"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.