The Moghul

brought.
    "And what have you stolen of ours, Inglish? Have you come now to tell us it was all a mistake, before I order your hand cut off?"
    "Englishmen are not Portugals, Your Majesty. We do not take what is not our own. What have I ever taken that Your Majesty did not freely give?"
    "It's true what you say, Inglish. You are not a Portuguese." Arangbar suddenly beamed as a thought flashed through his eyes. "Tell me, Inglish, will your king destroy their fleets for me now?"
    "Why would he do so, Your Majesty? You have denied him the right to trade; you have refused to grant the firman he requested."
    "Not if he will rout the Portuguese infidels from our seas, Inglish. They are a pestilence, a plague, that sickens all it touches." Arangbar waved in the direction of a eunuch, ordering wine for himself. "You deceived me once, Inglish, but you did not rob me. Perhaps we will have you stay here a few days longer."
    "I have already made preparations to depart, Your Majesty, on your orders."
    "You cannot travel without our permission, Inglish. We still rule India, despite what the Portuguese Viceroy may think." Arangbar paused and drank thirstily from the glass of wine. "So why did you want an audience, Inglish, if you were planning to leave?"
    Hawksworth paused, thinking of the decision he had made, wondering again if there was a chance.
    "I've come to make a trifling request of Your Majesty." He moved forward and bowed, presenting his parcel, the obligatory gift.
    "What's this have you brought us, Inglish?"
    "May it please Your Majesty, after settling my accounts in Agra, I have no money remaining to purchase gifts worthy of Your Majesty. I have only this remaining. I offer it to Your Majesty, in hopes you will understand its unworthiness in your eyes is matched only by its unequaled value to me. It is my treasure. I have had it by my side for over twenty years, at sea and on land."
    Arangbar accepted the parcel with curiosity and flipped aside the velvet wrap. An English lute sparkled against the sunshine.
    "What is this, Inglish?" Arangbar turned it in his hand, examining the polished cedar staves that curved to form its melon-shaped back.
    "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?"
    "But I have given you mine, Majesty."
    Arangbar examined the lute once more, then looked at Hawksworth and smiled. "But if I keep this instrument now, Inglish, I will most probably forget by tomorrow where I have put it." He winked at Hawksworth and handed back the lute. "Have your king send us one, Inglish, and a teacher to instruct our musicians."
    Hawksworth could not believe what he was hearing. "I humbly thank Your Majesty. I . . ."
    "Now what was it you came to ask of us, Inglish?" Arangbar continued to study the lute as he sipped from his wine. "Ask it quickly."
    "Merely a trifling indulgence of Your Majesty."
    "Then tell us what it is, Inglish." Arangbar turned and searched the square with his eyes, as though monitoring the state of preparations.
    Hawksworth cleared his throat and tried to still