The Moghul

should find God within our own selves. Without the mullahs. That's why the Persian Shi'ites despise him and want him dead."
    "Then he's supporting Prince Jadar?"
    "Samad does not concern himself with politics. But it's the duty of the others of us, those who understand what is happening, to help Prince Jadar. Because we know he will stop the Persians and their Shi'ites who are now spreading their poison of hate in India, and he'll also rid India of the Portuguese. I'm sure of it." She paused for a moment. "You know, it's always seemed ironic that the Persians and the Portuguese should actually work together. But in a way each needs the other. The Portuguese have made the Persians, particularly the queen and her brother, Nadir Sharif, very rich, and in return they're allowed to send their Jesuits to preach. So both the Persians and the Portuguese want to prevent Prince Jadar from becoming the next Moghul, since they know he'd like nothing better than to rid India of them both."
    "But what does this have to do with me? I just want a trading firman from Arangbar. He's still alive and healthy, and he should know the Portugals can't stop English trading ships from coming here. Why shouldn't he give us a firman ?"
    "Can't you see? The English can never be allowed to trade here. It would be the beginning of the end for the Portuguese. It would show all the world they no longer can control India's ports. But what I'm really trying to make you see is that it's not only the Portuguese who want to stop you. It's also the people who support them. So no one can aid you openly. The Persians are already too powerful. Still, there are those here who would protect you."
    "Who do you mean?"
    "How could I possibly tell you?" She held him with her eyes. "I scarcely know you. But you should listen to your intuition. Samad says we all have an inner voice that tells us what is true."
    This time she did reach and touch his hand, and her touch was strangely warm in the chill of the room. "I can't tell you any more, really. So now will you play for me? Something tender, perhaps. A song you would play for the woman you left behind you in England."
    "I didn't have all that much to leave behind." He picked up the lute. "But I'll be happy to play for you."
    "You have no one?"
    "There was a woman in London. But she married while I was . . . gone."
    "She wouldn't wait while you were away?" Shirin sipped again from her cup and her eyes darkened. "That must have been very sad for you."
    "It could be she didn't think I was worth waiting for." He hesitated. "I've had some time to think about it since. In a way it was probably my own fault. I think she wanted more than I was ready to give."
    She looked at him and smiled. "Perhaps what she wanted was you. And you wouldn't give yourself. Tell me what she was like."
    "What was she like?" He looked away, remembering Maggie's face with a strange mixture of longing and bitterness. "Well, she's like nobody I've seen in India. Red hair, blue eyes . . . and a salty tongue." He laughed. "If she was ever anybody's fourth wife, I'd pity the other three." He felt his laugh fade. "I missed her a lot when I was away before. But now . . ." He tried to shrug.
    She looked at him as though she understood it all. "Then if you won't play for her any more, will you play just for me? One of your English ragas?"
    "What if I played a suite by Dowland, one of our English composers? It's one of my favorites." He found himself smiling again, the lute comfortable and reassuring in his grasp. "I hope you won't think it sounds too out of place."
    "We're both out of place here now." She returned his smile wistfully and glanced at the papers on the desk. "You and me."

    *
    Hawksworth saw George Elkington approaching and dropped the dagger quickly into his boot.
    "'Twill take a lifetime the rate these heathens dawdle." Elkington wiped a sweaty arm across his brow. Deep bags sagged under his bloodshot eyes. "An' we'll be months movin' the lead and ironwork with these damn'd rickety carts. Not to mention the silver bullion for buyin' commodity. We'll have to get a barge."
    "How many more trips do you need to bring in the wool?"
    "Can't say. But 'tis clear we'll need more of these damn'd carts, for what little they're worth." As Elkington turned to spit, he spotted a porter who had let a roll of woolen cloth dip into the river, and his neck veins pulsed. "Hey, you heathen bastard, mind the water!" He stumbled after the terrified man