He had nowhere to hide but behind the opening door. He squeezed himself in the angle and stayed utterly silent as the steward, dressed in his customary black, entered and went straight to the table with its collection of dead things.

The steward had a tray with him. He pushed it on the table and began to arrange some of the items on it. His gloved hand hovered over some, rejecting them, and plucking others up as worthy.

Dalip realised that he was going to be spotted the instant the man turned. He wondered if he could sneak out while the steward was busy, but he was scared even to move. The heavy boilersuit wasn’t the stealthiest of clothing, and he was certain to be heard.

There was only one possible course of action. He raised the knife and took the two short steps up behind the bent black back. He snaked an arm around the man’s neck and pressed the knife hard into his side.

‘Don’t,’ said Dalip. ‘Whatever it is you think you can do, I can kill you quicker.’

The steward stiffened. The hand that was resting in the top of his cane flexed, and Dalip tightened his grip.

‘Put it on the table. Slowly.’

He lifted the cane and gently slid it in amongst the discards, next to the tray.

‘You’re not the Slav. The little Sikh boy, then.’

Dalip didn’t respond. The cane safely out of the man’s hand, he dragged him back a couple of steps so that it was out of reach too.

‘If you’re hoping to escape, it’s not going to work.’

Dalip thought they seemed to be doing all right so far, but kept it to himself.

‘We’re going down the stairs.’ He thought of all the hackneyed phrases he’d seen in films during situations just like this, and decided that his captive was intelligent enough to know what was required of him.

He steered him out of the door. The staircase was a spiral, stone steps that were wedges around a central column. It was going to be difficult to keep in close contact down them, but his prisoner’s comfort wasn’t his concern. There were noises off: the creak of wood from above, a more metallic clatter from below. He couldn’t hope to deal with everyone – what was important was letting the others in so they’d have a chance at getting to the geomancer.

Dalip and the steward descended awkwardly, the knife an ever-present inducement to good behaviour, Dalip’s bare feet gripping the narrow steps better than the steward’s booted ones, which slipped on occasions, stretching his neck in the crook of Dalip’s bent elbow. There were other doors off the staircase, but they hadn’t descended quite enough.

‘That one. Open it slowly.’