carpet and now he dozed fitfully. Humphrey Spencer fought sleep as he worked vainly to brush away the powder smudges from his doublet. Mackintosh had finished whetting his seaman's knife and now sat absorbed in searching his hair for lice. Bosun's mate John Garway lounged against a side wall, idly scratching his codpiece and dreaming of the women he would soon have, his toothless smile fixed in sleepy anticipation. The master's mate, Thomas Davies, dozed in a heap by the door, his narrow face depleted and aged with scurvy. In a back corner dice and a pile of coins had miraculously appeared, and the other seamen sprawled about them on the floor, bloodshot eyes focused on the chance numbers that would spell the longest splurge in port. Hawksworth stretched his wounded leg once more, leaned stiffly against the front wall, and forced his mind to drift again into needed rest. Hawksworth was suddenly alert, his senses troubled. The sun had reached midmorning now, and it washed the mud floor in brilliant yellow light. He sensed that a heavy shadow had passed through its beam. He had not specifically seen it, but somehow, intuitively, he knew. Without a word he edged to the side of the heavy wooden door, his hand close to his sword handle. All the others except Mackintosh were by now asleep. Only the quartermaster had noticed it. He quickly moved to the side of the door opposite Hawksworth and casually drew his heavy, bone-handled knife. Without warning the door swung outward. Facing them was the same bearded man who had invited them ashore. The square behind him was bright now with the glare of late morning, and in the light Hawksworth realized he was wearing an immaculate white turban, a long blue skirt over tightly fitting white breeches, and ornate leather shoes, turned up at the toe in a curved point. This time, however, he no longer bore welcome. "Where have you anchored your ships?" The Turki was accented and abrupt. News travels fast, Hawksworth thought, as he tried to shove the haze from his mind. "Where is the Shahbandar?" "Your merchantmen were not in the bay this morning. Where are they now?" The man seemed to ignore Hawksworth's question. "I demand to see the Shahbandar. And I'll answer no questions till I do." "You do not demand of the Shahbandar." The man's black beard worked nervously, even when he paused. "You and all your men are to be brought to the customs house, together with your goods." "Where is he now?" "He is here." "Where?"