"I don't understand."
"There's a famous poem in Persian, by the poet Farrukhi, about gardens and spring. He once wrote of a place where spring always arrived feeling lowly and despised, because there was no land for her save desert, a place of rocks and thistles. But then a rich man—actually the patron of Farrukhi, whom he was writing to flatter—built a garden for her and the next year spring came forth from the south and found a home there." Nadir Sharif smiled. "In fact the poem begins by comparing spring's original arrivals to that of a bankrupt feringhi's, who appeared with no carpet, no livelihood. But after spring discovered the garden, she brought from the south turquoise for the willows, rubies for the rose."
Nadir Sharif smiled. "What do you think of Farrukhi's poem, Ambassador?"
"What do you mean?"
"Curiosity. I was wondering what are the chances that spring will come again from the south this year? Did the 'bankrupt feringhi merely come to see if the garden was ready? Was the first arrival of spring false, with the real arrival yet to come?"
Hawksworth studied Nadir Sharifs face. "I don't understand what you're trying to say. But I would like to know if you've spoken to His Majesty about the firman."
"Please believe I mention it daily. I think now he'll soon agree to terms."
"Then there's nothing yet?" Hawksworth set down the glass of wine. "I assumed that was why you wanted to speak to me. But you just wanted to talk about Persian gardens and Persian poets."
"Ambassador, I'm not a man for idle talk. Surely we know each other better than that." Nadir Sharif turned and banished the servants and eunuchs with a wave of his hand.
"Tell me. I know you met Prince Jadar once. Give me your honest opinion. Do you think he's a clever man?"