Free The Moghul by Thomas Hoover

moment, already eager for the touch of its dark frets. During the voyage it had been wrapped in heavy cloth, sealed in oilskins, and stored deep in his cabin chest. Not till landfall at Zanzibar had he dared expose it to the sea air.
    Of all English music, he still loved the galliards of Dowland best. He was only a boy when Dowland's first book of galliards was published, but he had been made to learn them all by heart, because his exacting tutor had despised popular ballads and street songs.
    Mukarrab Khan called for the instrument and slowly turned it in the lamplight, its polished cedar shining like a great jewel. He then passed it to his two musicians, and a brief discussion in Persian ensued, as brows were wrinkled and grave points adjudicated. After its appearance was agreed upon, the instrumentalist gingerly plucked a gut string with the wire plectrum attached to his forefinger and studied its sound with a distant expression. The torrent of Persian began anew, as each string was plucked in turn and its particular quality debated. Then the governor revolved to Hawksworth.
    "I congratulate your wisdom, Ambassador, in not hazarding a truly fine instrument on a sea voyage. It would have been a waste of real workmanship."
    Hawksworth stared at him dumbfounded.
    "There's not a finer lute in London." He seized it back. "I had it specially crafted several years ago by a master, a man once lute-maker to the queen. It's one of the last he made."
    "You must pardon me then, but why no embellishment? No ivory inlay, no carved decoration? Compare, if you will, Ustad Qasim's sitar. It's a work of fine art. A full year was spent on its decoration. Note the head has been carved as the body of a swan, the neck and pegs inlaid with finest ivory, the face decorated with mother-of-pearl and lapis lazuli . Your lute has absolutely no decoration whatsoever."
    "The beauty of an instrument is in its tone."
    "Yes, that's a separate point. But perhaps we should hear it played by one skilled in its use. I must confess we are all curious what can be done with so simple an instrument." Mukarrab Khan shifted on his bolster, while the young man next to him toyed with a jewel, not troubling to disguise his boredom.
    Hawksworth tuned the strings quickly and meticulously. Then he settled himself on the carpet and took a deep breath. His fingers were stiff, his mind groggy with wine, but he would play a song he knew well. A galliard Dowland had written when Queen Elizabeth was still alive, in honor of a Cornwall sea captain named Piper, whom she'd given a letter of marque to attack the Spanish, but who instead turned an uncontrollable pirate, pillaging the shipping of any flag convenient. He'd become an official outlaw but a genuine English folk hero, and Dowland had honored his memory with a rousing composition—"Piper's Galliard."
    A full chord, followed by a run of crisp notes, cut the close air. The theme was somber, a plaintive query in a minor mode followed by a melodic but defiant reply. Just the answer Piper would have given to the charges, Hawksworth thought.
    The servants had all gathered to listen, and the eunuchs had stopped gossiping. Then Hawksworth glanced toward the musicians, who had shifted themselves onto the carpet to watch. Both the sitarist and his drummer still eyed the instrument skeptically, no hint of appreciation in their look.
    Hawksworth had expected it.
    Wait till they hear this.
    He crouched over the lute and attacked the strings with all four fingers, producing a dense toccata, with three melodic lines advancing at once, two in the treble and one in the base. His hand flew over the frets until it seemed every fingertip commanded a string, each embellishing a theme another had begun. Then he brought the galliard to a rousing crescendo with a flourish that spanned two entire octaves.
    A polite silence seemed to grip the room. Mukarrab Khan sipped thoughtfully from his cup for a moment, his jeweled rings refracting the