The Moghul

by Thomas Hoover

  *

  "The strumpet luck seems to have switched her men tonight, Captain Hawksworth, like a nautch girl when her karwa's rupees are spent." Mirza Nuruddin signaled for his hookah to be relighted. He had just thrown another row of three sixes, and was now near to taking the seventh game, giving him six to Hawksworth's one. All betting on Hawks­worth had stopped after the fourth game. "But the infinite will of God is always mysterious, mercifully granting us what we need more often than what we want."

  Hawksworth had studied the last throw carefully, through the haze of brandy, and he suddenly realized Mirza Nuruddin had been cheating.

  By Jesus, the dice are weighted. He sets them up somehow in the cup, then slides them quickly across the carpet. Damn me if he's not a thief. But why bother to cheat me? I only laid five sovereigns on the game.

  He pushed aside the confusion and reflected again on the astounding genius who sat before him now, cheating at dice.

  His plan was masterful. Host a gathering for the captains at the bar the night we will unload. Even the Portuguese. No one in command of a ship will be at the river mouth, no one who could possibly interfere. All our wool's already been unladed and brought overland to Surat. Then we transferred the ironwork and lead on the Discovery to the Resolve. So all the lead and ironwork in cargo will be unladed by moonlight tonight and on its way upriver by morning, before the Portugals here even sleep off their liquor.

  And the Resolve will be underway again by dawn, back to Swalley with no one to challenge her. Not even the Portuguese trading frigatta, with their laughable eight-pound stern chasers. The Discovery is almost laded with cotton. Another couple of days should finish her. And then the Resolve. Another two week at most, and they'll be underway.

  The East India Company, the Worshipful damned East India Company, will earn a fortune on this voyage. And a certain captain named Brian Hawksworth will be toasted the length of Cheapside as the man who did what Lancaster couldn't. The man who sent the East India Company's frigates home with a cargo of the cheapest pepper in history. The Butterbox Hollanders will be buying pepper from the East India Company next year and cursing Captain Brian Hawksworth.

  Or will it be Sir Brian Hawksworth?

  He tried the name on his tongue as he swirled the dice for one last throw. This time he tried to duplicate the Shahban­dar's technique.

  Easy swirls and then just let them slide onto the carpet as you make some distracting remark.

  "Perhaps it's Allah's will that a man make his own luck. Is that written somewhere?" The dice slid onto the carpet and Hawksworth reached for his brandy.

  Three sixes.

  Mirza Nuruddin studied the three ivories indifferently as he drew on his hookah. But traces of a smile showed at the corner of his lips and his foggy eyes sparkled for an instant.

  "You see, Captain Hawksworth, you never know the hand of fortune till you play to the end." He motioned to a servant. "Refresh the English captain's glass. I think he's starting to learn our game."