The blond head nodded. “It’s true. A public declaration like that, Jimmy’d be furious, but I can’t imagine he’d dare take it further.”

A weight far greater than that of Kimball O’Hara settled over me. I turned back to Holmes and hissed, “If you’re wrong, I shall be extremely angry with you.” Then I kissed him hard on the lips, more threat than affection, and let him step back into his cell.

Before the door shut on him, he stuck his head back, his hand on the slim line of hair on his upper lip. “However, Russ? I think that, all in all, given the choice, I prefer you with the hair and without the moustache.”

Suddenly the light in the hall-way shifted as the oil flames ducked and fluttered: A lower door had opened. Aware of Nesbit apologetically slinging O’Hara across his shoulders, I made haste to lock Holmes’ door, then that of the other cell, before dropping the keys back into the tin box and scurrying away on Nesbit’s heels.

Our nice, smooth rescue operation had turned into something out of a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta, thanks to two hugely reluctant prisoners. Why could nothing in this damnable country be simple?

We had to use the distraction of small stones to make our escape through the gates, but both guards behaved as the first set had, and went to investigate the rattles, allowing us ample time to gain the road outside. Carrying our burden, however, we could not take a short-cut down the hillside, but were forced to keep to the paved surface, and made the main road seconds before the sound of marching feet rang out from the New Fort gates high above us. Six guards started down the hill to fetch the magician for his midnight rendezvous with the maharaja. We huddled behind a heap of stones and waited for them to cross the road and go through the gates of the Old Fort; as he had promised, our reluctant escapee made not a sound. When the guards had disappeared, Nesbit resumed his burden and staggered off across the moonlit landscape.

A mile later, we stopped to let Nesbit tip his burden to the ground and drop down beside him. O’Hara watched the younger man wheeze and rub his legs, a sympathetic look on his face, the beads of his rosary slipping regularly through his fingers. Damn him, anyway.

“How many beads on your rosary?” I asked the monk; my voice revealed my great displeasure with the entire episode.

He turned on me a beatific smile. “One hundred eight. My days of counting paces are over; now I count prayers.”

Stifling a groan, Nesbit stood again and prepared to take up his burden.

“Wait,” I said.

“I’ll take him another stretch, then you can try.”

“No.”

“We can’t delay, we’re too close to The Forts.”