The _dai_ returned to washing Mumtaz's breasts, stroking them carefully with wet blades of grass. Jadar knew this local ritual was believed to ensure fortune for the child and he did not interrupt. He merely returned Mumtaz's weak smile and strode to the silver basin resting by the bedside, where another midwife was washing his new son in a murky mixture of gram flour and water. The frightened woman dried off the child, brushed his head with perfumed oil, and placed him on a thin pillow of quilted calico for Jadar to see. He was red and wrinkled and his dark eyes were startled. But he was a prince. Jadar touched the infant's warm hand as he examined him for imperfections. There were none. Someday, my first son, you may rule India as Moghul. If we both live that long. "Is he well?" Mumtaz spoke at last, her normally shrill voice now scarcely above a whisper. "Are you pleased?" "He'll do for now." Jadar smiled as he examined her tired face. She had never seemed as beautiful as she did at this moment. He knew there was no way he could ever show his great love for her, but he knew she understood. And returned it. "Do these unbelievers know enough to follow Muslim tradition?" "Yes. A mullah has been summoned to sound the _azan_, the call to prayer, in his ear." "But a male child must first be announced with artillery. So he'll never be afraid to fight." Jadar wasn't sure how much belief he put in all these Muslim traditions, but the troops expected it and every ceremony for this prince had to be observed. Lest superstitions begin that he was somehow ill-fated. Superstitions are impossible to bury. "This one is a prince. He will be greeted with cannon. Then I'll immediately have his horoscope cast--for the Hindu troops--and schedule his naming ceremony--for the Believers." "What will you name him?" "His first name will be Nushirvan. You can pick the others." "Nushirvan was a haughty Persian king. And it's an ugly name." "It's the name I've chosen." Jadar smiled wickedly, still mulling over what name he would eventually pick. Mumtaz did not argue. She had already selected the name Salaman, the handsome young man Persian legends said was once created by a wise magician. Salaman was an ideal lover. Whatever name Jadar chose, Salaman would be his second name. And the one she would call him all the coming years in the _zenana_, when he would creep into her bed after Jadar had departed for his own quarters. And we'll see what name he answers to seven years hence, on his circumcision day. The _dai _was busy spooning a mixture of honey, ghee, and opium into the child's mouth. Then a drop of milk was pressed from Mumtaz's breast and rubbed on the breast of the wet nurse. Jadar watched the ritual with approval. Now for the most important tradition, the one begun by Akman. "Is the wrap ready?"