The young rajah led his party through the dusty street, flanked on either side by his personal bodyguards. Rana had decided to walk, today, instead of riding in his gilded palanquin, so he could better see the people over whom his father ruled. He liked playing the plebeian, even though his silken attire and painted face betrayed his Kshatriyan birth. His one divergence from the requisites of royalty was in wearing his black hair long and unturbaned in a loose, ribboned braid.

The prince stepped lightly over a jagged hole in the street, his nimble silk-slippered feet keeping an elegant dancer's balance. He stopped, and the entire party stopped with him. His bodyguards clutched their scimitars and scanned the area, silently grouching that their royal charge had foolishly insisted upon making himself an easy target for any assassin within bowshot.

His white silk jacket with its bright silver embroidery made him shine like a polished sword, a bright bullseye in the center of his red-clad entourage. It would have been much easier to protect him, if he were safely hidden within his little golden box, surrounded by armed soldiers, as usual. But no, today the rajah wanted to walk. Word among the guard was that Rana's level of idiotic naivete was second only to his wild and seemingly quenchless libido.

Rana had a beautiful young ranee, Nita, and a full harem, besides, but that didn't prevent him from sampling any pretty nymph he might find hiding behind a cooking fire or a dramatic glance in a Kathakali performance or a bedroom door in some other monarch's palace. Much to the maharajah's dismay, Rana didn't seem to mind leaving royal bastards among every caste but the untouchables and among any race he encountered. A good quantity of children, he said, was the best measure of a man's health. By that measure, Rana was the healthiest man alive.

He would insist it was the smell of the cinnamon that had prompted him to stop, but the entire party knew the truth was that his roving eyes had found another sweet female face in the bakery stall, and his Most Important Part wanted to try her wares. The strut in his walk betrayed his intent as he approached the stall and put on his most innocent smile. He leaned over the pastries and pies and fixed his large brown eyes on his prey. He summoned up his most seductive voice.

"What a luscious odor," he breathed. "Cinnamon, isn't it? My favorite."

The girl blushed, averting her dark eyes. "Yes, Your Highness. Baked this very morning." She scooped up the biggest of the rolls filled with steaming cinnamon and butter and offered it to him. "Please accept one, Rajah."

"Thank you," he said, taking the roll in his soft hands as if it were a precious gem. He kept his eyes on hers as he lifted the roll to his lips and bit it, ever so gently. "Mm, so sweet." He licked a dribble of butter off the edge of the roll with a slow, erotic arc of his tongue and smiled wickedly at her. "But not nearly so sweet as the beautiful baker, I would wager."

The girl giggled and swooned and the royal bodyguards exchanged a knowing glance. They wouldn't be going home, anytime soon. Rana took the girl's small butter- and sugar-covered hand and drew it up next to the roll, then pulled her first finger into his mouth and gently sucked it. "Mm," he moaned, closing his eyes. "Much sweeter than the rolls."

Before he could proceed farther up the girl's arm, he heard a shout and felt his guards close around him, pushing him back and away from a dagger that almost penetrated his silk-covered breast. The girl screamed and hid behind the pile of pastries, trying to keep the blood that splattered over the table from soaking her.

Rana tried to see beyond the human shield surrounding him, and caught a glimpse of the attempted assassin's head bouncing onto the dirt road in an ocean of blood. He could see Reddy, one of his personal bodyguards, lying in a twisted bloody mound, his eyes wide and staring and his throat slashed open. The rajah stared down at him, in shock. He had never been so close to such violence, before. He only had a moment to look before his guards closed up tighter around him.

He allowed the men to pull him away from the scene and toward the safety of the shieldbearers. He felt dazed, completely forgot about the bakery girl. Reddy and his torn throat was all Rana could think about. He suddenly wished he was back inside the palace, lying in Nita's warm lap and eating peeled grapes from her dainty, perfumed hands. He looked down and touched the rip in his jacket. He felt sick. If Reddy hadn't been so quick to react, the assassin's dagger would have skewered his heart. Poor Reddy, he thought. He was sorry to have lost such a loyal and selfless servant.

Rana didn't make the connection between his foolhardy and dangerous behavior and the death of his bodyguard. It was Reddy's duty to protect his prince. A maharajah's only son should be able to do as he pleased, dangerous or not. He couldn't keep himself locked inside a palanquin, forever, though, right this very moment, it didn't sound so bad.

The prince couldn't hear the hue and cry in the streets for the stomp of his guards' boots and the clink of their dangling swords. He followed his men, quietly, until the white minarets of his father's palace rose above him. He was suddenly eager to get inside, to tell his darling Nita about the excitement of almost being killed, and to watch her eyes enlarge with horror at the very thought of losing her beautiful husband. She would be frightened by it, he was sure, and he would have to comfort her. He thought their bedroom suite would be the perfect place for comforting and consoling. Then, when he was finished consoling Nita, he would have to console his concubines.

He smiled. What a dreadfully tiresome night it would be.