Their horses drew into the shade of the awning above the entrance to the gulal bar. Vasant Rao and the other Rajputs reined in their mounts and began to dismount.
"This is the naqqara-khana, Captain Hawksworth, the entry to His Highness' private compound." Vasant Rao waved toward the red awning. "Come. You'll be welcomed warmly by the prince, I promise you. I know he'd hoped you'd join him."
Hawksworth swung down from his dark mare and stroked her one last time, wiping away the lather around the saddle. Then he turned to help Shirin alight. She leaned over and dropped into his arms, the sweat of exhaustion mingled with her perfume.
Grooms from Jadar's stables were already waiting. As they took the horses, the leader of the Rajput riders shouted staccato orders to them in Urdu, the lingua franca of the camp, then turned and dismissed his men, who immediately swaggered into the gathering crowd to embrace old acquaintances.
"His Highness is expecting you." Vasant Rao smiled and bowed lightly to the Rajput commander, who was tan and beardless save for a small moustache, with a white skirt, a small turban of braided gold cloth, and a velvet-sheathed katar in a red waist sash. The Rajput nodded, then adjusted his turban and retrieved a tightly wrapped brocade bundle from behind his saddle. As he led the way through the naqqara-khana, Vasant Rao turned and motioned for Hawksworth and Shirin to follow.
Jadar's guards directed them along a pathway of carpets leading through the outer barbican. Ahead was another gate, decorated with striped chintz and sealed with a hanging tapestry. As they approached it, the guards swept the tapestry aside and ushered them through.
The second compound was floored entirely with carpets and in its center stood an open, satin canopy held aloft by four gilded poles. The canopy shaded a rich Persian carpet and a throne fashioned from velvet bolsters. Several men with shoulder-high kettledrums and long brass trumpets were waiting nearby.
As Hawksworth watched, two eunuchs emerged through a curtain at the far gate and lifted it high. While a fanfare of drums and trumpets filled the air, Prince Jadar strolled jauntily through the entryway, alone.
He was dressed formally, with an elaborate silk cloak in pastel blue and a jeweled turban that reminded Hawksworth of the one worn by the Moghul himself. The brocade sash at his waist held a heavy katar with a ruby on each side of the handle. His beard was close-trimmed, accenting his dark eyes. Nothing about him suggested the appearance of a man facing impending defeat.
"Nimaste, Mahdu, my old friend." Jadar walked directly to the Rajput commander, grasped the man's turban and pressed it to his own breast. "How long since we sat together and ate your Udaipur lapsi from the same dish?"