The Moghul

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