"The drum is called a mirdanga, Majesty. They use it in the south with a type of sitar they call the veena. The other instrument is a bamboo flute."
Arangbar shifted impatiently. "Tell them this should be brief."
Nadir Sharif spoke quickly to the musicians in a language few in the room seemed to understand. They nodded and immediately the flautist began a haunting lyric line that bathed the room in a soft, echoing melody. Hawksworth was startled that so simple an instrument could produce such rich, warm tones.
The curtains parted and a tall, elaborately jeweled woman swept across the carpet. She took command of the space around her, possessed it, almost as though it were part of her being. Her long silk sari had been gathered about each leg so that it seemed like trousers, and her every step was announced by dense bracelets of bells at her ankles. Most striking, however, was her carriage. Hawksworth had never before seen such dignity of motion.
As he stared at her, he realized she was wearing an immense, diamond-encrusted nose ring and long pendant earrings, also of diamonds. Not even the Moghul wore stones to equal hers. Her face was heavily painted, but still he suspected she might no longer be in the first bloom of youth. Her self-assurance was too secure. She knew exactly who she was.
She turned her back to Arangbar as she reverently gave an invocation, both hands together and raised above her head, to some absent god. The only sound was the slow, measured cadence of the drum. Suddenly it seemed as though her body had captured some perfect moment of balance, a feeling of timelessness within time.
Hawksworth glanced toward Arangbar, whose irritation was obvious.
How can she be so imprudent as to ignore him? Aren't Hindus afraid of him? What was her name? Kamala?
His eyes shot back to the woman.
Kamala.