The Moghul

any chance, traveling with you from Surat to Burhanpur? You know, His Majesty has demanded a full investigation. I think he may just summon Mirza Nuruddin to Agra for an explanation."
    "Then let him ask Mirza Nuruddin what happened. I'm sure he'll get the truth." Hawksworth turned toward the large gate at the far end of the square.
    "Very well, Ambassador." Nadir Sharif smiled warmly. "By the way, I understand Mirza Nuruddin has suggested you may have smuggled it out of Surat yourself, leaving a worthless letter of credit, in order to swindle your merchants."
    "The bastard."
    "The truth will surely come out, Ambassador, as you say. So I wish you good night and a restful sleep." Nadir Sharif turned and in moments had melted into the darkness.
    Hawksworth slowly worked his way down the cobblestone roadway, past the guards at the Amar Singh Gate, and into the Agra night. He turned left and headed toward the banks of the Jamuna, hoping the smells and sounds of water would soothe his mind. When he reached the riverbank, he found himself looking back at the massive walls of the Red Fort, wondering again where Shirin was being kept, wanting to be with her. To hold her one last time. But the high stone walls stood dark and mute as his own despair.

    "You are home, Sahib." The servants were waiting, beaming and immaculate in fresh muslin dhotis , as Hawksworth pushed open the doors of his compound. It was nearing midnight. "Your house is honored tonight with a special evening."
    "What are you planning? My farewell?"
    The servants examined him uncomprehending as he pushed past the portiere of the doorway.
    The room was heavy with sandalwood incense. In the lamplight he recognized Kamala's musicians: the gray-haired flautist in a long lungi wrap and bare to the waist, the drummer smiling widely in a plain white shirt and brown dhoti . Although he had not seen them for days, they paused only briefly to acknowledge him. The drummer was absorbed in tuning his instrument, using a small hammer to tap blocks of wood wedged beneath the leather thongs securing the drumhead. As he adjusted the tension on the thongs, he periodically tested the drum's pitch against a note from the flute.
    Kamala was nowhere to be seen. Hawksworth stared about the room quizzically, then turned to the musicians. They responded with a puzzled shrug and motioned toward a rear door.
    "She summoned them here tonight, Sahib. She did not tell them why. No one has seen her all day. It is very worrying." The servant shuffled uneasily. "Has the Sahib heard the stories in the bazaar?"
    "What stories?"
    From behind the curtains came the sudden tinkling of tiny bells. The musicians smiled in recognition.
    As the servants edged toward the curtained doorway to look, Hawksworth extracted a half-empty bottle of brandy from his chest and threw himself down against a bolster.
    What's this all about? Why can't I be alone for once? Tonight of all nights she does this.
    He puzzled a moment over Kamala, her erratic and powerful moods, then his thoughts returned gloomily to the Diwan-i-Khas and to Shirin. He could not give up hope. Never. He never gave up hope.
    There was another tinkling of bells and the curtain at the doorway was swept aside. Standing there, jewels afire in the lamplight, was Kamala.
    He noticed the two musicians stare at her for an instant, then exchange quick, disturbed glances.
    She was, it seemed, more striking than he had ever seen her. Her eyes were seductively lined with kohl and her lips were an inviting red, matching the large dot on her forehead. In one side of her nose she wore a small ring studded with diamonds. Her hair was swept back and secured with rows of rubies and her throat and arms were circled with bands of gold imbedded with small green emeralds. She wore a silken wrap folded in pleats about each leg in a way that enhanced the full curve of her hips. Her waist was circled by a belt of beaten gold, and her palms and the soles of her feet had been reddened with henna. As she came toward him, the bands of tiny bells at her ankles punctuated the sensuous sway of her breasts beneath her silk halter.
    "You've returned early. I'm glad." As she moved into the light, he thought he caught a glimpse of some profound melancholy in her eyes. He also noted her voice was strangely frail.
    "Is there supposed to be a ceremony tonight I didn't know about?" As Hawksworth studied her, he took another long swallow of brandy, its heat burning away at his