“She sleeps, Supreme One,” the woman said. “I have brought it.”
Rukh held out his hand, and the ayah, salaaming again, laid a little gold locket in his palm.
“Sleeps?” he questioned. “Is she drugged?”
“Nay,” the woman told him. “I watched through the lattice, as Your Greatness commanded. Nothing has passed the Feringhi woman’s lips since she left the great salon.”
“No syringe? Her arm?”
“Not so, Royal Master, nothing.”
“Who watches her now?” Rukh demanded.
“Po-nunk, Powerful One.”
“So she sleeps! That is pluck! True pluck!” The Raja of Rukh liked pluck—it was the one masculine quality he approved of in a woman. So the Englishwoman slept! He liked her for that. It might be just utter exhaustion, of course, trying to knit up the raveled sleeve of her long, hard day’s care. But he believed it was pluck of character far more than fatigue of body. He believed it was pluck. And he preferred to think it that. He liked her for it! The brave, delicate one!
He opened the locket, and scrutinized its pictures thoughtfully.