The Moghul

really something a ship's cook could do?"
    Hawksworth smiled resignedly and took another mouthful.
    Whoever thought there could be so many uses for spice. We use spice in England, to be sure—clove, cinnamon, pepper, even ginger and cardamom—but they're intended mainly to disguise the taste of meat past its prime. But here spices are essential ingredients.
    "Let us return to your requests, Captain Hawksworth. I'm afraid neither of these is entirely within my power to bestow. In the matter of trading privileges for your cargo, I'll see what can be done. Yours is an unusual request, in the sense that no Europeans have ever come here to war with the Portuguese, then asked to compete with them in trade."
    "It seems simple enough. We merely exchange our goods for some of the cotton cloth I saw arriving at the customs house this morning. The Shahbandar stated you have the power to authorize this trade."
    "Yes, I enjoy some modest influence. And I really don't expect that Prince Jadar would object."
    "He's the Moghul’s son?"
    "Correct. He has full authority over this province, but he's frequently on campaign and difficult to reach. His other duties include responsibility for military conscription here, and maintaining order. These are somewhat uneasy times, especially in the Deccan, southeast of here."
    "When will we learn your decision, or his decision? There are other markets for our goods."
    "You will learn his decision when it is decided." Mukarrab Khan shoved aside his plate and a servant whisked it from the carpet. "Concerning your second request, that I petition Agra to authorize your travel there, I will see what can be done. But it will require time."
    "I would ask the request be sent immediately."
    "Naturally." Mukarrab Khan watched absently as more brimming trays were brought in, these piled with candied fruits and sweetmeats. A hookah water pipe appeared and was placed beside Hawksworth.
    "Do you enjoy the new feringhi custom of smoking tobacco, Captain Hawksworth? It was introduced recently, and already it's become fashionable. So much so the Moghul just issued a decree denouncing it."
    "King James has denounced it too, claiming it destroys health. But it's also the fashion in London. Personally, I think it ruins the taste of brandy, and wine."
    "Overall I'm inclined to agree. But tell me now, what's your opinion of the wine you're drinking? It's Persian."
    "Better than the French. Though frankly it could be sweeter."
    Mukarrab Khan laughed. "A common complaint from topiwallahs . Some actually add sugar to our wine. Abominable." He paused. "So I gather then you only use spirits?"
    "What do you mean?"
    "There are many subtle pleasures in the world, Ambassador. Liquors admittedly enhance one's dining, but they do little for one's appreciation of art."
    As Hawksworth watched him, puzzling, he turned and spoke quietly to one of the eunuchs hovering behind him. Moments later a small golden cabinet, encrusted with jewels, was placed between them. Mukarrab Khan opened a tiny drawer on the side of the box and extraced a small brown ball.
    "May I suggest a ball of ghola ? He offered it to Hawksworth. It carried a strange, alien fragrance.
    "What's ghola ?”
    "A preparation of opium and spice, Ambassador. I think it might help you better experience this evening's entertainment." He nodded lightly in the direction of the rear wall.
    The snap of a drum exploded behind Hawksworth, and he whirled to see the two musicians begin tuning to perform. The drummer sat before two foot-high drums, each nestled in a circular roll of fabric. Next to him was a wizened old man in a black Muslim skullcap tuning a large six-stringed instrument made of two hollowed-out gourds, both lacquered and polished, connected by a long teakwood fingerboard. About a dozen curved brass frets were tied to the fingerboard with silk cords, and as Hawksworth watched, the player began shifting the location of two frets, sliding them an inch or so along the neck to create a new musical scale. Then he began adjusting the tension on a row of fine wires that lay directly against the teakwood fingerboard, sympathetic strings that passed beneath those to be plucked. These he seemed to be tuning to match the notes in the new scale he had created by moving the frets.
    When the sitarist had completed his tuning, he settled back and the room fell totally silent. He paused a moment, as though in meditation, then struck the first note of a somber melody Hawksworth