Each of the party was given a small wooden chit with writing on it. Ricky assumed they would be used to collect their arms when the audience was over.
One of the guards went through to the next chamber, presumably to check with someone higher up the food chain whether they were ready to receive the mission party.
“Can you be less cryptic?” Bobby said, once it was clear they would be spending a few minutes cooling their heels.
“I meant that we must keep up appearances, because every one of these people serves someone.” He waved one beringed hand to include the surrounding camp. “Serves…and makes observations of our behaviors, of our dress, of our character, our place in life, in the order of things. You are expected to appear and behave as emissaries and umara of the Swedish king’s court, late of the court of Sultan Al’Azam Dara Shikoh. So, the more things that are out of place or do not correspond to the expectations of the observer, the more excuses those who control access will find to hinder our cause, either directly by denying us communication or through delays such as we have faced these last few weeks.
“So: Just as I made sure you both had the fine robes Bobby complains are making him sweat, I made certain you both had swords. Swords that, when the guards asked for them, you had to give. All so that your appearance and behavior do not raise questions as to whether we should be allowed in the presence of power in the first place. Such is the way of things in the halls and tents of the powerful.”
In the thoughtful silence that followed Jadu’s patient explanation, Ricky felt another surge of appreciation for the man. They would really not have accomplished a God-damned thing if not for Jadu’s immense store of knowledge, experience, and ability to simply talk to people. Thoughts of how much they owed the down-timer made him feel a sudden surge of—he supposed it couldn’t be called homesickness—but he did miss the rest of the Mission folks something fierce. Things had been easier when he and Bobby hadn’t been out here with only the one guy, however capable, they could count on as friend and ally among all these strangers.
The guard returned shortly after, and ushered them through the next set of hangings and into the presence of Asaf Khan.
The brother to one empress, father to another, and grandfather to the current crop of competing claimants to the throne reclined on cushions set upon a low dais at the far end of the chamber. Shaista Khan sat below him at his right while the diwan who’d summoned them was behind one of the little low writing desks the locals used on Asaf’s left.
Ricky didn’t know if that was significant, and didn’t have a chance to ask Jadu, as they were announced just then.
Ricky checked the old man out as they advanced together and made their bows. Asaf Khan did not look well. The white in his luxurious beard made the unhealthy pallor of his skin obvious, even at a distance. His eyes were sharp, though, flitting from one member of the mission to another.
The man behind the desk bade them sit and had slaves offer them food and drink. All three gratefully accepted drinks. The day was scorching hot, even in the shade of the tent.
“You are here on behalf of which of my daughter’s sons?” Asaf Khan demanded. The man’s voice was rich and strong, though his accent challenged Ricky’s shaky comprehension. Ricky assumed the accent was a result of the man being an actual Persian, rather than learning the language in order to fit in at the Mughal court.
“Dara Shikoh, ghazi,” Jadu said, bowing deeply.
“I see. And what would my daughter’s eldest son have of me, that he sends a Vaishya to my tent like I need more trinkets for my wives?”
Jadu smiled serenely in the face of the unsubtle reference to his class and the gulf between their stations.
“As I have told your fine son, ghazi, Dara wishes only to affirm the mutual friendship, love, and regard he holds you in.”
“Well said. Of course, a Vaishya would know that to peddle tawdry goods, one must speak with a smooth tongue.”
Ricky saw Shaista Khan twitch, but Jadu’s expression might as well have been carved in stone.
The uncomfortable silence that followed went on too long, making Ricky sweat.
“You do not speak?” Asaf Khan said.
“Father,” Shaista Khan cautioned.
But Asaf ignored his son to smile at Jadu. “My son would have me be polite, but tell me, is the lion polite to the jackal?”
“If he wishes his dinner brought to him, perhaps?” Jadu said, returning a disarming smile.
Asaf Khan snorted. “Keeping one’s nerve in a trying situation is yet another trait of the best merchants.”
“I had no idea you knew so much about merchants, Father,” Shaista Khan drawled.
Asaf Khan waved at Jadu but spoke directly to his son. “You forget that my father—your grandfather—brought us to this land of opportunity from our homeland in order to sell his wares. That both he and my mother were of storied lineages made no difference to him, as he was forced to succeed as a merchant!”
“And faced many, many challenges, not least of which was the loss of all his stock,” Shaista Khan said, with an air of someone who had heard it all too many times. “I forget nothing of our origins, Father. I am impatient to learn what my cousin wants of you.”
“Indulge me. I only test the mettle of this man, the one Dara Shikoh chose as his…messenger?” Asaf Khan asked, returning his attention to Jadu.
“When the usual messenger fails to obtain a response, there is work for the unusual,” Jadu said, waggling his head.
“And what does Dara want of me, unusual messenger?”
“Only your continued love and affection,” Jadu said.
“Meaning he wants me to come pull his toes from the fire.”
“It is
