Allaudin giggled. "I visit her tent every night, Majesty."
"But for what purpose? After you're drunk and you've spent yourself with a nautch dancer. Don't deny it. I know it's true. Do you forget she has servants? There are no secrets in this camp. I think you'll sooner sire an heir on a slave girl than on my daughter. I will not have it."
"Majesty." Allaudin twisted uncomfortably and glanced up with relief to see Nadir Sharif pushing aside the portiere of the tent. As he entered, Janahara motioned toward the servants and eunuchs waiting in attendance and in moments they had disappeared through the curtained doorways at the rear.
"You're late."
"My sincerest apologies, Majesty. There are endless matters to attend. You know His Majesty still holds morning darshan from his tent, and has two durbar audiences a day. The difficulties . . ."
"Your 'difficulties' are only beginning." She was extracting a dispatch from a gilded bamboo tube. "Read this."
Nadir Sharif took the document and moved into the light at the entrance. He had always despised the red chintz tents of the Imperial family, whose doorways were forever sealed with Persian hangings that kept in all the smoke and lamp soot. As he studied the dispatch he moved even closer to the light, astonishment growing in his eyes. He read it through twice before turning back to Janahara.
"Has His Majesty seen this yet?"
"Of course not. But he will have to eventually."
"Who is it from?" Allaudin stared up from the bolster, his voice uneasy.