"The dance Muslims call Kathak is the perversion of yet another of our sacred traditions. Perhaps there are some Hindu dancers who will, for Muslim gold, debase the ancient Kathak dance of India, will make it a display of empty technique for the amusement of India's oppressors. Muslims and"—she turned and glared at Hawksworth—"now feringhi. But I will not do it. The Kathak you want to see is no longer true Kathak. It has been made empty, without meaning. I will never debase our true Kathak dance for you, as others have done, any more than I will dedicate a performance of Bharata Natyam to a mortal man."
The guards near the entrance of the Diwan-i-Khas had all tensed, their hands dropping uneasily to their swords.
"I have heard enough. A man who dared speak to me as you have would be sent to the elephants. You, I think, deserve more. Since you speak to your god through dance, you do not need a tongue."
Arangbar turned to summon the waiting guards when, at the rear of the Diwan-i-Khas, the figure of the Chief Painter emerged, his assistants trailing behind. They carried a long, thin board.
Nadir Sharif spotted them and immediately leaped to his feet, almost as though he had been expecting their entrance.
"Your Majesty." He quickly moved between Arangbar and Kamala, who stood motionless. "The paintings have arrived. I'm ready for my horse. Let the English ambassador see them now."
Arangbar looked up in confusion, his eyes half closed from the opium. Then he saw the painters and remembered.
"Bring them in." Suddenly his alertness seemed to return. "I want to see five Inglish kings."
The paintings were brought to the foot of Arangbar's dais, and he inspected them drunkenly, but with obvious satisfaction.
"Ambassador Inglish. Have a look." Arangbar called toward the hushed shadows of the seated guests. A path immediately cleared among the bolsters, as hookahs were pushed aside, wineglasses seized.