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accepted with a shaky hand.
    “What the blazes is this?” He lifted the glass to the light and examined the black globules swirling in a thick, fir-green liquid. It smelled like a rotting carcass.
    “Some things are better left unknown. But if you have the mettle to swallow it, your head will be clear before morning.”
    Remembering that he was to pay an early call on Jessica, Duran gulped the vile-tasting brew and sagged against the chair with his head thrown back, trying to keep himself from expelling it again.
    Shivaji lowered himself cross-legged to the floor. “Did you conclude your business with the proprietor of the auction house?”
    The pretense that any of it mattered was wearying, but Duran recognized an inquisition coming on. “I made his acquaintance, yes, but he was preoccupied with the exhibition. Not that it signified. I’ve a new plan now, much better than the first.”
    “Indeed?” It didn’t sound like a question. “If the plan requires your presence in the gentlemen’s club where you spent so many hours, then you must abandon it. In future, no such distractions will be permitted.”
    Disappointing, but not unexpected. “If you say so. But all the best contacts are to be found in the clubs. I made the acquaintance of one tonight, a chap named Sir Gerald Talbot who dabbles in the buying and selling of antiquities. He could be useful. But never mind. I quite understand that you don’t like me wandering out of your sight.”
    “My concern is for the misuse of time, that is all. You are unfailingly under scrutiny.”
    “Ah, yes, the Others. But I’ve concluded you are making them up. A gaggle of Hindus could hardly skulk around London unnoticed, and I’ve been watching out for them.”
    “Were you to observe them, they would have failed in their duty.”
    “Which would be . . . ?”
    “When first you asked if I alone was set to guard you, I replied simply that there were others. Their title is difficult to translate. ‘The ones who serve unto the end’ comes near to the meaning. Their leader is my eldest son.”
    Duran felt his mouth drop open. On the ship, whenever Shivaji expressed a wish to practice his English, they had discussed history and philosophy. But those occasions had been rare, and Duran’s attempts to winkle information from his captor were always smoothly deflected. Never once had a personal word passed between them.
    “That surprises you?” A smile ghosted over Shivaji’s lips. “I have eight sons. When they come of age, all will take up the profession of their ancestors.”
    “Eight little assassins-in-training.” Sometimes, even when sober, Duran felt as if he were slogging through a grotesque dream. “And what exactly must they do to earn the right to wear one of those charming earbobs? If you keep reproducing ambitious sons at such a rate, the streets will be littered with corpses.”
    In the silence following that pronouncement, Duran wished he had conducted himself with the humble, disarming manner he kept meaning to adopt.
    When the chief assassin spoke again, his voice was unperturbed. “Only the head of the family wears the Iron Dagger, Duran-Sahib. It is a responsibility conferred in trust and accepted with an oath inscribed in blood. My family has served the rulers of Alanabad for seventeen generations, and I am bound in honor to obey the nizam’s commands. When Arjuna takes my place, he will do the same. And like me, he will seek every means to make a killing unnecessary. We take no pleasure in it.”
    “Well, that’s comforting, to be sure. I’d hate to think of you gloating when I’m laid out at your feet. When will that be, by the way?”
    “When the time allotted you by the nizam has run out. Or before then, if you pursue your own interests instead of the duty laid upon you by the gods.”
    “Has there ever lived a man who did not pursue his own interests?” Duran sat forward on his chair, elbows propped on his knees and chin cupped in