The Moghul

by Thomas Hoover

CHAPTER ONE

He watched from the quarterdeck as the chain fed through the whitecaps of the bay, its staccato clatter muffled, hollow in the midday heat. Then he sensed the anchor grab and felt an uneasy tremor pass along the hull as the links snapped taut against the tide. The cannon were already run in and cooling, but vagrant threads of smoke still traced skyward through the scuttles and open hatch, curling ringlets over two draped bodies by the mainmast. Along the main deck scurvy-blotched seamen, haggard and shirtless to the sun, eased the wounded toward the shade of the fo'c'sle.

He drew the last swallow of brandy from his hooped wooden tankard and instinctively shifted his gaze aloft, squinting against the midday sun to watch as two bosun's mates edged along the yards to furl the mainsail. Then he turned to inspect the triangular lateen sail behind him, parted into shreds by the first Portuguese cannon salvo, its canvas now strewn among the mizzenmast shrouds.

A round of cheers told him the last two casks of salt pork had finally emerged from the smoky hold, and he moved to the railing to watch as they were rolled toward the cauldron boiling on deck. As he surveyed the faces of the gathering men, he asked himself how many could still chew the briny meat he had hoarded so carefully for this final morning of the voyage.

The crowd parted as he moved down the companionway steps and onto the deck. He was tall, with lines of fatigue etched down his angular face and smoke residue laced through his unkempt hair and short beard. His doublet was plain canvas, and his breeches and boots scarcely differed from those of a common seaman. His only adornment was a small gold ring in his left ear. Today he also wore a bloodstained binding around his thigh, where a musket shot from a Portuguese maintop had furrowed the skin.

He was Brian Hawksworth, captain of the five-hundred-ton English frigate Discovery and Captain-General of the Third Voyage of England's new East India Company. His commission, assigned in London over seven months past, was to take two armed trading frigates around the Cape of Good Hope, up the eastern coast of Africa, and then through the Arabian Sea to the northwest coast of India. The Company had twice before sailed eastward from the Cape, to the equatorial islands of the Indies. No English vessel in history had ever sailed north for India.

The destination of this, the first English voyage to challenge Lisbon's control of the India trade, was the port of Surat, twelve leagues inland up the Tapti River, largest of the only two harbors on the Indian subcontinent not controlled by Portugal.

He reached for the second tankard of brandy that had been brought and squinted again toward the mouth of the Tapti, where four armed Portuguese galleons had been anchored earlier that morning.

Damn the Company. No one planned on galleons at the river mouth. Not now, not this early in the season. Did the Portugals somehow learn our destination? . . . And if they knew that, do they know the rest of the Company's plan?

Since the Tapti had been badly silted for decades, navigable only by cargo barge or small craft, he and the merchants must travel upriver to Surat by pinnace, the twenty-foot sailboat lashed amidships on the Discovery's main deck. There the merchants would try to negotiate England's first direct trade with India. And Brian Hawksworth would undertake a separate mission, one the East India Company hoped might someday change the course of trade throughout the Indies.

He remounted the steps to the quarterdeck and paused to study the green shoreline circling their inlet. The low-lying hills undulated in the sun's heat, washing the Discovery in the dense perfume of land. Already India beckoned, the lure even stronger than all the legends told. He smiled to himself and drank again, this time a toast to the first English captain ever to hoist colors off the coast of India.

Then with a weary hand he reached for the telescope, an expensive new Dutch invention, and trained it on his second frigate, the Resolve, anchored a musket shot away. Like the Discovery, she rode easily at anchor, bearing to lee. He noted with relief that her ship's carpenter had finally sealed a patch of oakum and sail in the gash along her portside bow. For a few hours now, the men on the pumps could retire from the sweltering hold.

Finally, he directed the glass toward the remains of two Portuguese galleons aground in the sandy shallows off his starboard quarter, black smoke still streaming from gaps in their planking where explosions had ripped through the hull. And for an instant his stomach tightened, just as it had earlier that morning, when one of those same galleons had laid deep shadows across the Discovery's decks, so close he could almost read the eyes of the infantry poised with grapples to swing down and board. The Portugals will be back, he told himself, and soon. With fireships.

He scanned the river mouth once more. It was deserted now. Even the fishing craft had fled. But upriver would be another matter. Portuguese longboats, launched with boarding parties of infantry, had been stranded when the two galleons were lost. Together they had carried easily a hundred, perhaps two hundred musketmen.

They made for the Tapti, he thought grimly, and they'll be upriver waiting. We have to launch before they can set a blockade. Tonight. On the tide.

He revolved to find Giles Mackintosh, quartermaster of the Discovery, waiting mutely by his side.

"Mackintosh, start outfitting the pinnace. We launch at sunset, before the last dog watch."

The quartermaster pulled at his matted red curls in silence as he studied the tree-lined river mouth. Then he turned abruptly to Hawksworth. "Takin' the pinnace upriver'll be a death sentence, Cap'n, I warrant you. Portugals'll be layin' for us, thicker'n whores at a Tyburn hangin'." He paused deliberately and knotted the string holding back hair from his smoke-darkened cheeks. "I say we weigh at the tide and ease the frigates straight up their hell-bound river. She's wide as the Thames at Woolwich. We'll run out the guns and hand the pox-rotted Papists another taste o' English courtesy."

"Can you navigate the sandbars?"

"I've seen nae sign of bars."

"The Indian pilot we took on yesterday claims there's shallows upriver."

"All the more reason to sail. By my thinkin' the pilot's a full-bred Moor. An' they're all the same, Indian or Turk." Mackintosh blew his nose over the railing, punctuating his disgust. "Show me one that's na a liar, a thief, or a damned Sodomite. Nae honest Christian'll credit the word of a Moor."

"There's risk either way." Hawksworth drew slowly on the brandy, appearing to weigh the Scotsman's views. "But there's the cargo to think of. Taken for all, it's got to be the pinnace. And this Moorish pilot's not like the Turks. I should know."

"Aye, Cap'n, as you will." Mackintosh nodded with seeming reluctance, admiring how Hawksworth had retained mastery of their old game. Even after two years apart. "But I'll be watchin' the bastard, e'ery move he makes."

Hawksworth turned and slowly descended the quarterdeck steps. As he entered the passageway leading aft to the Great Cabin and the merchants' cabins, he saw the silhouette of George Elkington. The Chief Merchant of the voyage was standing by the quarter gallery railing, drawing on a long clay pipe as he urinated into the swells. When he spotted Hawksworth, he whirled and marched heavily down the corridor, perfunctorily securing the single remaining button of his breeches.

Elkington's once-pink jowls were slack and pasty, and his grease-stained doublet sagged over what had been, seven months past, a luxuriant belly. Sweat trickled down from the sides of his large hat, streaming oily rivulets across his cheeks.

"Hawksworth, did I hear you order the pinnace launch'd tonight? E'en before we've made safe anchorage for the cargo?"

"The sooner the better. The Portugals know we'll have to go upriver. By tomorrow they'll be ready."

"Your first obligation, sirrah, is the goods. Every shilling the Company subscrib'd is cargo'd in these two damn'd merchantmen. A fine fortune in wool broadcloth, Devonshire kersey, pig iron, tin, quicksilver. I've a good ten thousand pound of my own accounts invest'd. And you'd leave it all hove to in this piss crock of a bay, whilst the Portugals are doubtless crewin' up a dozen two-deckers down the coast in Goa. ‘Tis sure they'll be laid full about this anchorage inside a fortnight."

Hawksworth inspected Elkington with loathing, musing what he disliked about him most—his grating voice, or his small lifeless eyes.

And what you probably don't realize is they'll be back next time with trained gunners. Not like today, when their gun crews clearly were Lisbon dockside rabble, private traders who'd earned passage out to the Indies on the easy claim they were gunners, half not knowing a linstock from a lamppost.

"Elkington, I'll tell you as much of our plans as befits your place." Hawksworth moved past him toward the door of the Great Cabin. "We're taking the pinnace upriver tonight on the tide. And you'll be in it, along with your coxcomb clerk. Captain Kerridge of the Resolve will take command of the ships. I've already prepared orders to move both frigates to a new anchorage."

"I demand to know what damn'd fool scheme you've hatch'd."

"There's no reason you have to know. Right now the fewer who know the better, particularly the men going upriver."

"Well, I know this much, Hawksworth. This voyage to India may well be the East India Company's last chance to trade in the Indies. If we fail three voyages in a row, we'd as well close down the Company and just buy pepper and spice outright from the damn'd Hollanders. England's got no goods that'll trade in the Spice Islands south o' here. Remember Lancaster cargo'd wool down to the islands on the first two Company voyages, thinkin' to swap it for pepper, and discover'd for himself what I'd guess'd all along—a tribe of heathens sweatin' in the sun have no call for woolen breeches. So either we trade up here in the north, where they'll take wool, or we're finish'd."

"The anchorage I've found should keep the cargo—and the men—safe till we make Surat. With luck you'll have your cargo aland before the Portugals locate us." Hawksworth pushed open the heavy oak door of the Great Cabin and entered, stranding Elkington in the passageway. "And now I wish you good day."

The cabin's dark overhead beams were musty from the heat and its air still dense with smoke from the cannon. The stern windows were partly blocked now by the two bronze demi-culverin that had been run out aft, "stern-chaser" cannon that could spit a nine-pound ball with deadly accuracy—their lighter bronze permitting longer barrels than those of the cast-iron guns below decks. He strode directly to the oil lantern swaying over the great center desk and turned up the wick. The cabin brightened slightly, but the face of the English lute wedged in the corner seemed suddenly to come alive, shining gold over the cramped quarters like a full moon. He stared at it wistfully for a moment, then shook his head and settled himself behind the large oak desk. And asked himself once more why he had ever agreed to the voyage.

To prove something? To the Company? To himself?

He reflected again on how it had come about, and why he had finally accepted the Company's offer. . . .

It had been a dull morning in late October, the kind of day when all London seems trapped in an icy gloom creeping up from the Thames. His weekly lodgings were frigid as always, and his mind was still numb from the previous night's tavern brandy. Back from Tunis scarcely a month, he already had nothing left to pawn. Two years before, he had been leading a convoy of merchantmen through the Mediterranean when their ships and cargo were seized by Turkish corsairs, galleys owned by the notorious dey of Tunis. He had finally managed to get back to London, but now he was a captain without a ship. In years past this might have been small matter to remedy. But no longer. England, he discovered, had changed.

The change was apparent mainly to seamen. The lower house of Parliament was still preoccupied fighting King James's new proposal that Scotland be joined to England, viewed by most Englishmen as a sufferance of proud beggars and ruffians upon a nation of uniformly upright taxpayers; in London idle crowds still swarmed the bear gardens to wager on the huge mastiffs pitted against the chained bears; rioting tenant farmers continued to outrage propertied men by tearing down enclosures and grazing their flocks on the gentry's private hunting estates; and the new Puritans increasingly harassed everyone they disapproved of, from clerics who wore vestments to women who wore cosmetics to children who would play ball on Sunday.

Around London more talk turned on which handsome young courtier was the latest favorite of their effeminate new king than on His Majesty's enforcement of his new and strict decree forbidding privateering—the staple occupation of England seamen for the last three decades of Elizabeth's reign. King James had cravenly signed a treaty of peace with Spain, and by that act brought ruin to half a hundred thousand English "sea dogs." They awoke to discover their historic livelihood, legally plundering the shipping of Spain and Portugal under wartime letters of marque, had become a criminal offense.

For a captain without a ship, another commission by a trading company seemed out of the question, and especially now, with experienced seamen standing idle the length of London. Worst of all, the woman he had hoped to return to, red-haired Maggie Tyne of Billingsgate, had disappeared from her old lodgings and haunts leaving no trace. Rumor had her married—some said to the master of a Newcastle coal barge, others to a gentleman. London seemed empty now, and he passed the vacant days with brandy and his lute, and thoughts of quitting the sea—to do he knew not what.

Then in that cold early dawn appeared the letter, requesting his immediate appearance at the Director's Office of the East India Company, should this coincide with his convenience. He found its tone ominous. Was some merchant planning to have him jailed for his loss of cargo to the Turks? But he'd been sailing for the Levant Company, not the East India Company. He debated with himself all morning, and finally decided to go. And face the mercantile bastards.

The new offices of the Company already seemed embalmed in the smell of lamp oil and sweat, their freshly painted wood timbers masked in dull soot. A stale odor of ink, paper, and arid commerce assailed his senses as he was announced and ushered through the heavy oak door of the Director's suite.

And he was astonished by what awaited. Standing hard by the Director's desk—was Maggie. He'd searched the length of London in vain for her, and here she was. But he almost didn't recognize her. Their two years apart had brought a change beyond anything he could have imagined.

No one would have guessed what she once had been, a dockside girl happiest at the Southwark bear-gardens, or in a goose-down bed. And somehow she had always managed to turn a shilling at both—wagering with a practiced eye on the snarling dogs brought in to bloody the bears, or taking her pleasure only after deftly extracting some loan, to allay an urgent need she inevitably remembered the moment she entered his lodgings.

That morning, however, she reigned like an exotic flower, flourishing amid the mercantile gloom. She was dressed and painted in the very latest upper-class style—her red hair now bleached deep yellow, sprinkled thick with gold dust, and buried under a feathered hat; her crushed-velvet bodice low-necked, cut fashionably just below the nipples, then tied at the neck with a silk lace ruff; her once-ruddy breasts now painted pale, with blue veins penciled in; and her face carefully powdered lead-white, save the red dye on her lips and cheeks and the glued-on beauty patches of stars and half-moons. His dockside girl had become a completely modern lady of fashion. He watched in disbelief as she curtsied to him, awkwardly.

Then he noticed Sir Randolph Spencer, Director of the Company.

"Captain Hawksworth. So you're the man we've heard so much about? Understand you escaped from Tunis under the very nose of the damned Turks." He extended a manicured hand while he braced himself on the silver knob of his cane. Although Spencer's flowing hair was pure white, his face still clung tenuously to youth. His doublet was expensive, and in the new longer waist-length style Hawksworth remembered seeing on young men-about-town. "'Tis indeed a pleasure. Nay, 'tis an honor." The tone was practiced and polite, a transparent attempt at sincerity rendered difficult by Hawksworth's ragged appearance. He had listened to Spencer mutely, suddenly realizing his loss of cargo had been forgotten. He was being congratulated for coming back alive.

"'Twas the wife, Margaret here, set me thinkin' about you. Says you two were lightly acquainted in younger years. Pity I never knew her then myself." Spencer motioned him toward a carved wooden chair facing the desk. "She ask'd to be here today to help me welcome you. Uncommonly winsome lady, what say?"

Hawksworth looked at Maggie's gloating eyes and felt his heart turn. It was obvious enough she'd found her price. At last she had what she'd always really wanted, a rich widower. But why trouble to flaunt it?

He suspected he already knew. She simply couldn't resist.

"Now I pride myself on being a sound judge of humanity, Hawksworth, and I've made sufficient inquiry to know you can work a ship with the best. So I'll come right to it. I suppose 'tis common talk the Company's dispatchin' another voyage down to the Indies this comin' spring. Soon as our new frigate, the Discovery, is out of the yard. And this time our first port of call's to be India." Spencer caught Hawksworth's look, without realizing it was directed past him, at Maggie. "Aye, I know. We all know. The damned Portugals've been there a hundred year, thick as flies on pudding. But by Jesus we've no choice but to try openin' India to English trade."

Spencer had paused and examined Hawksworth skeptically. A process of sizing up seemed underway, of pondering whether this shipless captain with the bloodshot eyes and gold earring was really the man. He looked down and inspected his manicured nails for a long moment, then continued.

"Now what I'm about to tell you mustn't go past this room. But first let me ask you, Is everything I've heard about you true? 'Tis said the dey of Tunis held you there after he took your merchantmen, in hopes you'd teach his damned Turks how to use the English cannon you had on board."

"He's started building sailing bottoms now, thinking he'll replace the galleys his Turkish pirates have used for so long. His shipwrights are some English privateers who've relocated in Tunis to escape prison here. And he was planning to outfit his new sailing ships with my cannon. He claims English cast-iron culverin are the best in the world."

"God damn the Barbary Turks. And the Englishmen who've started helping them." Spencer bristled. "Next thing and they'll be out past Gibraltar, pillaging our shipping right up the Thames. But I understand you revised his plans."

"The Turks don't have any more cannon now than they had two years ago. When I refused to help them, they put me in prison, under guard. But one night I managed to knife two of the guards and slip down to the yard. I worked till dawn and had the guns spiked before anybody realized I was gone."

"And I hear you next stole a single-masted shallop and sail'd the length of the Barbary coast alone, right up to Gibraltar, where you hailed an English merchantman?"

"Didn't seem much point in staying on after that."

"You're the man all right. Now, 'tis said you learn'd the language of the Turks while you were in Tunis. Well, sirrah, answer me now, can you speak it or no?"

"For two years I scarcely heard a word of English. But what's that to do with trade in India? From what I know, you'll need a few merchants who speak Portuguese. And plenty of English . . ."

"Hear me out, sir. If all I wanted was to anchor a cargo of English goods and pull off some trade for a season, I'd not be

needin' a man like you. But let me tell you a thing or so about India. The rulers there now are named Moghuls. They used to be called Mongols, Turkish-Afghans from Turkistan, before they took over India about a hundred years back, and their king, the one they call the Great Moghul, still speaks some Turki, the language of the Central Asian steppes. Now I'm told this Turki bears fair resemblance to the language of the damned Turks in the Mediterranean." Spencer assumed a conspiratorial smile. "I've a plan in mind, but it needs a man who speaks this Great Moghul’s language."

Hawksworth suddenly realized Maggie must have somehow convinced Spencer he was the only seaman in England who knew Turkish. It could scarcely be true.

"Now I ask you, Hawksworth, what's the purpose of the East India Company? Well, 'tis to trade wool for pepper and spice, simple as that. To find a market for English commodity, mainly wool. And to ship home with cheap pepper. Now we can buy all the pepper we like down in Java and Sumatra, but they'll not take wool in trade. And if we keep on buying there with gold, there'll never be a farthing's profit in our voyages to the Indies. By the same token, we're sure these Moghuls in North India will take wool. They already buy it from the damned Portugals. But they don't grow pepper." Spencer leaned forward and his look darkened slightly. "The hard fact is the East India Company's not done nearly as well as our subscribers hoped. But now the idea's come along—I hate to admit 'twas George Elkington first thought of it—that we try swappin' wool for the cotton goods they produce in North India, then ship these south and trade for pepper and spice. Indian traders have sold their cotton calicoes in the Spice Islands for years. Do you follow the strategy?"

Spencer had scrutinized Hawksworth for a moment, puzzling at his flash of anger when Elkington's name was mentioned, then pressed forward.

"Overall not a bad idea, considerin' it came from Elkington." Then Spencer dropped his voice to just above a whisper. "But what he doesn't understand is if we're goin' to start tradin' in India, we'll need a real treaty, like the Hollanders have down in some of the islands. Because once you've got a treaty, you can settle a permanent trading station, what we call a 'factory,' and bargain year round. Buy when prices are best."

Hawksworth sensed the interview would not be short, and he settled uneasily into the chair. Maggie still stood erect and formal, affecting a dignity more studied than natural. As Spencer warmed to his subject he seemed to have forgotten her.

"Now, sir, once we have a factory we can start sending in a few cannon—to 'protect our merchants,' like the Hollanders do in the islands—and soon enough we've got the locals edgy. Handle it right and pretty soon they'll sign over exclusive trade. No more competition." Spencer smiled again in private satisfaction. "Are you startin' to follow my thinkin'?"

"What you've described is the very arrangement the Portugals have in India now." Hawksworth tried to appear attentive, but he couldn't keep his eyes off Maggie, who stood behind Spencer wearing a triumphant smile. "And they've got plenty of cannon and sail to make sure their trade's exclusive."

"We know all about the Portugals' fleet of warships, and their shipyards in Goa, and all the rest. But these things always take time. Took the Portugals many a year to get their hooks into India's ports. But their days are numbered there, Hawksworth. The whole Eastern empire of the Portugals is rotten. I can almost smell it. But if we dally about, the damned Hollanders are sure to move in." Spencer had become increasingly excited, and Hawksworth watched as he began pacing about the room.

"Well, if you're saying you want a treaty, why not just send an ambassador to the Great Moghul’s court?"

"Damn me, Hawksworth, it's not that easy. We send some dandified gentry who doesn't know the language, and he'll end up havin' to do all his talkin' through court interpreters. And who might they be? Well let me just show you, sirrah." Spencer began to shuffle impatiently through the papers on his desk. "They're Jesuits. Damned Jesuits. Papists straight out o' Lisbon. We know for a fact they do all the translatin' for the court in Agra." He paused as he rummaged the stacks in front of him. "We've just got hold of some Jesuit letters. Sent out from the Moghul capital at Agra, through Goa, intended for Lison. They'll tell you plain enough what the Company's up against." His search became increasingly frenetic. "Damn me, they were here." He rose and shuffled toward the door, waving his cane in nervous agitation. "Hold a minute."

Hawksworth had watched him disappear through the doorway, then looked back to see Maggie laughing. She retrieved a leather-bound packet from the mantel and tossed it carelessly onto the desk. He found himself watching her in admiration, realizing some things never change.

"What the hell's this about?"

She smiled and her voice was like always. "Methinks 'tis plain enough."

"You want me gone from London this badly?"

"He takes care o' me. At least he loves me. Something you were ne'er capable of."

"And what were you capable of? All you wanted was . . ."

"I . . ." She looked away. "I know he'll give me what you ne'er would. At least he has feelin' for me. More than you e'er did. Or could." Then she turned back and looked at him for a long moment. "Say you'll go. Knowin' you're still. . ."

"Damn it all!" Spencer burst back through the doorway. Then he spied the leather packet. "That's it." He seized the bundle and thrust it toward Hawksworth. "Read these through, sirrah, and you'll see clear enough what we're up against. There's absolutely no point whatever in postin' a real ambassador now." He hesitated for a moment, as though unsure how to phrase his next point. "The most amazing thing is what they say about the Great Moghul himself, the one they call Arangbar. The Jesuits claim the man's scarcely ever sober. Seems he lives on some kind of poppy sap they call opium, and on wine. He's a Moor sure enough, but he drinks like a Christian, downs a full gallon of wine a day. E'en holds audiences with a flagon in his hand. From the letters I can sense the Jesuits all marvel how the damned heathen does it, but they swear 'tis true. No, sirrah, we can't send some fancy-titled ambassador now. That's later. We want a man of quality, it goes without sayin', but he's got to be able to drink with that damned Moor and parlay with him in his cups. No Jesuit interpreters."

Hawksworth steadied his hand on the carved arm of the chair, still amazed by Maggie. "What will your subscribers think about sending the captain of a merchantman to the court of Moghul India?"

"Never you mind the subscribers. Just tell me if you'd consider it. T’will be a hard voyage, and a perilous trip inland once you make landfall. But you sail'd the Mediterranean half a decade, and you know enough about the Turks." Spencer tapped his fingers impatiently on his ink-stained blotter. "And lest you're worried, have no doubt the Company knows how to reward success."

Hawksworth looked again at Maggie. Her blue eyes were mute as stone.

"To tell the truth, I'm not sure I'm interested in a voyage to India. George Elkington might be able to tell you the reason why. Have you told me all of it?"

"Damn Elkington. What's he to do with this?" Spencer stopped in front of the desk and fixed Hawksworth's gaze. "Aye, there's more. But what I'm about to tell you now absolutely has to remain between us. So have I your word?"

Hawksworth found himself nodding.

"Very well, sir. Then I'll give you the rest. His Majesty, King James, is sending a personal letter to be delivered to this Great Moghul. And gifts. All the usual diplomatic falderal these potentates expect. You'd deliver the whole affair. Now the letter'll offer full and free trade between England and India, nothing more. Won't mention the Portugals. That'll come later. This is just the beginning. For now all we want is a treaty to trade alongside the damned Papists. Break their monopoly."

"But why all the secrecy?"

"'Tis plain as a pikestaff, sirrah. The fewer know what we're plannin', the less chance of word gettin' out to the Portugals, or the Hollanders. Let the Papists and the Butterboxes look to their affairs after we have a treaty. Remember the Portugals are swarmin' about the Moghul’s court, audiences every day. Not to mention a fleet of warships holdin' the entire coast. And if they spy your colors, they're not apt to welcome you aland for roast capon and grog."

"Who else knows about this?"

"Nobody. Least of all that windbag Elkington, who'd have it talk'd the length of Cheapside in a fortnight. He'll be on the voyage, I regret to say, but just as Chief Merchant. Which is all he's fit for, though I'd warrant he presumes otherwise."

"I'd like a few days to think about it." Hawksworth looked again at Maggie, still disbelieving. "First I'd like to see the Discovery. And I'd also like to see your navigation charts for the Indian Ocean. I've seen plenty of logs down to the Cape, and east, but nothing north from there."

"And with good reason. We've got no rutters north of the Cape. No English sea dog's ever sail'd it. But I've made some inquiries, and I think I've located a salt here who shipp'd it once, a long time past. A Dutchman named Huyghen. The truth is he was born and rais'd right here in London. He started out a Papist and when things got a bit hot in England back around time of the Armada he left for Holland. E'en took a Dutch name. Next he mov'd on down to Portugal thinkin' to be a Jesuit, then shipp'd out to Goa and round the Indies. But he got a bellyfull of popery soon enough, and came back to Amsterdam. Some years later he help'd out their merchants by tellin' them exactly how the Portugals navigate the passage round the Cape and out. The Hollanders say hadn't been for the maps he drew up, they'd never have been able to double the Cape in the first place. But he's back in London now, and we've track'd him down. I understand he may've gone a bit daft, but perhaps 'twould do no harm if you spoke to him."

"And what about the Discovery? I want to see her too."

"That you will, sir. She's in our shipyard down at Deptford. Might be well if I just had Huyghen see you there. By all means look her over." He beamed. "And a lovelier sight you're ne'er like to meet." Then, remembering himself, he quickly turned aside. "Unless, of course, 'twould be my Margaret here." . . .

As agreed, Hawksworth was taken to Deptford the next day, the Company's carriage inching through London's teeming streets for what seemed a lifetime. His first sight of the shipyard was a confused tangle of planking, ropes, and workmen, but he knew at a glance the Discovery was destined to be handsome. The keel had been laid weeks before, and he could already tell her fo'c'sle would be low and rakish. She was a hundred and thirty feet from the red lion of her beakhead to the taffrail at her stern—where gilding already was being applied to the ornate quarter galleries. She was five hundred tons burden, each ton some six hundred cubic feet of cargo space, and she would carry a hundred and twenty men when fully crewed. Over her swarmed an army of carpenters, painters, coopers, riggers, and joiners, while skilled artisans were busy attaching newly gilded sculptures to her bow and stern.

That day they were completing the installation of the hull chain-plates that would secure deadeyes for the shrouds, and he moved closer to watch. Stories had circulated the docks that less than a month into the Company's last voyage the mainmast yard of a vessel had split, and the shipbuilder, William Benten, and his foreman, Edward Chandler, had narrowly escaped charges of lining their pockets by substituting cheap, uncured wood.

He noticed that barrels of beer had been stationed around the yard for the workmen, to blunt the lure of nearby alehouses, and as he stood watching he saw Chandler seize a grizzled old bystander who had helped himself to a tot of beer and begin forcibly evicting him from the yard. As they passed, he heard the old man—clad in a worn leather jerkin, his face ravaged by decades of salt wind and hard drink— reviling the Company.

"What does the rottin' East India Company know o' the Indies. You'll ne'er double the Cape in that pissin' shallop. 'Twould scarce serve to ferry the Thames." The old man struggled weakly to loosen Chandler's grasp on his jerkin. "But I can tell you th' Portugals've got carracks that'll do it full easy, thousand-ton bottoms that'd hold this skiff in the orlop deck and leave air for a hundred barrel o' biscuit. An' I've shipped 'em. By all the saints, where's the man standin' that knows the Indies better?"

Hawksworth realized he must be Huyghen. He intercepted him at the edge of the yard and invited him to a tavern, but the old Englishman-turned-Dutchman bitterly declined.

"I'll ha' none o' your fancy taverns, lad, aswarm wi' pox-faced gentry fingerin' their meat pies. They'll ne'er take in the likes o' me." Then he examined Hawksworth and flashed a toothless grin. "But there's an alehouse right down the way where a man wi' salt in his veins can still taste a drop in peace."

They went and Hawksworth had ordered the first round. When the tankards arrived, Huyghen attacked his thirstily, maintaining a cynical silence as Hawksworth began describing the Company's planned voyage, then asked him what he knew of the passage east and north of the Cape. As soon as his first tankard was dry, the old man spoke.

"Aye, I made the passage once, wi' Portugals. Back in'83. To Goa. An' I've been to the Indies many a time since, wi' Dutchmen. But ne'er again to that pissin' sinkhole."

"But what about the passage north, through the Indian Ocean?"

"I'll tell you this, lad, 'tis a sight different from shootin' down to Java, like the Company's done before. 'Tis the roughest passage you're e'er like to ship. Portugals post bottoms twice the burden o' the Company's damn'd little frigates and still lose a hundred men e'ery voyage out. When scurvy don't take 'em all. E'en the Dutchmen are scared o' it."

Then Huyghen returned to his stories of Goa. Something in the experience seemed to preoccupy his mind. Hawksworth found the digression irritating, and he impatiently pressed forward.

"But what about the passage? How do they steer north

from the Cape? The Company has no charts, no rutters by pilots who've made the passage."

"An' how could they?" Huyghen evaluated Hawksworth's purse lying on the wooden table and discreetly signaled another round. "The Portugals know the trick, lad, but you'll ne'er find one o' the whoremasters who'll give it out."

"But is there a trade wind you can ride? Like the westerly to the Americas?"

"Nothin' o' the sort, lad. But there's a wind sure enough. Only she shifts about month by month. Give me that chart an' I'll show you." Huyghen stretched for the parchment Hawksworth had brought, the new Map of the World published by John Davis in 1600. He spread it over the table, oblivious to the grease and encrusted ale, and stared at it for a moment in groggy disbelief. Then he turned on Hawksworth. "Who drew up this map?"

"It was assembled by an English navigator, from charts he made on his voyages."

"He's the lyin' son of a Spaniard's whore. I made this chart o' the Indies wi' my own hand, years ago, for the Dutchmen. But what's the difference? He copied it right." Huyghen spat on the floor and then stabbed the east coast of Africa with a stubby finger. "Now you come out o' the Mozambique Channel and into the Indian Ocean too early in the summer, and you'll be the only bottom fool enough to be out o' port. The monsoon'll batter you to plankin'. Get there too late, say past the middle o' September, and you're fightin' a head wind all the way. She's already turn'd on you. But come north round by Sokatra near the end o' August and you'll ride a steady gale right into North India. That's the tail o' the monsoon, lad, just before the winds switch about. Two weeks, three at most, that's all you'll get. But steer it true an' you'll make landfall just as India's ports reopen for the autumn tradin' season."

Huyghen's voice trailed off as he morosely inspected the bottom of his tankard. Hawksworth motioned for a third round, and as the old man drew on the ale his eyes mellowed.

"Aye, you might make it. There's a look about you tells me you can work a ship. But why would you want to be goin'?

T’will swallow you up, lad. I've only been to Goa, mind you, down on India's west coastline, but that was near enough. I ne'er saw a man come back once he went in India proper. Somethin' about it keeps 'em there. Portugals says she always changes a man. He loses touch wi' what he was. Nothin' we know about counts for anything there, lad."

"What do you mean? How different could it be? I saw plenty of Moors in Tunis."

Huyghen laughed bitterly. "If you're thinkin' 'tis the same as Tunis, then you're e'en a bigger fool than I took you for. Nay, lad, the Moor part's the very least o' it." He drew on his tankard slowly, deliberately. "I've thought on't a considerable time, an' I think I've decipher'd what 'tis. But 'tis not a thing easy to spell out."

Huyghen was beginning to drift now, his eyes glazed in warm forgetfulness from the ale. But still he continued. "You know, lad, I actually saw some Englishmen go into India once before. Back in '83. Year I was in Goa. An' they were ne'er heard from since."

Hawksworth stared at the old man a moment, and suddenly the name clicked, and the date—1583. Huyghen must have been the Dutch Catholic, the one said to speak fluent English, who'd intervened for the English scouting party imprisoned in Goa that year by the Portuguese. He tried to still his pulse.

"Do you remember the Englishmen's names?"

"Seem to recall they were led by a man nam'd Symmes. But 'twas a long time past, lad. Aye, Goa was quite the place then. Lucky I escap'd when I did. E'en there, you stay awhile an' somethin' starts to hold you. Too much o' India about the place. After a while all this"—Huyghen gestured fondly about the alehouse, where sweat-soaked laborers and seamen were drinking, quarreling, swearing as they bargained with a scattering of weary prostitutes in dirty, tattered shifts—"all this seems . . ." He took a deep draft of ale, attempting vainly to formulate his thoughts. "I've ne'er been one wi' words. But don't do it, lad. You go in, go all the way in to India, an' I'll wager you'll ne'er be heard from more. I've seen it happen."

Hawksworth listened as Huyghen continued, his stories of the Indies a mixture of ale and dreams. After a time he signaled another round for them both. It was many empty tankards later when they parted.

But Huyghen's words stayed. And that night Brian Hawksworth walked alone on the quay beside the Thames, bundled against the wet autumn wind, and watched the ferry lanterns ply through the fog and heard the muffled harangues of streetwalkers and cabmen from the muddy street above. He thought about Huyghen, and about the man named Roger Symmes, and about the voyage to India.

And he thought too about Maggie, who wanted him out of London before her rich widower discovered the truth. Or before she admitted the truth to herself. But either way it no longer seemed to matter.

That night he decided to accept the commission. . . .

The Discovery rolled heavily and Hawksworth glanced instinctively toward the pulley lines that secured the two bronze cannon. Then he remembered why he had left the quarterdeck, and he unlocked the top drawer of the desk and removed the ship's log. He leafed one more time through its pages, admiring his own script—strong but with an occasional flourish.

Someday this could be the most valuable book in England, he told himself. If we return. This will be the first log in England to describe what the voyage to India is really like. The Company will have a full account of the weather and sea, recorded by estimated longitude, the distance traveled east.

He congratulated himself again on the care with which he had taken their daily speed and used it to estimate longitude every morning since the Cape, the last location where it was known exactly. And as he studied the pages of the log, he realized how exact Huyghen's prediction had been. The old man had been eerily correct about the winds and the sea. They had caught the "tail o' the monsoon" precisely.

"August 27. Course N.E. ft E.; The wind at W.S., with gusts and rain. Made 36 leagues today. Estimated longitude from the Cape 42° 50' E.

"August 28. Course N.E.; The wind at west, a fresh gale, with gusts and rain this 24 hours. Leagues 35. Estimated longitude from the Cape, 44° 10' E."

The late August westerly Huyghen had foretold was carrying them a good hundred land miles a day. They rode the monsoon's tail, and it was still angry, but there was no longer a question that English frigates could weather the passage.

As August drew to a close, however, scurvy had finally grown epidemic on his sister ship, the Resolve. The men's teeth loosened, their gums bled, and they began to complain of aching and burning in their limbs. It was all the more tragic for the fact that this timeless scourge of ocean travelers might at long last be preventable. Lancaster, on the very first voyage of the East India Company, had stumbled onto an historic Discovery. As a test, he'd shipped bottles of the juice of lemons on his flagship and ordered every seaman to take three spoonfuls a day. And his had been the only vessel of the three to withstand scurvy.

Hawksworth had argued with Captain Kerridge of the Resolve, insisting they both stow lemon juice as a preventative. But Kerridge had always resented Lancaster, particularly the fact he'd been knighted on return from a voyage that showed almost no profit. He refused to credit Lancaster's findings.

"No connection. By my thinkin' Lancaster just had a run o' sea-dog luck. Then he goes about claimin' salt meat brings on the scurvy. A pack o' damn'd foolishness. I say salt meat's fine for the lads. Boil it up with a mess o' dried peas and I'll have it myself. The Resolve' ll be provision'd like always. Sea biscuit, salt pork, Hollander cheese. Any fool knows scurvy comes from men sleepin' in the night dews off the sea. Secure your gunports by night and you'll ne'er see the damn'd scurvy."

Hawksworth had suspected Kerridge's real reason was the cost: lemon juice was imported and expensive. When the Company rejected his own request for an allowance, he had provisioned the Discovery out of his own advance. Kerridge

had called him a fool. And when they sailed in late February, the Resolve was unprovided.

Just as Hawksworth had feared, the Resolve's crew had been plagued by scurvy throughout the voyage, even though both vessels had put in for fresh provisions at Zanzibar in late June. Six weeks ago, he had had no choice but to order half his own remaining store of lemon juice transferred to the sister ship, even though this meant reducing the Discovery's ration to a spoon a day, not enough.

By the first week of September, they were so near India they could almost smell land, but he dared not try for landfall. Not yet. Not without an Indian pilot to guide them past the notorious sandbars and shoals that lined the coast like giant submerged claws. The monsoon winds were dying. Indian shipping surely would begin soon. So they hove to, waiting.

And as they waited, they watched the last kegs of water choke with green slime, the wax candles melt in the heat, and the remaining biscuit all but disappear to weevils. Hungry seamen set a price on the rats that ran the shrouds. How long could they last?

Hawksworth reached the last entry in the log. Yesterday. The day they had waited for.

"Sept. 12. Laid by the lee. Estimated longitude from the Cape, 50° 10' E. Latitude observed 20°30'. At 7 in the morning we command a large ship from the country to heave to, by shooting four pieces across her bow. Took from this ship an Indian pilot, paying in Spanish rials of eight. First offered English gold sovereigns, but these refused as unknown coin. Also purchased 6 casks water, some baskets lemons, melons, plantains."

The provisions had scarcely lasted out the day, spread over twice a hundred hungry seamen. But with a pilot they could at last make landfall.

And landfall they had made, at a terrible price. Yet even this anchorage could not be kept. It was too exposed and vulnerable. He had expected it to be so, and he had been right. But he also knew where they might find safety.

The previous night he had ordered the Indian pilot to sketch a chart of the coastline on both sides of the Tapti River delta. He did not tell him why. And on the map he had spotted a cove five leagues to the north, called Swalley, that looked to be shallow and was also shielded by hills screening it from the sea. Even if the Portuguese discovered them, the deep draft of Portuguese galleons would hold them at sea. The most they could do would be send boarding parties by pinnace, or fireships. The cove would buy time, time to replenish stores, perhaps even to set the men ashore and attend the sick. The longer the anchorage could be kept secret, the better their chances. He had already prepared sealed orders for Captain Kerridge, directing him to steer both frigates there after dark, when their movement could not be followed by the hidden eyes along the coast.

He took a deep breath and flipped forward to a blank page in the log.

And realized this was the moment he had been dreading, been postponing: the last entry for the voyage out. Perhaps his last ever—if events in India turned against him. He swabbed more sweat from his face and glanced one last time at the glistening face of the lute, wondering what he would be doing now, at this moment, if he still were in London, penniless but on his own.

Then he wiped off the quill lying neatly alongside the leather-bound volume, inked it, and shoved back the sleeve of his doublet to write.

[CHAPTER TWO]

The events of that morning were almost too improbable to be described. After taking on the Indian pilot, Hawksworth's plan had been to make landfall immediately, then launch a pinnace for Surat, there to negotiate trade for their goods and safe conduct to the capital at Agra for himself. If things went as planned, the goods would be exchanged and he would be on his way to the Moghul capital long before word of their arrival could reach Goa and the Portuguese.

The pilot's worth was never in question. A practiced seaman, he had steered them easily through the uncharted currents and hidden swallows of the bay. They had plotted a course directly east-north-east, running with topgallants on the night breeze, to make dawn anchorage at the mouth of the Tapti River. Through the night the Resolve had stayed with them handily, steering by their stem lantern.

When the first light broke in the east, hard and sudden, there it lay—the coast of India, the landfall, the sight they had waited for the long seven months. Amid the cheers he had ordered their colors hoisted—the red cross, bordered in white, on a field of blue—the first English flag ever to fly off India's coast.

But as the flag snapped its way along the poop staff, and the men struck up a hornpipe on deck, their triumph suddenly was severed by a cry from the maintop.

"Sails off the starboard quarter."

In the sudden hush that rolled across the ship like a shroud, freezing the tumult of voice and foot, Hawksworth had charged up the companionway to the quarterdeck. And there, while the masts tuned a melancholy dirge, he had studied the ships in disbelief with his glass.

Four galleons anchored at the river mouth. Portuguese men-of-war. Each easily a thousand ton, twice the size of the Discovery.

He had sorted quickly through his options. Strike sail and heave to, on the odds they may leave? It was too late. Run up Portuguese colors, the old privateers' ruse, and possibly catch them by surprise? Unlikely. Come about and run for open sea? Never. That's never an English seadog's way. No, keep to windward and engage. Here in the bay.

"Mackintosh!" Hawksworth turned to see the quartermaster already poised expectantly on the main deck. "Order Malloyre to draw up the gunports. Have the sails wet down and see the cookroom fire is out."

"Aye, sir. This'll be a bloody one."

"What counts is who bleeds most. Get every able man

on station."

As Hawksworth turned to check the whipstaff, the long wooden lever that guided the ship's rudder, he passingly noted that curious conflict of body sensation he remembered from two encounters in years past: once, when on the Amsterdam run he had seen privateers suddenly loom off the coast of Scotland, and then on his last voyage through the Mediterranean, when his convoy first spotted the Turkish pirate galleys. While his mind calculated the elements of a strategy, coolly refining each individual detail, his stomach belied his rational facade and knotted in instinctive, primal fear. And he had asked himself whether this day his mind or his body would prevail. The odds were very bad, even if they could keep the wind. And if the Portuguese had trained gun crews . . .

Then he spotted the Indian pilot, leaning casually against the steering house, his face expressionless. He wore a tiny moustache and long, trimmed sideburns. And unlike the English seamen, all barefoot and naked to the waist, he was still dressed formally, just as when he came aboard. A fresh turban of white cotton, embroidered in a delicate brown, was secured neatly about the crown of his head, exposing his long ears and small, jeweled earrings. A spotless yellow cloak covered the waist of his tightly tailored blue trousers.

Damn him. Did he somehow know? Did he steer us into a trap?

Seeming to read Hawksworth's thoughts, the pilot broke the silence between them, his Turki heavily accented with his native Gujarati.

"This is your first test. Officers of the Moghul’s army are doubtless at the shore, observing. What will you do?"

"What do you think we'll do? We'll stand the bastards. And with Malloyre's gunners I think we can . . ."

"Then permit me an observation. A modest thought, but possibly useful. Do you see, there"—he pulled erect and pointed toward the shore—"hard by the galleons, there where the seabirds swirl in a dark cloud? That is the river mouth. And on either side are many sandbars, borne there from the river's delta. Along the coast beyond these, though you cannot see them now, are channels, too shallow for the draft of a galleon but perhaps safe for these frigates. Reach them and you will be beyond range of all Portuguese ordnance save their stern demi-culverin. Then they will be forced to try boarding you by longboat, something their infantry does poorly and with great reluctance."

"Are there channels on both sides of the river mouth? To windward and to leeward?"

"Certainly, my feringhi captain." He examined Hawksworth with a puzzled stare. "But only a fool would not hold to port, to windward."

Hawksworth studied the shoreline with the glass, and an audacious gamble began to take form in his mind. Why try to keep both frigates to windward? That's what they'll expect, and any moment now they'll weigh and beat to windward also. And from their position, they'll probably gain the weather gage, forcing us to leeward, downwind where we can't maneuver. That means an open fight—when the Resolve can barely muster a watch. How can she crew the gun deck and man the sheets? But maybe she won't have to. Maybe there's another way.

"Mackintosh." The quartermaster was mounting the quarterdeck companionway. "Order the mains'l and fores'l reefed. And the tops'ls shortened. We'll heave to while we run out the guns. And signal the Resolve while I prepare orders for Kerridge."

The grizzled Scotsman stood listening in dismay, and Hawksworth read his thoughts precisely in his eyes. There's nae time to heave to. And for wha'? We strike an inch o' canvas an' the fornicatin' Portugals'll take the weather gage sure. Ha' you nae stomach for a fight? Why na just haul down colors and ha' done with it?

But he said nothing. He turned automatically and bellowed orders aloft.

Hawksworth felt out the morning breeze, tasting its cut, while he watched the seamen begin swinging themselves up the shrouds, warming the morning air with oaths as the Discovery pitched and heeled in the chop. And then he turned and strode down the quarterdeck companionway toward the Great Cabin to prepare orders for the Resolve. As he passed along the main deck, half a dozen crewmen were already unlashing the longboat from its berth amidships.

And when he emerged again on deck with the oilskin- wrapped dispatch, after what seemed only moments, the longboat was already launched, oarsmen at station. He passed the packet to Mackintosh without a word, then mounted the companionway ladder back to the quarterdeck.

The Indian pilot stood against the banister, shaded by the lateen sail, calmly studying the galleons.

"Three of these I know very well." His accented Turki was almost lost in a roll of spray off the stern. "They are the St. Sebastian, the Bon Jesus, and the Bon Ventura. They arrived new from Lisbon last year, after the monsoon, to patrol our shipping lanes, to enforce the regulation that all Indian vessels purchase a trading license from authorities in Goa."

"And what of the fourth?"

"It is said she berthed in Goa only this spring. I do not know her name. There were rumors she brought the new Viceroy, but early, before his four-year term began. I have never before seen her north, in these waters."

My God. Hawksworth looked at the warships in dismay. Is this the course of the Company's fortune? A voyage depending on secrecy blunders across a fleet bearing the incoming Viceroy of Goa. The most powerful Portuguese in the Indies.

"They are invincible," the pilot continued, his voice still matter-of-fact. "The galleons own our waters. They have two decks of guns. No Indian vessel, even the reckless corsairs along our southern coast of Malabar, dare meet them in the open sea. Owners who refuse to submit and buy a Portuguese trading license must sail hundreds of leagues off course to avoid their patrol."

"And what do you propose? That we heave to and strike our colors? Without even a fight?" Hawksworth was astonished by the pilot's casual unconcern. Is he owned by the Portugals too?

"You may act as you choose. I have witnessed many vain

boasts of English bravery during my brief service aboard your ship. But an Indian captain would choose prudence at such a time. Strike colors and offer to pay for a license. Otherwise you will be handled as a pirate."

"No Englishman will ever pay a Portugal or a Spaniard for a license to trade. Or a permit to piss." Hawksworth turned away, trying to ignore the cold sweat beading on his chest. "We never have. We never will."

The pilot watched him for a moment, and then smiled.

"You are in the seas off India now, Captain. Here the Portuguese have been masters for a hundred years." His voice betrayed a trace of annoyance at Hawksworth's seeming preoccupation, and he moved closer. "You would do well to hear me out. We know the Portuguese very well. Better perhaps than you. Their cruelties here began a full century ago, when the barbarous captain Vasco de Gama first discovered our Malabar Coast, near the southern tip of India. He had the Portuguese nose for others' wealth, and when he returned again with twenty ships, our merchants rose against him. But he butchered their fleet, and took prisoners by the thousand. He did not, however, simply execute them. First he cut away their ears, noses, and hands and sent these to the local raja, recommending he make a curry. Next a Portuguese captain named Albuquerque came with more warships to ravage our trade in the north, that on the Red Sea. And when servants of Islam again rose up to defend what is ours, Allah the Merciful once more chose to turn his face from them, leaving all to defeat. Soon the infidel Portuguese came with many fleets, and in a span no more than a male child reaching manhood, had seized our ocean and stolen our trade."

The pilot's face remained blandly expressionless as he continued, but he reached out and caught Hawksworth's sleeve. "Next they needed a Portuguese trading station, so they bribed pirates to help storm our coastal fortress at Goa, an island citadel with a deep port. And this place they made the collection point for all the pepper, spices, jewels, dyes, silver, and gold they have plundered from us. They lacked the courage to invade India herself, as the Moghuls did soon after, so they made our sea their infidel empire. It is theirs, from the coast of Africa, to the Gulf of Persia, to the Molucca Islands. And they seek not merely conquest, or enforced commerce, but also our conversion to their religion of cruelty. They have flooded our ports with ignorant priests. To them this is a crusade against Islam, against the one True Faith, a crusade that has triumphed—for a time—where barbarous Christian land assaults on our holy Mecca have always failed.”

Then the pilot turned directly to Hawksworth and a smile flickered momentarily across his lips. "And now you English have come to challenge them by sea. You must pardon me if I smile. Even if you prevail today, which I must tell you I doubt, and even if one day more of your warships follow and drive them from our seas entirely—even if all this should take place, you will find your victory hollow. As theirs has been. For we have already destroyed them. The way India consumes all who come with arms. The ancient way. They have robbed our wealth, but in return we have consumed their spirit. Until at last they are left with nothing but empty commodity. It will be no different for you, English captain. You will never have India. It is India who will have you."

He paused and looked again toward the galleons, their sails swelling on the horizon. "But today I think the Portuguese will spare us the trouble."

Hawksworth examined the pilot, struggling to decipher his words. "Let me tell you something about England. All we ask is trade, for you and for us, and we don't have any priests to send. Only Catholic traders do that. And if you think we'll not stand well today, you know even less about the English. The thing we do best is fight at sea. Our sea dogs destroyed the entire navy of Spain twenty years ago, when they sent their Armada to invade England, and even to this day the Spaniards and Portugals have never understood our simple strategy. They still think a warship's merely a land fortress afloat. All they know to do is throw infantry against a ship and try to board her. The English know sea battles are won with cannon and maneuverability, not soldiers."

Hawksworth directed the pilot's gaze down the Discovery.

The ship was of the new English "race-built" class, low in the water and swift. Absent were the bulky superstructures on bow and stern that weighed down a galleon, the "castles" that Spanish and Portuguese commanders used to stage infantry for boarding an enemy vessel. A full thirty years before, the English seaman and explorer John Hawkins had scoffed at these, as had Francis Drake and Walter Raleigh. They saw clearly that the galleons' towering bow and stem, their forecastle and poop, slow them, since the bluff beamy hull needed to support their weight wouldn't bite the water. A superstructure above decks serves only to spoil a warship's handling in a breeze, they declared, and to lend a better target to an English gunner.

"Your ships assuredly are smaller than Portuguese galleons, I agree," the pilot volunteered after a pause, "but I see no advantage in this."

"You'll see soon enough. The Discovery may be low, but she'll sail within six points of the wind, and she's quicker on the helm than anything afloat."

Hawksworth raised the glass and studied the galleons again. As he expected they were beating to windward, laboring under a full head of canvas.

Good. Now the Resolve can make her move.

The longboat was returning, its prow biting the trough of each swell, while on the Resolve seamen swarmed the shrouds and rigging. Hawksworth watched with satisfaction as his sister ship's main course swiveled precisely into the breeze and her sprits'l bellied for a run down the wind. Her orders were to steer to leeward, skirting the edge of the galleons' cannon range.

And if I know the Portugals, he told himself, they'll be impatient enough to start loosing round after round of shot at her, even from a quarter mile off. It takes courage to hold fire till you're under an enemy's guns, but only then do you have accuracy. Noise and smoke are battle enough for most Portugals, but the main result is to overheat and immobilize their cannon.

As the Discovery lay hove to, biding time, the Resolve cut directly down the leeward side of the galleons, laboring

under full press of sail, masts straining against the load. The Indian pilot watched the frigate in growing astonishment, then turned to Hawksworth.

"Your English frigates may be swift, but your English strategy is unworthy of a common mahout, who commands an old she-elephant with greater cunning. Your sister frigate has now forfeited the windward position. Why give over your only advantage?"

Even as he spoke the four Portuguese warships, caught beating to windward, began to shorten sail and pay off to leeward to intercept the Resolve, their bows slowly crossing the wind as they turned.

"I've made a gamble, something a Portugal would never do," Hawksworth replied. "And now I have to do something no Englishman would ever do. Unless outgunned and forced to." Before the pilot could respond, Hawksworth was gone, heading for the gun deck.

The ring of his boots on the oak ladder leading to the lower deck was lost in the grind of wooden trucks, as seamen threw their weight against the heavy ropes and tackles, slowly hauling out the guns. The Discovery was armed with two rows of truck-mounted cast-iron culverin, and she had sailed with twenty-two barrels of powder and almost four hundred round shot. Hawksworth had also stowed a supply of crossbar shot and deadly langrel—thin casings filled with iron fragments—for use against enemy rigging and sail at close quarters.

Shafts of dusty light from the gunports and overhead scuttles relieved the lantern-lit gloom, illuminating the massive beams supporting the decks above. Sleeping hammocks were lashed away, but the space was airless, already sultry from the morning sun, and the rancid tang of sweat mixed with fresh saltpeter from the gunpowder caught in Hawksworth's mouth, bittersweet.

He walked down the deck, alert to the details that could spell victory or loss. First he checked the wooden tubs of vinegared urine and the long swabs stationed between the cannon, used for cleaning burning fragments of metal from the smoking barrels after each round. Fail to swab a barrel and there could be an unplanned detonation when the next powder charge was tamped into place. Then he counted the budge-barrels of powder, now swathed in water-soaked blankets to fend off sparks, and watched as Edward Malloyre, the man some called the best master gunner in England, inspected each cannon's touchhole as its lead plate was removed, assuring himself it had not corroded from the gases expelled during their last gunnery practice, in the Mozambique Channel.

"Master Malloyre."

"Aye, sir, all's in order. We'll hand the Spanish bastards a taste o' English iron." Malloyre, who had never troubled to differentiate Portugal from Spain, was built like a bear, with short bowed legs and a tree-stump frame. He drew himself erect, his balding pate easily clearing the rugged overhead beams, and searched the gloom. "The Worshipful Company may ha' signed on a sorry lot o' pimpin' apple squires, but, by Jesus, I've made Englishmen o' them. My sovereign to your shilling we hole the pox-rotted Papists wi' the first round."

"I'll stand the wager, Malloyre, and add the last keg of brandy. But you'll earn it. I want the portside battery loaded with crossbar forward, and langrel aft. And set the langrel for the decks, not the sail."

Malloyre stared at him incredulously. The command told him immediately that this would be a battle with no quarter. The use of langrel against personnel left no room for truce. Then suddenly the true implications of Hawksworth's command hit him like a blow in the chest. "That shot's for close quarters. We lay alongside, and the bastards'll grapple and board us sure. Swarm us like curs on a bitch."

"That's the order, Malloyre. Be quick on it. Set the starboard round first. And light the linstocks." Hawksworth turned to count the shot and absently picked up one of the linstocks lying on deck—an iron-plated staff used to set off a cannon—fingering the oil-soaked match rope at its tip and inhaling its dank musk. And the smell awoke again the memory of that last day two years before in the Mediterranean, with Turkish pirate galleys fore and aft, when there had been no quarter, and no hope . . .

"Beggin' your pardon, sir." Malloyre's voice was urgent, bringing him back. "What's the firin' orders?"

"Just fire the starboard round as a broadside, and set for the lower gun deck."

"Aye aye, sir." He paused. "And Lord Jesus pray we'll live to swab out."

Malloyre's parting words would have followed him up the ladder to the main deck, but they were swallowed in the muffled roll of cannon fire sounding over the bay. The galleons were spreading, circling the Resolve as they bore down upon her, and they had begun to vomit round after round, jets of water randomly around the frigate as she plunged toward the shallows and safety. Any minute now, Hawksworth told himself, and she'll be in the shallows. If she doesn't run aground on a bar.

Then he saw the Resolve begin to come about, reefing and furling her sails. She's made the shallows. And the Portugals' guns have quieted.

"Permission to set sail, sir. The bleedin' Portugals'll be on her in a trice." Mackintosh stood on the quarterdeck by the steering house. And he made no attempt to disguise the anxiety in his eyes.

"Give the Portugals time, Mackintosh, and you'll see their second fatal mistake. The first was overheating the cannon on their upper decks. The second will be to short-hand their crews. They're out of cannon range now, so they'll launch longboats, and assign half the watch as oarsmen. Here, take the glass. Tell me what you see."

Mackintosh studied the shallows with the telescope, while a smile slowly grew on his hard face. "I'm a motherless Dutchman. An' there's a king's guard o' Portugal musketmen loadin' in. Wearin' their damn'd silver helmets."

They haven't changed in thirty years, Hawksworth smiled to himself. The Portugals still think their infantry is too dignified to row, so they assign their crews to the oars and leave their warships shorthanded. But they won't find it easy to board the Resolve from longboats. Not with English musketmen in her maintop. And that should give us just enough time. . . .

"Are all the longboats out yet, Mackintosh?"

"Aye, sir." The quartermaster steadied the glass against the roll of the ship. "And making for the Resolve like they was runnin' from hell itself."

"Then bear full sail. Two points to windward of the bastard on the left. Full press, and hoist the spritsail. Keep the wind and pay her room till we're in range."

With an exultant whoop Mackintosh jabbed the sweat-soaked telescope toward Hawksworth, and began bellowing orders to the mates. Within moments sails unfurled and snapped in the wind, sending the Discovery's bow biting into the chop and hurtling spray over the bulwarks. Hawksworth kept to the quarterdeck, studying the nearest warship with the glass. The galleon's forecastle towered above the horizon now like some Gothic fortress, and with the glass he could make out pennants blazoned from all her yardarms. Then he turned toward the Indian pilot, whose gaze was riveted on the Portuguese warships.

"What's the name of the galleon on the left, the large one?" Hawksworth pointed toward the vessel he had been observing with the glass. "I can't read it from this distance."

"That one is the Bon Ventura. We know her to be heavily armed."

"I'd say she's over a thousand tons burden. I wonder how handy she'll be with her best men out in the longboats?"

"She'll meet you soon enough, with her full bounty. It is said that last year she caught and sank a twenty-gun Dutch frigate trading in the Moluccas."

"She'll still have to come about into the wind." Hawksworth seemed not to hear the pilot now, so absorbed was he in the looming battle.

As though in answer to his thoughts, the Bon Ventura started to heel slowly about, like an angered bull. But the Discovery now had the windward position secure, and the Portuguese ship would have to tack laboriously into the wind. Her canvas was close-hauled and she would be slow. We've got the weather gage now, Hawksworth told himself, and we'll hold it. Then he noticed that the second galleon in the row, the St. Sebastian, had also begun wearing around, bringing her stern across the wind as she too turned to meet the Discovery.

"They've deciphered our plan," Hawksworth said quietly to himself, "and now it's two of the bastards we'll face. But with luck we'll engage the Bon Ventura before the St. Sebastian can beat to range. And the Bon Ventura is drawing away from the fleet. That bit of bravado will cost her."

The Discovery was closing rapidly on the Bon Ventura. In minutes they would be within range. Mackintosh was at the whipstaff now, holding their course, his senses alert to every twist in the wind. He involuntarily clenched and unclenched his teeth, while his knuckles were bloodless white from his grip on the hardwood steering lever. Hawksworth raised the glass again, knowing what he hoped to see.

"The Portugals have just made their third mistake, Mackintosh." He tried to mask his excitement. "They've sealed the lower gunports to shut out water while they're tacking. So after they get position they'll still have to run out the lower guns."

"Aye. That's why two-deckers won't buy a whore's chastity on a day like this. But they'll have the upper guns on us soon enough."

"Wait and see, Mackintosh. I'll warrant their upper guns are overheated by now. They'll think twice about trying to prime them just yet. They'll have to wait a bit. Perhaps just long enough for us to get alongside. Then the upper guns'll touch nothing but our rigging."

The breeze freshened even more, driving the Discovery rapidly toward her target. Mackintosh eyed the galleon nervously, knowing the frigate was heavily outgunned. Finally he could bear the tension no longer.

"We've got range now. Permission to bring her about."

"Steady as she goes. They're slow on the helm." Hawksworth glanced at the line of seamen along the port side, untying bundles of musket arrows and lighting the linstock. "Bosun! Are the men at stations?"

"Aye, sir." A gravel voice sounded through the din. "Stocks were a bit damp, but I warrant the hellish sun's dryin' 'em out. We'll give the fornicators a fine English salute."

Hawksworth gauged the galleon's course, estimating her speed and her ability to maneuver. Then he saw her start coming about in the water, turning to position the starboard battery for a broadside. Gunports on the lower deck flipped up and cannon began slowly to emerge, like hard black fangs. Nervous sweat began to bead on Mackintosh's brow as the Discovery held her course directly down the galleon's windward side.

The Bon Ventura's broadside battery was not yet set, but a sudden burst of black smoke from her starboard bow-chaser sent a ball smashing through the Discovery's quarter gallery, removing much of its ornate embellishment. Then came another flare of smoke and flame, hurtling a second ball through the lateen sail above Mackintosh's head. The quartermaster went pale, and looked imploringly at Hawksworth.

"Steady as she goes, Mackintosh, they still haven't fully set their guns." The knot in Hawksworth's stomach was like a searing ball of fire. God, for a brandy. But we've got to hold till we've got sure range. To come about now would keep our distance, and mean a classic battle. One we're sure to lose.

He pushed away the realization of the immense chance they were taking. But now there was no turning back, even if he wanted. Finally he could bear it no longer. God make it right.

"Now, Mackintosh! Bring her hard about!"

The quartermaster threw his weight against the whipstaff, shouting orders to the two seamen on the deck below to haul the tackles on the tiller, helping him flip the rudder. Then he turned and bellowed commands to the mates.

"Hands to the braces. Bring her hard about."

The seamen poised incredulously in the maintop and foretop cheered as they began to haul in the ropes securing the yards, and in moments the sails swiveled off the wind. The Discovery careened in the chopping seas, responding readily to the shift in rudder and canvas. By this time Hawksworth was standing over the scuttle above the gun deck, shouting to Malloyre.

"Coming about. Prepare to fire the starboard battery when your guns bear."

The Discovery had wheeled a sharp arc in the water, laying herself broadside to the galleon, hardly fifty yards away. The English seamen aloft stared mutely at the towering forecastle of the Portuguese warship, most never before having seen a galleon at close range. Although the guns on her upper deck were still silent, had they spoken now they would have touched nothing but the frigate's tops'ls. But as the galleon turned, the cannon on her lower deck were coming into final position. In moments she would lay the Discovery with a broadside. Hawksworth watched her carefully, calculating, and then the knot in his stomach dissolved like ice in the sun. The Discovery would be in position seconds ahead.

Malloyre's command to fire cut the awe-stricken silence. The next instant a low roar seemed to emanate from all the timbers of the English frigate, while red-tipped flame tongued from her starboard side. The ship heeled dangerously sideways, while black smoke, acrid and searing, boiled up through the scuttles and hatch, as though propelled on its way by the round of cheers from below decks, the traditional salute of ship's gunners. Hawksworth later remembered noting that the battery had fired in perfect unison, not losing the set of a single gun by the ship's recoil.

A medley of screams came first, piercing the blackened air. Then the smoke drifted downwind, over the side of the Bon Ventura, revealing a savage incision where her lower gun deck had once been. Cannon were thrown askew, and the mangled forms of Portuguese gunners, many with limbs shattered or missing, could be seen through the splintered hull. But Hawksworth did not pause to inspect the damage; he was already yelling the next orders to Mackintosh, hoping to be heard above the din. The advantage of surprise would be short-lived.

"Pay off the helm! Bring her hard about!"

Again the rudder swiveled in its locks, while seamen aloft

hauled the sheets and braces, but this time the Discovery came about easily, using the wind to advantage. As he turned to check the whipstaff, Hawksworth heard a high-pitched ricochet off the steering house and sensed a sudden dry numbness in his thigh. Only then did he look up to see the line of Portuguese musketmen on the decks of the Bon Ventura, firing sporadically at the English seamen on decks and aloft.

Damn. A lucky shot by some Lisbon recruit. He seized a handful of coarse salt from a bucket by the binnacle and pressed it against the blood. A flash of pain passed briefly through his consciousness and then was forgotten. The Discovery's stern had crossed the wind. There was no time to lose. He moved down the companionway to again shout orders to Malloyre on the gun deck. "Set for the fo'c'sle and rigging. Fire as your guns bear."

The Bon Ventura still lay immobile, so unexpected had been the broadside. But a boarding party of Portuguese infantry was poised on the galleon's forecastle superstructure, armed with swords and pikes, ready to fling grapples and swing aboard the frigate. The Portuguese had watched in helpless amazement as the Discovery completely came about and again was broadside. Suddenly the captain of the infantry realized what was in store and yelled frantically at his men to take cover. But his last command was lost in the roar of the Discovery's guns.

This time flames and smoke erupted from the Discovery's portside battery, but now it spewed knife-edged chunks of metal and twisting crossbars. Again the screams came first, as the musketmen and infantry on the fo'c'sle were swept across the decks in the deadly rain. Crossbars chewed through the galleon's mainsail, parting it into two flapping remnants, while the rigging on the foremast was blown by the boards, tangling and taking with it a party of musketmen stationed in the foretop. Now the galleon bobbed helpless in the water, as the last seamen remaining on the shrouds plunged for the decks and safety.

"When you're ready, Mackintosh."

The quartermaster signaled the bosun, and a line of

seamen along the port gunwales touched musket arrows to the lighted linstock and took aim. Streaks of flame forked into the tattered rigging of the Bon Ventura, and in moments her canvas billowed red. Again the Portuguese were caught unaware, and only a few manned water buckets to extinguish the burning shreds of canvas drifting to the deck.

They were almost alongside now, but no Portuguese infantry would pour down the side of the forecastle onto their decks. The galleon's decks were a hemorrhage of the wounded and dying.

"By Jesus, 'tis a sight for English eyes." Edward Malloyre's blackened face, streaked with sweat, bobbed up through the hatch over the gun deck, and he surveyed the wreckage of the Bon Ventura. "Had to give 'er a look, Cap'n. See if my lads earn'd their biscuit." He beamed with open pride.

"Malloyre, how does it stand below decks?" Hawksworth yelled from the quarterdeck.

"Starboard side's swabbed out. How shall we load 'em, sir?" Malloyre leaned backward to gain a better look at the galleon, which now towered above them.

"Round shot, and run them out fast as you can."

"Aye, sir. An' no more close quarters if you please. Ne'er want to be this close to one o' the bastards again." Malloyre started to retreat through the hatch, but then he turned, paused for a second, and yelled at Hawksworth. "Beggin' your pardon, Cap'n. I knew all along 'twas best to pull alongside and lay 'em wi' crossbar. Just wanted to give the lads a bit o' a scare. Keep 'em jumpin'."

Hawksworth waved his hand and watched as Malloyre's pudgy frame dropped through the gun-deck hatch like a rabbit diving for its warren.

Mackintosh was standing on the main deck, his tangled red mane blackened with smoke, watching as the Discovery drifted slowly toward the side of the bobbing galleon. Then, when they were only feet away, he signaled the bosun, and a line of English seamen lit the waiting fuses and began to loft clay powder pots across the waist of the Bon Ventura, now almost above their heads. When they had finished, he passed orders and the Discovery began to pull away, before her sails could ignite. Then one by one the powder pots started to explode, spewing burning sulphur over the Portuguese vessel's decks.

Hawksworth watched the carnage, and asked himself if he had been right to do what he'd done. They'd have sunk us. Cut down the men and taken the officers and merchants to a Goa prison. And then what? We couldn't have sunk them with cannon in a week. The only choice was fire.

Then he turned to see the St. Sebastian making toward them. Her cannon were already run out, and at any moment she would start coming about for a broadside. Again he felt the throb in his thigh, and it triggered a wave of fear that swept upward from his stomach. The Indian pilot stood next to him, also watching the approaching galleon.

"I have seen a miracle, Captain. Allah the Compassionate has watched over you today." The pilot's face showed none of the strain of battle. And his clothes were still spotless, oddly immune from the oily smoke that blackened all the English seamen. "But I fear there cannot be two miracles on the same morning. You are about to pay for your fortune. Perhaps there is still time to strike your colors and save the lives of your men."

"We surrender now and we'll rot in a Goa prison forever. Or be pulled apart on the strappado." Hawksworth glared back. "And I seem to recall the Quran says 'Do not falter when you've gained the upper hand.'"

"You do not have the upper hand, my Captain, and the Holy Quran speaks only of those who trust in Allah, the Merciful. . . ." His voice trailed off as he turned to stare at Hawksworth. "It is not common for a feringhi to know the Holy Quran. How is it you--?"

"I just spent two years in a Turkish prison, and I heard little else." Hawksworth turned and was testing the wind, weighing his options. The St. Sebastian was almost on them. Her cannon were already run out, and at any moment she would start coming about for a broadside. He could still hear the trucks of the cannon below decks, as the starboard battery was being run out, and he knew the portside crews were only now beginning to swab the last glowing shreds of metal from the cannon barrels.

Good God, there's no time to set the ordnance. They'll blow us to hell. He deliberated for a long moment, weighing his options. As he watched, the St. Sebastian began to shorten sail, preparing to come about and fire. Only minutes remained. Then he noticed that the wind on the burning Bon Ventura's superstructure was drifting her in the direction of the approaching St. Sebastian, and he hit on another gamble. They've shortened sail in order to come about, which means they're vulnerable. Now if I can make them try to take their bow across the wind, with their sails shortened . . .

"Mackintosh, take her hard about! Set the courses for a port tack."

Once again the Discovery heeled in the water, her stern deftly crossing the wind, and then she was back under full sail, still to windward of the burning galleon. The sudden tack had left the burning Bon Ventura directly between the English frigate and the approaching galleon. The Discovery pulled away, keeping the wind, forcing the galleon to tack also if she would engage them. Hawksworth watched, holding his breath as Portuguese seamen began to man the sheets, bringing the St. Sebastian's bow into the wind.

It was fatal. The approaching galleon had shortened too much sail in preparation to come about for the broadside, and now she lacked the momentum to cross the wind. Instead the sluggish, top-heavy warship hung in stays, her sails slack, her bulky bow fighting the wind, refusing to pay off onto the opposite tack. All the while the Bon Ventura was drifting inexorably toward her, flaming. I was right, Hawksworth thought. She didn't have the speed to bring her bow around. With his glass he watched the galleon's captain order her back to the original tack. But time had run out.

Blinding explosions suddenly illuminated the gunports of the burning Bon Ventura, as powder barrels on the gun decks ignited, first the upper and then the lower. In only moments the fire found the powder room aft of the orlop deck, and as the English seamen looked on spellbound the galleon seemed to erupt in a single cloud of fire, rocketing burning timbers and spars across the sea's surface. The mainmast, flaming like a giant taper, snapped and heaved slowly into the fo'c'sle. Then the superstructure on the stern folded and dropped through the main deck, throwing a plume of sparks high into the morning air.

Although the St. Sebastian had righted herself, she still had not regained speed, for now the sails had lost their luff and sagged to leeward. Why isn't she underway, Hawksworth asked himself, surely she'll circle and engage us? He looked again with the glass and the reason became clear. The Portuguese crewmen on the St. Sebastian had begun throwing themselves into the sea, terrified at the sight of the Bon Ventura's blazing hull drifting slowly across their bow. The wind had freshened again and was pushing the burning galleon rapidly now. The blaze had become an inferno, fueled by casks of coconut oil stored below decks on the galleon, and Hawksworth involuntarily shielded his eyes and face from the heat that, even at their distance, seared the Discovery. As he watched, the drifting Bon Ventura suddenly lurched crazily sideways, and then came the sound of a coarse, grinding impact, as her burning timbers sprayed across the decks of the St. Sebastian. In moments the second galleon was also an abandoned inferno, her crew long since afloat in the safety of the sea, clinging to debris and making for shore.

"Allah has been merciful twice to you in one morning, Captain. I had never before known the extent of His bounty. You are a man most fortunate." The pilot's words, spoken softly and with pronounced gravity, were almost drowned in the cheers that engulfed the decks and rigging of the Discovery.

"The battle's just begun. Boarding parties are at the Resolve, and there are two more galleons." Hawksworth reached for the glass by the binnacle.

"No, Captain, I doubt very much the Portuguese will trouble you further. Your luck has been too exceptional. But they will return another day." The pilot squinted toward the shore, as though confirming something he knew should be there.

Hawksworth trained his glass on the two galleons that still held the Resolve pinned in the shallows. They were heeling about, preparing to run southward on the wind under full press of sail. He also realized their longboats had been abandoned. Some were following futilely after the retreating galleons, while others were already rowing toward the river mouth. The English frigate had been forgotten. Then he noted that although pennants no longer flew from the yardarms of the galleons, the large, unnamed vessel had run out a brilliant red ensign on her poop staff. He studied it carefully, then turned to the pilot, extending the glass.

"Take a look and tell me what the colors are on the large man-of-war. I've never seen them before."

The pilot waved away the telescope with a smile. "I need no Christian device to tell you that. We all know it. With all your fortune, you have failed to understand the most important thing that happened today."

"And what is that?"

"Those are the colors of the Viceroy of Goa, flown only when he is aboard his flagship. You have humiliated him today. The colors speak his defiance. His promise to you."

As the pilot spoke, Mackintosh came bounding up the companionway to the quarterdeck, his soot-covered face beaming. "What a bleedin' day! What a bleedin' day!" Then his eyes dimmed for an instant. "But a man'd be called a liar who told the story."

"How many dead and wounded, Mackintosh?"

"Two maintopmen killed by musket fire. And a bosun's mate took a splinter in the side, very bad, when the bastards laid us wi' the first bowchasers. A few other lads took musket fire, but the surgeon'll sew 'em up fine."

"Then break out the last keg of brandy. And see that Malloyre's men get the first tot. . . but don't forget to send a tankard to the quarterdeck."

Mackintosh broke an appreciative grin and headed down the companionway ladder. The sun was baking the decks now, and a swarm of locusts had appeared from nowhere to buzz about the maintop. The wind was beginning to slacken in the heat, and silence slowly settled over the Discovery. Hawksworth turned his glass one last time to the large galleon. He could still make out the ensign over the crests of surf, blood red in the sun.

CHAPTER THREE

The bells sounded ending the afternoon watch and calling the first dog watch. Only four hours since noon, but already the morning's carnage seemed a memory from a distant lifetime. Sultry tropic air, motionless and stifling, immersed the Discovery as the gaunt-faced seamen labored to finish securing the mast of the pinnace. Mackintosh had ordered the pinnace's sail unrolled on deck, and as he inspected the stitches for rot he alternately reviled the men, the heat, the Company. Hawksworth had completed the log and stood in the companionway outside the Great Cabin to watch the preparations, take the air, and exercise his leg. All the previous night he had stood on the quarterdeck, keeping the helm and translating for the pilot. And tonight again there would be no sleep. There's time for a rest now, his weary mind urged, till the first bell of this watch, half an hour. Then he cursed himself for his weakness, his readiness to yield, and shoved open the door of the Great Cabin.

The oil lamp swayed with each roll of the ship, punctuating the rhythmic creak of the wood paneling and adding to the sweltering heat. He locked the door, then strode aft to push ajar the two stern windows. But the stolid air lay inert, refusing to lift. He would have to prepare the chest in suffocating misery. So be it.

Brushing the hair back from his eyes, he unlocked a bronzed sea chest and began to extract one by one the articles entrusted to the Company by King James. First was the letter, in English with a formal copy in diplomatic Spanish, both scribed on parchment and sealed in a leather case secured with His Majesty's impression in red wax. The seal, set in London over seven months before, was soft in the heat now, pliant to his touch. He surveyed the room for a moment and then his eye hit on the pair of formal thigh- length stockings the Company had insisted he pack. Perfect. He bound his hose around the king's letter, knotted it protectively over the seal, and tossed the bundle into the smaller wooden chest he would take ashore.

Then he began to transfer the royal presents: a brace of gold-plated pistols, a half dozen silver-handled swords, a small silver-trimmed saddle, a set of delicate Norwich crystal, jeweled rings, a leather-bound mirror, a silver whistle studded with emeralds, a large cocked hat trimmed in silk, a miniature portrait of King James, and finally, a dozen bottles of fine English sack. He checked each item for damage and then packed them tightly into the small chest. Finally he inserted a tightly fitting false bottom and covered it with a coarse woolen rug.

Then the second packing began. He started with more gifts, these for port officials, mainly silver-trimmed knives and rings set with small inexpensive pearls. He also enclosed several boxed sets of English gold sovereigns, which the Company had requested be distributed as widely as possible, in hopes they would begin to be accepted.

Finally he looked about the room for personal goods. First he folded in a new leather jerkin, then next to it packed a new pair of leather boots. He stared at the boots for a moment, and then removed them while he carefully wrapped two primed pistols and slid one deep into each hollow toe. Next to the boots he packed a case of Spanish brandy he had been saving, for personal use aland. Lastly he took his glistening English lute from its corner berth, held it for a moment, and tested the strings. He adjusted the tuning on one string, then wrapped the lute's melon-shaped body in a silk cloth, and nestled it next to the brandy.

As he secured the lock on the chest and pocketed the large brass key, he suddenly asked himself how he would get the chest into India without its being searched. I'm not a genuine ambassador. I'm the captain of a merchantman, with no

diplomatic standing. The Company, for all its mercantile wisdom, neglected to consider that small difficulty.

So I'll just have to sound like an ambassador. That shouldn't be so hard. Just be impressed with your own importance. And find nothing, food or lodgings, sufficiently extravagant.

Then he drew himself erect and unlocked the door of the Great Cabin. Only one thing remained.

"Mackintosh!" The quartermaster was in the pinnace now, fitting the tiller, and he glanced up in irritation. "Send the pilot to my cabin."

Hawksworth had scarcely seated himself behind the great oak table before the tall chestnut-skinned man appeared in the doorway. Hawksworth examined the face again, expressionless and secure, asking himself its years. Is he thirty; is he fifty? The features seemed cast from an ageless mold, hard and seamless, immune to time.

"May I be of service?"

"Repeat your name for me." Hawksworth spoke in Turkish. "And tell me again the business of your vessel."

"My name is Karim Hasan Ali." The reply came smoothly, but almost too rapidly for Hawksworth to follow. "My ship was the Rahimi, a pilgrim vessel on her return voyage from Mecca, by way of Aden, to our northern port of Diu. We carry Muslim pilgrims outbound from India in the spring, and return after the monsoon. As you assuredly must know, for a thousand years Mecca has been the shrine all followers of Islam must visit once in their life. Our cabins are always full."

Hawksworth recalled the vessel, and his astonishment at her size. She had had five masts and was easily twelve hundred tons, over twice the burden of the Discovery and greater than anything he had ever seen before, even the most ambitious Spanish carrack. But when they spotted her, tacking eastward across the Bay of Cambay, she was unarmed and hove to almost before they had fired across her bow. Why unarmed, he had asked himself then, and why strike so readily? Now he understood.

"And you were the pilot for the Rahimi?"

"I am called the musallim.” A note of formality entered the Indian's voice and he instinctively drew himself more erect.

"Is that the pilot?"

"Yes, but more. Perhaps it is like your first mate. But I am in full charge of navigation for the nakuda, the owner. To you he would be captain."

"And what was your salary for the voyage?"

"I received two hundred rupees for the trip to Aden, and am allowed two extra cabins of goods for personal trade."

Hawksworth smiled resignedly to himself, remembering he had unquestioningly delivered to the nakuda a bag of Spanish rials of eight equivalent to five hundred Indian rupees to buy out the pilot's contract. Then he spoke.

"Tonight, we go upriver to Surat. You're still in my service and you'll be pilot."

"I had expected it. I know the river well."

"Will there be any Portugal traders on the river?" Hawksworth searched his eyes hoping to monitor their truthfulness.

"I would not expect it. Although this year's monsoons are past and the river has returned to normal, there are new sandbanks. Every season they shift, becoming more treacherous. Only those of us who know the river well understand the moods of her sands. I have never seen topiwallah traders in Surat this early in the season." Karim paused, following Hawksworth's puzzled expression, then continued, with an air of condescension," Topiwallah is our word meaning 'men who wear hats.' We call Christian traders topiwallahs." He fixed Hawksworth squarely. "And we have other names for their priests."

"Call Christians what you will, but just remember England is not Portugal." Hawksworth's tone stiffened. "England has rid herself of the popery that still rules the Spaniards and Portugals. Along with their fear-mongering Jesuits and their damned Inquisition. It's now treason to practice Catholic rites in England."

"I have heard something of your petty European squabbles, your Christian rivalries. Is it your intention now to spread them to India as well?"

"All England wants is trade. Nothing else." Hawksworth shifted his leg, leaning forward to tighten the bandage. "I'm here as an ambassador. To convey the friendship of my king, and his offer of free and open trade."

"And after you begin this trade, what then? Will you next try to drive the Portuguese from our ports? So that you can steal away shipping from our own merchantmen, as they have done, and demand we pay you for a license to ply our own seas?"

"I told you we only want trade. England has no use for sailing licenses, or priests. Our only enemies here are the Portugals. And the damned Hollanders if they start trying to interfere."

Karim studied Hawksworth in silence, fingering his jeweled earring in thought as he recalled the morning's battle. Two small English merchant frigates had prevailed over four Portuguese warships, galleons. Never before, he told himself, have the Portuguese been humiliated before our eyes. Pigeons must already be winging word of this incredible encounter to Agra. Separately, no doubt, to the Moghul and to the queen. But Queen Janahara will know first. As always. And she will know her Portuguese profits are no longer secure.

And what about Prince Jadar? Yes, the prince will already have heard, hours ago. What will Prince Jadar decide to do? That's the most important question now.

"Just tell me about the navigation of the river," Hawksworth continued unable to decipher Karim's distant expression. "How long will it take for our pinnace to reach Surat? We cast off at sunset."

"The tide will be running in tonight, and that will aid your oarsmen." Karim instantly became businesslike. "There will also be a night breeze off the sea. But the Portuguese have no authority on our river. Once you are inland you are under the rule of the governor of Surat. . . . and, of course, Prince Jadar, whom the Moghul has appointed to administrate this province."

Hawksworth heard the first bell and walked to the stern

windows to monitor the slant of the dying sun and to inhale the fresh evening air. Then he wheeled and examined Karim, the pilot's face shadowed in the half light.

"And who are these officials? This governor and prince?"

Karim smiled and carefully secured the fold of his turban. "The governor administers the port of Surat. He collects trading duties of the Moghul’s court in Agra. Prince Jadar is the son of the Moghul and the military ruler of Gujarat, this province."

"Then who will I meet in Surat?" Hawksworth groped for a pattern. "The governor or the prince?"

Again Karim paused, wondering how much to tell, before continuing evenly, "Neither of these need concern you now. The first official you must satisfy will be the Shahbandar, what the Moghuls call the mutasaddi. The Shahbandar controls the customs house, the portal for all who would enter the Moghul’s domain. His power over the port is absolute."

Hawksworth slapped one of the bronze cannon to punctuate his dismay.

In India also! Good Jesus, every Muslin port in the world must have this same petty official. I've heard that Shahbandar is Persian for "Lord of the Haven," and if that's true the office is named perfectly. Every one I've known has had the right to refuse entry to anyone, at his whim, if bribes are insufficient and no more powerful official intervenes.

"Who does the Shahbandar here answer to? The governor? The prince? The Moghul himself? Or somebody else you haven't told me about yet?" Hawksworth tried to push back his rising anxiety.

"Captain, you have, in your guileless feringhi way, raised a question it is wiser not to pursue. I can only assure you the Shahbandar is a man of importance in Surat, and in India."

"But who should I seek out when we reach Surat?"

At that moment two bells sounded on the quarterdeck, and with them a ray from the fading sun pierced the stern window, glancing off the oak boards of the table. A twilight silence seemed to settle uneasily over the Discovery, amplifying the creaking of her boards.

"Captain, I have already told you more than most foreigners know. You would be wise to prepare now to meet the Shahbandar." Karim rose abruptly and bowed, palms together, hands at his brow. "You must forgive me. In Islam we pray at sunset."

Hawksworth stared after him in perplexity as Karim turned and vanished into the darkened companionway.

Not yet even aland, and already I sense trouble. He fears the Shahbandar, that's clear enough, but I'm not sure it's for the usual reasons. Is there some intrigue underway that we're about to be drawn into, God help us?

He took a deep breath and, fighting the ache in his leg, made his way out to the quarter gallery on the stern. A lone flying fish, marooned in the bay from its home in the open sea, burst from the almost placid waters, glinting the orange sun off its body and settling with a splash, annoying the seabirds that squabbled over gallery scraps along the port side. Seamen carrying rations of salt pork and biscuit were clambering down the companionway and through the hatch leading to the lower deck and their hammocks. Hawksworth listened to them curse the close, humid air below, and then he turned to inhale again the land breeze, permeated with a green perfume of almost palpable intensity.

Following the direction of the sweetened air, he turned and examined the darkening shore one last time. India now seemed vaguely obscured, as through a light mist. Or was it merely encroaching darkness? And through this veil the land seemed somehow to brood? Or did it beckon?

It's my imagination, he told himself. India is there all right, solid ground, and scarcely a cannon shot away. India, the place of fable and mystery to Englishmen for centuries. And also the place where a certain party of English travelers disappeared so many years ago.

That should have been a warning, he told himself. It's almost too ironic that you're the next man to try to go in. You, of all the men in England. Are you destined to repeat their tragedy?

He recalled again the story he knew all too well. The man financing those English travelers almost three decades past

had been none other than Peter Elkington, father of George Elkington, Chief Merchant on this voyage. Like his son, Peter Elkington was a swearing, drinking, whoring merchant, a big-bellied giant of a man who many people claimed looked more and more like King Harry the older and fatter he got. It was Peter Elkington's original idea those many years back to send Englishmen to India.

The time was before England met and obliterated the Armada of Spain, and long before she could hope to challenge the oceanic trade networks of the Catholic countries—Spain to the New World, Portugal to the East. In those days the only possible road to India for England and the rest of Europe still was overland, the centuries-old caravan trail that long preceded Portugal's secret new sea route around the Cape.

The idea of an English mission overland to India had grown out of Peter Elkington's Levant Company, franchised by Queen Elizabeth to exploit her new treaty with the Ottoman Turks, controllers of the caravan trade between India and the Mediterranean. Through the Levant Company, English traders could at last buy spices directly at Tripoli from overland caravans traveling the Persian Gulf and across Arabia, thereby circumventing the greedy Venetian brokers who for centuries had served as middlemen for Europe's pepper and spices.

But Peter Elkington wanted more. Why buy expensive spices at the shores of the Mediterranean? Why not extend England's own trade lines all the way to India and buy directly?

To gain intelligence for this daring trade expansion, he decided to finance a secret expedition to scout the road to India, to send a party of English traders through the Mediterranean to Tripoli, and on from there in disguise across Arabia to the Persian Gulf, where they would hire passage on a native trader all the way to the western shore of India. Their ultimate destination was the Great MoghuFs court, deep in India, and hidden in their bags would be a letter from Queen Elizabeth, proposing direct trade.

Eventually three adventurous traders were recruited to go,

led by Roger Symmes of the Levant Company. But Peter Elkington wanted a fourth, for protection, and he eventually persuaded a young army captain of some reputation to join the party. The captain—originally a painter, who had later turned soldier after the death of his wife—was vigorous, spirited, and a deadly marksman. Peter Elkington promised him a nobleman's fortune if they succeeded. And he promised to take responsibility for Captain Hawksworth's eight-year-old son, Brian, if they failed.

Peter Elkington himself came down to the Thames that cold, gray February dawn they set sail, bringing along his own son, George—a pudgy, pampered adolescent in a silk doublet. Young George Elkington regally ignored Brian Hawksworth, a snub only one of the two still remembered. As the sails slowly dissolved into the icy mist, Brian climbed atop his uncle's shoulders to catch a long last glimpse. No one dreamed that only one of the four would ever see London again.

Letters smuggled back in cipher kept the Levant Company informed of progress. The party reached Tripoli without incident, made their way successfully overland through Arabia, and then hired passage on an Arab trader for her trip down the Persian Gulf. The plan seemed to be working perfectly.

Then came a final letter, from the Portuguese fortress of Hormuz, a salt-covered island peopled by traders, overlooking the straits between the Persian Gulf and the Gulf of Oman, gateway to the Arabian Sea and India's ports. While waiting at Hormuz for passage on to India, the English party had been betrayed by a suspicious Venetian and accused of being spies. The Portuguese governor of Hormuz had nervously imprisoned them and decreed they be shipped to Goa for trial.

After waiting a few more months for further word, Peter Elkington finally summoned Brian Hawksworth to the offices of the Levant Company and read him this last letter. He then proceeded to curse the contract with Captain Hawksworth that rendered the Levant Company responsible for Brian's education should the expedition meet disaster.

Peter Elkington admitted his plan had failed, and with that admission, the Levant Company quietly abandoned its vision of direct trade with India.

But Brian Hawksworth now had a private tutor, engaged by the Levant Company, a tousle-haired young apostate recently dismissed from his post at Eton for his anti-religious views.

This new tutor scorned as dogmatic the accepted subjects of Latin, rhetoric, and Hebrew—all intended to help Elizabethan scholars fathom abstruse theological disputations—and insisted instead on mathematics, and the new subject of science. His anti-clerical outlook also meant he would teach none of the German in fashion with the Puritans, or the French and Spanish favored by Catholics. For him all that mattered was classical Greek: the language of logic, pure philosophy, mathematics, and science. The end result was that the commoner Brian Hawksworth received an education far different from, if not better than, that of most gentlemen, and one that greatly surpassed the hornbook alphabet and numbers that passed for learning among others of his own class.

To no one's surprise, Brian Hawksworth was his father's son, and he took naturally to marksmanship and fencing. But his first love came to be the English lute, his escape from the world of his tutor's hard numbers and theorems.

It lasted until the day he was fourteen, the day the Levant Company's responsibility expired. The next morning Brian Hawksworth found himself apprenticed to a Thames waterman and placed in service on one of the mud-encrusted ferryboats that plied London's main artery. After three months of misery and ill pay, he slipped away to take a berth on a North Sea merchantman. There he sensed at once his calling was the sea, and he also discovered his knowledge of mathematics gave him an understanding of navigation few other seamen enjoyed. By then he scarcely remembered his father, or the luckless expedition to India.

Until the day Roger Symmes appeared alone back in London, almost ten years after that icy morning the Levant Company's expedition had sailed. . . .

The Discovery groaned, and Hawksworth sensed the wind freshen as it whipped through the stern quarter gallery and noticed the increasingly brisk swirl of the tide. Almost time to cast off. As he made his way back to the Great Cabin for a last check, his thoughts returned again to London, those many years ago.

He had found Symmes at the offices of the Levant Company, nursing a tankard of ale as he sat very close to their large roaring fireplace. He bore little resemblance to the jaunty adventurer Hawksworth remembered from that long-ago morning on the Thames. Now he was an incongruous figure, costumed in a tight-fitting new silk doublet and wearing several large gold rings, yet with a face that was haggard beyond anything Hawksworth had ever seen. His vacant eyes seemed unable to focus as he glanced up briefly and then returned his stare to the crackling logs in the hearth. But he needed no prompting to begin his story.

"Aye, 'tis a tale to make the blood run ice." Symmes eased open a button of his ornate doublet and shakily loosened his new ruff collar. "After the Venetian rogue gets us arrest'd with his damnable lie, the bastard Portugals clap us in the hold of a coastin' barge makin' for Goa, in company with near a hundred Arab horses. When we finally make port, they haul us out of that stink hole and slam us in another, this time the Viceroy's dungeons. We took ourselves for dead men."

"But what happened to my father?" Hawksworth blinked the sweat from his eyes, wanting the story but wanting almost more to escape the overheated, timbered offices that loomed so alien.

"That's the horrible part o' the story. It happen'd the next mornin', poor luckless bastard. We're all march'd into this big stone-floor'd room where they keep the strappado."

"What's that?"

"Tis a kindly little invention o' the Portugals, lad. First they bind your hands behind your back and run the rope up over a hangin' pulley block. Then they hoist you up in the air and set to givin' it little tugs, makin' you hop like you're dancin' the French lavolta. When they tire o' the sport, or they're due to go say their rosary beads, they just give it a good strong heave and pop your arms out o' your shoulders. Jesuits claim 'twould make a Moor pray to the pope."

Hawksworth found himself watching Symmes's wild eyes as he recounted the story, and wondering how he could remember every detail of events a decade past.

"Then this young captain comes in, struttin' bastard, hardly a good twenty year on him. Later I made a point to learn his name—Vaijantes, Miguel Vaijantes."

"What did he do?"

"Had to see him, lad. Eyes black and hard as onyx. An' he sports this sword he's had made up with rubies in the handle. Ne'er saw the likes o' it, before or since, e'en in India. But he's a Portugal, tho', through an' through. No doubt on that one."

"But what did he do?"

"Why, he has the guards sling Hawksworth up in the strappado, lad, seein' he's the strongest one o' us. Figur'd he'd last longer, I suppose, make more sport."

"Vaijantes had them torture my father?"

"Aye. Think's he'll squeeze a confession and be a hero. But ol' Hawksworth ne'er said a word. All day. By nightfall Vaijantes has pull'd his arms right out. They carried him out of the room a dead man."

Hawksworth still remembered how his stomach turned at that moment, with the final knowledge that his father was not merely missing, or away—as he had told himself, and others—but had been coldly murdered. He had checked his tears, lest Symmes see, and pressed on.

"What happened to you, and to the others? Did he torture you next?"

"Would have, not a doubt on't. We all wonder'd who'd be the next one. Then that night they post a Jesuit down to our cell, a turncoat Dutchman by the name of Huyghen, who spoke perfect English, thinkin' he'd cozen us into confessin'. But he hates the Portugals e'en more'n we do. An' he tells us we'd most likely go free if we'd pretend to turn Papist. So the next day we blurt out we're actually a band o' wealthy adventurers in disguise, rich lads out to taste the world, but we've seen the error o' our ways an' we've decided to foreswear the flesh and turn Jesuits ourselves. Thinkin' of donatin' everything we own to their holy order." Symmes paused and nervously drew a small sip from his tankard of spiced ale. "Vicious Papist bastards."

"Did they really believe you?"

"Guess the Dutchman must've convinc'd 'em somehow. Anyway, our story look'd square enough to get us out on bail, there bein' no evidence for the charge o' spyin' in any case. But we'd hardly took a breath of air before our old friend the Hollander comes runnin' with news the Viceroy's council just voted to ship us back to Lisbon for trial. That happens and we're dead men. No question. We had to look to it."

Symmes seemed to find concentration increasingly difficult, but he extracted a long-stemmed pipe and began stuffing black strands into it with a trembling hand while he composed himself. Finally he continued. "Had to leave Goa that very night. What else could we do? So we traded what little we had for diamonds, sew'd 'em up in our clothes, and waded the river into India. By dawn we're beyond reach o' the Portugals. In India. An' then, lad, is when it began."

"What happened?"

"T’would take a year to tell it all. Somehow we eventually got to the Great Moghul’s court. I think he was named Akman. An' we start livin' like I never thought I'd see. Should've seen his city, lad, made London look like a Shropshire village. He had a big red marble palace called Fatehpur Sekri, with jewels common as rocks, an’ gold e'erywhere, an' gardens filled with fountains, an' mystical music like I'd ne'er heard, an' dancin' women that look'd like angels . . ."

His voice trailed off. "Ah, lad, the women there."

Symmes suddenly remembered himself and turned to examine Hawksworth with his glassy eyes. "But I fancy you're a bit young to appreciate that part o' it, lad." Then his gaze returned to the fire and he rambled on, warming to his own voice. "An' there was poets readin' Persian, and painters drawin' pictures that took days to do one the size of a book page. An' the banquets, feasts you're ne'er like to see this side o' Judgment Day."

Symmes paused to draw on his pipe for a moment, his hand still shaking, and then he plunged ahead. "But it was the Drugs that did it, lad, what they call'd affion and bhang, made out o' poppy flowers and some kind of hemp. Take enough of them and the world around you starts to get lost. After a while you ne'er want to come back. It kill'd the others, lad. God only knows how I escap'd."

Then Symmes took up his well-rehearsed monologue about the wealth he'd witnessed, stories of potential trade that had earned him a place at many a merchant's table. His tale expanded, becoming ever more fantastic, until it was impossible to tell where fact ended and wishful fabrication began.

Although Symmes had never actually met any Indian officials, and though the letter from Queen Elizabeth had been lost en route, his astonishing story of India's riches inspired the greed of all England's merchants. Excitement swelled throughout London's Cheapside, as traders began to clamor for England to challenge Portugal's monopoly of the sea passage around the Cape. Symmes, by his inflated, half-imaginary account, had unwittingly sown the first seeds of the East India Company.

Only young Brian Hawksworth, who nourished no mercantile fantasies, seemed to realize that Roger Symmes had returned from India quite completely mad.

CHAPTER FOUR

"Pinnace is afloat, Cap'n. I'm thinkin' we should stow the goods and be underway. If we're goin'." Mackintosh's silhouette was framed in the doorway of the Great Cabin, his eyes gaunt in the lantern light. Dark had dropped suddenly over the Discovery, bringing with it a cooling respite from the inferno of day.

"We'll cast off before the watch is out. Start loading the cloth and iron-work"—Hawksworth turned and pointed toward his own locked sea chest—"and send for the purser."

Mackintosh backed through the doorway and turned automatically to leave. But then he paused, his body suspended in uncertainty for a long moment. Finally he revolved again to Hawksworth.

"Have to tell you, I've a feelin' we'll na be sailin' out o' this piss-hole alive." He squinted across the semi-dark of the cabin. "It's my nose tellin' me, sir, and she's always right."

"The Company's sailed to the Indies twice before, Mackintosh."

"Aye, but na to India. The bleedin' Company ne'er dropped anchor in this nest o' Portugals. 'Twas down to Java before. With nothin' but a few Dutchmen to trouble o'er. India's na the Indies, Cap'n. The Indies is down in the Spice Islands, where seas are open. The ports o' India belong to the Portugals, sure as England owns the Straits o' Dover. So beggin' your pardon, Cap'n, this is na the Indies. This might well be Lisbon harbor."

"We'll have a secure anchorage. And once we're inland the Portugals can't touch us." Hawksworth tried to hold a tone of confidence in his voice. "The pilot says he can take us upriver tonight. Under cover of dark."

"No Christian can trust a bleedin' Moor, Cap'n. An' this one's got a curious look. Somethin' in his eyes. Can't tell if he's lookin' at you or na."

Hawksworth wanted to agree, but he stopped himself.

"Moors just have their own ways, Mackintosh. Their mind works differently. But I can already tell this one's not like the Turks." Hawksworth still had not decided what he thought about the pilot. It scarcely matters now, he told himself, we've no choice but to trust him. "Whatever he's thinking, he'll have no room to play us false."

"Maybe na, but he keeps lookin' toward the shore. Like

he's expectin' somethin'. The bastard's na tellin' us what he knows. I smell it. The nose, Cap'n."

"We'll have muskets, Mackintosh. And the cover of dark. Now load the pinnace and let's be on with it."

Mackintosh stared at the boards, shifting and tightening his belt. He started to argue more, but Hawksworth's voice stopped him.

"And, Mackintosh, order the muskets primed with pistol shot." Hawksworth recalled a trick his father had once told him about, many long years past. "If anybody ventures to surprise us, we'll hand them a surprise in turn. A musket ball's useless in the dark of night, clump of pistol shot at close quarters is another story."

The prospect of a fight seemed to transform Mackintosh. With a grin he snapped alert, whirled, and stalked down the companionway toward the main deck.

Moments later the balding purser appeared, a lifelong seaman with an unctuous smile and rapacious eyes who had dispensed stores on many a prosperous merchantman, and grown rich on a career of bribes. He mechanically logged Hawksworth's chest in his account book and then signaled the bosun to stow the heavy wooden trunk into the pinnace.

Hawksworth watched the proceedings absently as he checked the edge on his sword. Then he slipped the belt over his shoulder and secured its large brass buckle. Finally he locked the stern windows and surveyed the darkened cabin one last time.

The Discovery. May God defend her and see us all home safe. Every man.

Then without looking back he firmly closed the heavy oak door, latched it, and headed down the companionway toward the main deck.

Rolls of broadcloth lay stacked along the waist of the ship, and beside them were muskets and a keg of powder. George Elkington was checking off samples of cloth as they were loaded irto the pinnace, noting his selection in a book of accounts.

Standing next to him, watching idly, was Humphrey Spencer, youngest son of Sir Randolph Spencer. He had shipped the voyage as the assistant to Elkington, but his real motivation was not commerce but adventure, and a stock of tales to spin out in taverns when he returned. His face of twenty had suffered little from the voyage, for a stream of bribes to the knowing purser had reserved for him the choice provisions, including virtually all the honey and raisins.

Humphrey Spencer had donned a tall, brimmed hat, a feather protruding from its beaver band, and his fresh doublet of green taffeta fairly glowed in the lantern's rays. His new thigh-length hose were an immaculate tan and his ruff collar pure silk. A bouquet of perfume hovered about him like an invisible cloud.

Spencer turned and began to pace the deck in distraught agitation, oblivious to his interference as weary seamen worked around him to drag rolls of broadcloth next to the gunwales, stacking them for others to hoist and stow in the pinnace. Then he spotted Hawksworth, and his eyes brightened.

"Captain, at last you're here. Your bosun is an arrant knave, my life on't. He'll not have these rogues stow my chest."

"There's no room in the pinnace for your chest, Spencer."

"But how'm I to conduct affairs 'mongst the Moors without a gentleman's fittings?" He reviewed Hawksworth's leather jerkin and seaboots with disdain.

Before Hawksworth could reply, Elkington was pulling himself erect, wincing at the gout as his eyes blazed. "Spencer, you've enough to do just mindin' the accounts, which thus far you've shown scant aptness for." He turned and spat into the scuppers. "Your father'd have me make you a merchant, but methinks I'd sooner school an ape to sing. 'Tis tradin' we're here for, not to preen like a damn'd coxcomb. Now look to it."

"You'll accompany us, Spencer, as is your charge." Hawksworth walked past the young clerk, headed for the fo'c'sle. "The only 'fittings' you'll need are a sword and musket, which I dearly hope you know enough to use. Now prepare to board."

As Hawksworth passed the mainmast, bosun's mate John

Garway dropped the bundle he was holding and stepped forward, beaming a toothless smile.

"Beggin' your pardon, Cap'n. Might I be havin' a word?"

"What is it, Garway."

"Would you ask the heathen, sir, for the men? We've been wonderin' if there's like to be an alehouse or such in this place we're goin'. An' a few o' the kindly sex what might be friendly disposed, if you follow my reckonin', sir."

Hawksworth looked up and saw Karim waiting by the fo'c'sle, his effects rolled in a small woven tapestry under his arm. When the question was translated, the pilot laid aside the bundle and stepped toward the group of waiting seamen, who had all stopped work to listen. He studied them for a moment—ragged and rank with sweat, their faces blotched with scurvy and their hair matted with grease and lice—and smiled with expressionless eyes.

"Your men will find they can purchase arak, a local liquor as potent as any I have seen from Europe. And the public women of Surat are masters of all refinements of the senses. They are exquisite, worthy even of the Moghul himself. Accomplished women of pleasure have been brought here from all civilized parts of the world, even Egypt and Persia. I'm sure your seamen will find the accommodations of Surat worthy of their expectations."

Hawksworth translated the reply and a cheer rose from the men.

"Hear that, mates?" Master's mate Thomas Davies turned to the crowd, his face a haggard leer. "Let the rottin' Portugals swab cannon in hell. I'll be aswim in grog an' snuffin' my wick with a willin' wench. Heathen or no, 'tis all one, what say?"

A confirming hurrah lifted from the decks and the men resumed their labor with spirits noticeably replenished.

Hawksworth turned and ascended the companionway ladder to the quarterdeck, leaving behind the tense bravado. As he surveyed the deck below from his new vantage, he suddenly sensed an eerie light enveloping the chip, a curious glow that seemed almost to heighten the pensive lament of the boards and the lulling melody of wind through the rigging. Then he realized why.

The moon!

I'd forgotten. Or was I too tired to think? But now . . . it's almost like daylight. God help us, we've lost the last of our luck.

"Ready to cast off." Mackintosh mounted the companionway to the quarterdeck, his face now drawn deep with fatigue. "Shall I board the men?"

Hawksworth turned with a nod, and followed him down to the main deck.

Oarsmen began scrambling down the side of the Discovery, a motley host, shoeless and clad only in powder- smudged breeches. Though a rope ladder dangled from the gunwales, the seamen preferred to grasp the dead-eyes, easing themselves onto the raised gunport lids, and from there dropping the last few feet into the pinnace. They were followed by George Elkington, who lowered himself down the swaying ladder, breathing oaths. Hawksworth lingered by the railing, searching the moonlit horizon and the darkened coast. His senses quickened as he probed for some clue that would trigger an advance alert. But the moonlit water's edge lay barren, deserted save for an occasional beached fishing skiff, its sisal nets exposed on poles to dry. Why the emptiness? During the day there were people.

Then he sensed Karim standing beside him, also intent on the empty shore. The pilot's back was to the lantern that swung from the mainmast and his face was shrouded in shadow. Abruptly, he addressed Hawksworth in Turki.

"The face of India glories in the moonlight, do you agree? It is beautiful, and lies at peace."

"You're right about the beauty. It could almost be the coast of Wales." Hawksworth thought he sensed a powerful presence about Karim now, something he could not explain, only detect with a troubled intuition. Then the pilot spoke again.

"Have you prepared yourself to meet the Shahbandar?"

"We're ready. We have samples of English goods. And I'm an ambassador from King James. There's no reason to deny us entry.”

"I told you he is a man of importance. And he already knows, as all who matter will soon know, of your exceptional fortune today. Do you really think today's battle will go unnoticed in India?"

"I think the Portugals noticed. And I know they'll be back. But with luck we'll manage." Hawksworth felt the muscles in his throat tighten involuntarily, knowing a fleet of warships from Goa would probably be headed north within a fortnight.

"No, Captain, again you miss my meaning." Karim turned to draw closer to Hawksworth, flashing a joyless smile. "I speak of India. Not the Portuguese. They are nothing. Yes, they trouble our seas, but they are nothing. They do not rule India. Do you understand?"

Hawksworth stiffened, unsure how to respond. "I know the Moghul rules India. And that he'll have to wonder if the damned Portugals are still master of his seas."

"Surely you realize, Captain, that the Portuguese's profits are staggering. Are you also aware these profits are shared with certain persons of importance in India?"

"You mean the Portugals have bribed officials?" That's nothing new, Hawksworth thought. "Who? The Shahbandar?"

"Let us say they often give commissions." Karim waved his hand as though administering a dispensation. "But there are others whom they allow to invest directly in their trade. The profits give these persons power they often do not use wisely."

"Are you telling me the Moghul himself invests with the damned Portugals?" Hawksworth's hopes plummeted.

"On the contrary. His Majesty is an honorable man, and a simple man who knows but little of what some do in his name. But do you understand there must be one in his realm who will someday have his place? Remember he is mortal. He rules like a god, but he is mortal."

"What does this have to do with the Shahbandar? Surely he'd not challenge the Moghul. And I know the Moghul has sons . . ."

"Of course, he is not the one." Karim's smile was gentle. "But do not forget the Shahbandar is powerful, more powerful than most realize. He knows all that happens in India, for his many friends repay their obligation to him with knowledge. As for you, if he judges your wisdom worthy of your fortune today, he may choose to aid you. Your journey to Agra will not be without peril. There are already those in India who will not wish you there. Perhaps the Shahbandar can give you guidance. It will be for him to decide."

Hawksworth studied Karim incredulously. How could he know? "Whatever I may find necessary to do, it will not involve a port official like the Shahbandar. And a trip to Agra surely would not require his approval."

"But you must find your way." Karim examined Hawksworth with a quick sidelong glance, realizing he had guessed correctly. "My friend, your defeat of the Portuguese today may have implications you do not realize. But at times you talk as a fool, even more than the Portuguese. You will need a guide on your journey. Believe me when I tell you."

Karim paused for a moment to examine Hawksworth, as though wondering how to couch his next words. "Perhaps you should let the stars guide you. In the Holy Quran the Prophet has said of Allah, 'And he hath set for you the stars’ . . .”

"'That you may guide your course by them."' Hawksworth picked up the verse, "'Amid the dark of land and sea.' Yes, I learned that verse in Tunis. And I knew already a seaman steers by the stars. But I don't understand what bearing that has on a journey to Agra."

"Just as I begin to think you have wisdom, again you cease to listen. But I think now you will remember what I have said."

"Hawksworth!" Elkington's voice boomed from the pinnace below. "Have we sail'd a blessed seven month to this nest o' heathens so's to idle about and palaver?"

Hawksworth turned to see Humphrey Spencer gingerly lowering himself down the ladder into the pinnace, the feather in his hatband whipping in the night wind. The oarsmen were at their stations, ready.

"One thing more, Captain." Karim pressed a hand against Hawksworth's arm, holding him back. "One thing more I will tell you. Many feringhi, foreigners, who come to India are very unwise. Because our women keep the veil, and dwell indoors, foreigners assume they have no power, no influence. Do not act as other foolish feringhi and make this mistake. In Surat . . ."

"What women do you mean? The wives of officials?"

"Please, listen. When you reach Surat, remember one last admonition from the Quran. There it is written, 'As for women from whom you fear rebellion, admonish them and banish them to beds apart.' But sometimes a woman too can be strong-willed. She can be the one who banishes her husband, denying him his rights. If she is important, there is nothing he can do. Remember. . ."

"Damn it to hell," Elkington's voice roared again, "I'm not likin' these moonlight ventures. Tis full risk aplenty when you can see who's holdin' a knife to your throat. But if we're goin', I say let's be done with it and have off."

Hawksworth turned back to Karim, but he was gone, swinging himself lightly over the side of the Discovery and into the pinnace.

Across the moonlight-drenched swells the Resolve lay quiet, her stern lantern reassuringly aglow, ready to hoist sail for the cove. And on the Discovery seamen were at station, poised to follow. Hawksworth looked once more toward the abandoned shore, troubled, and then dropped quickly down the side into the pinnace. There was no sound now, only the cadence of the boards as the Discovery's anchor chain argued against the tide. And then a dull thud as the mooring line dropped onto the floor planking of the pinnace.

Hawksworth ordered Mackintosh to row with the tide until they reached the shelter of the river mouth, and then to ship the oars and hoist sail if the breeze held. He had picked the ablest men as oarsmen, those not wounded and least touched by scurvy, and next to each lay a heavy cutlass. He watched Mackintosh in admiration as the quartermaster effortlessly maneuvered the tiller with one hand and directed the oarsmen with the other. The moon was even more alive now, glinting off the Scotsman's red hair.

As the hypnotic rhythm of the oars lulled Hawksworth's mind, he felt a growing tiredness begin to beg at his senses. Against his will he started to drift, to follow the moonlight's dancing, prismatic tinge on the moving crest of waves. And to puzzle over what lay ahead.

Half-dozing, he found his thoughts drawn to the Shahbandar who waited in Surat, almost like a gatekeeper who held the keys to India. He mulled Karim's words again, the hints of what would unlock that doorway, and slowly his waking mind drifted out of reach. He passed unknowing into that dreamlike state where deepest truth so often lies waiting, unknown to rationality. And there, somehow, the pilot's words made perfect sense . . .

"Permission to hoist the sail." Mackintosh cut the pinnace into the river mouth, holding to the center of the channel. Hawksworth startled momentarily at the voice, then forced himself alert and scanned the dark riverbanks. There was still nothing. He nodded to Mackintosh and watched as the sail slipped quietly up the mast. Soon the wind and tide were carrying them swiftly, silently. As he watched the run of the tide against the hull, he suddenly noticed a group of round objects, deep red, bobbing past.

"Karim." Hawksworth drew his sword and pointed toward one of the balls. "What are those?"

"A fruit of our country, Captain. The topiwallahs call them ‘coconuts.’" Karim's voice was scarcely above a whisper, and his eyes left the shore for only a moment. "They are the last remains of the August festival."

"What festival is that?"

"The celebration of the Hindu traders. Marking the end of the monsoon and the opening of the Tapti River to trade. Hindus at Surat smear coconuts with vermilion and cast them into the Tapti, believing this will appease the angry life-force of the sea. They also cover barges with flowers and span them across the harbor. If you were there, you would hear them play their music and chant songs to their heathen gods."

"And the coconuts eventually float out to sea?"

"A few, yes. But mostly they are stolen by wicked boys, who swim after them. These few perhaps their gods saved for themselves."

Hawksworth examined the bobbing balls anew. The coconut was yet another legend of the Indies. Stories passed that a man could live for days on the liquor sealed within its straw-matted shell.

The moon chased random clouds, but still the riverbank was illuminated like day. The damp air was still, amplifying the music of the night—the buzz of gnats, the call of night birds, even the occasional trumpet of a distant elephant, pierced the solid wood line on either side of the narrowing river. Hawksworth tasted the dark, alert, troubled. Where are the human sounds? Where are the barges I saw plying the river mouth during the day? I sense an uneasiness in the pilot, an alarm he does not wish me to see. Damn the moon. If only we had dark.

"Karim." Hawksworth spoke softly, his eyes never long from the dense rampart of trees along the riverbank.

"What do you wish, Captain?"

"Have you ever traveled up the river before by moonlight?"

"Once, yes, many years ago. When I was young and burning for a woman after our ship had dropped anchor in the bay. I was only a karwa then, a common seaman, and I thought I would not be missed. I was wrong. The nakuda discovered me in Surat and reclaimed my wage for the entire voyage. It was a very hungry time."

"Was the river quiet then, as it is now?"

"Yes, Captain, just the same." Though Karim looked at him directly, the darkness still guarded his eyes.

"Mackintosh." Hawksworth's voice cut the silence. "Issue the muskets." His eyes swept along the shore, and then to the narrow bend they were fast approaching. Karim is lying, he told himself; at last the pilot has begun to play false with us. Why? What does he fear?

"Aye aye, Cap'n." Mackintosh was instantly alert. "What do you see?"

The sudden voices startled Elkington awake, and his nodding head snapped erect. "The damn'd Moors have settl'd in for the night. If you'd hold your peace, I could join 'em. I'll need the full o' my wits for hagglin' with that subtle lot o' thieves come the morrow. There's no Portugals. E'en the night birds are quiet as mice."

"Precisely," Hawksworth shot back. "And I would thank you to take a musket, and note its flintlock is full-cocked and the flashpan dry." Then he continued, "Mackintosh, strike the sail. And, Karim, take the tiller."

The pinnace was a sudden burst of activity, as seamen quickly hauled in the sail and began to check the prime on their flintlocks. With the sail lashed, their view was unobstructed in all directions. The tide rushing through the narrows of the approaching bend carried the pinnace ever more rapidly, and now only occasional help was needed from the oarsmen to keep it aright.

A cloud drifted over the moon, and for an instant the river turned black. Hawksworth searched the darkness ahead, silent, waiting. Then he saw it.

“On the boards!”

A blaze of musket fire spanned the river ahead, illuminating the blockade of longboats. Balls sang into the water around them while others splattered off the side of the pinnace or hissed past the mast. Then the returning moon glinted off the silver helmets of the Portuguese infantry.

As Karim instinctively cut the pinnace toward the shore, Portuguese longboats maneuvered easily toward them, muskets spewing sporadic flame. The English oarsmen positioned themselves to return the fire, but Hawksworth stopped them.

Not yet, he told himself, we'll have no chance to reload. The first round has to count. And damn my thoughtlessness, for not bringing pikes. We could have . . .

The pinnace lurched crazily and careened sideways, hurtling around broadside to the longboats.

A sandbar. We've struck a damned sandbar. But we've got to face them with the prow. Otherwise . . .

As though sensing Hawksworth's thoughts, Karim seized

an oar and began to pole the pinnace's stern off the bar. Slowly it eased around, coming about to face the approaching longboats. No sooner had the pinnace righted itself than the first longboat glanced off the side of the bow, and a grapple caught their gunwale.

Then the first Portuguese soldier leaped aboard—and doubled in a flame of sparks as Mackintosh shoved a musket into his belly and pulled the trigger. As the other English muskets spoke out in a spray of pistol shot, several Portuguese in the longboat pitched forward, writhing.

Mackintosh began to bark commands for reloading.

"Half-cock your muskets. Wipe your pans. Handle your primers. Cast about to charge . . ."

But time had run out. Two more longboats bracketed each side of the bow. And now Portuguese were piling aboard.

"Damn the muskets," Hawksworth yelled. "Take your swords."

The night air came alive with the sound of steel against steel, while each side taunted the other with unintelligible obscenities. The English were outnumbered many to one, and slowly they found themselves being driven to the stern of the pinnace. Still more Portuguese poured aboard now, as the pinnace groaned against the sand.

Hawksworth kept to the front of his men, matching the poorly trained Portuguese infantry easily. Thank God there's no more foot room, he thought, we can almost stand them man for man . . .

At that moment two Portuguese pinned Hawksworth's sword against the mast, allowing a third to gain footing and lunge. As Hawksworth swerved to avoid the thrust, his foot crashed through the thin planking covering the keel, bringing him down. Mackintosh yelled a warning and leaped forward, slashing the first soldier through the waist and sending him to the bottom of the pinnace, moaning. Then the quartermaster seized the other man by the throat and, lunging like a bull, whipped him against the mast, snapping his neck.

Hawksworth groped blindly for his sword and watched as the third soldier poised for a mortal sweep. Where is it?

Good God, he'll cut me in half.

Suddenly he felt a cold metal object pressed against his hand, and above the din he caught Humphrey Spencer's high-pitched voice, urging. It was a pocket pistol.

Did he prime it? Does he know how?

As the Portuguese soldier began his swing, Hawksworth raised the pistol and squeezed. There was a dull snap, a hiss, and then a blaze that melted the soldier's face into red.

He flung the pistol aside and seized the dying Portuguese's sword. He was armed again, but there was little advantage left. Slowly the English were crowded into a huddle of the stern. Cornered, abaft the mast, they no longer had room to parry. Hawksworth watched in horror as a burly Portuguese, his silver helmet askew, braced himself against the mast and drew back his sword to send a swath through the English. Hawksworth tried to set a parry, but his arms were pinned.

He'll kill half the men. The bastard will . . .

A bemused expression unexpectedly illuminated the soldier's face, a smile with no mirth. In an instant it transmuted to disbelief, while his raised sword clattered to the planking. As Hawksworth watched, the Portuguese's hand began to work mechanically at his chest. Then his helmet tumbled away, and he slumped forward, motionless but still erect. He stood limp, head cocked sideways, as though distracted during prayer.

Why doesn't he move? Was this all some bizarre, senseless jest?

Then Hawksworth saw the arrows. A neat row of thin bamboo shafts had pierced the soldier's Portuguese armor, riveting him to the mast.

A low-pitched hum swallowed the sudden silence, as volleys of bamboo arrows sang from the darkness of the shore. Measured, deadly. Hawksworth watched in disbelief as one by one the Portuguese soldiers around them crumpled, a few firing wildly into the night. In what seemed only moments it was over, the air a cacophony of screams and moaning death.

Hawksworth turned to Karim, noting fright in the pilot's eyes for the very first time.

"The arrows." He finally found his voice. "Whose are they?"

"I can probably tell you." The pilot stepped forward and deftly broke away the feathered tip on one of the shafts still holding the Portuguese to the mast. As he did so, the other arrows snapped and the Portuguese slumped against the gunwale, then slipped over the side and into the dark water. Karim watched him disappear, then raised the arrow to the moonlight. For an instant Hawksworth thought he saw a quizzical look enter the pilot's eyes.

Before he could speak, lines of fire shot across the surface of the water, as fire arrows came, slamming into the longboats as they drifted away on the tide. Streak after streak found the hulls and in moments they were torches. In the flickering light, Hawksworth could make out what seemed to be grapples, flashing from the shore, pulling the floating bodies of the dead and dying to anonymity. He watched spellbound for a moment, then turned again toward the stern.

"Karim, I asked whose arrows . . ."

The pilot was gone. Only the English seamen remained, dazed and uncomprehending.

Then the night fell suddenly silent once more, save for the slap of the running tide against the hull.

BOOK TWO

SURAT— THE THRESHOLD

[CHAPTER FIVE]

The room was musty and close, as though the rainy season had not passed, and the floor was hard mud. Through crude wooden shutters they could glimpse the early sun stoking anew for the day's inferno, but now it merely washed the earthen walls in stripes of golden light.

Hawksworth stood by the window examining the grassy square that spanned out toward the river. The porters, in whose lodge they were confined, milled about the open area, chanting and sweating as they unloaded large bales of cotton from the two-wheeled bullock carts that continually rolled into the square. He steadied himself against the heavy wooden frame of the window and wondered if his land legs would return before the day was out.

"God curse all Moors." Mackintosh stooped over the tray resting on the grease-smudged center carpet and pulled a lid from one of the earthen bowls. He stared critically at the dense, milky liquid inside, then gingerly dipped in a finger and took a portion to his lips. He tested the substance—tangy curds smelling faintly of spice—and his face hardened.

"Tis damned spoilt milk." He spat fiercely onto the carpet and seized a piece of fried bread to purge the taste. "Fitter for swine than men."

"What'd they do with the samples?" Elkington sprawled heavily in the corner, his eyes bloodshot from the all-night vigil upriver. "With no guards the heathens'll be thievin' the lot." He squinted toward the window, but made no effort to move. His exhaustion and despair were total.

"The goods are still where they unloaded them." Hawksworth revolved toward the room. "They say nothing happens till the Shahbandar arrives."

"What'd they say about him?" Elkington slowly drew himself to his feet.

"They said he arrives at mid morning, verifies his seal on the customs house door, and then orders it opened. They also said that all traders must be searched personally by his officers. He imposes duty on everything, right down to the shillings in your pocket."

"Damn'd if I'll pay duty. Not for samples."

"That's what I said. And they ignored me. It seems to be law." Hawksworth noticed that the gold was dissolving from the dawn sky, surrendering to a brilliant azure. He turned, scooped a portion of curds onto a piece of fried bread, and silently chewed as he puzzled over the morning. And the night before.

Who had saved them? And why? Did someone in India hate the Portuguese so much they would defend the English before even knowing who they were? No one in India could know about King James's letter, about the East India Company's plans. No one. Even George Elkington did not know everything. Yet someone in India already wanted the English alive. He had wrestled with the question for the rest of the trip upriver, and he could think of no answers. They had been saved for a reason, a reason he did not know, and that worried him even more than the Portuguese.

Without a pilot they had had to probe upriver slowly, sounding for sandbars with an oar. Finally, when they were near exhaustion, the river suddenly curved and widened. Then, in the first dim light of morning, they caught the unmistakable outlines of a harbor. It had to be Surat. The river lay north-south now, with the main city sprawled along its eastern shore. The tide began to fall back, depleted, and he realized they had timed its flow perfectly.

As they waited for dawn, the port slowly revealed itself in the eastern glow. Long stone steps emerged directly from the Tapti River and broadened into a wide, airy square flanked on three sides by massive stone buildings. The structure on the downriver side was obviously a fortress, built square with a large turret at each corner, and along the top of walls Hawksworth could see the muzzles of cannon—they looked to be eight-inchers—trained directly on the water. And in the waning dark he spotted tiny points of light, spaced regularly along the top of the fortress walls. That could only mean one thing.

"Mackintosh, ship the oars and drop anchor. We can't dock until daylight."

"Aye, Cap'n, but why not take her in now? We can see to make a landin'."

"And they can see us well enough to position their cannon. Look carefully along there." Hawksworth directed his gaze toward the top of the fortress. "They've lighted linstocks for the guns."

"Mother of God! Do they think we're goin' to storm their bleedin' harbor with a pinnace?"

"Probably a standard precaution. But if we hold here, at least we'll keep at the edge of their range. And we'd better put all weapons out of sight. I want them to see a pinnace of friendly traders at sunup."

The dawn opened quickly, and as they watched, the square blossomed to life. Large two-wheeled carts appeared through the half-dark, drawn by muscular black oxen, some of whose horns had been tipped in silver. One by one the oxen lumbered into the square, urged forward by the shouts and beatings of turbaned drivers who wore folded white skirts instead of breeches. Small fires were kindled by some of the men, and the unmistakable scent of glowing dung chips savored the dark clouds of smoke that drifted out across the river's surface.

Then Hawksworth first noticed the bathers that had appeared along the shore on either side of the stone steps: brown men stripped to loincloths and women in brilliantly colored head-to-toe wraps were easing themselves ceremoniously into the chilled, mud-colored water, some bowing repeatedly in the direction of the rising sun. Only the waters fronting the stairway remained unobstructed.

When the dawn sky had lightened to a muted red, Hawksworth decided to start their move. He surveyed the men crowded in the pinnace one last time, and read in some faces expectation and in others fear. But in all there was bone-deep fatigue. Only Elkington seemed fully absorbed in the vision that lay before them.

Even from their distance the Chief Merchant was already assessing the goods being unloaded from the carts: rolls of brown cloth, bundles of indigo, and bales of combed cotton fiber. He would point, then turn and gesture excitedly as he lectured Spencer.

The young clerk was now a bedraggled remnant of fashion in the powder-smudged remains of his new doublet. The plumed hat he had worn as they cast off had been lost in the attack downriver, and now he crouched in the bottom of the pinnace, humiliated and morose, his eyes vacant.

"Mackintosh, weigh anchor. We'll row to the steps. Slowly."

The men bobbed alert as they hoisted the chain into the prow of the pinnace. Oars were slipped noisily into their rowlocks and Mackintosh signaled to get underway.

As they approached the stairway, alarmed cries suddenly arose from the sentinels stationed on stone platforms flanking either side of the steps. In moments a crowd collected along the river, with turbaned men shouting in a language Hawksworth could not place and gesturing the pinnace away from the dock. What could they want, he asked himself? Who are they? They're not armed. They don't look hostile. Just upset.

"Permission to land." Hawksworth shouted to them in Turkish, his voice slicing through the din and throwing a sudden silence over the crowd.

"The customs house does not open until two hours before midday," a tall, bearded man shouted back. Then he squinted toward the pinnace. "Who are you? Portuguese?"

"No, we're English." So that's it, Hawksworth thought. They assumed we were Portugals with a boatload of booty. Here for a bit of private trade.

The man examined the pinnace in confusion. Then he shouted again over the waters.

"You are not Portuguese?"

"I told you we're English."

"Only Portuguese topiwallahs are allowed to trade." The man was now scrutinizing the pinnace in open perplexity.

"We've no goods for trade. Only samples." Hawksworth tried to think of a way to confound the bureaucratic mind. "We only want food and drink."

"You cannot land at this hour."

"In name of Allah, the Merciful." Hawksworth stretched for his final ploy, invocation of that hospitality underlying all Islamic life. Demands can be ignored. A traveler's need, never. "Food and drink for my men."

Miraculously, it seemed to work. The bearded man stopped short and examined them again closely. Then he turned and dictated rapidly to the group of waiting porters. In moments the men had plunged into the chilled morning water, calling for the mooring line of the pinnace. As they towed the pinnace into the shallows near the steps, other porters swarmed about the boat and gestured to indicate the English should climb over the gunwales and be carried ashore.

They caught hold of George Elkington first. He clung futilely to the gunwales as he was dragged cursing from the bobbing pinnace and hoisted on the backs of two small Indian men. Arms flailing, he toppled himself from their grasp and splashed backward into the muddy Tapti. After he floated to the surface, sputtering, he was dragged bodily from the water and up the steps. Then the others were carried ashore, and only Mackintosh tried to protest.

The last to leave the pinnace, Hawksworth hoisted himself off the prow and onto the back of a wiry Indian whose thin limbs belied their strength. The man's turban smelled faintly of sweat, but his well-worn shirt was spotless. His dark eyes assessed Hawksworth with a practiced sidelong glance, evaluating his attire, his importance, and the approximate cash value of his sword in a single sweep.

Only after the porters had deposited them on the stone steps did Hawksworth finally realize that India's best port had no wharf, that human backs served as the loading platform for all men and goods. As he looked around, he also noticed they had been surrounded by a crowd of men, not identified by turbans as were the porters but uniformed more expensively and wielding long, heavy canes. Wordlessly, automatically, the men aligned themselves in two rows to create a protected pathway leading up the steps and into the square. Hawksworth watched as they beat back the gathering crowd of onlookers with their canes, and he suddenly understood this was how the port prevented traders from passing valuables to an accomplice in the crowd and circumventing customs.

Then the tall bearded man approached Hawksworth, smiled professionally, and bowed in the manner of Karim, hands together at the brow. "You are welcome in the name of the Shahbandar, as a guest only, not as a trader."

Without further greeting he directed them across the open square toward a small stone building. "You will wait in the porters' lodge until the customs house opens." As he ordered the heavy wooden door opened, he curtly added, "The Shahbandar will rule whether your presence here is permitted."

He had watched them enter, and then he was gone. Shortly after, the food had appeared.

Hawksworth examined the room once more, its close air still damp with the chill of dawn. The walls were squared, and the ceiling high and arched. In a back corner a niche had been created, and in it rested a small round stone pillar, presumably a religious object but one Hawksworth did not recognize. Who would venerate a column of stone, he mused, particularly one which seems almost like a man's organ? It can't be the Muslims. They worship their own organs like no other race, but they generally honor their law against icons. So it must be for the gentiles, the Hindus. Which means that the porters are Hindus and their overseers Moors. That's the privilege of conquerors. Just like every other land the Moors have seized by the sword.

He glanced again at the tray and noted that the food had been completely devoured, consumed by ravenous seamen who would have scorned to touch milk curds six months before. After a moment's consideration, Hawksworth turned and seated himself on the edge of the carpet. There's nothing to be done. We may as well rest while we have the chance.

George Elkington had rolled himself in a corner of the

carpet and now he dozed fitfully. Humphrey Spencer fought sleep as he worked vainly to brush away the powder smudges from his doublet. Mackintosh had finished whetting his seaman's knife and now sat absorbed in searching his hair for lice. Bosun's mate John Garway lounged against a side wall, idly scratching his codpiece and dreaming of the women he would soon have, his toothless smile fixed in sleepy anticipation. The master's mate, Thomas Davies, dozed in a heap by the door, his narrow face depleted and aged with scurvy. In a back corner dice and a pile of coins had miraculously appeared, and the other seamen sprawled about them on the floor, bloodshot eyes focused on the chance numbers that would spell the longest splurge in port. Hawksworth stretched his wounded leg once more, leaned stiffly against the front wall, and forced his mind to drift again into needed rest.

Hawksworth was suddenly alert, his senses troubled. The sun had reached midmorning now, and it washed the mud floor in brilliant yellow light. He sensed that a heavy shadow had passed through its beam. He had not specifically seen it, but somehow, intuitively, he knew. Without a word he edged to the side of the heavy wooden door, his hand close to his sword handle. All the others except Mackintosh were by now asleep. Only the quartermaster had noticed it. He quickly moved to the side of the door opposite Hawksworth and casually drew his heavy, bone-handled knife.

Without warning the door swung outward.

Facing them was the same bearded man who had invited them ashore. The square behind him was bright now with the glare of late morning, and in the light Hawksworth realized he was wearing an immaculate white turban, a long blue skirt over tightly fitting white breeches, and ornate leather shoes, turned up at the toe in a curved point. This time, however, he no longer bore welcome.

"Where have you anchored your ships?" The Turki was accented and abrupt.

News travels fast, Hawksworth thought, as he tried to shove the haze from his mind. "Where is the Shahbandar?"

"Your merchantmen were not in the bay this morning. Where are they now?" The man seemed to ignore Hawksworth's question.

"I demand to see the Shahbandar. And I'll answer no questions till I do."

"You do not demand of the Shahbandar." The man's black beard worked nervously, even when he paused. "You and all your men are to be brought to the customs house, together with your goods."

"Where is he now?"

"He is here."

"Where?"

The Indian turned and gestured quickly across the maidan, the square, toward the large windowless stone building that sat on the water's edge opposite the fortress. Hawksworth looked at the cluster of armed guards and realized this must be the mint. This was the building, he now remembered Karim telling him, where foreign money was "exchanged." All foreign coins, even Spanish rials of eight, were required to be melted down and reminted into rupees before they could be used for purchase. Supposedly a protection against counterfeit or base coin, this requirement produced months of delay. The Shahbandar gave only one alternative to traders in a hurry: borrow ready-made rupees at exorbitant interest.

"After he has authorized the beginning of today's work at the mint, he will verify the seal on the door of the customs house"—he pointed to the squat building adjoining their lodge—"and open it for today. All goods must be taxed and receive his chapp or seal before they can enter or leave India."

The men had begun to stir, and Hawksworth turned to translate. The English assembled warily, and the air came alive with an almost palpable apprehension as Hawksworth led them into the bustling square.

"We must wait." The tall Indian suddenly paused near the center of the maidan, just as a group of guards emerged from the mint. Each wore a heavy sword, and they were escorting a large closed palanquin carried on the shoulders of four bearers dressed only in white skirts folded about their waist. The guards cleared a path through the crowd of merchants, and made their way slowly to the door of the customs house. The crowd surged in behind them, blocking the view, but moments later the tall doors of the customs house were seen to swing open, and the crowd funneled in, behind the palanquin and the guards. Then the Indian motioned for them to follow.

The interior of the customs house smelled of sweat, mingled with spice and the dusty fragrance of indigo. As oil lamps were lighted and attached to the side walls, the milling crowd grew visible. Through the semi-dark porters were already bearing the English goods in from the maidan and piling them in one of the allotted stalls.

The tall guide turned to Hawksworth. "You and all your men must now be searched, here in the counting room."

"I'll not allow it." Hawksworth motioned the English back. "I told you I demand to see the Shahbandar."

"He'll receive you when he will. He has not granted an audience."

"Then we'll not be searched. Tell him that. Now."

The Indian paused for a moment, then reluctantly turned and made his way toward a door at the rear of the large room. Elkington pressed forward, his face strained.

"Tell the bleedin' heathen we're English. We'll not be treated like this rabble." He motioned around the room, a bedlam of Arab, Persian, and Indian traders who eyed the English warily as they shouted for the attention of customs inspectors and competed to bribe porters.

"Just hold quiet. I think they know exactly who we are. And they know about the ships."

As they waited, Hawksworth wondered what he should tell the Shahbandar, and he again puzzled over the words of Karim. Think. What can you tell him that he hasn't already heard? I'll wager he knows full well we were attacked by Portugals in the bay. That we burned and sank two galleons. Will he now hold us responsible for warfare in Indian waters? I'll even wager he knows we were attacked on the river. And who saved us.

The large Indian was returning, striding through the center aisle accompanied by four of the Shahbandar's guards. He motioned for Hawksworth to follow, alone.

The door of the rear chamber was sheathed in bronze, with heavy ornate hinges and an immense hasp. It seemed to swing open of itself as they approached.

And they were in the chamber of the Shahbandar.

As he entered, Hawksworth was momentarily blinded by the blaze of oil lamps that lined the walls of the room. Unlike the simple plaster walls and pillars of the outer receiving area, this inner chamber was forbiddingly ornate, with gilded ceilings almost thirty feet high. The room was already bustling with clerks straightening piles of account books and readying themselves for the day's affairs.

The room fell silent and a way suddenly cleared through the center, as the Hindu clerks fell back along the walls. They all wore tight, neat headdresses and formal cotton top shirts, and Hawksworth felt a sudden consciousness of his own clothes—muddy boots and powder-smeared jerkin and breeches. For the first time since they arrived he found himself in a room with no other Europeans. The isolation felt sudden and complete.

Then he saw the Shahbandar.

On a raised dais at the rear of the room, beneath a canopy of gold-embroidered cloth, sat the chief port official of India. He rested stiffly on a four-legged couch strewn with cushions, and he wore a turban of blue silk, narrow- patterned trousers, and an embroidered tan robe that crossed to the right over his plump belly and was secured with a row of what appeared to be rubies. He seemed oblivious to Hawksworth as he cursed and drew on the end of a tube being held to his mouth by an attending clerk. The clerk's other hand worked a burning taper over the open top of a long-necked clay pot. The tube being held to the Shahbandar's mouth was attached to a spout on the side. Suddenly Hawksworth heard a gurgle from the pot and saw the Shahbandar inhale a mouthful of dark smoke.

"Tobacco is the only thing the topiwallahs ever brought to India that she did not already have. Even then we still had to

devise the hookah to smoke it properly." He inhaled appreciatively. "It is forbidden during this month of Ramadan, but no man was made to fast during daylight and also forgo tobacco. The morning sun still rose in the east, and thus it is written the gate of repentance remains open to God's servants."

The Shahbandar examined Hawksworth with curiosity. His face recalled hard desert nomad blood, but now it was softened with ease, plump and moustachioed. He wore gold earrings, and he was barefoot.

"Favor me by coming closer. I must see this feringhi captain who brings such turmoil to our waters." He turned and cursed the servant as the hookah continued to gurgle inconclusively. Then a roll of smoke burst through the tube and the Shahbandar's eyes mellowed as he drew it deeply into his lungs. He held the smoke for a moment while he gazed quizzically at Hawksworth, squinting as though the air between them were opaque.

"They tell me you are English. May I have the pleasure to know your name?"

"I'm Brian Hawksworth, captain of the frigate Discovery. May I also have the privilege of an introduction."

"I will stand before Allah as Mirza Nuruddin." He again drew deeply on the hookah. "But here I am the Shahbandar." He exhaled a cloud and examined Hawksworth. "Your ship and another were in our bay yesterday. I am told they weighed anchor at nightfall. Do English vessels customarily sail without their captain?"

"When they have reason to do so." Hawksworth fixed him squarely, wondering if he was really almost blind or if he merely wanted to appear so.

"And what, Captain . . . Hawksworth, brings you and your contentious warships to our port? It is not often our friends the Portuguese permit their fellow Christians to visit us."

"Our ships are traders of England's East India Company."

"Do not squander my time telling me what I already know." The Shahbandar suddenly seemed to erupt. "They have never before come to India. Why are you here now?"

Hawksworth sensed suddenly that the Shahbandar had been merely toying with him. That he knew full well why they had come and had already decided what to do. He recalled the words of Karim, declaring the Shahbandar had his own private system of spies.

"We are here for the same reason we have visited the islands. To trade the goods of Europe."

"But we already do trade with Europeans. The Portuguese. Who also protect our seas."

"Have you found profit in it?"

"Enough. But it is not your place to question me, Captain Hawksworth."

"Then you may wish to profit through English trade as well."

"And your merchants, I assume, also expect to profit here."

"That's the normal basis of trade." Hawksworth shifted, easing his leg.

The Shahbandar glanced downward, but without removing his lips from the tube of the hookah. "I notice you have a wound, Captain Hawksworth. Yours would seem a perilous profession."

"It's sometimes even more perilous for our enemies."

"I presume you mean the Portuguese." The Shahbandar cursed the servant anew and called for a new taper to fire the hookah. "But their perils are over. Yours have only begun. Surely you do not expect they will allow you to trade here."

"Trade here is a matter between England and India. It does not involve the Portugals."

The Shahbandar smiled. "But we have a trade agreement with the Portuguese, a firman signed by His Majesty, the Moghul of India, allowing them free access to our ports. We have no such agreement with England."

"Then we were mistaken. We believed the port of Surat belonged to India, not to the Portugals." Hawksworth felt his palms moisten at the growing game of nerves. "India, you would say, has no ports of her own. No authority to trade with whom she will."

"You come to our door with warfare and insolence, Captain Hawksworth. Perhaps I would have been surprised if you had done otherwise." The Shahbandar paused to draw thoughtfully on the smoking mouthpiece. "Why should I expect this? Although you would not ask, let me assume you have. The reputation of English sea dogs is not unknown in the Indies."

"And I can easily guess who brought you these libelous reports of England. Perhaps you should examine their motives."

"We have received guidance in our judgment from those we have trusted for many years." The Shahbandar waved aside the hookah and fixed Hawksworth with a hard gaze.

Hawksworth returned the unblinking stare for a moment while an idea formed in his mind. "I believe it once was written, 'There are those who purchase error at the price of guidance, so their commerce does not prosper. Neither are they guided.'"

A sudden hush enveloped the room as the Shahbandar examined Hawksworth with uncharacteristic surprise. For a moment his eyes seemed lost in concentration, then they quickly regained their focus. "The Holy Quran—Surah II, if I have not lost the lessons of my youth." He stopped and smiled in disbelief. "It's impossible a topiwallah should know the words of the Merciful Prophet, on whom be peace. You are a man of curious parts, English captain." Again he paused. "And you dissemble with all the guile of a mullah."

"I merely speak the truth."

"Then speak the truth to me now, Captain Hawksworth. Is it not true the English are a notorious nation of pirates? That your merchants live off the commerce of others, pillaging where they see fit. Should I not inquire, therefore, whether you intrude into our waters for the same purpose?"

"England has warred in years past on her rightful enemies. But our wars are over. The East India Company was founded for peaceful trade. And the Company is here for no purpose but to trade peacefully with merchants in Surat." Hawksworth dutifully pressed forward. "Our two merchantmen bring a rich store of English goods—woolens, ironwork, lead . . ."

"While you war with the Portuguese, in sight of our very shores. Will you next make war on our own merchants? I'm told it is your historic livelihood."

As he studied Hawksworth, the Shahbandar found himself reflecting on the previous evening. The sun had set and the Ramadan meal was already underway when Father Manoel Pinheiro, the second-ranked Portuguese Jesuit in India, had appeared at his gates demanding an audience.

For two tiresome hours he had endured the Jesuit's pained excuses for Portugal's latest humiliation at sea. And his boasts that the English would never survive a trip upriver. And for the first time Mirza Nuruddin could remember, he had smelled fear.

Mirza Nuruddin had sensed no fear in the Portuguese eight years before, when an English captain named Lancaster had attacked and pillaged a Portuguese galleon in the seas off Java. Then the Viceroy of Goa brayed he would know retribution, although nothing was ever done. And a mere five years ago the Viceroy himself led a fleet of twelve warships to Malacca boasting to burn the eleven Dutch merchantmen lading there. And the Dutch sank almost his entire fleet. Now the pirates of Malabar daily harassed Indian shipping the length of the western coast and the Portuguese patrols seemed powerless to control them. In one short decade, he told himself, the Portuguese have shown themselves unable to stop the growing Dutch spice trade in the islands, unable to rid India's coasts of pirates, and now . . . now unable to keep other Europeans from India's own doorstep.

He studied Hawksworth again and asked himself why the English had come. And why the two small English vessels had challenged four armed galleons, instead of turning and making for open sea? To trade a cargo of wool? No cargo was worth the risk they had taken. There had to be another reason. And that reason, or whatever lay behind it, terrified the Portuguese. For the first time ever.

"We defend ourselves when attacked. That's all." Hawksworth found himself wanting to end the questions, to escape the smoky room and the Shahbandar's intense gaze. "That has no bearing on our request to trade in this port."

"I will take your request under advisement. In the meantime you and your men will be searched and your goods taxed, in keeping with our law."

"You may search the men if you wish. But I am here as representative of the king of England. And as his representative I will not allow my personal chest to be searched, no more than His Majesty, King James of England, would submit to such an indignity." Hawksworth decided to reach for all the authority his ragged appearance would allow.

"All feringhi, except ambassadors, must be searched. Do you claim that immunity?"

"I am an ambassador, and I will be traveling to Agra to represent my king."

"Permission for feringhi to travel in India must come from the Moghul himself." The Shahbandar's face remained impassive but his mind raced. The stakes of the English game were not wool, he suddenly realized, but India. The English king was challenging Portugal for the trade of India. Their audacity as astonishing. "A request can be sent to Agra by the governor of this province."

"Then I must see him to ask that a message be sent to Agra. For now, I demand that my personal effects be released from the customs house. And that no duty be levied on our goods, which are samples and not for sale."

"If your goods are not taxed, they will remain in the customs house. That is the law. Because you claim to represent your king, I will forgo my obligation to search your person. All of your men, however, will be searched down to their boots, and any goods or coin they bring through this port will be taxed according to the prevailing rate. Two and one-half percent of value."

"Our Chief Merchant wishes to display his samples to your traders."

"I have told you I will consider your request for trade.

There are many considerations." He signaled for the hookah to be lighted again. The interview seemed to be ended.

Hawksworth bowed with what formality he could muster and turned toward the counting-room door.

"Captain Hawksworth. You will not be returning to your men. I have made other arrangements for your lodging."

Hawksworth revolved to see four porters waiting by an open door at the Shahbandar's left.

I must be tired. I hadn't noticed the door until now.

Then he realized it had been concealed in the decorations on the wall. When he did not move, the porters surrounded him.

No, they're not porters. They're the guards who held back the crowds from the steps. And they're armed now.

"I think you will find your lodgings suitable." The Shahbandar watched Hawksworth's body tense. "My men will escort you. Your chest will remain here under my care."

The Shahbandar returned again to his gurgling hookah.

"My chest will not be subject to search. If it is to be searched, I will return now to my ship." Hawksworth still did not move. "Your officials will respect my king, and his honor."

"It is in my care." The Shahbandar waved Hawksworth toward the door. He did not look up from his pipe.

As Hawksworth passed into the midday sunshine, he saw the Shahbandar's own palanquin waiting by the door. Directly ahead spread the city's teeming horse and cattle bazaar, while on his right, under a dense banyan tree, a dark-eyed beggar sat on a pallet, clothed only in a white loincloth and wearing ashes in his braided hair and curious white and red marks on his forehead. His eyes were burning and intense, and he inspected the new feringhi as though he'd just seen the person of the devil.

Why should I travel hidden from view, Hawksworth puzzled?

But there was no time to ponder an answer. The cloth covering was lifted and he found himself urged into the cramped conveyance, made even more comfortless and hot by its heavy carpet lining and bolster seat. In moments the street had disappeared into jolting darkness.

[CHAPTER SIX]

He felt the palanquin drop roughly onto a hard surface, and when the curtains were pulled aside he looked down to see the stone mosaic of a garden courtyard. They had traveled uphill at least part of the time, with what seemed many unnecessary turns and windings, and now they were hidden from the streets by the high walls of a garden enclosure. Tall slender palms lined the inside of the garden's white plaster wall, and denser trees shaded a central two-story building, decorated around its entry with raised Arabic lettering in ornate plasterwork. The guards motioned him through the large wooden portico of the house, which he began to suspect might be the residence of a wealthy merchant. After a long hallway, they entered a spacious room with clean white walls and a thick center carpet over a floor of patterned marble inlay. Large pillows lay strewn about the carpet, and the air hung heavy with the stale scent of spice.

It's the house of a rich merchant or official, all right. What else can it be? The decorated panels on the doors and the large brass knobs all indicate wealth. But what's the room for? For guests? No. It's too empty. There's almost no furniture. No bed. No . . .

Then suddenly he understood. A banquet room.

He realized he had never seen a more sumptuous private dining hall, even among the aristocracy in London. The guards closed the heavy wooden doors, but there was no sound of their footsteps retreating.

Who are they protecting me from?

A servant, with skin the color of ebony and a white turban that seemed to enclose a large part of his braided and folded-up beard, pushed open an interior door to deposit a silver tray. More fried bread and a bowl of curds.

"Where am I? Whose house . . . ?"

The man bowed, made hand signs pleading incomprehension, and retreated without a word.

As Hawksworth started to reach for a piece of the bread, the outer door opened, and one of the guards stepped briskly to the tray and stopped his hand. He said nothing, merely signaled to wait. Moments later another guard also entered, and with him was a woman. She was unveiled, with dark skin and heavy gold bangles about her ankles. She stared at Hawksworth with frightened eyes. Brisk words passed in an alien language, and then the woman pointed to Hawksworth and raised her voice as she replied to the guard. He said nothing, but simply lifted a long, sheathed knife from his waist and pointed it toward the tray, his gesture signifying all. After a moment's pause, the woman edged forward and gingerly sampled the curds with her fingers, first sniffing and then reluctantly tasting. More words passed, after which the guards bowed to Hawksworth almost imperceptibly and escorted the woman from the room, closing the door.

Hawksworth watched in dismay and then turned again to examine the dishes.

If they're that worried, food can wait. Who was she? Probably a slave. Of the Shahbandar?

He removed his boots, tossed them in the corner, and eased himself onto the bolsters piled at one end of the central carpet. The wound in his leg had become a dull ache.

Jesus help me, I'm tired. What does the Shahbandar really want? Why was Karim so fearful of him? And what's the role of the governor in all this? Will all these requests and permissions and permits end up delaying us so long the Portugals will find our anchorage? And what will the governor want out of me?

He tried to focus his mind on the governor, on a figure he sculpted in his imagination. A fat, repugnant, pompous bureaucrat. But the figure slowly began to transform, and in time it became the Turk who had imprisoned him in Tunis, with a braided fez and a jeweled dagger at his waist. The fat Turk was not listening, he was issuing a decree. You will stay. Only then will I have what I want. What I must have. Next a veiled woman entered the room, and her eyes were like Maggie's. She seized his hand and guided him toward the women's apartments, past the frowning guards, who raised large scimitars in interdiction until she waved them aside. Then she led him to the center of a brilliantly lighted room, until they stood before a large stone pillar, a pillar like the one in the porters' lodge except it was immense, taller than his head. You belong to me now, her eyes seemed to say, and she began to bind him to the pillar with silken cords. He struggled to free himself, but the grasp on his wrists only became stronger. In panic he struck out and yelled through the haze of incense.

"Let . . . !"

"I'm only trying to wake you, Captain." A voice cut through the nightmare. "His Eminence, the Shahbandar, has requested that I attend your wound."

Hawksworth startled awake and was reaching for his sword before he saw the swarthy little man, incongruous in a white swath of a skirt and a Portuguese doublet, nervously shaking his arm. The man pulled back in momentary surprise, then dropped his cloth medicine bag on the floor and began to carefully fold a large red umbrella. Hawksworth noted he wore no shoes on his dusty feet.

"Allow me to introduce myself." He bowed ceremoniously. "My name is Mukarjee. It is my honor to attend the celebrated new feringhi." His Turki was halting and strongly accented.

He knelt and deftly cut away the wrapping on Hawksworth's leg. "And who applied this?" With transparent disdain he began uncoiling the muddy bandage. "The Christian topiwallahs constantly astound me. Even though my daughter is married to one." One eyebrow twitched nervously as he worked.

Hawksworth stared at him through a groggy haze, marveling at the dexterity of his chestnut-brown hands. Then he glanced nervously at the vials of colored liquid and jars of paste the man was methodically extracting from his cloth bag.

"It was our ship's physician. He swathed this after attending a dozen men with like wounds or worse."

"No explanations are necessary. Feringhi methods are always unmistakable. In Goa, where I lived for many years after leaving Bengal, I once served in a hospital built by Christian priests."

"You worked in a Jesuit hospital?"

"I did indeed." He began to scrape away the oily powder residue from the wound. Hawksworth's leg jerked involuntarily from the flash of pain. "Please do not move. Yes, I served there until I could abide it no more. It was a very exclusive hospital. Only feringhi were allowed to go there to be bled."

He began to wash the wound, superficial but already festering, with a solution from one of the vials. "Yes, we Indians were denied that almost certain entry into Christian paradise represented by its portals. But it was usually the first stop for arriving Portuguese, after the brothels."

"But why do so many Portuguese sicken after they reach Goa?" Hawksworth watched Mukarjee begin to knead a paste that smelled strongly of sandalwood spice.

"It's well that you ask, Captain Hawksworth." Mukarjee tested the consistency of the sandalwood paste with his finger and then placed it aside, apparently to thicken. "You appear to be a strong man, but after many months at sea you may not be as virile as you assume."

He absently extracted a large, dark green leaf from the pocket of his doublet and dabbed it in a paste he kept in a crumpled paper. Then he rolled it around the cracked pieces of a small brown nut, popped it into his mouth, and began to chew. Suddenly remembering himself, he stopped and produced another leaf from his pocket.

"Would you care to try betel, what they call pan here in Surat? It's very healthy for the teeth. And the digestion."

"What is it?"

"A delicious leaf. I find I cannot live without it, so perhaps it's a true addiction. It's slightly bitter by itself, but if you roll it around an areca nut and dip it in a bit of lime—which we make from mollusk shells—it is perfectly exquisite."

Hawksworth shook his head in wary dissent, whereupon Mukarjee continued, settling himself on his haunches and sucking contentedly on the rolled leaf as he spoke. "You ask why I question your well-being, Captain? Because a large number of the feringhis who come to Goa, and India, are doomed to die."

"You already said that. From what? Poison in their food?"

Mukarjee examined him quizzically for a moment as he concentrated on the rolled leaf, savoring the taste, and Hawksworth noticed a red trickle emerge from the corner of his mouth and slide slowly off his chin. He turned and discharged a mouthful of juice into a small brass container, clearing his mouth to speak.

"The most common illness for Europeans here is called the bloody flux." Mukarjee tested the paste again with his finger, and then began to stir it vigorously with a wooden spatula. "For four or five days the body burns with intense heat, and then either it is gone or you are dead."

"Are there no medicines?" Hawksworth watched as he began to spread the paste over the wound.

"Of course there are medicines." Mukarjee chuckled resignedly. "But the Portuguese scorn to use them."

"Probably wisely," Hawksworth reflected. "It's said the flux is caused by an excess of humors in the blood. Bleeding is the only real remedy."

"I see." Mukarjee began to apply the paste and then to bind Hawksworth's leg with a swath of white cloth. "Yes, my friend, that is what the Portuguese do—you must hold still—and I have personally observed how effective it is in terminating illness."

"The damned Jesuits are the best physicians in Europe."

"So I have often been told. Most frequently at funerals." Mukarjee quickly tied a knot in the binding and spat another mouthful of red juice. "Your wound is really nothing more than a scratch. But you would have been dead in a fortnight. By this, if not by exertion."

"What do you mean?" Hawksworth rose and tested his leg, amazed that the pain seemed to have vanished.

"The greatest scourge of all for newly arrived Europeans

here seems to be our women. It is inevitable, and my greatest source of amusement." He spat the exhausted betel leaf toward the corner of the room and paused dramatically while he prepared another.

"Explain what you mean about the women."

"Let me give you an example from Goa." Mukarjee squatted again. "The Portuguese soldiers arriving from Lisbon each year tumble from their ships more dead than alive, weak from months at sea and the inevitable scurvy. They are in need of proper food, but they pay no attention to this, for they are even more starved for the company of women. . . . By the way, how is your wound?" Mukarjee made no attempt to suppress a smile at Hawksworth's astonished testing of his leg.

"The pain seems to be gone." He tried squatted in Indian style, like Mukarjee, and found that this posture, too, brought no discomfort.

"Well, these scurvy-weakened soldiers immediately avail themselves of Goa's many well-staffed brothels—which, I note, Christians seem to frequent with greater devotion than their fine churches. What uneven test of skill and vigor transpires I would not speculate, but many of these feringhis soon find the only beds suited for them are in the Jesuit's Kings Hospital, where few ever leave. I watched some five hundred Portuguese a year tread this path of folly." Mukarjee's lips were now the hue of the rose.

"And what happens to those who do live?"

"They eventually wed one of our women, or one of their own, and embrace the life of sensuality that marks the Portuguese in Goa. With twenty, sometimes even thirty slaves to supply their wants and pleasure. And after a time they develop stones in the kidney, or gout, or some other affliction of excess."

"What do their wives die of? The same thing?"

"Some, yes, but I have also seen many charged with adultery by their fat Portuguese husbands—a suspicion rarely without grounds, for they really have nothing more to do on hot afternoons than chew betel and intrigue with the lusty young soldiers—and executed. The women are said to deem it an honorable martyrdom, vowing they die for love."

Mukarjee rose and began meticulously replacing the vials in his cloth bag. "I may be allowed to visit you again if you wish, but I think there's no need. Only forgo the company of our women for a time, my friend. Practice prudence before pleasure."

A shaft of light from the hallway cut across the room, as the door opened without warning. A guard stood in the passageway, wearing a uniform Hawksworth had not seen before.

"I must be leaving now." Mukarjee's voice rose to public volume as he nervously scooped up his umbrella and his bag, without pausing to secure the knot at its top. Then he bent toward Hawksworth with a quick whisper. "Captain, the Shahbandar has sent his Rajputs. You must take care."

He deftly slipped past the guard in the doorway and was gone.

Hawksworth examined the Rajputs warily. They wore leather helmets secured with a colored headband, knee- length tunics over heavy tight-fitting trousers, and a broad cloth belt. A large round leather shield hung at each man's side, suspended from a shoulder strap, and each guard wore an ornate quiver at his waist from which protruded a heavy horn bow and bamboo arrows. All were intent and unsmiling. Their leader, his face framed in a thicket of coarse black hair, stepped through the doorway and addressed Hawksworth in halting Turki.

"The Shahbandar has requested your presence at the customs house. I am to inform you he has completed all formalities for admission of your personal chest and has approved it with his chapp."

The palanquin was nowhere to be seen when they entered the street, but now Hawksworth was surrounded. As they began walking he noticed the pain in his leg was gone. The street was lined by plaster walls and the cool evening air bore the scent of flowers from their concealed gardens. The houses behind the walls were partially shielded by tall trees, but he could tell they were several stories high, with flat roofs on which women clustered, watching.

These must all be homes of rich Muslim merchants. Palaces for the princes of commerce. And the streets are filled with dark-skinned, slow-walking poor. Probably servants, or slaves, in no hurry to end the errand that freed them from their drudgery inside.

Then as they started downhill, toward the river, they began to pass tile-roofed, plaster-walled homes he guessed were owned by Hindu merchants, since they were without gardens or the high walls Muslims used to hide their women. As they neared the river the air started to grow sultry, and they began passing the clay-walled huts of shopkeepers and clerks, roofed in palm leaves with latticework grills for windows. Finally they reached the bazaar of Surat, its rows of palm trees deserted now, with silence where earlier he had heard a tumult of hawkers and strident women's voices. Next to the bazaar stood the stables, and Hawksworth noticed flocks of small boys, naked save for a loincloth, scavenging to find any dung cakes that had been overlooked by the women who collected fuel. The air was dense and smelled of earth, and its taste overwhelmed his lingering memory of the wind off the sea.

The streets of Surat converged like the spokes of a wheel, with the customs house and port as its hub. Just like every port town in the world, Hawksworth smiled to himself: all roads lead to the sea.

Except here all roads lead to the customs house and the Shahbandar.

Then, as they approached the last turn in the road, just outside the enclosure of the customs house, they were suddenly confronted by a band of mounted horsemen, armed with long-barreled muskets. The horsemen spanned the roadway and were probably twenty in all, well outnumbering the Rajputs. The horsemen made no effort to move aside as Hawksworth and his guards approached.

Hawksworth noticed the Rajputs stiffen slightly and their hands drop loosely to the horn bows protruding from their quivers, but they did not break their pace.

My God, they're not going to halt. There'll be bloodshed. And we're sure to lose.

Without warning a hand threw Hawksworth sprawling against the thick plaster side of a building, and a large, round

rhino-hide buckler suddenly was covering his body, shielding him entirely from the horsemen.

Next came a melee of shouts, and he peered out to see the Rajputs encircling him, crouched in a firing pose, each bow aimed on a horseman and taut with its first arrow. The musket-bearing horsemen fumbled with their still uncocked weapons. In lightning moves of only seconds, the Rajputs had seized the advantage.

Not only are their bows more accurate than muskets, Hawksworth thought, they're also handier. They can loose half a dozen arrows before a musket can be reprimed. But what was the signal? I saw nothing, heard nothing. Yet they acted as one. I've never before seen such speed, such discipline.

Then more shouting. Hawksworth did not recognize the language, but he guessed it might be Urdu, the mixture of imported Persian and native Hindi Karim had said was used in the Moghul’s army as a compromise between the language of its Persian-speaking officers and the Hindi-speaking infantry. The Rajputs did not move as the horseman in the lead withdrew a rolled paper from his waist and contemptuously tossed it onto the ground in front of them.

While the others covered him with their bows, the leader of the Rajputs advanced and retrieved the roll from the dust. Hawksworth watched as he unscrolled it and examined in silence. At the bottom Hawksworth could make out the red mark of a chapp, like the one he had seen on bundles in the customs house. The paper was passed among the Rajputs, each studying it in turn, particularly the seal. Then there were more shouts, and finally resolution. The dark-bearded leader of Hawksworth's guard approached him and bowed. Then he spoke in Turki, his voice betraying none of the emotion Hawksworth had witnessed moments before.

"They are guards of the governor, Mukarrab Khan. They have shown us orders by the Shahbandar, bearing his seal, instructing that you be transferred to their care. You will go with them."

Then he dropped his bow casually into his quiver and led the other men off in the direction of the customs house, all still marching, as though they knew no other pace.

"Captain Hawksworth, please be tolerant of our Hindu friends. They are single-minded soldiers of fortune, and a trifle old-fashioned in their manners." The leader of the guard smiled and pointed to a riderless saddled horse being held by one of the riders. "We have a mount for you. Will you kindly join us?"

Hawksworth looked at the horse, a spirited Arabian mare, and then at the saddle, a heavy round tapestry embroidered in silver thread with tassels front and back, held by a thick girth also of tapestry. The stirrups were small triangles of iron held by a leather strap attached to a ring at the top of the girth. A second tapestry band around the mare's neck secured the saddle near the mane. The mane itself had been woven with decorations of beads and small feathers. The horse's neck was held in a permanent arch by a leather checkrein extending from the base of the bridle through the chest strap, and secured to the lower girth. The mare pranced in anticipation, while her coat sparkled in the waning sun. She was a thing of pure beauty.

"Where are we going?"

"But of course. The governor, Mukarrab Khan, has staged a small celebration this afternoon and would be honored if you could join him. Today is the final day of Ramadan, our month-long Muslim fast. He's at the chaugan field. But come, patience is not his most enduring quality."

Hawksworth did not move.

"Why did the Shahbandar change his order? We were going to the customs house to fetch my chest."

"The governor is a persuasive man. It was his pleasure that you join him this afternoon. But please mount. He is waiting." The man stroked his moustache with a manicured hand as he nodded toward the waiting mount. "His Excellency sent one of his finest horses. I think he has a surprise for you."

Hawksworth swung himself into the saddle, and immediately his mare tossed her head in anticipation. She was lanky and spirited, nothing like the lumbering mount his father had once taught him to ride at the army's camp outside London so many, many years ago.

Without another word the men wheeled their horses and started off in a direction parallel to the river. Then the one who had spoken abruptly halted the entire party.

"Please forgive me, but did I introduce myself? I am the secretary to His Excellency, Mukarrab Khan. We were cast from the civilized comforts of Agra onto this dung heap port of Surat together. Perhaps it was our stars."

Hawksworth was only half-listening to the man. He turned and looked back over his shoulder in time to see the Rajputs entering into the compound of the customs house. The leader of the horsemen caught his glance and smiled.

"Let me apologize again for our friends of the Rajput guard. You do understand they have no official standing. They serve whomever they are paid to serve. If that thief, the Shahbandar, discharged them tomorrow and then another hired them to kill him, they would do so without a word. Rajputs are professional mercenaries, who do battle as coldly as the tiger hunts game." He turned his horse onto a wide avenue that paralleled the river. The sunlight was now filtered through the haze of evening smoke from cooking fires that was enveloping the city.

"Do Rajputs also serve the governor?"

The man laughed broadly and smoothed the braided mane of his horse as he twisted sideways in the saddle and repeated Hawksworth's question for the other riders. A peal of amusement cut the quiet of the evening streets.

"My dear English captain, he might wish to hang them, but he would never hire them. His Excellency has the pick of the Moghul infantry and cavalry in this district, men of lineage and breeding. Why should he need Hindus?"

Hawksworth monitored the riders carefully out of the corner of his eye and thought he detected a trace of nervousness in their mirth. Yes, he told himself, why use Hindus—except the Shahbandar's Hindu mercenaries got the advantage of you in only seconds. While you and your pick of the Moghul cavalry were fiddling with your uncocked muskets. Perhaps there's a good reason the Shahbandar doesn't hire men of lineage and breeding.

Hawksworth noticed they were paralleling a wall of the city, a high brick barrier with iron pikes set along its capstone. Abruptly the wall curved across the road they were traveling and they were facing a massive wooden gate that spanned the width of the street. Suddenly guards appeared, each in uniform and holding a pike. They hurriedly swung wide the gate as the procession approached, then snapped crisply to attention along the roadside.

"This is the Abidjan Gate." The secretary nodded in response to the salute of the guards. "You can just see the field from here." He pointed ahead, then urged his horse to a gallop. A cooling dampness was invading the evening air, and now the sun had entirely disappeared into the cloud of dense cooking smoke that boiled above the city, layering a dark mantle over the landscape. Again Hawksworth felt his apprehension rising. What's the purpose of bringing me to a field outside the city, with dark approaching? He instinctively fingered the cool handle of his sword, but its feel did nothing to ease his mind.

Then he heard cheers from the field ahead, and saw a burning ball fly across the evening sky. Ahead was a large green, and on it horsemen raced back and forth, shouting and cursing in several languages, their horses jostling recklessly. Other mounted horsemen watched from the side of the green and bellowed encouragement.

As they approached the edge of the field, Hawksworth saw one of the players capture the burning ball, guiding it along the green with a long stick whose end appeared to be curved. He spurred his mottled gray mount toward two tall posts stationed at one end of the green. Another player was hard in chase, and his horse, a dark stallion, was closing rapidly toward the rolling ball. As the first player swept upward with his stick, lofting the burning ball toward the posts, the second player passed him and—in a maneuver that seemed dazzling to Hawksworth—circled his own stick over his head and captured the ball in midair, deflecting it toward the edge of the green where Hawksworth and his guards waited. Cheers went up from some of the players and spectators, and the horsemen all dashed for the edge of the green in chase of the ball, which rolled in among Hawksworth's entourage and out of play. The horseman on the dark stallion suddenly noticed Hawksworth and, with a shout to the other players, whipped his steed toward the arriving group.

As he approached, Hawksworth studied his face carefully. He was pudgy but still athletic, with a short, well-trimmed moustache and a tightly wound turban secured with a large red stone that looked like a ruby. He carried himself erect, with a confidence only full vigor could impart, yet his face was incongruously debauched, almost ravaged, and his eyes deeply weary. There was no hint of either triumph or pleasure in those eyes or in his languorous mouth, although he had just executed a sensational block of an almost certain score. He reined his wheezing mount only when directly in front of Hawksworth, sending up a cloud of dust.

"Are you the English captain?" The voice was loud, with an impatient tone indicating long years of authority.

"I command the frigates of the East India Company." Hawksworth tried to keep his gaze steady. What sort of man can this be, he asked himself? Is this the one who can demand the Shahbandar's signature and seal whenever he wishes?

"Then I welcome you, Captain." The dark stallion reared suddenly for no apparent reason, in a display of exuberance. The man expertly reined him in, never removing his gaze from Hawksworth, and continued in an even voice. "I've been most eager to meet the man who is suddenly so interesting to our Portuguese friends. Although I have a personal rule never to dabble in the affairs of Europeans, as a sportsman I must congratulate you on your victory. A pity I missed the encounter."

"I accept your congratulations on behalf of the East India Company." Hawksworth watched him for some sign of his attitude toward the Portuguese, but he could detect nothing but smooth diplomacy.

"Yes, the East India Company. I suppose this company of yours wants something from India, and I can easily imagine it might be profit. Perhaps I should tell you straightaway that such matters bore me not a little." The man glanced impatiently back toward the field. "But come, it's growing darker as we talk. I'd hoped you might join us in our little game. It's elementary. Should be child's play for a man who commands at sea." He turned to one of the men standing by the side of the field. "Ahmed, prepare a stick for Captain ... by the way, I wasn't given your name."

"Hawksworth."

"Yes. Prepare a stick for Captain Hawksworth. He'll be joining us."

Hawksworth stared at the man, trying to gauge his impulsiveness.

"You, I presume, are the governor."

"Forgive me. I so rarely find introductions required. Mukarrab Khan, your humble servant. Yes, it's my fate to be governor of Surat, but only because there's no outpost less interesting. But come, we lose precious time." He pivoted his pawing mount about and signaled for a new ball to be ignited.

"You'll find our game very simple, Captain Hawksworth. The object is to take the ball between the posts you see there, what we call the hal. There are two teams of five players, but we normally rotate players every twenty minutes." His horse reared again in anticipation as the new ball was brought onto the field. "Years ago we played only during the hours of day, but then our Moghul’s father, the great Akman, introduced the burning ball, so he could play at night. It's palas wood, very light and slow-burning."

Hawksworth felt a nudge on his hand and looked down to see a stick being passed upward by one of the attendants. The handle was sheathed in silver, and the stick itself was over six feet long, with a flattened curve at the bottom, like a distorted shepherd's crook. Hawksworth lifted it gingerly, testing its weight, and was surprised by its lightness.

"You will be playing on the team of Abul Hasan." He nodded toward a middle-aged man with a youthful face and no moustache. "He is a qazi here in Surat, a judge who interprets and dispenses law, and when he's not busy abusing the powers of his office, he presumes to challenge me at chaugan." The official bowed slightly but did not smile. His dappled gray mare was sniffing at the governor's stallion. "He thinks he has me at a disadvantage, since in Agra we played with only one goal, whereas here they use two, but chaugan is a test of skill, not rules. He leads the white turbans." Only then did Hawksworth notice that the governor's team all wore red turbans.

The governor waved to his attendant. "A clean turban for the English captain."

"I'd prefer to play as I am." Hawksworth saw a flash of disbelief in the governor's eyes. It was obvious he was never contradicted. "I never wear a hat, though it seems in India I'm still called a topiwallah.

"Very well, Captain Hawksworth. The topiwallah wears no turban." He seemed to smile as he turned to the other players and signaled for play to start. "Abul Hasan's team is composed of Surat officials, Captain. You will notice, however, that I am teamed with some of our merchants—Muslim, of course, not Hindus—something I must do to ensure challenging opponents. The mere presence of merchants here today should give you some idea how very tedious I find living in Surat. In Agra no merchant would be allowed near a chaugan field. But here my officials enjoy winning their money so much that I am forced to relent." And he laughed warmly.

The burning ball was slammed toward the middle of the field, and the players spurred their horses after it in lunging pursuit. Hawksworth gripped the chaugan stick in his right hand and the reins in the other as his mount galloped after the others, obviously eager to begin. The red turbans reached the ball first, with the governor in the lead. He caught the ball on a bounce and, wielding his stick in a graceful arc, whipped it under the neck of the dark stallion and directly toward the hal, while in the same motion reining in his mount sharply to follow its trajectory.

But a white turban had anticipated his shot and was already in position to intercept the ball. He cut directly in front of the governor's path and with a practiced swipe bulleted the ball back toward the center of the field, knocking a spray of sparks across the face of the governor's horse. Mukarrab Khan's stallion seemed scarcely to notice as he reared, whirled, and flew in chase.

The shot had passed over the heads of the three other white turbans and bounced off the grass a few feet behind Hawksworth, still well to the rear. Hawksworth reined his mount about and bore down on the ball, beginning to feel some of the exhilaration of the play. He reached the ball on its second bounce and with a rigid arc of his arm swung the chaugan stick.

The impact recoiled a dizzying shock through the wood and up his right shoulder. He dimly heard the cheers of his teammates, seeming to congratulate him on his stroke. But where's the ball? he wondered as he scanned the darkened, empty expanse down the field. Then he realized he had only deflected it, back toward the three white turbans in the center of the field. The last white turban in the row snared the ball with his stick, deflecting it again, but now in the direction of the reds.

Dust was boiling from the surface of the field, increasingly obscuring the players and the play. The darkened arena had become a jostling mob, friend scarcely distinguishable from foe, and all in pursuit of the only certain object, the still-glowing ball. Hawksworth's eyes seared and his throat choked as he raced after the others—always, it seemed, bringing up the rear, while his mount took her head and rarely acknowledged his awkward attempts to command. He clung to the iron ring of his saddle, content merely to stay astride.

Give me a quarterdeck any day.

The red turbans again had command of the ball, and Hawksworth watched as the governor now raced to the lead, urged on by his teammates. He snared the ball effortlessly and with a powerful swing sent it arcing back toward his own hal.

The other red turbans rushed in pursuit, but a white turban was already at the hal, waiting to deflect the play. He snared the ball in the crook of his stick and flung it back toward the center. The reds seemed to anticipate this, for they reined as one man and dashed back. But now a white had control, and he guided the ball alone across the grassy expanse, while a phalanx of other whites rode guard. Hawksworth was still lagging in front of his own hal when suddenly he saw the ball lofting toward him, a flaming mortar in the darkened sky.

It slammed to earth near his horse's flank, spewing sparks. He cut his mare sharply to the left and galloped in pursuit. Above the shouts he only dimly heard the reds thundering behind him, closing in as he reached the ball and caught it in the curve of his stick.

Roll it, he told himself, keep it on the ground . . .

The reds were on him. In what seemed a swing for the ball, Abul Hasan brought his stick in a wide arc, its hardened crook accurately intersecting Hawksworth's directly in the middle. Hawksworth felt an uneven shudder pulse through his arm and heard his own stick shatter. The lower half flew to his right, and he watched in dismay as it sailed across the path of Mukarrab Khan's mount, just as the governor cut inward to block Hawksworth. The hard wood caught the dark stallion directly across its front shins, and the horse stumbled awkwardly. Hawksworth stared at horse and rider dumbly for a moment, as the stallion lost its stride, and he suddenly realized the governor's horse would fall. And when it did, Mukarrab Khan would be thrown directly below the horses thundering behind them.

He cut his mount sharply to the right and deliberately slammed into the governor's stallion. Mukarrab Khan's dazed eyes flashed understanding and he stretched for the center ring of Hawksworth's saddle during the fractional second their horses were in collision. At the same instant, he disengaged himself from his own stirrups and pulled himself across the neck of Hawksworth's mare.

Two alert reds pulled their mounts alongside Hawksworth and grabbed the reins of his mare. The dark stallion collapsed in the dust behind them with a pitiful neigh. Then it rose and limped painfully toward the edge of the field, its left foreleg dangling shattered and useless. Mukarrab Khan lowered himself to the ground with an elaborate oath.

A cheer sounded as the whites scored the ball unmolested.

Hawksworth was still watching the governor when one of the attendants rushed from the sidelines, seized the silver-topped fragment of his broken stick, and thrust it toward him.

"The silver is yours to keep, Sahib. It is the custom that one whose chaugan stick is broken in play may keep its silver tip. As a token of bravery. For you it is especially deserved." He was short, swarthy, and dressed in a dust- covered white shirt. He bowed slightly, while his eyes gleamed their admiration in the darkness.

"Take it, Captain. It is an honor." Abul Hasan rode up stiffly, brushing the dust from the mane of his horse. "No feringhi, to my knowledge, has ever before attempted chaugan, and certainly none has earned a silver knob."

"Captain Hawksworth, you rode well." Mukarrab Khan had commandeered a mount and also drew alongside. There was a light scratch along the right side of his face, and the whimsical look had vanished from his eyes as he searched the faces clustered around. "A very curious accident. It has never happened before." He stared directly at Hawksworth. "How was your stick broken?"

"The feringhi made an unfortunate swing, Excellency," Abul Hasan interjected. "He played superbly, for a beginner, but he has still to fully master the stroke."

"Obviously. But he compensated by his luck—my luck— in saving me from a fall. He rides well enough, no matter how uncertain his stroke." The governor examined them both skeptically.

Hawksworth watched the exchange in incredulous silence. The qazi may be covering for his own accident. Or perhaps it wasn't an accident. And if not, then he tried to kill the Mukarrab Khan in a way that would look like it was my responsibility.

"I still maintain it was most curious." Mukarrab Khan turned to watch as the stable-keepers prepared to shoot his favorite horse. "But tell me now what you think of chaugan, Captain Hawksworth?"

"It's exhilarating. And dangerous. A seaman might say it's like taking the whipstaff all alone in a gale, without a safety line." Hawksworth tried unsuccessfully to decipher Mukarrab Khan's thoughts.

"A quaint analogy, but doubtless apt." He tried to smile. "You know, Captain, there are those who mistakenly regard chaugan as merely a game, whereas it is actually much, much more. It's a crucible of courage. It sharpens one's quickness of mind, tests one's powers of decision. The great Akman believed the same, and for that reason he encouraged it years ago among his officials. Of course it requires horsemanship, but in the last count it's a flawless test of manhood. You did not entirely disappoint me. I suspect you English could one day be worthy of our little game."

A shot rang out, and the governor's face went pale for an instant, his eyes glossed with sadness. Then he turned again to Hawksworth.

"Deplorable waste. To think I bought him just last year especially for chaugan. From a grasping Arab, a confirmed thief who sensed I fancied that stallion and absolutely refused to bargain." The voice was calmer now, the official facade returning. "But enough. Perhaps I could interest you in a drink?"

He signaled toward the edge of the field, and a waiting groom ran toward them, bearing a black clay pot with a long spout.

"The sun has set. Ramadan is finished for this year. So I will join you. Let me show you how we drink on horseback." He lifted the pot above his head, tilted the spout toward him, and caught the stream effortlessly in his mouth. Then he passed it to Hawksworth. "It's called sharbat. The topiwallahs all seem to like it and mispronounce it 'sherbet.'"

The water was sugar sweet and tangy with bits of lemon. God, Hawksworth thought, would we had barrels of this for the voyage home. As he drank, drenching his beard, he first noticed the icy stars, a splendor of cold fire in an overhead canopy. The town's smoke had been banished by the freshening wind, and a placid silence now mantled the field. The players were preparing to leave, and the grooms were harnessing the remaining horses to lead them home.

"Tonight we feast to mark the end of Ramadan, Captain, our month of fasting during daylight hours. It's an evening celebrating the return of sensual pleasure." Mukarrab Khan stared at Hawksworth for a moment. "By the looks of you, I'd suspect you're no Jesuit. I would be honored if you could join me." He forced a blithe cheerfulness his weary eyes belied.

As Hawksworth listened, he realized he very much wanted to go. To lose himself for a time. And suddenly the words of Huyghen, and of Roger Symmes, flashed through his mind. Of the India you would not want to leave. Until you would not be able to leave.

As they rode toward the town, Mukarrab Khan fell silent. And Abul Hasan, too, seemed lost in his own thoughts. Hawksworth slowly let his horse draw to the rear in order to count the governor's personal retinue of guards. Thirty men, with quivers of arrows beside their saddle, pikes at their right stirrup, and a matchlock musket. As they rode, the other horsemen eyed Hawksworth warily, keeping to themselves and making no effort to talk. Hawksworth thought he sensed an underlying hostility lurking through the crowd, but whether it was between the merchants and officials, or toward him, he could not discern.

Then a presumptuous thought passed through his mind.

Could this entire scene have been staged by Mukarrab Khan to somehow test me? But to what purpose? What could he want to find out?

Whatever it was, I think he just may have found it.

Then he leaned back in the saddle, pushed aside his misgivings, and sampled the perfumed evening air.

[CHAPTER SEVEN]

They were deep within the center of Surat, nearing the river, when suddenly the street opened onto a wide stone-paved plaza. The first thing Hawksworth saw through the torchlight was a high iron fence, sentries posted with bucklers and pikes along its perimeter, and an ornate iron gate. Then, as they neared, he realized the fence was the outer perimeter of an immense pink sandstone fortress, with high turrets and a wide, arched entryway. Finally he spotted the water-filled moat that lay between the fence and the fortress walls. The moat was spanned by a single wooden bridge, and Hawksworth noted that when the bridge was drawn inward it neatly sealed the entry of the fortress.

As they approached the iron outer gate, the party of chaugan players began to disperse; after formal and minimal farewells the merchants and officials turned and disappeared into the night. Soon only Hawksworth and Mukarrab Khan were left, together with the governor's private grooms and guards. Hawksworth studied the departing players with curiosity. What sway does Mukarrab Khan hold over them? Respect? Fear?

Then the iron gate swung wide and their horses clattered across the wooden drawbridge. Hawksworth looked about and began to understand that the governor's palace guards were not merely ceremonial. Lining both sides of the drawbridge were uniformed infantrymen armed with pikes. Then as they passed under the stone archway leading into the fortress, Hawksworth turned to see even more armed guards, poised just inside, pikes in formal salute. And farther back he saw two armored animals, gigantic, many times larger than the biggest horse, with massive ears and a snout several feet in length.

That must be what a war elephant looks like. So they really do exist. But why so many guards? It's virtually a private army.

Then he felt a groom tug the reins of his horse and signal for him to dismount. They were now inside the palace grounds. Ahead, through an intricate formal garden, stood the residence of the governor of Surat. The elaborate carvings of its pink sandstone decoration reflected hard red in the torchlight.

Mukarrab Khan directed him through a marble entryway,

ornately rounded at the top like the turret of a mosque. They had entered some form of reception hallway, and Hawksworth noticed that the marble floor was decorated with a complex geometry of colored stone.

Above his head were galleries of white plasterwork supported by delicate arches, and along the sides were ornate, curtained recesses. Hanging oil lamps brilliantly illuminated the glistening walls, while rows of servants dressed in matching white turbans lined the sides in welcome.

As they approached the end of the reception hallway, Hawksworth studied the door ahead. It was massive, and thick enough to withstand any war machine that could be brought into the hallway, and yet its protective function was concealed from obvious notice by a decoration of intricate carvings and a flawless polish. The servants slowly revolved it outward on its heavy brass hinges and Mukarrab Khan led them into a vast open courtyard surrounded by a veranda, with columns supporting balconies of marble filigree. It seemed a vast reception hall set in the open air, an elegant plaza whose roof was stars, and whose centerpiece was a canopied pavilion, under which stood a raised couch of juniper wood lined with red satin—not unlike an English four-poster bed, save the posts were delicately thin and polished to a burnished ebony. Large bronze lanterns along the balconies furnished a flickering vision of the complex interworking of paths, flower beds, and fountains surrounding the central pavilion.

Waiting on the veranda, just inside the entryway, were six tall figures, three on either side of the doorway. They were turbaned, exquisitely robed, and wore conspicuous jewels that gleamed against their dark skin. As they bowed to the governor, Hawksworth examined them for a brief moment and then his recognition clicked.

Eunuchs. They must be Mukarrab Khan's private guards, since they can go anywhere, even the women's apartments.

"Captain Hawksworth, perhaps you should meet my household officials. They are Bengalis—slaves actually— whom I bought young and trained years ago in Agra. One must, regrettably, employ eunuchs to maintain a household such as this. One's palace women can never be trusted, and one's intriguing wives least of all. I named them in the Arab fashion, after their position in the palace, so I need not trouble to remember their names, merely what they do. This is Nahir, who is in charge of my accounts." He gestured toward a pudgy face now glaring out from beneath a deep blue headdress, a tall conical turban tied in place with a wrap of white silk that circled his bloated throat. The eunuch's open jacket was a heavy brocade and it heaved as he breathed, betraying the sagging fat around his nipples.

"The one next to him selects my wardrobe." The second eunuch gazed at Hawksworth impassively, his puffed, indulgent lips red with betel juice. "That one selects the clothes for my spendthrift women, and the one on his left is responsible for all their jewels. The one over there takes care of the household linens and oversees the servants. And the one behind him is in charge of the kitchen. You will be asked to endure his handiwork tonight."

The eunuchs examined Hawksworth's ragged appearance with transparent contempt, and they seemed to melt around him as he walked through the doorway—two ahead, two behind, and one on either side. None spoke a greeting. Hawksworth examined them carefully, wondering which was in charge of the women's apartments. That's the most powerful position, he smiled to himself, nothing else really counts.

A servant came down the veranda bearing a tray and brought it directly to the governor. Then he kneeled and offered it. It was of beaten silver and on it were two large crystal goblets of a pastel green liquid.

"Captain, would you care to refresh yourself with a glass of tundhi. It's the traditional way we break the fast of Ramadan." He directed the servant toward Hawksworth. "It's prepared in the women's apartments during the day, as an excuse for something to do."

Hawksworth touched the drink lightly with his tongue. It was a mixture of sweet and tang quite unlike anything he had ever known. Perhaps the closest was a brisk mug of spiced

ale, pungent with clove and cinnamon. But this spiced drink was mysteriously subtle. Puzzling, he turned to Mukarrab Khan.

"What is this? It tastes like the air in a garden."

"This? I've never paid any notice, although the women down it by the basinful after sunset." As he received his own goblet he turned to one of the eunuchs. "Nahir, how do the women prepare tundhi?”

"With seeds, Khan Sahib. Seeds of melons, cucumber, lettuce, and coriander are pounded, and then blended with rosewater, pomegranate essence, and juice of the aloe flower. But the secret is to strain it properly, and I find I must carefully oversee the work."

"Doubtless." Mukarrab Khan's voice was curt. "I suspect you should attend the accounts more and the women's apartments less." He turned to another eunuch.

"Is my bath ready?"

"As always, Khan Sahib." As the eunuch bowed he examined Hawksworth's dust-covered face and hair discreetly. "Will the distinguished feringhi also require a bath?"

"He was on the chaugan field this afternoon, just as I was."

Hawksworth groaned inwardly. What English host would have the effrontery to suggest a guest needed a bath? For that matter, what Englishman would even consider bathing more than twice a year? It's known well enough King James never bathes, that he never even washes his hands, only brushes them with a moist napkin at mealtime. Yet this Moor wants a full bath before a meal, merely to remove a bit of dust.

"I would be content to rinse my hands."

Mukarrab Khan examined him for a moment and then broke into a wide smile. "I always forget feringhi are positively afraid of water." He spoke quickly to one of the eunuchs, who turned and barked orders to the servants in a language Hawksworth did not understand.

"The servants will provide whatever you require." Mukarrab Khan bowed perfunctorily to Hawksworth and disappeared through one of the arched doorways leading off the courtyard, followed by the eunuchs. Then Hawksworth turned to see a dark-skinned man bearing a large silver basin down the veranda. Behind him a second man carried a red velvet cushion, shaped like a long cylinder, and placed it on a stool next to the canopied pavilion, gesturing for Hawksworth to sit.

As Hawksworth seated himself and turned toward the basin the servant held waiting, he caught the fresh aroma of a full bouquet, as though the fragrances of some tropic Eden had been distilled into the water. He looked down to see flower petals floating on its shimmering, oil-covered surface. How curious, he thought. English countrywomen sometimes distill toilet water from the flowers in their gardens, but never in such quantities'that it can be used merely to wash hands. And while English toilet waters are cloying and sweet, violets and gilliflowers, this aroma is light and delicate.

War elephants and perfumed waters, in the same palace. It's incredible.

He gingerly splashed his hands, and looked up to find a steaming towel being proffered. He sponged away the remaining mud of the playing field and watched as one by one the servants began to melt into the darkened recesses of the marble galleries. The last was an old withered gamekeeper, who wandered through the garden berating a sullen peacock toward its roost. And then the courtyard fell austerely quiet.

Illuminated now only by lanterns and pale moonlight, it became a fairyland almost outside of time. He smiled as he thought of where he had been only the previous night—fending off an attack by Portuguese infantry. And now, this.

His thoughts began to drift randomly, to float in and among the marble latticework of the veranda. And he thought once more of Roger Symmes and his bizarre stories of India.

He was right. It's a heaven on earth. But with an undertow of violence just beneath the serene, polished surface. All this beauty, and yet it's guarded with war elephants and a moat. It's a world that's . . . artificial. It's carved of marble and jewels, and then locked away. Now I'm beginning to understand why he found it so enticing. And frightening. God, for a brandy. Now.

"Khan Sahib awaits you." Hawksworth looked up to see the eunuch standing directly in front of him, freshly attired in a long robe of patterned silk. As he rose, startled from his reveries, a pudgy hand shot out and seized his arm.

"Your sword is not permitted in the banquet room."

Hawksworth froze. Then he remembered the knife strapped inside the top of his boot and the thought gave him comfort.

He unbuckled his sword slowly, deliberately, pausing to meet the eunuch's defiant stare as he passed it over.

The eunuch seemed to ignore Hawksworth's look as he continued.

"You will also remove your boots. It is against custom to wear them in the banquet room."

Hawksworth moved to protest, then sadly concluded there would be no point. Of course the room would be filled with carpets. And that must be the reason everyone I've seen here wears open shoes with the backs folded down: they're constantly being removed at doorways.

He bent over and unbuckled his boots. The eunuch stiffened momentarily when he saw the glint of the knife handle in the lamplight, but he said nothing, merely swept up the boots with his other hand.

As they walked slowly down the marble hallway toward the bronzed door of the banquet room, Hawksworth tried to rehearse what he would say to Mukarrab Khan.

He has to petition the court in Agra to grant safe conduct for the trip. He just has to send one letter. How can he possibly refuse? Remember, you're an ambassador. . . .

The eunuch shoved wide the bronzed door, and Hawksworth was astonished by what he saw.

The governor of Surat lounged against a purple velvet bolster at the far end of a long room whose walls were a cool expanse of flawless white and whose marble floor was softened with an enormous carpet in the thick Persian style. His skin glistened with light oil, and he had donned a fresh turban, patterned in brown and white, tied in intricate swirls, and bound with a strand of dark jewels. A single large pearl hung over his forehead, and two tassels, each also suspending a pearl, brushed his shoulders. He wore a tight-fitting patterned shirt in pale brown, and over this a heavy green vest lined in white satin and embroidered in gold. It was bound with a woven cinch decorated with brocade. Around his neck were two strings of pearls, the shorter suspending a large ruby from its center. He had put on heavy bracelets, and intricate rings circled the first and fourth fingers of both hands. Hawksworth also noticed for the first time that he wore earrings, each a tiny green emerald.

The eunuchs stood behind him, and around the sides of the room servants and slaves stood waiting. Along a back wall two men sat silently poised, one behind a pair of small drums and the other holding an ornate stringed instrument, its polished body glistening in the light. The only women in the room mingled among the servers.

"Captain Hawksworth, our fare tonight will be simple and unworthy, but please honor my table by your indulgence." Mukarrab Khan smiled warmly and motioned Hawksworth to enter. "At least we can talk freely."

"Is this an official meeting?" Hawksworth did not move, but stood as officiously as he could muster.

"If you wish. Our meeting can be considered formal, even if we are not."

"Then as ambassador of His Majesty, King James of England, I must insist that you rise to receive me." Hawksworth tried to suppress the feeling that he looked vaguely foolish as a barefoot ambassador. But no one else in the room wore shoes either. "A governor is still his king's subject. I represent my king's person."

"I was not informed you were an ambassador." Mukarrab Khan's face sobered noticeably, but he did not move. "You are Captain-General of two merchant vessels."

"I'm here in the name of the king of England, with authority to speak for him in all matters regarding trade." Hawksworth recalled the effect this had had on the Shahbandar. "I'm entrusted with his personal letter to the Moghul."

Mukarrab Khan examined Hawksworth for a long moment, seeming to collect and assemble a number of thoughts.

"Your request would be proper for an ambassador. Let us say I comply in the interest of mutual good will." He rose and bowed formally, if only sightly, more a nod. "The governor of Surat welcomes you, a representative of the English king."

"And I convey my king's acknowledgement of your welcome." Hawksworth entered and seated himself facing Mukarrab Khan, against a large velvet bolster already positioned for him.

"And what is this letter your English king sends to His Majesty?" Mukarrab Khan reclined back on his own bolster and arched his fingertips together.

"That is a concern between King James and the Moghul." Hawksworth caught the quickly suppressed flash of anger in Mukarrab Khan's eyes. "I only ask that you petition the court in Agra for permission to travel there. It would also be helpful if you would order the Shahbandar to allow our merchants to trade their goods at the port of Surat."

"Yes, I understand you had the pleasure of meeting our Shahbandar. I regret deeply having to tell you I have virtually no influence over that notorious man. He was appointed by the Moghul’s son, Prince Jadar, who is in charge of administering this province. He acts very much as he pleases."

Lie number one, Hawksworth thought: you forced him to order my transfer here.

"Surely you're aware," Mukarrab Khan continued evenly, "that no other Europeans besides the Portuguese have ever before landed cargo on the shores of India. Arabs, Persians, even Turks are a common sight, but no other Europeans. Not even your Dutch, who, I'm told, consort with some of our southeastern neighbors. In fact, the Moghul’s trade agreement with the Portuguese is intended to exclude all other Europeans." Mukarrab Khan stirred on his bolster and signaled one of the eunuchs to prepare the carpet for dining. "Although frankly he has little choice, since they control the seas. In fact, it might be said that they allow our merchants to trade. Indian cargo vessels must all acquire a license from Portuguese officials in Goa before leaving port."

"The Portugals control India's trade because you've allowed them to. Your territorial waters belong to India, or should."

Mukarrab Khan seemed to ignore Hawksworth as he watched the servants spread a large covering of tooled leather across the carpet in front of them. After a moment his concentration reappeared, and he turned abruptly.

"Ambassador Hawksworth, we do not need to be advised by you how India should manage her own affairs. But perhaps I will advise you that His Excellency, the Portuguese Viceroy, has already sent notice by messenger that he intends to lodge charges of piracy against your two ships. He has requested that they be confiscated and that you, your merchants, and your crews be transferred to Goa for trial."

Hawksworth's heart stopped and he examined Mukarrab Khan in dismay. So the chaugan match had merely been an excuse to take him into confinement. After a moment he stiffened and drew himself erect. "And I say the Portugals were the ones acting as pirates. Their attack on our English merchantmen was in violation of the treaty of peace that now exists between England and Spain, and by extension to the craven Portugals, who are now nothing more than a vassal of the Spanish king."

"Yes, I've heard rumors of this treaty. We in India are not entirely ignorant of Europe. But His Excellency denies there's any such treaty extending to our shores. As I recall he characterized England as an island of stinking fishermen, who should remain content to fish their own sea."

"The treaty between England and Spain exists." Hawksworth decided to ignore the insult. "We have exchanged ambassadors and it is honored by both our kings. It ended almost two decades of war."

"I will grant you such a treaty may indeed exist. Whether it applies here I do not know. Nor, frankly, do I particularly care. What I do know, English ambassador, is that you are very far from the law courts of Europe. The Portuguese still control the seas off India, as they have done for a hundred years. And unenforceable treaties have little bearing on the rule of might."

"We showed you the 'might' of the Portugals yesterday."

Mukarrab Khan laughed heartily, and when he glanced toward his eunuchs, they returned obsequious grins. "You are truly more naive than I ever imagined, English Captain Hawksworth. What effect can one small engagement have on the fleet of warships at Goa? If you want protection at sea, you will have to provide it yourself. Is that what your king hopes to gain from the Moghul, or from me?"

"I told you I have only two requests. One is your message to Agra requesting permission for my journey. The other is your approval to trade the cargo we've brought."

"Yes, so you have said. Unfortunately, what you ask may not be all that easy to grant. Your unhappy engagement with the Portuguese Viceroy's fleet has made my situation more than a trifle awkward." He leaned back and spoke rapidly in Persian to the eunuchs standing behind him. Then he turned back to Hawksworth. "But as one of our Agra poets, a Sufi rascal named Samad, once penned, The thread of life is all too short; the soul tastes wine and passes on.' Before we explore these tiresome concerns further, let us taste some wine."

The eunuchs were already dictating orders to the servants. A silver chalice of fresh fruit appeared beside Hawksworth, brimming with mangoes, oranges larger than he had ever before seen, slices of melon, and other unknown fruits of varied colors. A similar bowl was placed beside Mukarrab Khan, who seemed to ignore it. Then as Hawksworth watched, the servants began spreading a white linen cloth over the red leather coverlet that had been placed on the carpet in front of them.

"A host is expected, Ambassador, to apologize for the meal he offers. I will take the occasion to do that now." Mukarrab Khan flashed a sprightly smile. "But perhaps after your months at sea, you will be lenient. For my own part, I have fasted today, and there's an Arab proverb that hunger is the best spice. Still, I prefer leisurely gratification. I concur with our Hindu sensualists that pleasure prolonged is pleasure enhanced. All pleasure. Perhaps this evening you will see their wisdom."

Before Hawksworth could respond, two heavy doors at the back of the room slowly opened, glinting the lamplight off their elaborate filigree of gold and bronze, and the first trays appeared, covered with silver lids and borne by young men from the kitchen. Uniformed servants preceded them into the room. One by one the trays were passed to the eunuchs, who removed their lids and carefully inspected the contents of each dish. After a brief consultation, the eunuchs ordered several of the dishes returned to the kitchen.

Hawksworth suddenly realized he was ravenous, and he watched the departing dishes in dismay. Did they somehow fail the eunuchs' exacting standards? Sweet Jesus, who cares? It all looks delicious.

After final approval by the eunuchs, the silver serving bowls were passed to servants waiting along the sides of the room, who in turn arrayed them across the linen cloth between Hawksworth and Mukarrab Khan. A chief server then knelt behind the dishes, while several stacks of porcelain plates were placed next to him. Hawksworth tried to count the silver serving bowls, but stopped after twenty.

One by one the server ceremoniously removed the silver lids from the bowls. Beneath them the contents of the dishes had been arrayed in the colors of a rainbow. On beds of rice that ranged from white to saffron to green, and even purple, was an overwhelming array of meats, fish, and birds of all sizes. There were carved baked fruits; tiny balls of meat flaked with spice and coconut; fried vegetables surrounded by silver cups of a pastel green sauce; large flat fish encased in dark baking shells flecked with red and green spices; and a virtual aviary of wild fowl, from small game birds to plump pea hens.

The server dished hearty helpings from each bowl onto separate porcelain plates, together with mounds of almond rice and jellied fruits. As he started to pass the first plate to Hawksworth, Mukarrab Khan roughly arrested his hand. "This ill-bred kitchen wallah will serve in the stables after tonight." He seized the serving spoons and, with a flourish of traditional Moghul etiquette, personally laded extra portions from each of the dishes onto Hawksworth's plates. The server beamed a knowing smile.

Hawksworth stared at the food for a moment, dazzled, and then he gingerly sampled a meatball. The taste was delicious, yet hardy, and he caught the musky flavor of lamb, lightened and transmuted by a bouquet of spice. He next pulled away the side of a fish and wolfed it, before realizing the red and green flecks on its surface were some incendiary garnish. He surveyed the room in agony, praying for a mug of ale, till an alert eunuch signaled a servant to pass a dish of yogurt. To his amazement, the tangy, ice cold liquid seemed to instantly dissolve the fire on his tongue.

He plunged back into the dishes. He had never eaten like this before, even in England. He suddenly recalled with a smile an episode six months into the voyage. After Zanzibar, when he had become so weary of stale salt pork and biscuit he thought he could not bear to see it again, he had locked the door of the Great Cabin and composed a full English banquet in his mind—roast capon, next a pigeon pie larded in bacon fat, then a dripping red side of roast mutton, followed by oysters on the shell spiced with grilled eel, and finally a thick goose pudding on honeyed ham. And to wash it down, a bottle of sack to begin and a sweet muscadel, mulled even sweeter with sugar, to end. But this! No luscious pork fat, and not nearly cloying enough for a true Englishman. Yet it worked poetry. Symmes was right. This was heaven.

With both hands he ripped the leg off a huge bird that had been basted to a glistening red and, to the visible horror of the server, dipped it directly into one of the silver bowls of saffron sauce meant for pigeon eggs. Hawksworth looked up in time to catch the server's look.

Does he think I don't like the food?

To demonstrate appreciation, he hoisted a goblet of wine to toast the server, while he stretched for a piece of lamb with his other hand. But instead of acknowledging the compliment, the server went pale.

"It's customary, Ambassador, to use only one's right hand when eating." Mukarrab Khan forced a polite smile. "The left is normally reserved for . . . attending to other functions."

Hawksworth then noticed how Mukarrab Khan was dining. He, too, ate with his fingers, just as you would in England, but somehow he managed to lift his food gracefully with balls of rice, the sauce never soiling his fingertips.

A breeze lightly touched Hawksworth's cheek, and he turned to see a servant standing behind him, banishing the occasional fly with a large whisk fashioned from stiff horsehair attached to a long stick. Another servant stood opposite, politely but unnecessarily cooling him with a large fan made of red leather stretched over a frame.

"As I said, Ambassador, your requests present a number of difficulties." Mukarrab Khan looked up and took a goblet of fruit nectar from a waiting servant. "You ask certain things from me, things not entirely in my power to grant, while there are others who make entirely different requests."

"You mean the Portugals."

"Yes, the Portuguese Viceroy, who maintains you have acted illegally, in violation of his law and ours, and should be brought to account."

"And I accuse them of acting illegally. As I told you, there's been a Spanish ambassador in London ever since the war ended, and when we return I assure you the East India Company will . . ."

"This is India, Captain Hawksworth, not London. Please understand I must consider Portuguese demands. But we are pragmatic. I urge you to tell me a bit more about your king's intentions. Your king's letter. Surely you must know what it contains."

Mukarrab Khan paused to dip a fried mango into a shimmering orange sauce, asking himself what he should do. He had, of course, posted pigeons to Agra at sunrise, but he suspected already what the reply would be. He had received a full account of the battle, and the attack on the river, before the early, pre-sun Ramadan meal. And it was only shortly afterward that Father Manoel Pinheiro had appeared, frantic and bathed in sweat. Was it a sign of Portuguese contempt, he often wondered, that they would assign such an incompetent to India? Throughout their entire Society of Jesus, could there possibly be any priest more ill-bred? The Jesuit had repeated facts already known throughout the palace, and Mukarrab Khan had listened politely, masking his amusement. How often did a smug Portuguese find himself explaining a naval disaster? Four Portuguese warships, galleons with two gundecks, humiliated by two small English frigates. How, Mukarrab Khan had wondered aloud, could this have happened?

"There were reasons, Excellency. We have learned the English captain fired langrel into our infantry, shredded metal, a most flagrant violation of the unwritten ethics of warfare."

"Are there really supposed to be ethics in warfare? Then I suppose you should have sent only two of your warships against him. Instead you sent four, and still he prevailed. Today he has no need for excuses. And tell me again what happened when your infantry assaulted the English traders on the river?" Mukarrab Khan had monitored the Jesuit's eyes in secret glee, watching him mentally writhe in humiliation. "Am I to understand you could not even capture a pinnace?"

"No one knows, Excellency. The men sent apparently disappeared without a trace. Perhaps the English had set a trap." Father Pinheiro had swabbed his greasy brow with the sleeve of his cassock. His dark eyes showed none of the haughty disdain he usually brought to their meetings. "I would ask you not to speak of it outside the palace. It was, after all, a special mission."

"You would prefer the court in Agra not know?"

"There is no reason to trouble the Moghul, Excellency." The Jesuit paused carefully. "Or Her Majesty, the queen. This really concerns the Viceroy alone." The Jesuit's Persian was grammatically flawless, if heavily accented, and he awkwardly tried to leaven it with the polite complexities he had been taught in Goa. "Still less is there any need for Prince Jadar to know."

"As you wish." Mukarrab Khan had nodded gravely, knowing the news had already reached half of India, and most certainly Prince Jadar. "How, then, may I assist?"

"The English pirate and his merchants must be delayed here at least four weeks. Until the fleet of galleons now unlading in Goa, those of the spring voyage just arrived from Lisbon, can be outfitted to meet him."

"But surely he and his merchants will sail when they choose. And sooner if we deny them trade. Do you suggest that I approve this trade?"

"You must act as you see fit, Excellency. You know the Viceroy has always been of service to Queen Janahara." Pinheiro had paused slyly. "Just as you have been."

The cynicism of Pinheiro's flaunting his knowledge had galled Mukarrab Khan most of all. If this Jesuit knew, who else must know? That the governor of Surat was bound inescapably to the queen. That on any matter involving Portuguese trade he must always send a formal message to the Moghul and a secret one to the queen, and then wait while she dictated the ruling Arangbar would give. Did this Jesuit know also why Mukarrab Khan had been exiled from Agra? To the wilderness of provincial Surat? That it was on orders of the queen, to marry and take with him a woman becoming dangerous, the zenana favorite of the Moghul, before the woman's influence outweighed that even of Janahara. And now this female viper was in his palace forever, could not be removed or divorced, because she was still a favorite of the Moghul’s.

"So you tell me I must make them rich before you can destroy them. That seems to be Christian wisdom at its most incisive." Mukarrab Khan had summoned a tray of rolled betel leaves, signifying that the interview was ended. "It is always a pleasure to see you, Father. You will have my reply when Allah wills."

The Jesuit had departed as awkwardly as he had come, and it was then that Mukarrab Khan decided to meet the Englishman for himself. While there was still time. How long, he wondered, before the Shahbandar realized the obvious? And the prince?"

In the banquet room the air was now dense with the aroma of spice. Hawksworth realized he had so gorged he could scarcely breathe. And he was having increasing difficulty deflecting Mukarrab Khan's probing questions. The governor was skillfully angling for information he properly did not need, and he did not seem a man given to aimless curiosity.

"What do you mean when you ask about the 'intentions' of England?"

"If the Moghul should approve a trade agreement with your East India Company, what volume of goods would you bring through our port here in Surat?" Mukarrab Khan smiled disarmingly. "Is the Company's fleet extensive?"

"That's a matter better addressed to the merchants of the Company." Hawksworth monitored Mukarrab Khan's expression, searching for a clue to his thoughts. "Right now the Company merely wishes to trade the goods in our two merchantmen. English wool for Indian cotton."

"Yes, I am aware that was the first of your two requests." Mukarrab Khan motioned away the silver trays. "Incidentally, I hope you are fond of lamb."

The bronzed doors opened again and a single large tray was borne in by the dark-skinned, unsmiling servants. It supported a huge cooking vessel, still steaming from the oven. The lid was decorated with lifelike silver castings of various birds and animals. After two eunuchs examined it, the servants delivered it to the center of the linen serving cloth.

"Tonight to signify the end of Ramadan I instructed my cooks to prepare my special biryani. I hope you will not be disappointed. My kitchen here is scandalous by Agra standards, but I've succeeded in teaching them a few things."

The lid was lifted from the pot and a bouquet of saffron burst over the room. Inside, covering a flawless white crust, was a second menagerie of birds and animals, wrought from silver the thinness of paper. The server spooned impossible portions from the pot onto silver plates, one for Hawksworth and one for Mukarrab Khan. The silver-foil menagerie was distributed around the sides of each plate.

"Actually I once bribed a cook in the Moghul’s own kitchen to give me this recipe. You will taste nothing like it here in Surat."

Hawksworth watched as he assembled a ball of the rice-and-meat melange with his fingers and reverently popped it into his mouth.

"Please try it, Ambassador. I think you'll find it remarkable. It requires the preparation of two sauces, and seems to occupy half my incompetent kitchen staff." The governor smiled appreciatively. Hawksworth watched dumbfounded as he next chewed up and swallowed one of the silver-foil animals.

Hawksworth tried to construct a ball of the mixture but finally despaired and simply scooped up a handful. It was rich but light, and seemed to hint of every spice in the Indies.

"There are times," Mukarrab Khan continued, "when I positively yearn for the so-called deprivation of Ramadan. When the appetite is whetted day long, the nightly indulgence is all the more gratifying."

Hawksworth took another mouthful of the savory mixture. After the many long months of salt meat and biscuit, he found his taste confused and overwhelmed by its complexity. Its spices were all assertive, yet he could not specifically identify a single one. They had been blended, it seemed, to enhance one another, to create a pattern from many parts, much as the marble inlays of the floor, in which there were many colors, yet the overall effect was that of a single design, not its components.

"I've never tasted anything quite like this, even in the Levant. Could you prepare instructions for our ship's cook?"

"It would be my pleasure, Ambassador, but I doubt very much a feringhi cook could reproduce this dish. It's far too complex. First my kitchen prepares a masala, a blend of nuts and spices such as almonds, turmeric, and ginger. The bits of lamb are cooked in this and in ghee, which we make by boiling and clarifying butter. Next a second sauce is prepared, this a lighter mixture—curds seasoned with mint, clove, and many other spices I'm sure you know nothing of. This is blended with the lamb, and then layered in the pot you see there together with rice cooked in milk and saffron. Finally it's covered with a crust of wheat flour and baked in a special clay oven. Is this really something a ship's cook could do?"

Hawksworth smiled resignedly and took another mouthful.

Whoever thought there could be so many uses for spice. We use spice in England, to be sure—clove, cinnamon, pepper, even ginger and cardamom—but they're intended mainly to disguise the taste of meat past its prime. But here spices are essential ingredients.

"Let us return to your requests, Captain Hawksworth. I'm afraid neither of these is entirely within my power to bestow. In the matter of trading privileges for your cargo, I'll see what can be done. Yours is an unusual request, in the sense that no Europeans have ever come here to war with the Portuguese, then asked to compete with them in trade."

"It seems simple enough. We merely exchange our goods for some of the cotton cloth I saw arriving at the customs house this morning. The Shahbandar stated you have the power to authorize this trade."

"Yes, I enjoy some modest influence. And I really don't expect that Prince Jadar would object."

"He's the Moghul’s son?"

"Correct. He has full authority over this province, but he's frequently on campaign and difficult to reach. His other duties include responsibility for military conscription here, and maintaining order. These are somewhat uneasy times, especially in the Deccan, southeast of here."

"When will we learn your decision, or his decision? There are other markets for our goods."

"You will learn his decision when it is decided." Mukarrab Khan shoved aside his plate and a servant whisked it from the carpet. "Concerning your second request, that I petition Agra to authorize your travel there, I will see what can be done. But it will require time."

"I would ask the request be sent immediately."

"Naturally." Mukarrab Khan watched absently as more brimming trays were brought in, these piled with candied

fruits and sweetmeats. A hookah water pipe appeared and was placed beside Hawksworth.

"Do you enjoy the new feringhi custom of smoking tobacco, Captain Hawksworth? It was introduced recently, and already it's become fashionable. So much so the Moghul just issued a decree denouncing it."

"King James has denounced it too, claiming it destroys health. But it's also the fashion in London. Personally, I think it ruins the taste of brandy, and wine."

"Overall I'm inclined to agree. But tell me now, what's your opinion of the wine you're drinking? It's Persian."

"Better than the French. Though frankly it could be sweeter."

Mukarrab Khan laughed. "A common complaint from topiwallahs. Some actually add sugar to our wine. Abominable." He paused. "So I gather then you only use spirits?"

"What do you mean?"

"There are many subtle pleasures in the world, Ambassador. Liquors admittedly enhance one's dining, but they do little for one's appreciation of art."

As Hawksworth watched him, puzzling, he turned and spoke quietly to one of the eunuchs hovering behind him. Moments later a small golden cabinet, encrusted with jewels, was placed between them. Mukarrab Khan opened a tiny drawer on the side of the box and extraced a small brown ball.

"May I suggest a ball of ghola? He offered it to Hawksworth. It carried a strange, alien fragrance.

"What's ghola?”

"A preparation of opium and spice, Ambassador. I think it might help you better experience this evening's entertainment." He nodded lightly in the direction of the rear wall.

The snap of a drum exploded behind Hawksworth, and he whirled to see the two musicians begin tuning to perform. The drummer sat before two foot-high drums, each nestled in a circular roll of fabric. Next to him was a wizened old man in a black Muslim skullcap tuning a large six-stringed instrument made of two hollowed-out gourds, both lacquered and polished, connected by a long teakwood fingerboard. About a dozen curved brass frets were tied to the fingerboard with silk cords, and as Hawksworth watched, the player began shifting the location of two frets, sliding them an inch or so along the neck to create a new musical scale. Then he began adjusting the tension on a row of fine wires that lay directly against the teakwood fingerboard, sympathetic strings that passed beneath those to be plucked. These he seemed to be tuning to match the notes in the new scale he had created by moving the frets.

When the sitarist had completed his tuning, he settled back and the room fell totally silent. He paused a moment, as though in meditation, then struck the first note of a somber melody Hawksworth at first found almost totally rootless. Using a wire plectrum attached to his right forefinger, he seemed to be waving sounds from the air above the fingerboard. A note would shimmer into existence from some undefined starting point, then glide through the scale via a subtle arabesque as he stretched the playing string diagonally against a fret, manipulating its tension. Finally the sound would dissolve meltingly into its own silence. Each note of the alien melody, if melody it could be called, was first lovingly explored for its own character, approached from both above and below as though a glistening prize on display. Only after the note was suitably embroidered was it allowed to enter the melody—as though the song were a necklace that had to be strung one pearl at a time, and only after each pearl had been carefully polished. The tension of some vague melodic quest began to grow, with no hint of a resolution. In the emotional intensity of his haunting search, the passage of time had suddenly ceased to exist.

Finally, as though satisifed with his chosen scale, he returned to the very first note he had started from and actually began a song, deftly tying together the musical strands he had so painstakingly evolved. The sought-for resolution had never come, only the sense that the first note was the one he had been looking for the entire time.

This must be the mystical music Symmes spoke of, Hawksworth thought, and he was right. It's unlike anything I've ever heard. Where's the harmony, the chords of thirds and fifths? Whatever's going on, I don't think opium is going to help me understand it.

Hawksworth turned, still puzzling, back to Mukarrab Khan and waved away the brown ball—which the governor immediately washed down himself with fruit nectar.

"Is our music a bit difficult for you to grasp, Ambassador?" Mukarrab Khan leaned back on his bolster with an easy smile. "Pity, for there's truly little else in this backwater port worth the bother. The cuisine is abominable, the classical dancers despicable. In desperation I've even had to train my own musicians, although I did manage to steal one Ustad, a grand master, away from Agra." He impulsively reached for the water pipe and absorbed a deep draw, his eyes misting.

"I confess I do find it hard to follow." Hawksworth took a draft of wine from the fresh cup that had been placed beside him on the carpet.

"It demands a connoisseur's taste, Ambassador, not unlike an appreciation of fine wine."

The room grew ominously still for a moment, and then the drums suddenly exploded in a torrent of rhythm, wild and exciting yet unmistakably disciplined by some rigorous underlying structure. The rhythm soared in a cycle, returning again and again, after each elaborate interlocking of time and its divisions, back to a forceful crescendo.

Hawksworth watched Mukarrab Khan in fascination as he leaned back and closed his eyes in wistful anticipation. And at that moment the instrumentalist began a lightning-fast ascent of the scale, quavering each note in erotic suggestiveness for the fraction of a second it was fingered. The governor seemed absorbed in some intuitive communication with the sound, a reaction to music Hawksworth had never before witnessed. His entire body would perceptibly tense as the drummer began a cycle, then it would pulse and relax the instant the cycle thudded to a resolution. Hawksworth was struck by the sensuality inherent in the music, the almost sexual sense of tension and release.

Then he noticed two eunuchs leading a young boy into the room. The youth appeared to be hovering at the age of puberty, with still no trace of a beard. He wore a small but elaborately tied pastel turban, pearl earrings, and a large sapphire on a chain around his pale throat. His elaborate ensemble included a transparent blouse through which his delicate skin glistened in the lamplight, a long quilted sash at his waist, and tight-fitting trousers beneath light gauze pajamas that clung to his thighs as he moved. His lips were lightly red, and his perfume a mixture of flowers and musk. The boy reached for a ball of spiced opium and settled back against a quilted gold bolster next to Mukarrab Khan. The governor studied him momentarily and then returned to the music. And his thoughts.

He reflected again on Abul Hasan's blundering "accident" on the chaugan field, and what it must signify. If it were true the qazi had been bought by the Shahbandar, as some whispered, then it meant Mirza Nuruddin must be alarmed to the point of imprudence. Fearful of what could happen if the English were detained long enough for the Portuguese warships to prepare. Which meant that somewhere behind it all lay the hand of Prince Jadar.

He examined Hawksworth again, wondering how this English captain could have savaged the Viceroy's fleet with such embarrassing ease. What, he asked himself again, will the queen order done?

"I'm sorry you don't find our music more congenial. Ambassador. Perhaps I too would be wiser if I loved it less. The passion for classical music has cost many a great warrior his kingdom in India over the last centuries. For example, when the great Moghul patriarch Akman conquered Baz Bahadur, once the proud ruler of Malwa, it was because that prince was a better patron of music than of the arts of war." He smiled reflectively. "Admittedly, the great Akman himself also flooded his court with musicians, but then he had the wit to study arms as well. Regrettably, I find myself lacking his strength of character."

He paused to take a sip of nectar, then shrugged. "But enough. Tell me now what you really think of my Ustad, my master sitarist. There are those in Agra who will never forgive me for stealing him away."

"I'm not sure what I think. I've never heard a composition quite like the one he's playing."

"What do you mean by 'composition'?" Mukarrab Khan's tone was puzzled.

"That's how a piece of music is written out."

Mukarrab Khan paused and examined him skeptically for a long moment. "Written out? You write down your music? But whatever for? Does that mean your musicians play the same song again and again, precisely the same way?"

"If they're good they do. A composer writes a piece of music and musicians try to play it."

"How utterly tiresome." Mukarrab Khan sighed and leaned back on his bolster. "Music is a living art, Ambassador. It's meant to illuminate the emotions of the one who gives it life. How can written music have any feeling? My Ustad would never play a raga the same way twice. Indeed, I doubt he would be physically capable of such a boorish feat."

"You mean he creates a new composition each time he plays?"

"Not precisely. But his handling of the specific notes of a raga must speak to his mood, mv mood. These vary, why not his art?"

"But what is a raga then, if not a song?"

"That's always difficult to explain. At some rudimentary level you might say it's simply a melody form, a fixed series of notes around which a musician improvises. But although a raga has a rigorously prescribed ascending and descending note sequence and specific melodic motifs, it also has its own mood, 'flavor.' What we call its rasa. How could one possibly write down a mood?"

"I guess I see your point. But it's still confusing." Hawksworth took another sip of wine. "How many ragas are there?"

"There are seventy-two primary scales on which ragas are based. But some scales have more than one raga. There are ragas for morning, for evening, for late at night. My Ustad is playing a late evening raga now. Although he uses only the notes and motifs peculiar to this raga, what he does with them is entirely governed by his feeling tonight."

"But why is there no harmony?"

"I don't understand what you mean by 'harmony.'"

"Striking several notes together, so they blend to produce a chord."

Mukarrab Khan studied him, uncomprehending, and Hawksworth continued.

"If I had my lute I'd show you how harmony and chords are used in an English song." Hawksworth thought again of his instrument, and of the difficulty he'd had protecting it during the voyage. He knew all along it was foolish to bring it, but he often told himself every man had the right to one folly.

"Then by all means." The governor's curiosity seemed to arouse him instantly from the opium. "Would you believe I've never met a feringhi who could play an instrument, any instrument?"

"But my lute was detained, along with all my belongings, at the customs house. I was going to retrieve my chest from the Shahbandar when you intercepted his men."

"Ambassador, please believe I had good reason. But I thought I told you arrangements have been made." He turned and dictated rapidly to one of the eunuchs. There was an expressionless bow, and the man left the room. Moments later he returned through the bronze entry doors, followed by two dark-skinned servants carrying Hawksworth's chest, one at each end.

"I ordered your belongings sent from the customs house this afternoon. You would honor me by staying here as my guest." Mukarrab Khan smiled warmly. "And now I would hear you play this English instrument."

Hawksworth was momentarily startled, wondering why his safety was suddenly of such great interest to Mukarrab Khan. But he pushed aside the question and turned to examine the large brass lock on his chest. Although it had been newly polished to a high sheen, as had the entire chest, there was no visible evidence it had been opened. He extracted the key from his doublet, slipped it into the lock, and turned it twice. It revolved smoothly, opening with a soft click.

The lute rested precisely where he had left it. Its body was shaped like a huge pear cut in half lengthwise, with the back a glistening melon of curved cedar staves and the face a polished cherry. The neck was broad, and the head, where the strings were wound to their pegs, angled sharply back. He admired it for a 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 lamplight, then summoned a eunuch and whispered briefly in his ear. As the eunuch passed the order to a hovering servant, Mukarrab Khan turned to Hawksworth.

"Your English music is interesting, Ambassador, if somewhat simple." He cleared his throat as an excuse to pause. "But frankly I must tell you it touched only my mind. Not my heart. Although I heard it, I did not feel it. Do you understand the difference? I sensed nothing of its rasa, the emotion and desire one should taste at a moment like this, the merging of sound and spirit. Your English music seems to stand aloof, unapproachable." Mukarrab Khan searched for words. "It inhabits its own world admirably, but it did not enter mine."

Servants suddenly appeared bearing two silver trays, on which were crystal cups of green, frothy liquid. As the servant placed Hawksworth's tray on the patterned carpet, he bowed, beaming. Mukarrab Khan ignored his own tray and instead summoned the sitarist, Bahram Qasim, to whisper brief instructions in his ear. Then the governor turned to Hawksworth.

"Perhaps I can show you what I mean. This may be difficult for you, so first I would urge you try a cup of bhang. It has the remarkable effect of opening one's heart."

Hawksworth tested the beverage warily. Its underlying bitterness had been obscured with sweet yogurt and potent spices. It was actually very palatable. He drank again, this time thirstily.

"What did you call this? Bhang?”

"Yes, it's made from the leaves of hemp. Unlike wine, which only dulls the spirit, bhang hones the senses. Now I've arranged a demonstration for you."

He signaled the sitarist, and Bahram Qasim began the unmistakable theme of "Piper's Galliard." The song was drawn out slowly, languorously, as each individual note was introduced, lovingly explored for its own pure sound, and then framed with microtone embellishment and a sensual vibrato. The clear, simple notes of the lute were transmuted into an almost orchestral richness by an undertone of harmonic density from the sitar's sympathetic strings, the second row of wires beneath those being plucked, tuned to match the notes of the song and respond without being touched. Dowland's harmonies were absent, but now the entire room resonated with a single majestic chord underlying each note. Gradually the sitarist accelerated the tempo, while also beginning to insert his own melodic variations over the original notes of the theme.

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 Resolved 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.