The Moghul

little." The man glanced impatiently back toward the field. "But come, it's growing darker as we talk. I'd hoped you might join us in our little game. It's elementary. Should be child's play for a man who commands at sea." He turned to one of the men standing by the side of the field. "Ahmed, prepare a stick for Captain ... by the way, I wasn't given your name."
    "Hawksworth."
    "Yes. Prepare a stick for Captain Hawksworth. He'll be joining us."
    Hawksworth stared at the man, trying to gauge his impulsiveness.
    "You, I presume, are the governor."
    "Forgive me. I so rarely find introductions required. Mukarrab Khan, your humble servant. Yes, it's my fate to be governor of Surat, but only because there's no outpost less interesting. But come, we lose precious time." He pivoted his pawing mount about and signaled for a new ball to be ignited.
    "You'll find our game very simple, Captain Hawksworth. The object is to take the ball between the posts you see there, what we call the hal . There are two teams of five players, but we normally rotate players every twenty minutes." His horse reared again in anticipation as the new ball was brought onto the field. "Years ago we played only during the hours of day, but then our Moghul’s father, the great Akman, introduced the burning ball, so he could play at night. It's palas wood, very light and slow-burning."
    Hawksworth felt a nudge on his hand and looked down to see a stick being passed upward by one of the attendants. The handle was sheathed in silver, and the stick itself was over six feet long, with a flattened curve at the bottom, like a distorted shepherd's crook. Hawksworth lifted it gingerly, testing its weight, and was surprised by its lightness.
    "You will be playing on the team of Abul Hasan." He nodded toward a middle-aged man with a youthful face and no moustache. "He is a qazi here in Surat, a judge who interprets and dispenses law, and when he's not busy abusing the powers of his office, he presumes to challenge me at chaugan ." The official bowed slightly but did not smile. His dappled gray mare was sniffing at the governor's stallion. "He thinks he has me at a disadvantage, since in Agra we played with only one goal, whereas here they use two, but chaugan is a test of skill, not rules. He leads the white turbans." Only then did Hawksworth notice that the governor's team all wore red turbans.
    The governor waved to his attendant. "A clean turban for the English captain."
    "I'd prefer to play as I am." Hawksworth saw a flash of disbelief in the governor's eyes. It was obvious he was never contradicted. "I never wear a hat, though it seems in India I'm still called a topiwallah .
    "Very well, Captain Hawksworth. The topiwallah wears no turban." He seemed to smile as he turned to the other players and signaled for play to start. "Abul Hasan's team is composed of Surat officials, Captain. You will notice, however, that I am teamed with some of our merchants—Muslim, of course, not Hindus—something I must do to ensure challenging opponents. The mere presence of merchants here today should give you some idea how very tedious I find living in Surat. In Agra no merchant would be allowed near a chaugan field. But here my officials enjoy winning their money so much that I am forced to relent." And he laughed warmly.
    The burning ball was slammed toward the middle of the field, and the players spurred their horses after it in lunging pursuit. Hawksworth gripped the chaugan stick in his right hand and the reins in the other as his mount galloped after the others, obviously eager to begin. The red turbans reached the ball first, with the governor in the lead. He caught the ball on a bounce and, wielding his stick in a graceful arc, whipped it under the neck of the dark stallion and directly toward the hal , while in the same motion reining in his mount sharply to follow its trajectory.
    But a white turban had anticipated his shot and was already in position to intercept the ball. He cut directly in front of the governor's path and with a practiced swipe bulleted the ball back toward the center of the field, knocking a spray of sparks across the face of the governor's horse. Mukarrab Khan's stallion seemed scarcely to notice as he reared, whirled, and flew in chase.
    The shot had passed over the heads of the three other white turbans and bounced off the grass a few feet behind Hawksworth, still well to the rear. Hawksworth reined his mount about and bore down on the ball,