Padraig: “They are rich female Hindoo Malabar pirates now.”
Jack: “Mr. Foot had run to the head, either to take a shite (which is what he normally does at such times) or to wave a white flag. But he tripped on a loose gold bar and pitched overboard. I went after him, knowing he couldn’t swim. The water turned out to be less than two fathoms deep—I nearly broke my leg hitting the bottom. Accordingly, our ship ran aground at nearly the same moment. The rest is a blur.”
Padraig: “It’s not such a blur. You and I, Monsieur Arlanc, Mr. Foot, van Hoek, and Vrej waded, bobbed, and dog-paddled across those endless shallows for a day or two. At some point we re-encountered Surendranath. Finally we washed up near Surat. The Armenian and the Frenchman later failed the Intelligence Test and wound up in the army of Dispenser of Mayhem.”
Surendranath: “Concerning those two, by the way, I have sent out some messages to my cousin in Udaipur—he will make inquiries.”
They came over the top of a gentle rise and saw new country ahead. A mile or two distant, the road crossed a small river that ran from right to left towards the Gulf of Cambaye, which was barely visible as a grayish fuzz on the eastern horizon. The river crossing was commanded by a mud-brick fort, and around the fort was a meager walled town. Jack already knew what they would find there: a landing for boats coming up the river from the Gulf, and a marketplace where Pieces of India were peddled to Banyans or European buyers.
Jack said, “It will be good to see Vrej and Arlanc again, assuming they are still alive, and I will enjoy listening to their war-stories. But I already know what they would tell us, if they were here.”
This announcement seemed to startle Padraig and Surendranath, and so Jack explained, “There must be some advantage to growing old, or else why would we put up with it?”
“You’re not old,” Padraig said, “you can’t be forty yet.”
“Stay. I have lived through more than most old men. Letters I have not learned, nor numbers, and so I cannot read a book, nor navigate a ship, nor calculate the proper angle for an artillery-piece. But people I know well—better than I should like to—and so the situation of Hindoostan is all too clear to me. It is clear when I watch you, Surendranath, speaking of the Moguls, and you, Padraig, speaking of the English.”
“Will you share your wisdom with us then, O Jack?” Padraig asked.
“If Vrej Esphahnian and Monsieur Arlanc were here, they would tell us that the Marathas are angry, well-organized, and not afraid to die, and that the Moguls are orgulous and corrupt—that the rulers of this Empire live better while besieging some Maratha fortress than the Hindoos do when they are at peace. They would tell us, in other words, that this rebellion is a serious matter, and that we cannot get the caravan of Surendranath from Surat to Delhi by dint of charm or bribery.”
“You seem to be telling me that it is impossible,” Surendranath said. “Perhaps we should turn around and go back to the Habitation of Dust.”
“Surendranath, which would you rather be: the first bird to jump off the ice floe, or the first bird to climb back onto it with a belly full of fish?”
“The question answers itself,” Surendranath said.
“If you listen to my advice, you will not be the former, but you will be the latter.”
“You think other caravans will leave Surat first, and fall prey to the rebels,” Surendranath translated.
“I believe that any caravan headed to Delhi will have to face the Maratha army at some point,” Jack said. “The first such caravan to drive the Marathas from the field shall be the first to reach its destination.”
“I cannot hire an army,” Surendranath said.
“I did not say you need to hire an army. I said you need to drive the Marathas from the field.”
“You speak like a fakir,” Surendranath said darkly.