Nicolas watches Younghusband’s frosty breath rise into the clear air and listens politely to his dirty jokes. He feels a quiet sort of contentment. Up here, a man can be whoever he chooses.

‘… my servant Dongmin says it’s because I’m a pig.’

Nicolas laughs immoderately at what he takes to be the punchline. Younghusband frowns in puzzlement. ‘It’s not a joke, old chap. My Chinese horoscope.’

‘Of course,’ says Nicolas, recovering his composure swiftly. ‘A pig.’

Younghusband prods a branch into the fire with the tip of his boot. ‘What’s yours?’

‘Mine? I was born under the sign of the twins, but surely you don’t believe such fairy tales?’

‘Typical Gemini. But that’s not what I mean. In China, the important thing is the year. What year were you born?’ Younghusband takes a generous slurp of cognac. ‘Come on, play along, old chap. Make it fun.’

Nicolas smiles to himself at the Englishman’s lack of guile. It’s a transparent stratagem for determining his age. He imagines Younghusband trying the same trick with coy women at the regimental balls. ‘I was born in 1858, Francis.’

‘1858? Really? I had you younger. That makes you … let me see. A horse!’ The fact that Nicolas is Younghusband’s senior by five years takes the final edge off their rivalry. He offers the Russian some friendly advice. ‘I’d think twice about sleeping under canvas up here, old chap. Kanjuti robbers. They could be watching us now. Fiendishly cunning. They’ll sneak up at night and cut the guy ropes. Before you know it, you’re rolled up in your tent like a length of carpet and being taken off to some slave-bazaar, or worse.’

Nicolas expresses gratitude for Younghusband’s concern, but says he’s willing to take his chances. ‘Suit yourself,’ says Younghusband. Nicolas senses the Englishman’s eyes on him as the flames die.

At sunset, Younghusband placed a sheepskin sleeping bag out in the open, ostentatiously; now, he drags it behind a rock to mislead any watching Kanjutis. He gives Nicolas’s arm a fond pat as they bid each other goodnight.

Nicolas tends to suffer from insomnia at altitude, but tonight, for some reason, he falls quickly into a deep sleep. When he wakes up, it’s still dark and it takes a moment for him to remember where he is. He feels something pressing into his ribs. It’s Younghusband, beside him in the tiny tent, and glued closer to the Russian than a beauty spot on a matron’s face.

‘Mr Younghusband?’ Nicolas protests sleepily. ‘What in the devil’s name—?’

‘I thought I heard a noise,’ the Englishman says, withdrawing his hand abruptly from Nicolas’s sleeping bag, and taking with it the cord from Nicolas’s pyjamas.

‘The tent is barely big enough for one. If you want it, you’re welcome to it.’

‘Fine thanks for my concern about your well-being,’ says Younghusband, wriggling out of the tent door in his sleeping bag with the motion of a huge and clumsy caterpillar.