The Moghul

Arangbar's evenings in the Diwan-i-Khas . Even his requests for an audience had been ignored. Before the poet's death, it had been possible for him to believe that the absurdity of Samad and Shirin's arrest would eventually resolve itself, that the nightmare would fade into reality and bring their release. But the killing of Samad had blotted out that illusion. When he saw Arangbar, presiding high above the square, signal the Sufi's death, he had realized finally the nightmare was all too real. Since that time he had spent the sleepless nights alone, distraught, counting the passage of each hour as he awaited news Shirin was also dead. In his mind he had conceived a dozen stratagems to try to save her, a dozen arguments, threats, bargains for her release, but nothing could be done if he was denied even an audience with the Moghul.
    That they should have tasted so much, only to lose it all. He found himself aware, for the first time ever, how much he could want, could need, a woman like Shirin beside him. With her, life itself seemed renewed. She was like no other he had ever known: strong, beautiful, self-willed. He had found himself admiring the last most of all, even though he still found it startling. But the love he had known with her in his arms now only made the despair deeper. Nothing was left. Now there was only abiding sorrow, loss beyond healing. She had given him something he had never known, something he realized—for the first time ever—he no longer wanted to live without. He would have taken her place a hundred times over, but even that seemed impossible.
    Then, that morning, hope had appeared, almost a miracle. A sudden, urgent message had been delivered, instructing him to appear once more in the Diwan-i-Khas . It almost certainly meant Arangbar had received word of the English fleet. If Shirin were still alive, and there had been no news of her death, it must mean that the Moghul was uncertain about her guilt: he was not a man who normally waited to act. And if she was alive, all things again became possible . . .
    He had asked himself again and again over the past week why he had suddenly been forgotten by Arangbar. He finally concluded it was the distracting turmoil that had gripped Agra and the court since Samad's death.
    The Sufi's last words had been repeated throughout the city, and already there were rumors of impending calamity: the bazaars were alive with talk of a Persian Safavid invasion from the northwest, a rebellion among the Imperial guards, an impending holocaust that would burn all Agra to ash, a universal plague. The streets had an apocalyptic air, with omens foreseen in every temple.
    Another reason for Arangbar's preoccupation could be the rumors from the south. Word was sweeping Agra that Prince Jadar and his army had been savaged by the Deccani forces and were now retreating northward, with Malik Ambar in pursuit. If this story were true, then the Abyssinian's defeat of Jadar must have been overwhelming, since rebels did not normally pursue Moghul forces. But this story was still merely rumor. There had been no actual reports of any engagements in the south.
    Jadar's possible defeat, so the talk in Agra went, had gone very heavily with Arangbar, and accounted for his increasing dependence on opium and wine. Those who had seen him reported the Moghul was growing noticeably weaker. And as his strength waned, so too did his authority. Ever since the night of the wedding, Queen Janahara had been moving to assume more and more of the prerogatives of power. Arangbar already seemed to be becoming a figurehead. The only sanctuary she had not yet invaded was the Diwan-i-Khas .
    Those evening gatherings Arangbar still ruled like a god, and the unusual note he had sent to Hawksworth was worded almost more like an order than an invitation. It confirmed vividly the reports that Arangbar was growing more erratic by the day.
    Around Hawksworth sat the usual assembly of Arangbar's closest advisers, men whose perpetually smiling faces he had come to know well over the past weeks. Prominent among them as always was Nadir Sharif, who now seemed to be avoiding Hawksworth's glance. Also in attendance was a special contingent of Rajput guards, in Imperial turbans and tunics. Hawksworth could never remember having seen these particular guards in the Diwan-i-Khas before.
    When the last official had arrived, the Rajput guards moved across the doorway and the kettledrum was sounded. Moments later the