Hawksworth touched the drink lightly with his tongue. It was a mixture of sweet and tang quite unlike anything he had ever known. Perhaps the closest was a brisk mug of spiced
ale, pungent with clove and cinnamon. But this spiced drink was mysteriously subtle. Puzzling, he turned to Mukarrab Khan.
"What is this? It tastes like the air in a garden."
"This? I've never paid any notice, although the women down it by the basinful after sunset." As he received his own goblet he turned to one of the eunuchs. "Nahir, how do the women prepare tundhi?”
"With seeds, Khan Sahib. Seeds of melons, cucumber, lettuce, and coriander are pounded, and then blended with rosewater, pomegranate essence, and juice of the aloe flower. But the secret is to strain it properly, and I find I must carefully oversee the work."
"Doubtless." Mukarrab Khan's voice was curt. "I suspect you should attend the accounts more and the women's apartments less." He turned to another eunuch.
"Is my bath ready?"
"As always, Khan Sahib." As the eunuch bowed he examined Hawksworth's dust-covered face and hair discreetly. "Will the distinguished feringhi also require a bath?"
"He was on the chaugan field this afternoon, just as I was."
Hawksworth groaned inwardly. What English host would have the effrontery to suggest a guest needed a bath? For that matter, what Englishman would even consider bathing more than twice a year? It's known well enough King James never bathes, that he never even washes his hands, only brushes them with a moist napkin at mealtime. Yet this Moor wants a full bath before a meal, merely to remove a bit of dust.