"Ah, Inglish. We had a very romantic birth. You seem to know nothing of it. You see, my father, the Great Akman, had tried for many years to have a son before I was born. Many hundreds of women, Inglish, but not one could give him a son. Once twin boys were born to a Rajput princess he had wived, but both died a few days later. Gradually he became obsessed with fears of death, of dying without a lineage, and he began calling holy men to the _Diwan-i-Khas _every evening to question them about mortality. Once a Hindu holy man came who told Akman the greatest duty of a king is to leave a male heir, who can carry his lineage forward. The Great Akman was plunged into even greater sadness by this, and he _Resolve_d to renounce everything until he could have a son. "He walked all the way from Agra to that mountain, Inglish." Arangbar pointed toward the fortress. "He came to see a holy Sufi living there, among the rocks and wild beasts. It was a momentous meeting. Akman fell at the feet of the holy man, and the Sufi held out his arms in welcome to the Great Moghul of India. In later years many of Akman's artists painted the scene. Akman told him that he had come to find the peace of Allah. To find his own destiny. As a seeker after truth. The Sufi offered this great warrior berries to eat, and gave him his own simple hut for an abode. Akman stayed for many days, meditating with the Sufi, and finally, when he made ready to leave, the Sufi told him he would have three sons. "And now," Arangbar grinned, "we reach the interesting part. When next a wife announced she was with child, Akman moved her out here, to stay in the same abode as the holy man. And, as the Sufi predicted, a male child was born." "And the child was . . ." "You are riding beside him, Inglish. That is the story of my birth. Akman was so elated that he decided to build an entire city here, and move the capital from Agra. He built the city, but it was an obvious act of excess. He never found time to live there, and soon it was abandoned. So now the mountain is like it was before my birth, home to wild birds and a few mad Sufis. The only difference is they have a magnificent abandoned city to live in, instead of straw huts." He laughed again. "Perhaps I owe my very life to a Sufi. Incidentally, descendants of that holy man still live there." "Are they all Sufis?" "Who knows, Inglish? I think holy men from all over India can be found there from time to time. It's become a kind of retreat." "I'd like permission to visit it sometime, Majesty." "Of course, Inglish. You'll find it's magnificent." Hawksworth squinted against the sun and studied the distant red walls of the city-fortress. Something about its remote purity beckoned him. After the hunt, he told himself, when there's time. Right after the hunt.