The Moghul

haggling with the merchants for clay jars of oil, while grooms moved among them leading prancing horses, each wearing a gold-fringed saddle blanket that glowed like ancient coin in the waning sun.
    Hawksworth studied the crowd, searching vainly for some sense of organization, then turned to begin working his way back toward Jadar's compound and his own tent.
    Shirin was still there, asleep. He stood admiring her again, her soft mouth, the olive skin of her high cheeks, her shining dark hair, and realized he loved her more than ever.
    Dear God, we've only just begun to live. Jadar is a madman.
    Almost without knowing why, he began to rummage through the remains of his clothing, still rolled in the carpet and lying where he had thrown it. His pulse suddenly quickened when his fingers closed around a hard round object. It was his very last bottle of brandy, miraculously entangled in the remains of his formal doublet.
    If there was ever a time . . .
    He ripped away the rotting cork with his teeth and pulled deeply on the brandy, twice. As always, it seemed to work at the knot in his gut. He took one more swallow, then shook Shirin.
    She startled awake and stared at him wildly for a second. Then she broke into a smile . . . until she saw the brandy.
    "Do you really need that now?"
    "I need this and a lot more. How can you sleep? This whole God-cursed camp is going to be leveled by the Imperial army in a few hours." He stopped and stared at her. "Are you listening? Only a fraction of Jadar's cannon are deployed. Most are still waiting to be pulled into position. It's unbelievable."
    Shirin pulled herself up and leaned against a bolster, examining him with weary eyes. "Then why are you here? I thought you'd decided to help Prince Jadar."
    "How can anyone help him when he won't help himself?" Hawksworth took another burning mouthful of brandy and stared at his bow quiver lying on the carpet. In a fit of disgust he kicked it toward the center of the tent.
    Shirin watched the bow fall and laughed.
    "Have you mastered your Rajput bow yet?"
    "No, and what does it matter? You know Jadar is outnumbered three to one." Hawksworth pointed toward the muskets he had leaned against a coil of rope by the tent pole. "I've got three weapons for us. Do you think you can shoot a matchlock?"
    "I can shoot a bow." She dismissed the muskets with a glance. "I sincerely hope you've learned enough to shoot one too."
    A trumpet sounded from the center of the compound. Immediately it was answered by others the length of the camp.
    Shirin snapped alert and rose off the bolster, pulling her gauze cloak around her waist.
    "That's the signal to begin preparing the firewood. Come. At least you can help with that."
    Hawksworth examined her aghast.
    "Firewood! What in God's name are you talking about? Is Jadar planning to light fires? Is he worried the Imperial army won't find our camp?" He turned and walked to the doorway, rubbing his brow in disbelief. "I think there's damned small risk of that. The red tents of his zenana can be seen for miles."
    Shirin laughed and pushed her way ahead of him, past the portiere of the tent. Servants had already begun assembling piles of logs along the center of the walkway that ran the length of the compound. Hawksworth stood at the doorway and stared in astonishment as clay jars of oil were carried from the kitchen tent and stationed near the logs. As he watched, he noticed the long shadows of dusk beginning to play across the walls of nearby tents.
    He turned to retrieve the brandy, and when he emerged again from the tent, Shirin was lost among the crowd of servants bringing wood. He slipped the bottle into his jerkin and started working his way down the side of the compound, back toward the munitions tent.
    Pairs of elephants had been harnessed to the larger cannon, and now they were being led out of the camp, into the dusk. Following these were camels with two-pound swivel guns mounted on their backs, together with infantry pulling the smaller guns after them on two-wheeled carriages. Bullock carts heaving with powder and shot came after.
    Pyramids of firewood were scattered among the tents, and already many of the Rajputs had assembled by the unlit piles, talking and embracing. Some had seated themselves and removed their turbans, chanting verses from the Bhagavad-Gita as they began to oil and comb their long black hair. Hawksworth watched silently as they started passing around inlaid teakwood boxes, taking and