‘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.

The incident is not mentioned at breakfast – rice and mutton stew, cooked by Younghusband’s Chinese servant. Like Younghusband’s abortive intimacy, the cordial relations of the previous evening are also forgotten. The Englishman is sullen, tetchy, and eager to get going. He also makes a point of being rude about Nicolas’s ponies. ‘Rather mangy-looking,’ he says. ‘You’ll need to buy new ones, if you can afford to. They’ll never make it across the glaciers. Mine are twice as strong, and they kept stumbling.’

‘We have special shoes for crossing the ice,’ says Nicolas. ‘And I assure you these horses have no equal. They are wild Kazakh ponies.’ His instincts tell him to leave it there, but his desire to twit Younghusband gets the better of him. He feels compelled to add a provocation. ‘An indifferent rider on one of these would challenge an expert like you on a mount such as yours.’