The Moghul Read online

  CHAPTER TEN

  Brian Hawksworth stepped lightly off the prow of the barge asit eased into the riverbank and worked his way through the knee-deeptidal mud onto the sandy shore. Even here, across the harbor, the waterstill stank of the sewers of Surat. Then he turned and surveyed thesprawling city, back across the broad estuary, astonished that theycould have crossed the harbor so easily on nothing more substantialthan a wide raft of boards lashed with rope, what the Indians called abark.

  Ahead, waiting on the shore, was a line of loaded bullock carts--conveyances with two wooden wheels higher than a man's head, a flat bedsome six feet wide, and a heavy bamboo pole for a tongue--each yoked totwo tall, humpbacked gray cattle with conspicuous ribs. The cartsstretched down the muddy road that emerged from the tangle of coastalscrub and were piled to overflowing with rolls of English wool cloth.The turbaned drivers now shouted Hindi obscenities as they walkedalongside and lashed the sullen cattle into place for unloading. AsHawksworth watched, the porters who had ridden with him splashed theirway toward the shore and began driving stakes to secure the mooringlines of the bark. Wool would be ferried across the harbor and cottonbrought back with each trip.

  Then Hawksworth caught sight of George Elkington's ragged hat bobbingin the midday sunshine as the Chief Merchant and his aide, HumphreySpencer, climbed down from their two-wheeled Indian coach, drawn by twowhite oxen, which had been loaned by Shahbandar. Farther down the lineof carts was a detail of English seamen, led by red-haired Mackintosh,and all carrying muskets, who had walked the fifteen-mile, two-day trekto guard the cargo.

  The trading season was well underway, and over the past three weeks amotley assemblage of cargo vessels from the length of the Indian Oceanhad appeared downriver at the bar to commence unlading. Foreign tradersnormally transported goods inland to Surat on the barks that plied theTapti between the port and the shallow bar at the river mouth. Butthese vessels had arrived at the bar with the blessings of Portugal,for they all had acquired a Portuguese license and paid duty on theircargo at some Portuguese-controlled tax point.

  After evaluating the risk of exposing his English frigates at the bar--where maneuverability was limited and the possibility of Portuguesesurprise great--Brian Hawksworth had elected to unlade directly onshorefrom their protected anchorage north of the river mouth, the covecalled Swalley, then haul the goods overland to the banks of the Taptiopposite Surat. There would be no risk of Portuguese interferenceinland and, once across from the port, the goods could be easily bargedto the _maidan_.

  He turned again toward the river and examined the town of Surat fromhis new vantage. It was easy to see now why this location had beenchosen for the port, for here the river curved and widened, creating anatural, protected harbor. The most conspicuous landmarks visible fromacross the harbor were three stone villas along the riverfront, allowned by the Shahbandar, and the square stone fort that stood on thedownriver side of the harbor, its heavy ordnance trained perpetually onthe water. The fort was surrounded by a moat on three sides and on thefourth by the river. Entry could only be gained through a gate on theriverside, or a drawbridge that connected its entrance to the open_maidan_, the square where traders congregated.

  The square had swarmed with merchants and brokers as they passedthrough, and he had watched as two brokers stood together near itscenter--one from Ahmedabad, up-country, and the other from Surat--arguingloudly over the price and quality of a pile of indigo. The portersexplained that the Surat broker was accusing the other of mixing sandwith the indigo to increase its weight, then disguising his deceptionby also adding enough oil that the indigo would still float on water,the test used to establish purity of the dried extract of the indigoleaf. As the argument grew more vigorous, Hawksworth noticed the menjoin hands beneath a piece of cloth, where they began negotiating theactual price by means of their fingers, a figure undoubtedly littlerelated to the movement of their tongues.

  Now that the high trading season of September-January had begun,Surat's narrow streets were one loud bazaar, swollen to almost twohundred thousand grasping traders, bargaining seamen, hawkingmerchants. A dozen languages stirred the air as a motley melange of up-country Indian traders, Arabs, Jains, Parsis, Persians, Jews,Egyptians, Portuguese, and returning Muslim pilgrims--every nationalityknown to the Indian Ocean--swaggered through the garbage-sodden mudpaths called streets.

  Hawksworth gazed back at the city and reflected over the curious eventsof the past three weeks. The English had, inexplicably, been receivedfirst with open hostility, and then with suspiciously cordialdeference--first by the governor, and afterward by the Shahbandar.Something is very wrong, he told himself. A contest of wills isunderway between the Shahbandar, Mirza Nuruddin, and the governor,Mukarrab Khan. And so far, Mukarrab Khan seems to be winning. Or is he?

  Six days before, the governor had suddenly reversed his policy ofnoninterference in port affairs and authorized a license for theEnglish to sell their cargo in Surat and buy Indian goods, somethingthe Shahbandar had found one excuse after another to delay. However,Mukarrab Khan had delivered this license directly to the English,rather than forwarding it to the Shahbandar through normal channels,leaving Brian Hawksworth the unpleasant responsibility of presentingthis document to the Shahbandar in person. But the meeting turned outto be nothing like Hawksworth had expected.

  "Once more you astound me, Captain." The close, torch-lit chamber ofthe customs house office had fallen expectantly silent as theShahbandar drew slowly on his hookah and squinted with his opaque,glassy eyes at the black seal of Mukarrab Khan affixed to the top ofthe page. Hawksworth had waited for a glimmer of anger at thisinsulting breach of port protocol--which surely was Mukarrab Khan'sreason for insisting the license be delivered by the English Captain-General. But the Shahbandar's eyes never lost their noncommittalsquint. Instead he had turned to Hawksworth with a cordial smile. "Yourrefusal to negotiate seems to have worked remarkable dispatch with HisExcellency's officials. I can't recall ever seeing them act thisquickly."

  Hawksworth had been amazed. How could Mirza Nuruddin possibly know theterms he had demanded of the governor: produce a license for tradewithin ten days or the two English frigates would weigh anchor andsail; and accept English sovereigns at bullion value rather than theprevailing discount rate of 4 1/2 percent required to circumvent"minting time," the weeks "required" by the Shahbandar's minters tomelt down foreign coin and re-mint it as Indian rupees.

  No one could have been more surprised than Brian Hawksworth whenMukarrab Khan had immediately conceded the English terms and approvedthe license--valid for sixty days--to land goods, and to buy and sell.Why had the governor agreed so readily, overriding the Shahbandar'sdawdling clerks?

  "Naturally you'll need an officer here to schedule the river barks."The Shahbandar's voice was even, but Hawksworth thought he sensed anair of tension suddenly grip the room. "Normally barks are reservedweeks in advance now during the high season, but we can alwaysaccommodate friends of Mukarrab Khan."

  It was then that Hawksworth had told the Shahbandar he would not bebringing cargo up the river, that instead it would be transportedoverland from their protected anchorage using bullock carts arrangedfor by Mukarrab Khan.

  "The cove you call Swalley is several leagues up the coast, Captain.Foreign cargo has never before been unladed there, nor has it ever beenbrought overland as you propose." He had seemed genuinely disturbed. "Isuggest it's both irregular and unworkable."

  "I think you understand why we have to unlade from the cove. Thedecision is made." Hawksworth tried to keep his voice as firm as thatof Mirza Nuruddin. "We'll unload the bullock carts just across theriver from the port here, and we'll only need a bark to ferry goodsacross the harbor."

  "As you wish. I'll arrange to have one at your disposal." TheShahbandar drew pensively on the hookah, ejecting coils of smoke intothe already dense air of the chamber, and examined Hawksworth. Then hecontinued. "I understand your frigates are some five hundred tons each.Full unlading will require at le
ast three weeks, perhaps four. Is thata reasonable estimate?"

  "We'll arrange the scheduling. Why do you ask?"

  "Merely for information, Captain." Again the Shahbandar flashed hisempty smile. Then he bowed as lightly as protocol would admit andcalled for a tray of rolled betel leaves, signifying the meeting wasended. As Hawksworth took one, he marveled that he had so quicklyacquired a taste for their strange alkaline sweetness. Then he lookedagain at Mirza Nuruddin's impassive eyes.

  Damn him. Does he know what the Portugals were planning? And was hehoping we'd be caught unlading in the shallows at the river mouth? Heknows I've just spoiled their plans.

  As he had passed back through the customs shed headed toward the_maidan_ and sunshine, Hawksworth could feel the hostile stares. And heknew the reason.

  The new English visitors had already made an unforgettable impressionon the town of Surat. The merchants George Elkington and HumphreySpencer had been given accommodations by a Portuguese-speaking Muslim,whom Spencer had immediately outraged by demanding they be served pork.The other men had been temporarily lodged in a vacant house owned by anindigo broker. After the hard-drinking English seamen had disruptedorderly proceedings in three separate brothels, and been banned in turnby each, the Shahbandar had ordered five _nautch_ girls sent to them atthe house. But with fewer women than men, a fight inevitably hadensued, with thorough demolition of the plaster walls and shutters.

  Worst of all, bosun's mate John Garway had gone on a drunken spree inthe streets and, in a flourish of exuberance, severed the tail of abullock calf--an animal sacred to the Hindus--with his seaman's knife. Ariot in the Hindu quarter had erupted soon after, forcing Mukarrab Khanto remove the English seamen outside the town walls, in tents erectedby the "tank," the city reservoir.

  Yes, Hawksworth sighed, it'll be a long time before India forgets herfirst taste of the English.

  The barge bobbed lightly as two Indian porters, knee-deep in the mud,hoisted the first roll of woolen cloth onto the planking. This beginsthe final leg of the India voyage, Hawksworth thought to himself. Andthis has been the easiest part of all.

  Almost too easy.

  Pox on it, believe in your luck for a change. The voyage will post afortune in pepper. Lancaster was knighted for little more than bringinghome his vessels. He reached Java, but he found no trade. He'd havesailed home a pauper if he hadn't ambushed a rich Portuguese galleon inthe harbor at Sumatra.

  How many weeks to a knighthood? Three? Four? No, we'll make it in less.We'll man every watch. Woolens aland, cotton out. I'll have thefrigates laded, stores on board--we can buy cattle and sheep fromvillages up the coast--and all repairs completed in two weeks. I'll haveboth frigates in open seas inside a fortnight, where not a Portugalbottom afloat can touch us.

  And if permission for the trip to Agra comes, I'll be out of Surat too.

  If I live that long.

  He reached into his belt and drew out a long Portuguese stiletto. Anelaborate cross was etched into the blade, and

  the handle was silver, with a ram's head at the butt. The ram's eyeswere two small rubies. He had been carrying it for two days, and hereflected again on what had happened, still puzzling.

  He had returned to the observatory the next morning after he had metShirin, and this time he brought his lute. But she did not come. Thatmorning, or the morning after, or the morning after. Finally heswallowed his disappointment and concluded he would not see her again.Then it was he had gone to work cleaning away the moss and accumulatedmud from the stone instruments. Parts of some seemed to be missing, andhe had searched the hut for these without success. All he had found wasa hand-held astrolabe, an instrument used to take the altitude of thesun. But he also found tables, piles of handwritten tables, that seemedto hold the key to the use of the instruments. His hopes had soared. Itseemed possible, just possible, that buried somewhere in the hut wasthe key to the greatest mystery of all time--how to determine longitudeat sea.

  Hawksworth had often pondered the difficulties of navigation in thedeep ocean, where only the sun and stars were guides. They were theprimary determent to England's new ambition to explore the globe, forEnglish navigators were still far less experienced than those of theSpanish and Portuguese.

  The problem seemed overwhelming. Since the great earth was curved, noline on its surface was straight, and once at sea there was absolutelyno way to determine exactly where you were, which way you were going,or how fast.

  The least uncertain measurement was probably latitude, a ship'slocation north or south of the equator. In the northern hemisphere theheight of the polestar was a reasonably accurate determinant oflatitude, although it was a full three degrees distant from thenorthernmost point in the sky. Another measure of latitude was theheight of the sun at midday, corrected for the specific day of theyear. The problem lay in how to measure either of these elevationsaccurately.

  A hundred years before, the Portuguese had come across an ingeniousArab device for telling the elevation of the sun. It consisted of aboard with a knotted length of string run through the middle. If amariner held the board vertically and sighted the horizon at one endand some object in the sky at the other, the length of the stringbetween the board and his eye could be used to calculate the elevationof the object. In a short time a version appeared in Europe--with asecond board replacing the string--called the cross-staff.

  However, since locating both the horizon and a star was almostimpossible at any time except dawn or dusk, this device worked best forsighting the sun--save that it required staring into the disc of the sunto find its exact center. Also, the cross-staff could not be used whenthe sun was high in the sky, which was the case in equatorial waters.Another version of the cross-staff was the astrolabe, a round brassdial etched with degree markings and provided with a movable sight thatpermitted taking the elevation of the sun by its shadow. But even withthe astrolabe there was the problem of catching the sun precisely atmidday. And on a rolling ship the error in reading it could easily befour degrees.

  For longitude, a ship's location east or west on the globe, there wereno fixed references at all; but as a mariner traveled east or west, thesun would come up somewhat earlier or later each day, and precisely howmuch earlier or later could be used to compute how far he had gone.Therefore, calculating longitude depended solely on keeping timeextremely accurately--something completely impossible. The besttimekeeping device available was the hourglass or "sandglass," inventedsomewhere in the western Mediterranean in the eleventh or twelfthcentury. Sandglass makers never achieved real accuracy or consistency,and careful mariners always used several at once, hoping to average outvariations. But on a long voyage seamen soon totally lost track ofabsolute time.

  Since they were unable to determine a ship's location from the skies,mariners also tried to compute it from a vessel's speed and direction.Speed was estimated by throwing a log

  with a knotted rope attached overboard and timing the rate at which theknots in the rope played out--using a sandglass. Margins of error incomputing speed were usually substantial. Direction, too, was neverknown completely accurately. A compass pointed to magnetic north, nottrue north, and the difference between these seemed to varyunaccountably at different locations on the globe. Some thought it hadto do with the lodestone used to magnetize the needle, and others, likethe Grand Pilot of the king of Spain, maintained seamen were merelylying to cover their own errors.

  For it all, however, longitude was the most vital unknown. Manyattempts had been made to find a way to fix longitude, but nothing everworked. Seamen found the only real solution to the problem was"latitude sailing," a time-consuming and expensive procedure whereby acaptain would sail north or south to the approximate latitude of hisdestination and then sail due east or west, rather than trying to sailon the diagonal. King Philip III of Spain had offered a fortune to thefirst man who discovered how to tell longitude at sea.

  Hawksworth spent days poring through the piles of tables, many of whichwere strewn about the floor o
f the room and damaged from mildew androt. Next he carefully copied the symbols off the walls of the circularbuilding and matched these with those on several of the charts. Werethese the names of the major stars, or constellations of the zodiac, or. . . what? The number was twenty-eight.

  And then it came to him: they were the daily stations of the moon.

  As he continued to sift through the documents, he realized that thescholar who wrote them had predicted eclipses of the moon for manyyears in advance. Then he found a book, obviously old, with charts thatseemed to provide geometric corrections for the distortion caused bythe atmosphere when sighting stars near the horizon, something thatalways had been troublesome for navigators.

  He also found other writings. New. Some appeared to be verses, andothers, tables of names and numbers. Sums of

  money were written next to some of the names. But none of it meantanything without the Persian, which he could not read. And Shirin hadnever returned to the observatory, at least not when he was there.

  Until two days ago.

  At the observatory that morning the sky had been a perfect ice blue,the garden and orchard still, the air dry and exhilarating. No workmenwere splashing in the moat beyond the wall that day. Only the buzz ofgnats intruded on the silence. He had brought a bottle of dry Persianwine to make the work go faster, finding he was growing accustomed toits taste. And he had brought his lute, as always, in hope Shirin wouldcome again.

  He was in the stone hut, cleaning and sorting pages of manuscript, whenshe appeared silently in the doorway. He looked up and felt a suddenrush in his chest.

  "Have you uncovered all of Jamshid Beg's secrets?" Her voice waslilting, but with a trace of unease. "I've found out that was ourfamous astronomer's name. He was originally from Samarkand."

  "I think I'm beginning to understand some of the tables." Hawksworthkept his tone matter-of-fact. "He should have been a navigator. Hecould have been a fellow at Trinity House."

  "What is that?"

  "It's a guild in England. Where navigators are trained."

  She laughed. "I think he preferred a world made only of numbers." Herlaugh was gone as quickly as it had come, and she moved toward him witha vaguely troubled look. "What have you found?"

  "A lot of things. Take a look at this drawing." Hawksworth tried toremain nonchalant as he moved the lamp back to the table from where hehad placed it on the floor. "He identified what we call parallax, theslight circular motion of the moon throughout the day caused by thefact it's not sighted from the center of the earth, but from a spot onits surface that moves as the earth rotates. Now if he could measurethat accurately enough with these instruments . . ."

  Shirin waved her hand and laughed again. "If you

  understand all this, why not just take the papers back to the palaceand work with them there?" She was in the room now, her olive cheeksexquisitely shadowed by the partially open door, where flickeringshadows played lightly through the brilliant sunshine. "Today I'drather hear you play your English instrument."

  "With pleasure. I've been trying to learn an Indian raga." He kept hisvoice even and moved himself deftly between Shirin and the doorway,blocking her exit. "But it sounds wrong on the lute. When I get to AgraI'm thinking I'll have a sitar made . . ."

  He reached as though for the lute, then swung his hand upward andclapped it over Shirin's mouth. Before she could move he shoved heragainst the wall beside the door and stretched with his other hand toseize the heavy brass astrolabe that rested on a stand by the table. Hecaught a look of pure terror in her eyes, and for a moment he thoughtshe might scream. He pressed her harder against the wall to seal hermouth, and as the shaft of light from the doorway dimmed momentarily hestepped forward and swung the brass astrolabe upward.

  There was a soft sound of impact, followed by a choked groan and theclatter of metal against the wooden door. He drew back the astrolabe,now with a trace of blood along its sharp edge and the remains of atooth wedged between its discs. Then he looked out to see a dark-skinned Indian man in a loincloth rolling himself across the top of thegarden wall. A faint splash followed, as he dropped into the moat.

  When Hawksworth released Shirin and placed the astrolabe back on itsstand, he caught the glint of sunshine off a stiletto lying in thedoorway. He bent down to retrieve it and suddenly she was next to him,holding his arm and staring at the place where the man had scaled thewall.

  "He was a Sudra, a low caste." She looked at the stiletto inHawksworth's hand, and her voice turned to scorn. "It's Portuguese.Only the Portuguese would hire someone like that, instead of a Rajput."Then she laughed nervously. "If they'd hired a Rajput, someone would bedead now. Hire a Sudra and you get a Sudra's work."

  "Who was it?"

  "Who knows? The horse bazaar is full of men who would kill for tenrupees." She pointed toward the wall. "Do you see that piece of cloth?There on the old spike. I think it's a piece of his _dhoti_. Would youget it for me?"

  After Hawksworth had retrieved the shred of cotton loincloth, brownfrom a hundred washings in the river, she had taken it from him withouta word.

  "What will you do with it?"

  "Don't." She touched a finger to his lips. "These are things it's bestnot to ask." Then she tucked the brown scrap into the silken sash ather waist and moved toward the door. "And it would be better if youforgot about today."

  Hawksworth watched her for a second, then seized her arm and turned herfacing him. "I may not know what's going on. But, by Jesus, I'll knowbefore you leave. And you can start by telling me why you come here."

  She stared back at him for a moment, meeting his eyes. There wassomething in them he had never seen before, almost admiration. Then shecaught herself and drew back, dropping into a chair. "Very well.Perhaps you do deserve to know." She slipped the translucent scarf fromher hair and tossed it across the table. "Why don't you open the wineyou brought? I'll not tell you everything, because you shouldn't wantme to, but I'll tell you what's important for you."

  Hawksworth remembered how he had slowly poured the wine for her, hishand still trembling.

  "Have you ever heard of Samad?" she had begun, taking a small sip.

  "I think he's the poet Mukarrab Khan quoted once. He called him a Sufirascal."

  "Is that what he said? Good. That only confirms once again what I thinkof His Excellency." She laughed with contempt. "Samad is a great poet.He's perhaps the last great Persian writer, in the tradition of OmarKhayyam. He has favored me by allowing me to be one of his disciples."

  "So you come here to write poems?"

  "When I feel something I want to say."

  "But I've also found lists of names here, and numbers."

  "I told you I can't tell you everything." Shirin's look darkenedmomentarily as she drank again lightly from the cup, then settled it onthe table. He found himself watching her face, drawn to her bysomething he could not fully understand. "But I can tell you this.There's someone in India who will one day rid us of the infidelPortuguese. Do you know of Prince Jadar?"

  "He's the son of the Moghul. I'm guessing he'll probably succeed oneday."

  "He should. If he's not betrayed. Things are very unsettled in Agra. Hehas many enemies there." She paused. "He has enemies here."

  "I'm not sure I understand."

  "Then you should. Because what happens in Agra will affect everyone.Even you."

  "But what does Agra politics have to do with me? The knife wasPortuguese."

  "To understand what's happening, you should first know about Akman, theone we remember now as the Great Moghul. He was the father of Arangbar,the Moghul now. I was only a small girl when Akman died, but I stillremember my sadness, my feeling the universe would collapse. Weworshiped him almost. It's not talked about now, but the truth is Akmandidn't really want Arangbar to succeed him, nobody did. But he had nochoice. In fact, when Akman died, Arangbar's eldest son started arebellion to deny him the throne, but that son's troops betrayed him,and after they surrendered Arangbar blinded him in punishment
. Khusrav,his own son. Although Prince Jadar was still only a young boy then, weall thought after that he would be Moghul himself one day. But that wasbefore the Persians came to power in Agra."

  "But aren't you Persian yourself?"

  "I was born in India, but yes, I have the great fortune to be ofPersian blood. There are many Persians in India. You know, Persiansstill intimidate the Moghuls. Ours is a magnificent culture, an ancientculture, and Persians never let the Moghuls forget it." Shirin haddabbed at her brow and rose to peer out the door of the observatorybuilding, as though by instinct. "Did you know that the first Moghulcame to India less than a hundred years ago, actually after thePortuguese? He was named Babur, a distant descendant of the Mongolwarrior Genghis Khan, and he was from Central Asia. Babur was thegrandfather of Akman. They say he had wanted to invade Persia but thatthe ruling dynasty, the Safavis, was too strong. So he invaded Indiainstead, and the Moghuls have been trying to make it into Persia eversince. That's why Persians can always find work in India. They teachtheir language at court, and give lessons in fashion, and in paintingand garden design. Samad came here from Persia, and now he's thenational poet."

  "What do these Persians have to do with whatever's happening in Agra?Are you, or your family, somehow involved too?"

  "My father was Shayhk Mirak." She hesitated a moment, as thoughexpecting a response. Then she continued evenly, "Of course, you'd notknow of him. He was a court painter. He came to India when Akman wasMoghul and took a position under the Persian Mir Sayyid Ali, whodirected the painting studio Akman founded. You know, I've always foundit amusing that Akman had to use Persian artists to create the Moghulschool of Indian painting. Anyway, my father was very skilled at Moghulportraits, which everybody now says were invented by Akman. And whenAkman died, Arangbar named my father to head the school. It lasteduntil she was brought to Agra."

  "Who?"

  "The queen, the one called Janahara."

  "But why was your father sent away?"

  "Because I was sent away."

  Hawksworth thought he sensed a kind of nervous intensity quiveringbehind Shirin's voice. It's your story, he told himself, that I'dreally like to hear. But he said nothing, and the silence swelled.Finally she spoke again.

  "To understand the trouble now, you must understand about the queen.Her story is almost amazing, and already legends are growing aroundher. It's said she was born the day her father, Zainul Beg, left Persiaas an adventurer bound for India. He ordered her abandoned in the sunto die, but after the caravan traveled on his wife lamented for thebaby so much he decided to return for her. Although the sun wasintense, they found her still alive. It's said a cobra was shading herwith his hood." Shirin turned to Hawksworth, her dark eyes seeming tosnap. "Can you believe such a story?"

  "No. It sounds like a fable."

  "Neither can I. But half the people in India do. Her father finallyreached Lahore, the city in India where Akman was staying, and managedto enter his service. Like any Persian he did very well, and beforelong Akman gave him a _mansab _rank of three hundred _zat_. His wifeand daughter were allowed to come and go among the palace women. Then,when she was seventeen, this little Persian girl of the cobra began herplan. She repeatedly threw herself across the path of the Moghul's sonArangbar, whom she rightly guessed would be next in line for thethrone. He was no match for her, and now people say she won his heartbefore he knew it himself. My own belief is she cast a spell on him."

  "And he married her?"

  "Of course not. Akman was no fool. He knew she was a schemer, and whenhe saw what she was doing he immediately had her married to a Persiangeneral named Sher Afgan, whom he then appointed governor of Bengal, aprovince in the distant east of India. Akman died a few years afterthat, still thinking he had saved Arangbar from her, but he hadn'tcounted on the spell."

  "So how did she get back to Agra, and become queen?"

  "That part I know very well." Shirin laughed bitterly. "I was there.You see, Arangbar never forgot his Persian cobra girl, even after hebecame Moghul himself. And he found a way to get her back. One day heannounced he was receiving reports of unrest in Bengal, where SherAfgan was still governor, and he summoned the governor to Agra toexplain. When no answer came, he sent troops. Nobody knows whathappened, but the story was given out that Sher Afgan drew a sword onArangbar's men. Perhaps he did. They say he was impulsive. But theImperial troops cut him down. Then Arangbar ordered Sher Afgan'sPersian wife and her little daughter, Layla, back to Agra and put themunder the protection of his mother, the dowager queen. Then, just aswe'd all predicted, he married her. At first he was going to put her inthe _zenana_, the harem, but she refused. She demanded to be made hisqueen, an equal. And that's what he did. Except now she's actuallymore. She's the real ruler of India."

  "And you were in the harem, the _zenana_, then?" Hawksworth decided togamble on the story he had heard.

  Shirin stared at him, trying to hide what seemed to be surprise. "Youknow." For a moment he thought she might reach out and touch his hand,but then she drew back into herself. "Yes, I was still in the _zenana_then, but not for long. The first thing Janahara did was find out whichwomen Arangbar favored, and she then had us all married off togovernors of provinces far from Agra. You know a Muslim man is allowedfour wives, so there's always room for one more. Mukarrab Khan got me."

  "She seems very clever."

  "You haven't heard even half her story yet. Next she arranged to haveher brother, Nadir Sharif, appointed prime minister, and her father,Zainul Beg, made chief adviser to Arangbar. So now she and her familycontrol the Moghul and everyone around him." Shirin paused. "Not quiteeveryone. Yet. Not Prince Jadar."

  "But he'll be the next Moghul. When that happens, what becomes of her?"

  "He _should _be the next Moghul. And if he is, her power will be gone.That's why she wants to destroy him now."

  "But how can she, if he's the rightful heir?" Hawksworth found himselfsuddenly dismayed by the specter of Agra in turmoil.

  "No one knows. But she'll think of a way. And then she'll find someoneshe can control to be the next Moghul."''

  'But why do you care so much who succeeds Arangbar?"

  "One reason I care is because of Samad." Her eyes suddenly saddened.

  "Now I really don't understand. He's a poet. Why should

  it matter to him?"

  "Because the queen would like to see him dead. He has too muchinfluence. You must understand that the queen and her family areShi'ites, a Persian sect of Islam. They believe all men should bow tosome dogmatic mullah, whom they call an _imam_. But this was never inthe teachings given to the Prophet."

  A curse on all religions, Hawksworth had thought. Am I caught in themiddle of some Muslim holy war?

  "But why do these Persians, or their _imams_, want to be rid of Samad?"

  "Because he's a Sufi, a mystic, who teaches that we all should find Godwithin our own selves. Without the mullahs. That's why the PersianShi'ites despise him and want him dead."

  "Then he's supporting Prince Jadar?"

  "Samad does not concern himself with politics. But it's the duty of theothers of us, those who understand what is happening, to help PrinceJadar. Because we know he will stop the Persians and their Shi'ites whoare now spreading their poison of hate in India, and he'll also ridIndia of the Portuguese. I'm sure of it." She paused for a moment. "Youknow, it's always seemed ironic that the Persians and the Portugueseshould actually work together. But in a way each needs the other. ThePortuguese have made the Persians, particularly the queen and herbrother, Nadir Sharif, very rich, and in return they're allowed to sendtheir Jesuits to preach. So both the Persians and the Portuguese wantto prevent Prince Jadar from becoming the next Moghul, since they knowhe'd like nothing better than to rid India of them both."

  "But what does this have to do with me? I just want a trading _firman_from Arangbar. He's still alive and healthy, and he should know thePortugals can't stop English trading ships from coming here. Whyshouldn't he give us a _firman
_?"

  "Can't you see? The English can never be allowed to trade here. Itwould be the beginning of the end for the Portuguese. It would show allthe world they no longer can control India's ports. But what I'm reallytrying to make you see is that it's not only the Portuguese who want tostop you. It's also the people who support them. So no one can aid youopenly. The Persians are already too powerful. Still, there are thosehere who would protect you."

  "Who do you mean?"

  "How could I possibly tell you?" She held him with her eyes. "Iscarcely know you. But you should listen to your intuition. Samad sayswe all have an inner voice that tells us what is true."

  This time she did reach and touch his hand, and her touch was strangelywarm in the chill of the room. "I can't tell you any more, really. Sonow will you play for me? Something tender, perhaps. A song you wouldplay for the woman you left behind you in England."

  "I didn't have all that much to leave behind." He picked up the lute."But I'll be happy to play for you."

  "You have no one?"

  "There was a woman in London. But she married while I was . . . gone."

  "She wouldn't wait while you were away?" Shirin sipped again from hercup and her eyes darkened. "That must have been very sad for you."

  "It could be she didn't think I was worth waiting for." He hesitated."I've had some time to think about it since. In a way it was probablymy own fault. I think she wanted more than I was ready to give."

  She looked at him and smiled. "Perhaps what she wanted was you. And youwouldn't give yourself. Tell me what she was like."

  "What was she like?" He looked away, remembering Maggie's face with astrange mixture of longing and bitterness. "Well, she's like nobodyI've seen in India. Red hair, blue eyes . . . and a salty tongue." Helaughed. "If she was ever anybody's fourth wife, I'd pity the otherthree." He felt his laugh fade. "I missed her a lot when I was awaybefore. But now . . ." He tried to shrug.

  She looked at him as though she understood it all. "Then if you won'tplay for her any more, will you play just for me? One of your Englishragas?"

  "What if I played a suite by Dowland, one of our English composers?It's one of my favorites." He found himself smiling again, the lutecomfortable and reassuring in his grasp. "I hope you won't think itsounds too out of place."

  "We're both out of place here now." She returned his smile wistfullyand glanced at the papers on the desk. "You and me."