The Moghul

king."
    "What else have you heard?"
    "Other things as well." She moved closer and her perfume enveloped him. Her eyes were intense, almost overwhelming the jewel at her throat. "But I'd like to hear them from you. There's much dismay about you, about the battle, about the letter."
    Hawksworth studied her wistfully. "You know about the letter?"
    "Of course. Everyone knows." She sighed at his naivete. "The contents of your chest were examined very carefully last night . . . but no one dared touch the seal on the letter, for fear of the Moghul. Is it true the English king may send an armada to attack Goa?"
    "And if it were?"
    "It could make a great deal of difference. To many people here."
    "Who?"
    "People who matter."
    "The only one who should matter is the Moghul."
    She laughed again. "He's the very last one who matters. I see you comprehend very little." She paused and examined him closely. "But you're an interesting man. We all listened to you play the English sitar last night. And today the first place you chose to come was here. You're the first feringhi ever to seek out this place, which was once famous throughout India. Did you truly come here this morning just to learn?"
    "I haven't learned very much so far. At least in this room." He looked about them, noticing for the first time a small table on which there was a book and fresh writings. "You've not told what you're doing here. Or why you can come here when the servants are forbidden."
    "Servants once tried to steal some of the marble steps for a house. But the reason I come here is not really your concern, Captain Hawksworth. . . ." She caught his startled look and laughed. "Of course I know your name. I also know you should learn not to drink bhang with Kali. She's more than your equal."
    Hawksworth stifled his embarrassment and tried to ignore the barb. "There surely must be charts here. What harm if I merely look around?"
    Shirin stiffened. "Not now. Not today. You have to leave."
    "But are there calculations, or charts?"
    "More than likely. But I told you they're in Persian."
    "Then maybe you could translate."
    "I could. But not today. I've told you, you have to leave. Really you must." She pushed the door open wider and stood waiting.
    "I'll be back." He paused in the doorway and turned. "Will you be here tomorrow?"
    "Possibly."
    "Then I'll be back for sure."
    She looked at him and shook her head resignedly. "You truly don't realize how dangerous it is for you to come here."
    "Are you afraid?"
    "I'm always afraid. You should be too." She studied him in the sunshine, examining his eyes, and for a moment her face softened slightly. "But if you do come, will you bring your English sitar? I'd like very much to hear it once more."
    "And what will you do for me in return?"
    She laughed. "I'll try to excavate some musty Persian books here that might tell you something about the observatory. But remember. No one must ever know. Now, please." She urged him out, then reached and pulled the door tightly closed.
    Hawksworth suddenly realized the heat had grown intense, and now the sun cut a sharp line down the face of the red marble dial, telling that midmorning approached. He examined the dial quickly and then turned to look again at the stone hut.
    With the door closed, the ramshackle hut again looked completely deserted.
    What in Christ's name can she be doing? No matter, she's astonishing. And there's something in the way she handles herself. Little wonder she was the favorite concubine, or whatever they call it, of the Moghul. And it's easy to see why his queen married her off to Mukarrab Khan and sent them both here to get her out of the way. A clever way to banish . . .
    Hawksworth froze.
    That's the word the pilot Karim used! From the Quran. "As for women from whom you fear rebellion, banish them to . . . beds apart."
    Could this be the woman he meant? But what rebellion? Whatever's going on, nobody's talking. All I see are armed guards. And fear. This palace is like a jewel-set dagger—exquisite, and deadly.
    He stared again at the moss-covered marble instruments.
    But I'll be back. If she'll be here, absolutely nothing could stop me.

    CHAPTER NINE

    The two chitahs tensed at the same instant and pulled taut the chains on their jewel-studded collars. They were tawny, dark-spotted Indian hunting leopards, and they rode in carpeted litters, one on each side of the elephant's back. Each wore a brocade saddlecloth signifying its rank, and now both began to