A quarter of an hour later, back at the fork in the road, Vanneck’s squadron came up at the trot, and with them Colonel Lindesay.

‘Shots, General?’ said Lindesay heartily, dismounting to salute and take a sip of coffee which Corporal Johnson had been brewing while Hervey was with Maclean.

‘They carried to you? A vidette, yes. The Thirteenth drove them in. Some useful intelligence.’

Lindesay took out his map, though they could see but fifty yards.

Hervey told him his thoughts and what he’d asked of the Thirteenth, pointing to the indefinite – if promising – line to the south-west. ‘And if Maclean says it’s passable, I’ll want you to send a battalion to the river. Yours to decide, but I’d reckon on Dennie’s. Thereafter depends upon what Craigie finds on the northern road – and Worsley’s troop.’

Lindesay nodded. He had no questions. It was all admirably clear. ‘And Dennie’ll do battle with the forest, right enough. I never met a man less content to march with his sword sheathed. He’s cursed every step of the way.’

* * *

Fairbrother, his face darkened a shade or two with coffee, and dupatta (shawl) cast modestly over his head to defy too close an inspection, beat loudly on the kanjira, which he held firm under his left arm so that in an instant his right hand could be at the Derringer in the bodice of his saree. Others of the troupe agreed he made a passable-looking hijda.

He’d been generous in his promises of gold and rubies, but their loyalty was harder won than merely with jewels. Why they took to one and not another, who could tell; a sort of sixth sense, someone they could trust, someone who didn’t deem them Panchama, not of the four varda, untouchable. Fairbrother had smoked cheroot with them after the Ranee’s tamasha. That was enough.

They’d passed through the walls of the fortress-palace without difficulty – welcome even. The guards at the foot of the droog had cheered them, and those at the drawbridge had asked blessings. Chintal’s ranee was confined along with her rissalah in the old palace – a fortress within a fortress – and there were soldiers everywhere, but in truth the city went about its business as before.

Were there muggurs in the moat? He’d seen none. But they stayed submerged by day, did they not? Had any seen them at night as they sought a place to lie up? One hijda told him a muggur was no great size anyway, that a man might fight with it, unlike the great beasts of the saltwater Sundarban. But a crocodile was a crocodile, and he wasn’t inclined to try it. If it came to a siege, then they’d have to get across the water, and its narrowest part, the drawbridge, was of course the strongest. What occupied him most now, though, was how many guns the dewan could dispose, and in what strength were the defenders. That was intelligence he knew his friend would value most. The rest – where and in what strength were the troops outside the fortress – Hervey would discover for himself. As for the tunnel of which Colonel Bell had told him, that ran from the old rajah’s quarters to a haveli on the north side, there would probably be no knowing. The dewan would surely have placed a guard on it somewhere, and they could hardly enquire of a secret passageway.