The Moghul

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