At least the heat now was bearable, even at midday. Indeed, in another few weeks they’d need a blanket at night. But the country was without feature or charm – except the rivers – so that he spent as much time gazing at the sky as the ground. Such an abundance of avians there was too – gaudier than at the Cape or in Jamaica, or for that matter any other place he’d been. Bigger, too – the kites and crows, even; and the bustard. These were his consolations in the weeks of tramping the dusty roads. The collector at Guntoor, Somervile’s old post, had given him an excellent rahbar (guide), who knew also what the birds were, if not always their English names. It passed the hours pleasantly, and Fairbrother was ever curious. As long as none of the travellers they encountered heard them speaking English, there was no danger in it. They were in all other respects convincing enough, just ten of them, dressed respectably but not showily, walking by the bullock cart or riding ponies – exactly as the sahoukars did. Fairbrother called his party the live-bait troop.

Yet so far there’d not been a single bite. No other party of travellers had seemed in the least wanting to combine with them. None had even fallen in with them for a mile or two, though there were comings and goings enough. Each night, it was true, they’d put up at some resthouse, or even a corner of a village maidan – where a thug wouldn’t risk prying and where they could mount a good watch – but, he trusted, not so as to give away their game.

He’d certainly chosen his party with especial care. He was strange to the country and would not risk what he might at the Cape. He had with him as covermen two dragoons whom Armstrong had particularly recommended: good, active corporals whose complexion was sallow enough to escape interest, especially with a prodigious growth of beard. Sleeman had also sent him one of his best approvers, who could recognize fifty thugs known to be active in the Circars in the past five years. A ‘half-cast baboo’, one of Somervile’s best writers, was his interpreter. He it was who’d speak for ‘my master’ to any they encountered, a not-unusual practice, Sleeman said, despite the tendency for rank to count less on the road. His syce was industrious, a Tamul whom the RM had proposed (and Sammy had seconded), and the other servants had proved reliable, too, especially the langree. Half the reason, he was sure, was that money was no object, as Somervile had assured him. (The Secret Fund was, it seemed, almost infinite.)

Most industrious of all was his ‘bearer’ – Private Askew, whom St Alban had assigned to him in open arrest. With no ship bound for Australia in many months, Armstrong had said he was damned if he’d let a man idle away his time – even on constant fatigues – while others sweated in the field, and St Alban had agreed. Besides, there was just the possibility that Askew might further redeem himself, and the transportation be commuted therefore. ‘The performance of a duty of honour or of trust, after the knowledge of an offence committed by a soldier, ought to convey a pardon for the offence’, the Duke of Wellington had written, which, though he now held no official position, was good enough for any officer.