"And you will be at darshan tomorrow morning. Even if you were not there today."
"Naturally had I but known, Majesty . . ."
"Father made you prime minister. You can be just as easily removed."
"Your Majesty." Nadir Sharif bowed, and with an unseen flick sent the rolled betel leaf spinning past the railing, toward the dark waters of the Jamuna below.
Hawksworth sipped from the new cup of wine, his third, and watched the musicians begin to retune. Around him the members of Arangbar's inner circle were assembling in the Diwan-i-Khas. This must be evening dress in Agra, he marveled: silk turbans studded with rubies and sapphires, diamond earrings, swords trimmed in gold and silver, pearl necklaces, cloaks of rich brocade, velvet slippers. The faces around him all betrayed the indolent eyes and pasty cheeks of men long indulged in rich food, hard spirits, sensuality.
It was, he now realized, the fairyland that Symmes had described that freezing day so long ago in the offices of the Levant Company. What man not a Papist monk could resist the worldly seductions of the Moghul’s court?
Then he remembered the brave Pathan who had been torn apart by a lion that very afternoon, while all Arangbar's nobles watched unprotesting.
On the signal of a eunuch standing by the doorway the
drummer suddenly pounded out a loud, rhythmic fanfare, and then the sitarist took up a martial motif. The brocade drapery hanging inside a marble archway at the back of the room was drawn aside by a guard and a moment later Arangbar swept into the room. The courtiers all bowed in the teslim, rising with their hands on their forehead.
Arangbar had changed to evening dress. He wore a dark velvet turban encrusted with jewels, tight-fitting patterned trousers beneath a transparent muslin skirt, and a gold brocade cinch at his waist. He clapped his hands in delight when he saw Hawksworth holding a wine cup.