climax of sitar and drum, and then the English song seemed to dissolve
slowly into the incense around them. After only a moment's pause, the
musicians immediately took up a sensuous late evening raga.
Hawksworth looked about and noticed for the first time that the lamps
in the room had been lowered, settling a semi- darkness about the
musicians and the moving figures around him. He felt for his glass of
_bhang_ and saw that it was dry, and that another had been placed
beside it. He drank again to clear his mind.
What's going on? Damned if I'll stay here. My God, it's impossible to
think. I'm tired. No, not tired. It's just . . . just that my mind is .
. . like I'd swilled a cask of ale. But I'm still in perfect control.
And where's Mukarrab Khan? Now there are screens where he was sitting.
Covered with peacocks that strut obscenely from one screen to the
other. And the eunuchs are all watching. Bastards. I'll take back my
sword. Jesus, where is it? I've never felt so adrift. But I'm not
staying. I'll take the chest and damn his eunuchs. And his guards. He
can't hold me here. Not even on charges. There are no charges. I'm
leaving. I'll find the men . . .
He pulled himself defiantly to his feet. And collapsed.