"You do not know him as I do. You have another week, perhaps two, and then . . . Let me merely say you cannot drink the fleet into existence. We are both going to have difficulty explaining this deception to His Majesty. You met with the prince. I'm beginning to wonder now if you both planned this. If you did, it was most unwise." "Then wait two weeks and see." Hawksworth felt his palms grow moist. "Two weeks is not so long a time." "It is a very long time, Ambassador. Much is happening. You have made many of the wrong friends. Good evening, Ambassador. I must speak to Her Majesty." Nadir Sharif turned and was swallowed by the crowd. As Hawksworth moved into the street, he saw that the front of the palace was already bathed in morning light. And Agra was beginning to come to life. He strolled for a time along the side of the Jamuna, where burned-out candles still floated, and studied the outline of the Red Fort against the morning sky. What if there really is no fleet? What if it really was a trick by Jadar, for some reason of his own? To destroy my mission? Has he cozened us all? Midmorning was approaching when he finally reached his lodge at the rear of Nadir Sharifs estate. As he passed through the curtained doorway, he saw Kamala waiting, her eyes dark. She was wearing none of her jewels. "Have you heard?" She took his turban and knelt to remove his _kamar- band_. "Heard what?" "Do you know the Sufi Samad? And the Persian woman who was with him?" Hawksworth examined her, wondering who else knew of his stay in Fatehpur Sekri. "Why do you ask?" "If you do know them, it is no longer wise to admit it." "Why?" Hawksworth felt his gut tighten. Suddenly Kamala's touch no longer stirred him. "The news is already spreading in Agra." She began removing his cloak, pausing to smooth her hand across his chest. "They were arrested last night, while the wedding was underway, in the bazaar this morning they say he is sure to be condemned to death for heresy, and she for aiding him. People think they will both be executed within the week." CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Father Manoel Pinheiro's clean-shaven face was grim and his lips set tightly against the brisk air as he pushed a path through the crowded alley, headed toward the riverside palace of Nadir Sharif. Around him large black cauldrons of frying bread filled the dawn with the aroma of oil and spice. He had slipped from the mission house at first light and, clasping his peaked black hat tightly over his forehead, he had tried to melt inconspicuously among the rattling bullock carts and noisy street vendors. Now he paused for breath and watched as a large white cow licked the few grains of rice from the begging bowl of a dozing leper. The image seemed to capture all the despair of India, and he suddenly felt himself overwhelmed by the enormity of the Church's