reception room? Should I accept his claim that he's an ambassador and therefore I should come to him. Should I simply have him brought before me? No. I have a better idea. But tomorrow. After the child is born and I've sent runners to the _mansabdars_ . . .