"If your goods are not taxed, they will remain in the customs house. That is the law. Because you claim to represent your king, I will forgo my obligation to search your person. All of your men, however, will be searched down to their boots, and any goods or coin they bring through this port will be taxed according to the prevailing rate. Two and one- half percent of value." "Our Chief Merchant wishes to display his samples to your traders." "I have told you I will consider your request for trade. There are many considerations." He signaled for the hookah to be lighted again. The interview seemed to be ended. Hawksworth bowed with what formality he could muster and turned toward the counting-room door. "Captain Hawksworth. You will not be returning to your men. I have made other arrangements for your lodging." Hawksworth revolved to see four porters waiting by an open door at the Shahbandar's left. I must be tired. I hadn't noticed the door until now. Then he realized it had been concealed in the decorations on the wall. When he did not move, the porters surrounded him. No, they're not porters. They're the guards who held back the crowds from the steps. And they're armed now. "I think you will find your lodgings suitable." The Shahbandar watched Hawksworth's body tense. "My men will escort you. Your chest will remain here under my care." The Shahbandar returned again to his gurgling hookah. "My chest will not be subject to search. If it is to be searched, I will return now to my ship." Hawksworth still did not move. "Your officials will respect my king, and his honor." "It is in my care." The Shahbandar waved Hawksworth toward the door. He did not look up from his pipe. As Hawksworth passed into the midday sunshine, he saw the Shahbandar's own palanquin waiting by the door. Directly ahead spread the city's teeming horse and cattle bazaar, while on his right, under a dense banyan tree, a dark-eyed beggar sat on a pallet, clothed only in a white loincloth and wearing ashes in his braided hair and curious white and red marks on his forehead. His eyes were burning and intense, and he inspected the new _feringhi _as though he'd just seen the person of the devil. Why should I travel hidden from view, Hawksworth puzzled? But there was no time to ponder an answer. The cloth covering was lifted and he found himself urged into the cramped conveyance, made even more comfortless and hot by its heavy carpet lining and bolster seat. In moments the street had disappeared into jolting darkness. CHAPTER SIX