"My jeweler will fit it for you, Inglish."
A wry, portly man stepped forward and quickly removed the small gold earring from Hawksworth's ear. Just as deftly, he attached the pearl where it had been.
"And now, Inglish, I will bestow on you the highest favor of my court." He turned and signaled another eunuch to come forward. The eunuch carried a cloak woven with gold. "This cloak I have myself worn, then kept aside to bestow on a worthy disciple. It is for you."
Arangbar took the cloak himself and laid it over Hawksworth's shoulders.
"I thank Your Majesty. The honor is more than I could ever merit."
"That may well be true, Inglish." Arangbar roared. "But it's yours. You speak my tongue and you drink almost as well. Few men here today can equal you. And you have the wits of ten Portuguese. I think you deserve to be one of my khans." Arangbar signaled for him to rise. "Your salary will begin with the next lunar month. After that you will be known in this court as the Inglish Khan. Day after tomorrow you will ride with us in shikar, the royal hunt. You may soon decide you like India better than England. Have you ever seen a tiger?"
"Never, Your Majesty."
"You will soon enough. Day after tomorrow. So you had best do your drinking now, for tigers require a clear head." Arangbar laughed again and clapped and the tension in the courtyard semed to evaporate. The singer immediately began a second raga.
As Hawksworth fingered the earring, the medal, and the cloak, he found himself remembering Huyghen's burning eyes that day in the London alehouse. "You'll forget who you are," the old seaman had said. Could this be what he meant?
But maybe it's not so bad after all, he told himself. It's like a dream come true. And when the fleet makes landfall. . . .