The Moghul

trailing a stream of oaths.
    Hawksworth leaned against the wooden spokes of a bullock cart and quickly passed the stiletto from his boot back to his belt. As he watched, the bark tipped, beginning to list dangerously, and then he heard Elkington command the porters to stop the loading and prepare to get underway. Only five of the twenty-five bullock carts had been emptied, and the sun was already approaching midafternoon. As Hawksworth had watched the men at work, some corner of his mind had become dimly aware of a curious anomaly. Whereas the Shahbandar's porters were working at full speed, the drivers of the bullock carts seemed actually to be hindering the unloading—moving the carts around in a confused way that always kept the work disorganized. And a number of answers began, just began, to fall into place.
    "Captain-General Hawksworth, do you expect to be joinin' us?" George Elkington stalked up and began to scrape his muddy boots on the spokes of the bullock cart
    "Elkington, I want you to dismiss these drivers." Hawksworth ignored his sarcastic tone. "I want the Shahbandar to supply all our men from now on."
    "What the bloody hell for?" Elkington tightened his hat and hitched up his belt.
    "Something's wrong. Did you have any accidents coming in from Swalley?"
    "Accidents? Nay, not a bleedin' one. Unless you'd call the axle of a cart breakin' the first day and blockin' a narrow turn in the road, with mud on both sides so we couldn't pass and had to unload the whole bleedin' lot and look half the mornin' for another cart to hire. An' then the drivers had a fight over who was responsible, and who'd pay for what, and we couldn't start till after midday. And yesterday one of their damn'd bullocks died, right in the road. Which is scarce wonder, considerin' how worn out they are. Nay, we had no accidents. The whole bleedin' trip was an accident."
    "Then let's get rid of them all. Men, carts, bullocks, the lot. And hire new. Let the Shahbandar hire them for us. We pay in silver, and give him his commission, and I'm sure he'll provide us what we need."
    "Think he can do any better?" Elkington's skeptical eyes squinted against the sun. "These damn'd heathens all appear similar."
    "I think he'll make a difference. They all seem terrified of him. We have to try." Hawksworth started for the barge.
    "You don't have much time left." Shirin had said. "Try to understand what's happening."
    The porters were loosening the lines on the pegs. The bark was ready to get underway.
    "Don't assume you know who'll aid you," she had said. "Help may come in a way that surprises you. It can't be known who's helping you."
    He waded through the mud and pulled himself onto the bark. Then he turned and rolled over onto a bale of cloth. The sky was flawless and empty.
    "Just trust what feels right," she had said, and for no reason at all she had reached out and touched his lute. "Learn to trust your senses. Most of all"—she had taken his hand and held it longer than she should have—"learn to open yourself."
    They were underway.
    The Shahbandar watched from the maidan as the bark of English woolens moved in short spurts toward the steps below him. Oars sparkled in the sunshine, and the faint chant of the rowers bounced, garbled, across the waves. Behind him two short, surly-eyed men held the large umbrella that shaded his face and rotund belly. A circle of guards with poles pushed away traders who shouted begs and bribes for a moment of his time injtheir tent, to inspect their goods please and render them salable commodity with his chapp and an invoice stating their worth, preferably undervalued. The 2 1/2 percent duty was prescribed by the Moghul. The assessed value was not.
    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