He was surprised to see the expensive robe the leader of the delegation wore, and even more surprised as the man was introduced as mansabdar of the local imperial forces; so surprised it required him a few moments to catch up to the conversation and ask, “Beg pardon?”
“Who were these men that attacked you?” the translator repeated as his client eyed the Lønesom Vind’s guns.
“Abyssinians, from their look,” Strand said, shrugging. The distances involved made that unlikely, but he didn’t know enough about the region’s coastal communities to say otherwise.
“You took no prisoners?”
“We tried, but several jumped overboard, fearing we would fire on them again. The sharks…” He blinked to quell the memory, swallowed before continuing, “Well, the sharks had them before we could attempt a rescue. Their wounded did not survive the wait.”
The mansabdar nodded, said something Strand didn’t quite catch and the translator didn’t deign to illuminate.
Biting back impatience, Strand asked, “What’s that?”
“Swalley Hole. The English used it. Not best place, but enough to shelter one, two deep ships while waiting for firman. Mansabdar just had word from news writer: Now the English gone, pirates come. Try and take goods.”
“What of the Portos?” The Portuguese had nearly a hundred years of history in these waters, and had long since established a system of extorting pilgrims and traders heading to Mecca. Sometimes they even did what they were paid to do, and protected shipping. Certainly they were an ever-present threat to everyone.
A waggle of the head that could mean anything. “Many ships at Goa, not so many north. Especially without monsoon wind to carry trade.”
Strand pointedly looked to the shore and the many light galleys of the mansabdar’s fleet drawn up along it and asked, “So, what will be done to ensure our safety?”
The mansabdar grinned, pointed at Lønesom Vind’s cannon, and said something to the effect of: “What, you’re worried, even with those?”
Strand held up the copy of the firman. “Trade is made more difficult aboard ship, and this is the emperor’s surety of our safety.”
The man sobered, cocked his head, and said something lengthy and complicated. The translator, however, said flatly, “Which one?”
The captain resisted the urge to grab the translator by his robe and throw him overboard, but only just.
The translator must have realized how angry he’d made the big Dane because he quickly added, “Truly, all is in doubt. All mansabs must be”—he visibly groped for the proper word before finding it—“confirmed…by new emperor. Each recipient must declare their support for their preferred claimant.”
Strand’s brows knitted together, trying to piece together what that meant and hoping it didn’t mean what it seemed to.
The noble went and said something more, grin reappearing in his beard.
Eyeing Strand warily, the translator dutifully said, “Do not fear, all things according to His will, in His time.”
Damn, it does mean what I thought.
* * *
“This is not good,” Loke said as they watched the galley head ashore.
“No, it is not,” Strand said. “The fellow did say we could likely get away with trading on the firman we have, so long as we get it confirmed as soon as possible.”
“But, isn’t there going to be a war for the throne?”
“I assume so.”
“So why was that man grinning?”
Strand shrugged. “What mercenary isn’t happy at the prospect of a new contract?”
“But I thought mansabdar was a noble title? Such glee hardly seems fitting.”
“I thought so, as well. But then so is a zamindar, and I have yet to speak to one of those…” He knuckled the rail in frustration. “I am not sure how they define such things, but suffice to say it must be very different to what we are used to.”
“And what if the war comes here before the Mission returns?” Loke asked.
“It doesn’t bear thinking on. Without a cargo…”
“We’ve been at anchor too long. The men are already about to lose their minds.”
“That is so.” He sighed. “No use borrowing trouble that has yet to come home to roost.”
Chapter 3
Goa
Portuguese enclave on the west coast of India
Palace of the viceroy
“I’ve had disturbing reports from the local traders, Viceroy Linhares,” Francisco Tinoco De Carvalho said, waving his glass of madeira toward the port. “Pirates all along the coast have grown bolder in the last few weeks, striking at places they never dared before.”
“A direct result of the English being ejected from Surat, I’ll warrant,” another merchant said. “That, and the succession war everyone knows is about to break out.”
The Conde Linhares, Viceroy of the Estado da India, nodded but kept silent. He’d heard it all already, of course, often from the lips of small traders themselves. But, aside from simply placating De Carvalho by hosting this feast for the baptism of the merchant’s nephew, Linhares had hoped for fresh intelligence from those merchants and nobles in attendance. As De Carvalho was the head of the Nuovo Cristao merchant families in Goa, he had sources Linhares lacked, so it was best to pay heed to what the man said.
“You speak as if the Mughals controlled the sea-lanes in the first place,” De Carvalho rumbled.
“Everyone knows that war breeds lawlessness like fleas on a mongrel dog!” the merchant, whose name escaped the viceroy, expounded as a slave topped De Carvalho’s glass off.
“Everyone does know that,” De Carvalho said, looking decidedly bored. “However, news of actual fighting has yet to reach us, and the princes were quite distant from one another at last report, so saying the pirates are already reacting to the news is a bit
