"Three of these I know very well." His accented Turki was almost lost in a roll of spray off the stern. "They are the _St. Sebastian_, the _Bon Jesus_, and the _Bon Ventura_. They arrived new from Lisbon last year, after the monsoon, to patrol our shipping lanes, to enforce the regulation that all Indian vessels purchase a trading license from authorities in Goa." "And what of the fourth?" "It is said she berthed in Goa only this spring. I do not know her name. There were rumors she brought the new Viceroy, but early, before his four-year term began. I have never before seen her north, in these waters." My God. Hawksworth looked at the warships in dismay. Is this the course of the Company's fortune? A voyage depending on secrecy blunders across a fleet bearing the incoming Viceroy of Goa. The most powerful Portuguese in the Indies. "They are invincible," the pilot continued, his voice still matter-of- fact. "The galleons own our waters. They have two decks of guns. No Indian vessel, even the reckless corsairs along our southern coast of Malabar, dare meet them in the open sea. Owners who refuse to submit and buy a Portuguese trading license must sail hundreds of leagues off course to avoid their patrol." "And what do you propose? That we heave to and strike our colors? Without even a fight?" Hawksworth was astonished by the pilot's casual unconcern. Is he owned by the Portugals too? "You may act as you choose. I have witnessed many vain boasts of English bravery during my brief service aboard your ship. But an Indian captain would choose prudence at such a time. Strike colors and offer to pay for a license. Otherwise you will be handled as a pirate." "No Englishman will ever pay a Portugal or a Spaniard for a license to trade. Or a permit to piss." Hawksworth turned away, trying to ignore the cold sweat beading on his chest. "We never have. We never will." The pilot watched him for a moment, and then smiled.