Queen Janahara. This is truly the beginning of the end for the prince. He will never see Agra again. Unless he's at the head of an army, or in chains. "What does it mean?" Vasant Rao could think of nothing else to say. "Times and fashions change. Perhaps it's a whim of His Majesty." Nadir Sharif did not turn his gaze from the balcony. He did not want Vasant Rao to see his eyes. "Escort the _feringhi_ to _durbar_ today. He's not safe here alone." "As you wish, Sharif Sahib." Vasant Rao paused and studied the back of Nadir Sharifs turban. "Do you have a message for the prince when I return?" "Official channels will serve for any message I have to give the prince." The prime minister whirled with uncharacteristic abruptness. "That will be all. You would be wise to be out of Agra when the sun rises tomorrow." As Vasant Rao made his way past the waiting eunuchs, Nadir Sharif turned once more to examine the _darshan_ balcony. He watched in growing dismay as the courtiers on the platform began salaams to Queen Janahara, who now stood boldly at the forefront of the canopied marble portico. Then he recalled the dispatch from Mumtaz. A line of mounted Imperial guards cleared a pathway through the narrow street, now a midday throng of bullock carts, dark-skinned porters, ambling cattle, and black-veiled women balancing heavy brass pots atop their heads. Along both sides of the street tan awnings shielded lines of quick- eyed, bearded merchants, who squatted on their porches beckoning all to inspect their unprecedented bargains in cloth, reeds, betel leaves. Vendors sizzled flat bread in charcoal-fired round pans and dropped balls of brown dough into dark pots of smoking oil, seasoning the dusty air with piquant spice. Above the clatter of their horses' hooves came a cacophony of street Hindi, squeaking cart wheels, children's discordant piping. Between the open shops were ornate doorways, framed in delicate plasterwork scallops, leading upward to overhead balconies supported by red sandstone brackets. Behind the latticework screens that fronted these balconies--some carved rosewood, some filigreed marble--Hawksworth could see clusters of idle women chewing betel and fanning themselves as they leaned forward to inspect the procession below. Hawksworth studied the helmeted guards around him, whose ornate shields bore the Moghurs personal seal, and reflected on his introduction to Agra. His caravan from the south had arrived at the city's outskirts the evening before, after the sun's light had died away, and as he requested, Vasant Rao had found a traditional guest house for them. It was near the center of town, inconspicuous, and its primary amenities were a rainproof thatch roof and a stone floor. Tomorrow, the Rajput had told him, he must find a house befitting an ambassador.