Mirza Nuruddin ignored them. He was calculating time, not rupees.
His latest report was that four weeks more were needed for the Viceroy to outfit the galleons and fireships. But the single-masted frigatta bringing the news from Goa was two weeks in travel. Which means the galleons will be here within three, perhaps two weeks, he told himself. A Portuguese armada of twelve warships. The Englishman's luck has run out. They'll be caught unlading and burned.
He fingered the shred of dirty cloth tucked in his waist. It had been sent by Shirin, wrapped with a gift of aga of the rose. Her cryptic note had told him all he had needed to know. When his spies reported no one recently injured among the servants of the Portuguese Jesuits, the search had begun in the horse bazaar. They had found the man the next day. The truth had come quickly when Mirza Nuruddin's name was mentioned.
And nothing had been learned. The man had been given the knife by Hindi-speaking servants. Their master's name was never divulged. But they knew well the routine of the Englishman, and the location of the observatory.
And now I must tamper with your destiny, English captain. We are all—you, I, the prince—captives of a world we no longer can fully control.
He asked himself again why he had made the choice, finally. To take the risks Jadar had asked, when the odds against the prince were growing daily. It was stupid to support him now, and Mirza Nuruddin had always held absolute contempt for stupidity, particularly when it meant supporting a hopeless cause.
If the queen crushes him, as she very likely will, I've jeopardized my position, my holdings, probably my life.
The prince does not understand how difficult my task is. The infidel Englishman is almost too clever.
I had planned it perfectly. I had shown them the opportunity for great profit, then denied it to them. They were preparing to leave, but surely they would have returned, with a fleet. Then Mukarrab Khan approved their trade, after waiting until he was certain the Portuguese preparations were almost complete. So now they remain, awaiting their own destruction, never to leave again. And when these frigates are destroyed, will any English ever return?
The Englishman will surely be dead, or sent to Goa. There'll be no trip to Agra. And Arangbar will never know why.