The Moghul

in England. Where navigators are trained."
    She laughed. "I think he preferred a world made only of numbers." Her laugh was gone as quickly as it had come, and she moved toward him with a vaguely troubled look. "What have you found?"
    "A lot of things. Take a look at this drawing." Hawksworth tried to remain nonchalant as he moved the lamp back to the table from where he had placed it on the floor. "He identified what we call parallax, the slight circular motion of the moon throughout the day caused by the fact it's not sighted from the center of the earth, but from a spot on its surface that moves as the earth rotates. Now if he could measure that accurately enough with these instruments . . ."
    Shirin waved her hand and laughed again. "If you understand all this, why not just take the papers back to the palace and work with them there?" She was in the room now, her olive cheeks exquisitely shadowed by the partially open door, where flickering shadows played lightly through the brilliant sunshine. "Today I'd rather hear you play your English instrument."
    "With pleasure. I've been trying to learn an Indian raga." He kept his voice even and moved himself deftly between Shirin and the doorway, blocking her exit. "But it sounds wrong on the lute. When I get to Agra I'm thinking I'll have a sitar made . . ."
    He reached as though for the lute, then swung his hand upward and clapped it over Shirin's mouth. Before she could move he shoved her against the wall beside the door and stretched with his other hand to seize the heavy brass astrolabe that rested on a stand by the table. He caught a look of pure terror in her eyes, and for a moment he thought she might scream. He pressed her harder against the wall to seal her mouth, and as the shaft of light from the doorway dimmed momentarily he stepped forward and swung the brass astrolabe upward.
    There was a soft sound of impact, followed by a choked groan and the clatter of metal against the wooden door. He drew back the astrolabe, now with a trace of blood along its sharp edge and the remains of a tooth wedged between its discs. Then he looked out to see a dark-skinned Indian man in a loincloth rolling himself across the top of the garden wall. A faint splash followed, as he dropped into the moat.
    When Hawksworth released Shirin and placed the astrolabe back on its stand, he caught the glint of sunshine off a stiletto lying in the doorway. He bent down to retrieve it and suddenly she was next to him, holding his arm and staring at the place where the man had scaled the wall.
    "He was a Sudra, a low caste." She looked at the stiletto in Hawksworth's hand, and her voice turned to scorn. "It's Portuguese. Only the Portuguese would hire someone like that, instead of a Rajput." Then she laughed nervously. "If they'd hired a Rajput, someone would be dead now. Hire a Sudra and you get a Sudra's work."
    "Who was it?"
    "Who knows? The horse bazaar is full of men who would kill for ten rupees." She pointed toward the wall. "Do you see that piece of cloth? There on the old spike. I think it's a piece of his dhoti . Would you get it for me?"
    After Hawksworth had retrieved the shred of cotton loincloth, brown from a hundred washings in the river, she had taken it from him without a word.
    "What will you do with it?"
    "Don't." She touched a finger to his lips. "These are things it's best not to ask." Then she tucked the brown scrap into the silken sash at her waist and moved toward the door. "And it would be better if you forgot about today."
    Hawksworth watched her for a second, then seized her arm and turned her facing him. "I may not know what's going on. But, by Jesus, I'll know before you leave. And you can start by telling me why you come here."
    She stared back at him for a moment, meeting his eyes. There was something in them he had never seen before, almost admiration. Then she caught herself and drew back, dropping into a chair. "Very well. Perhaps you do deserve to know." She slipped the translucent scarf from her hair and tossed it across the table. "Why don't you open the wine you brought? I'll not tell you everything, because you shouldn't want me to, but I'll tell you what's important for you."
    Hawksworth remembered how he had slowly poured the wine for her, his hand still trembling.
    "Have you ever heard of Samad?" she had begun, taking a small sip.
    "I think he's the poet Mukarrab Khan quoted once. He called him a Sufi rascal."
    "Is that what he said? Good. That only