"Too many to count? I see." Nadir Sharif seemed to be only half attentive to the conversation, as he swung his head from side to side in appreciation of the accelerating tempo of the drummer. "Doubtless it was some of the very lead I'm told you brought for trade." "It wasn't English." "Ah, then I suppose it was Portuguese. I assume you must have noticed." "Not actually." Hawksworth paused. "It wasn't really my concern." "Yes, quite so." Nadir Sharif walked again to the gallery and stood silent, still swinging his head absently to the time of the music. The pieces of the puzzle had already dropped into place. So that's how Jadar did it. And only one man in Surat could have provided the prince the silver he needed, that contemptible son of a moneylender Mirza Nuruddin. He's uncontrollable. But even if the prince survives the Deccan, what can he do? The Imperial army . . . Allah, it's obvious! There's only one way he can ever march north with enough men to meet Janahara's army. By the Merciful Prophet, he's mad! Nadir Sharif coughed lightly and turned back toward the room. "Ambassador Hawksworth, would you care for some wine? You need not be squeamish, His Majesty has always admired men who drink. I would join you, but regrettably I cannot. While His Majesty retires, the rest of us must labor on." "A glass would be welcome." "A glass, Ambassador? Did you say 'a glass'?" Nadir Sharif laughed. "You'll need more than a glass if you drink with His Majesty. I'll send the servants." He bowed again at the doorway of the vestibule. "I'll rejoin you when I can. In the meantime, summon the eunuchs if you require anything." He turned and was gone. In what seemed only moments, two turbaned servants appeared, smiling as they placed a large chalice of wine on the carpet next to Hawksworth's bolster. "It's all too incredible." Queen Janahara slumped onto a velvet divan and distractedly took a rolled betel leaf from the silver tray offered by a hovering eunuch. Behind her a female _zenana _slave fanned a plume of peacock feathers against the afternoon heat. As she spoke she brushed back her gold-threaded scarf, revealing gleaming dark hair--the few gray strands had been perfectly dyed--pulled back tightly against her head and secured with a golden band. Her only jewels were in a necklace, diamonds with a massive blue sapphire that complemented her dark eyes. She was nearing fifty, but still possessed of a beauty that had, with the years, evolved to magnificent dignity. Her face was statuesque and her Persian was both elegant and mellifluous. "He's still marching south. I think he actually enjoys living in the field, surrounded by mud and Rajputs. How much longer can he continue?"