"An instrument of England, Your Majesty, which we hold in the same esteem you grant your Indian sitar."
"This is a curious toy, Inglish. It has so few strings." He examined it a moment longer, then turned to Hawksworth. "Do you yourself play this instrument?"
"I do, Your Majesty."
"Then we will hear it." Arangbar passed the lute back to Hawksworth, while the nobles around them buzzed in astonishment.
Hawksworth cradled it against him. The feel of its body flooded him with sadness as he realized he would never play it again. Memories of London, Tunis, Gibraltar, a dozen cabins and lodgings, flooded over him. He inhaled deeply and began a short suite by Dowland. It was the one he had played for Shirin that afternoon so long ago in the observatory in Surat.
The clear notes flooded the canopied pavilion with their rich full voice, then drifted outward into the square, settling silence in their path. The suite was melancholy, a lament of lost love and beauty, and Hawksworth found his own eyes misting as he played. When he reached the end, the last crisp note died into a void that seemed to be his own heart. He held the lute a moment longer, then turned to pass it back to Arangbar.
The Moghul’s eyes seemed to be misting as well.
"I have never heard anything quite like it, Inglish. It has a sadness we never hear in a raga. Why have you never played for us before?"
"Your Majesty has musicians of your own."
"But no instrument like this, Inglish. Will you have your king send us one?"