"The Englishman. Where is he now?"
"In the garden, Sharif Sahib. He's always there at this time of day, with the Hindu woman."
"What's he doing there?"
"Who can say, Sharif Sahib? All we know is he goes into the garden every day around noon—I think the Hindu woman may be teaching him to play the sitar there—before going to durbar in the Red Fort. But he will be leaving soon now, as you must, to be present for His Majesty's birthday weighings."
"The English feringhi was invited?" Nadir Sharif was momentarily startled.
"He received an invitation, Sharif Sahib."
"Bring him to the reception room. I will see him now, before he leaves."
The eunuch snapped around and was gone. Nadir Sharif paused to translate the cipher one last time before ringing for his turban.
"Ambassador Hawksworth, please forgive my preoccupation these past few days." Nadir Sharif was bowing, it seemed, unusually low. "We're not always privileged to entertain our guests as we might wish. Preparations for today's birthday ceremonies have kept me rushing about the palace. But please, be seated."
Hawksworth's gaze swept the room. It was cavernous, hung with thick tapestries on every wall, and lightly perfumed with rose incense. Before he could reply a bowing servant was proffering a chalice of Persian wine. As Nadir Sharif watched a glass being poured, his voice continued, silken.