Hawksworth walked unsteadily forward, his mind still stunned by the imminent death sentence waiting for the woman. As he passed her, he sensed her powerful presence and inhaled her musky perfume. There was no hint of fear in her eyes as she stood waiting, statuesque and defiant.
By the time he reached the throne, eunuchs were waiting with candles, one on each side of the board, bathing it in flickering light. On it was a line of five English miniatures of King James, each approximately an inch square.
Good Jesus, they're identical. Am I so drunk I can't tell a painting of King James?
He looked up shakily at Arangbar, whose smile was a gloat.
"Well, Ambassador Inglish. What say you? Are the painters of my school equal to any your king has?"
"One moment, Majesty. Until my eyes adjust." Hawksworth grasped one edge of the board to steady himself. Behind him there were murmurs of delight and he caught the word "feringhi."
As he walked along the board, studying each painting in turn, he suddenly noticed that the reflection of the candlelight was different for one.
The paint is still wet on the new portraits. That's the difference. Or is it? Are my eyes playing tricks? Damn me for letting Nadir Sharif fill my wineglass every chance he had.
"Come, Ambassador Inglish. We do not have all night." Arangbar's voice was brimming with triumph.
Hawksworth studied the paintings more closely. Yes, there's a slight difference. The colors on the one painting are slightly different. Duller.