"Then it's settled." Arangbar tried unsuccessfully to rise, and Nadir Sharif stepped forward, assisting him to his feet. "I have to hold durbar one last time today, quickly before we leave. The Persian Safavid ambassador notified the wazir he has gifts and a petition that must be brought to me before the court leaves Agra." He grinned. "The Safavis are so worried I will form an alliance with the northwestern Uzbeks that their Emperor Shah Abbas sends gifts every month."
"You've decided to hold durbar today, after all?" Nadir Sharifs eyes quickened. "If so, there's a Portuguese official from Surat who also wishes to present some gifts from the Viceroy and speak with you on a matter he said was delicate."
"What 'delicate' matter does His Excellency have?" Janahara stopped sharply on her way toward the corridor and turned back. "I've heard nothing about it."
"I suppose we'll all discover that in durbar, Majesty." Nadir Sharif bowed and was gone.
Brian Hawksworth waited in the crowded square of the Diwan-i-Am, holding a large package and hoping the rumored appearance of Arangbar was true. For the past four days the Moghul had not held durbar, had remained in complete isolation. But only an hour before, talk had circulated in the square that Arangbar would hold a brief reception before departing, probably in a tent pavilion that had been erected in the center of the square. As though to verify the speculation, slaves had unrolled several thick carpets beneath the tent, installed a dais, and were now positioning his throne onto the platform.
Hawksworth stared about the square and felt his palms sweat.
Is this the last time I ever see the Moghul of India? And Shirin never again? Is this how it ends?
He had spent the last several days in a private hell, thinking of Shirin and waiting for the first fever, the first nodules that would signal the plague. So far there had been no signs of the disease. And he had heard that the consensus in the bazaar was the infection would subside within the month. Clearly it would be nothing like London in 1603.
Palace rumors said that Shirin was still alive. All executions had ceased after the appearance of the plague. And stories were that the Moghul was rarely seen sober. Perhaps, Hawksworth told himself, Arangbar has stayed so drunk he has forgotten her.
He had finally conceived one last plan to try to save her. Then he had packed his chest, settled his accounts, and dismissed his servants. If nothing came of the meeting today . . . if there was a meeting . . . he would have to leave in any case.