The Moghul

meant Mirza Nuruddin must be alarmed to the point of imprudence. Fearful of what could happen if the English were detained long enough for the Portuguese warships to prepare. Which meant that somewhere behind it all lay the hand of Prince Jadar.
    He examined Hawksworth again, wondering how this English captain could have savaged the Viceroy's fleet with such embarrassing ease. What, he asked himself again, will the queen order done?
    "I'm sorry you don't find our music more congenial. Ambassador. Perhaps I too would be wiser if I loved it less. The passion for classical music has cost many a great warrior his kingdom in India over the last centuries. For example, when the great Moghul patriarch Akman conquered Baz Bahadur, once the proud ruler of Malwa, it was because that prince was a better patron of music than of the arts of war." He smiled reflectively. "Admittedly, the great Akman himself also flooded his court with musicians, but then he had the wit to study arms as well. Regrettably, I find myself lacking his strength of character."
    He paused to take a sip of nectar, then shrugged. "But enough. Tell me now what you really think of my Ustad, my master sitarist. There are those in Agra who will never forgive me for stealing him away."
    "I'm not sure what I think. I've never heard a composition quite like the one he's playing."
    "What do you mean by 'composition'?" Mukarrab Khan's tone was puzzled.
    "That's how a piece of music is written out."
    Mukarrab Khan paused and examined him skeptically for a long moment. "Written out? You write down your music? But whatever for? Does that mean your musicians play the same song again and again, precisely the same way?"
    "If they're good they do. A composer writes a piece of music and musicians try to play it."
    "How utterly tiresome." Mukarrab Khan sighed and leaned back on his bolster. "Music is a living art, Ambassador. It's meant to illuminate the emotions of the one who gives it life. How can written music have any feeling? My Ustad would never play a raga the same way twice. Indeed, I doubt he would be physically capable of such a boorish feat."
    "You mean he creates a new composition each time he plays?"
    "Not precisely. But his handling of the specific notes of a raga must speak to his mood, mv mood. These vary, why not his art?"
    "But what is a raga then, if not a song?"
    "That's always difficult to explain. At some rudimentary level you might say it's simply a melody form, a fixed series of notes around which a musician improvises. But although a raga has a rigorously prescribed ascending and descending note sequence and specific melodic motifs, it also has its own mood, 'flavor.' What we call its rasa . How could one possibly write down a mood?"
    "I guess I see your point. But it's still confusing." Hawksworth took another sip of wine. "How many ragas are there?"
    "There are seventy-two primary scales on which ragas are based. But some scales have more than one raga. There are ragas for morning, for evening, for late at night. My Ustad is playing a late evening raga now. Although he uses only the notes and motifs peculiar to this raga, what he does with them is entirely governed by his feeling tonight."
    "But why is there no harmony?"
    "I don't understand what you mean by 'harmony.'"
    "Striking several notes together, so they blend to produce a chord."
    Mukarrab Khan studied him, uncomprehending, and Hawksworth continued.
    "If I had my lute I'd show you how harmony and chords are used in an English song." Hawksworth thought again of his instrument, and of the difficulty he'd had protecting it during the voyage. He knew all along it was foolish to bring it, but he often told himself every man had the right to one folly.
    "Then by all means." The governor's curiosity seemed to arouse him instantly from the opium. "Would you believe I've never met a feringhi who could play an instrument, any instrument?"
    "But my lute was detained, along with all my belongings, at the customs house. I was going to retrieve my chest from the Shahbandar when you intercepted his men."
    "Ambassador, please believe I had good reason. But I thought I told you arrangements have been made." He turned and dictated rapidly to one of the eunuchs. There was an expressionless bow, and the man left the room. Moments later he returned through the bronze entry doors, followed by two dark-skinned servants carrying Hawksworth's chest, one at each end.
    "I ordered your belongings sent from the