Hawksworth took another sip of _bhang _and suddenly noticed the notes seemed to be weaving a tapestry in his mind, evolving an elaborate pattern that enveloped the room with shapes as colored as the geometries of the Persian carpet. Next the drummer casually introduced a rhythmic underpinning, his lithe fingers touring easily over and around the taut drumheads as he dissected, then restructured the simple meter of Dowland's music. He seemed to regard the original meter as merely a frame, a skeleton on which the real artistry had yet to be applied. He knowingly subdivided Dowland's meter into minuscule elements of time, and with these devised elaborate new interlockings of sound and silence. Yet each new structure always _Resolve_d to its perfect culmination at the close of a musical phrase. Then as he punctuated his transient edifice with a thud of the larger drum--much as an artist might sign a painting with an elaborate flourish--he would catch Hawksworth's incredulous gaze and wink, his eyes twinkling in triumph. Meanwhile, the sitarist structured Dowland's spirited theme to the drummer's frame, adding microtones Dowland had never imagined, and matching the ornate tempo of the drum as they blended together to become a single racing heartbeat. Hawksworth realized suddenly that he was no longer merely hearing the music, that instead he seemed to be absorbing it. How curious . . . The music soared on to a final crescendo, a simultaneous 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. CHAPTER EIGHT