The Moghul

were summoned here to dance for me." Arangbar pulled himself drunkenly erect. Around the room the nobles began to shift uneasily, their bleary eyes filling with alarm.
    "Then I will not dance. You have the world in your hands. But you cannot possess the dance of Shiva. Our dance is prescribed in the Natya Shastra of the ancient sage Bharata. Over a thousand years ago he declared that dance is not merely for pleasure; dance is the blending of all art, religion, philosophy. It gives mankind wisdom, discipline, endurance. Through dance we are allowed to know the totality of all that is. My dance is not for your sport."
    Arangbar's anger increased, but now it was leavened with puzzlement.
    "If you will not dance your Shiva dance, then dance Kathak."
    "The dance Muslims call Kathak is the perversion of yet another of our sacred traditions. Perhaps there are some Hindu dancers who will, for Muslim gold, debase the ancient Kathak dance of India, will make it a display of empty technique for the amusement of India's oppressors. Muslims and"—she turned and glared at Hawksworth—"now feringhi . But I will not do it. The Kathak you want to see is no longer true Kathak. It has been made empty, without meaning. I will never debase our true Kathak dance for you, as others have done, any more than I will dedicate a performance of Bharata Natyam to a mortal man."
    The guards near the entrance of the Diwan-i-Khas had all tensed, their hands dropping uneasily to their swords.
    "I have heard enough. A man who dared speak to me as you have would be sent to the elephants. You, I think, deserve more. Since you speak to your god through dance, you do not need a tongue."
    Arangbar turned to summon the waiting guards when, at the rear of the Diwan-i-Khas , the figure of the Chief Painter emerged, his assistants trailing behind. They carried a long, thin board.
    Nadir Sharif spotted them and immediately leaped to his feet, almost as though he had been expecting their entrance.
    "Your Majesty." He quickly moved between Arangbar and Kamala, who stood motionless. "The paintings have arrived. I'm ready for my horse. Let the English ambassador see them now."
    Arangbar looked up in confusion, his eyes half closed from the opium. Then he saw the painters and remembered.
    "Bring them in." Suddenly his alertness seemed to return. "I want to see five Inglish kings."
    The paintings were brought to the foot of Arangbar's dais, and he inspected them drunkenly, but with obvious satisfaction.
    "Ambassador Inglish. Have a look." Arangbar called toward the hushed shadows of the seated guests. A path immediately cleared among the bolsters, as hookahs were pushed aside, wineglasses seized.
    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.
    They didn't use varnish. And there are fewer shadows. Theirs are more two-dimensional.
    "I'm astounded, Your Majesty. But I believe this is the one by Isaac Oliver." Hawksworth pointed to the painting second from the right end.
    "Let me see them again." Arangbar's voice was a husky slur. "I