‘Skobelev? You know General Skobelev?’ The Englishman’s surprise is touchingly unfeigned.

‘I knew him,’ Nicolas says. ‘He died this past summer.’

‘That’s a damn shame,’ says Younghusband. ‘Every English schoolboy knows his name. The man was a fine soldier.’

‘He was many things,’ says Nicolas thoughtfully, staring at the tigerish colours of the fire.

‘Was he as tall as they say? Blue-eyed?’

Nicolas nods.

‘I met some Russian chaps en route. Good fellows. The consul in Abbottabad had me over for dinner. And there was a shopkeeper I drank vodka with who didn’t speak a word of English. I toasted every Russian name I could remember, starting with the Tsar. Skobelev’s name was the second off my lips. God rest his soul. I’d have been proud to call that man an Englishman. What I mean to say, Mr Notovik …’

‘Please, Francis, pretend we’re in the mess. Call me Nicolas.’

‘The point is, as things stand we find ourselves on different sides, but I consider you chaps worthy adversaries.’

Nicolas takes the hip flask and inspects the inscription in the fading firelight: To our White General. From his grateful men. An inadvertent sigh escapes his lips and mists the silver. He wipes it with his sleeve. ‘I’ll drink to that.’

‘I say,’ declares Younghusband, sprawling happily against some saddlebags. ‘There’s an Englishman, a Scotsman and an Irishman …’

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.’