Jack always woke up when Ellini did. It was pretty hard to sleep through, because she awoke with a gasp and a sudden jolt that shook the entire bed. The horror of remembering who she was caused her stomach muscles to tighten and drag her upright, so that, by the time he opened his eyes, she was always sitting up in bed, staring at the opposite wall.

He sat up, curled his hands gently around her shoulders, and pulled her back onto the bed, whispering the words he always used when she woke up this way: "Safe house, little cricket. You're among friends here."

She settled onto his chest but didn't relax. He could feel her taut stomach muscles next to his skin.

"Will Joel be coming to collect you soon?" she mumbled.

"Nope. I've got time off for good behaviour. I've asked him not to disturb me till noon."

She gave him an affectionate nudge. "You'd better get some sleep, then."

"That's not why I asked him not to disturb me."

She contemplated him for a moment, with eyes so clear and alert that he could hardly believe she'd only woken up a few moments ago.

And then, without warning, she kissed him.

Now, it wasn't true to say that Ellini wasn't usually passionate, but... well, she was Ellini. She was gentle and shy, and her attention wandered sometimes. But this morning she was so... present. She kissed him everywhere and moaned at the lightest touch. She dug her nails in as though he was about to be dragged away. She kept her eyes tight shut the whole time.

When the devastating pleasure subsided, he collapsed on her breasts, ears still ringing, while Ellini ran her fingers through his hair.

"Little cricket," said Jack, when he could speak again. "I wouldn't have thought it was possible for things to get better between us, but that was—"

"I know," she said, smiling up at the ceiling. "It almost doesn't matter what happens now, does it?"

Jack blinked. "What? What do you mean? What's going to happen now?"

There was a knock at the door—which, despite her peculiar pronouncement, she didn't seem to have been expecting. He felt her muscles tighten underneath him.

Jack groaned—because this knock could only have been meant for him—and called out, "No, thank you."

"Um." Joel's voice came from the other side of the door, wretched and uncertain. "It's important, General."

Jack felt Ellini's muscles relax. It was as though she'd been expecting somebody else.

"No, it isn't, Joel," he insisted. "If it was important, I'd be able to hear the gunfire."

"It's the grain-stores, sir," said Joel.

"What grain-stores?"

"Well, exactly, General. There aren't supposed to be any. The lands to the south are in the grip of the worst famine in living memory, and yet the warehouses by the river are full of grain."

"They're what?"

"I really think you'd better come and see, sir. I'm sorry, Sahiba."

Ellini, still apparently overcome with relief that it was only Joel at the door, called out, "Don't be sorry, Joel." She lowered her voice, turned to Jack, and kissed him on the forehead. "You'd better go."

"But it's my morning off!"

"They need you."

He glowered at her for a second, but was met only with serene, inscrutable Ellininess. It was useless to protest. You could glare at that face all day, and it would get you nothing but eyestrain.

Besides, what bloody grain-stores?

He pulled on his clothes, kissed her, and went out—trying to open the door as little as possible, because Ellini was too dreamy and preoccupied to cover herself up.

When he was out in the corridor, he glared at Joel, but this didn't yield any better results.

"Apparently," said Joel, hastening down the corridor, "the famine in the south occurred at a time of surplus here."

"Surplus?"

"Yes, General. It means—"

"I know what it means," said Jack irritably. "I just can't believe it. Why didn't the Lieutenant-governor have the extra grain shipped to the south?"

"It was scheduled for export," said Joel.

"Export?"

"That's where—"

"Yes," said Jack, closing his eyes and praying for patience. "I know what export is too. You are telling me that people are dying in their millions in the south, and the Lieutenant-governor has a warehouse full of grain—"

"Three warehouses," said Joel, unblinking. "We think there might be even more in Delhi and Calcutta."

"And he isn't giving it—or even selling it—to the Indian peasants, because...?"

"He can get a better price if he exports it. It's the doctrine of free trade, General. Men like the Lieutenant-governor live by it. Nothing must be allowed to interfere with the markets. They did the same thing in Ireland during the potato famine."

Jack was still struggling. "And—and people know?"

"Of course they know. It's government policy. And the good thing about government policy is that you can't blame any one particular person. It's just policy." Joel glanced anxiously out of the palace window. "We'd better hurry, General. When I left, Garrett was suggesting we sell the grain back to the British and make a fortune."

Jack passed a weary hand over his eyes. "Oh, I am glad you dragged me out of bed for this."

***

The sacks of grain were endless, piled almost to the ceiling of the riverside warehouses. Little aisles had been cleared through them for the porters and workmen, but they must have possessed a very good sense of direction, because the aisles were like the passages of a huge, dark maze.

And, everywhere you looked, the fat, bulging hessian sacks reproached you—each one representing perhaps a whole family who could have made it through the drought if the Lieutenant-governor hadn't been so well-versed in economic theory.

Jack's spirits sank still further when he saw that Azimullah had arrived in his absence. The old man was standing in the shadow cast by one of the mounds of grain, bright-eyed and deathly pale, tapping his foot against the floor.

When he turned to look at Jack, everyone else followed suit—even Garrett. It didn't matter that he wasn't the Lieutenant-governor, or one of his staff, or in any way connected with the British government. He was the Englishman in the room, and so he was the one they glared at.

"Indian grain," spat Azimullah, "from Indian fields, kept here for the enrichment of European bureaucrats while the farmers starve in their millions—"

"Yes," said Jack, in a hollow voice. He wanted to say 'What do you expect me to do about it?' but he was afraid Azimullah would tell him exactly what.

The old man was pacing up and down, taking sharp, shallow breaths that Jack was sure would erupt into coughs at any moment. But he didn't know how to calm him down. He didn't know what he could say that wouldn't be taken as a slap in the face.

"Look, there's nothing we can do about it now," he said, into the dry, dusty silence. "The Lieutenant-governor will be back with reinforcements within the week."

"We must move quickly then," said the Rani.

"And do what?" Jack demanded. "Take all of this three hundred miles south to the famine areas? How far do you think we'd get? The British own the railways, we do not want to get into a fight with them at sea—"

"That only leaves the roads," said Azimullah decisively.

"An unprotected convoy would be pounced on before we'd gone ten miles! We barely have enough men to hold the city, we can't spare any for—"

"Cade-Sahib," said Azimullah, with his fever-tinged smile. "We do not come to you to learn how things can not be done."

Jack met his eyes, and then looked away again. They were too bright, too unflinching. They seemed to say that their owner had been holding back death to be here and have this conversation with him, and they had no patience for faint hearts or excuses.

It was just like Gargotha. All Jack's teachers did the impossible and then expected him to do the same. They never told him how. But the simple fact that they expected it made something happen. It blew on the smouldering coals in his brain.

He took a few, dreamy steps backwards, and then forward again, trying to measure out the idea that was taking shape in his head.

"We do have the men. If your definition of 'men' is loose enough. We have the prison colonists..."

He turned to Joel, still moving slowly, while the ideas crystallized. "There are forty thousand of them, right? They're angry and hungry and I never meant to test them this soon, but—"

"I can control them, General," said Joel. "We can control ourselves"

Jack had been wary of making use of the prison colonists so far. They were still weak and cautious, in the habit of keeping to themselves. They gathered in shaky huddles whenever Jack and his men came near, and looked out at them with dull, staring eyes, as though they suspected they were about to be attacked but couldn't summon the energy to run. The only time they seemed alive was when Joel spoke to them.

"I suppose it won't hurt their cause if they're seen handing out famine relief in the southern kingdoms," said Jack, talking faster as he became more sure of himself. "Make sure Trevellyan from The Times goes with you. And the photographer—what's his name? Daunt. Maharani, you'll go with them. You know the country best. I don't think you'll be able to get any further south than Hyderabad, but maybe you can do some good there."

He knew the Rani's kingdom had been badly affected by the famine, but it was way down at the southern tip of the subcontinent, and the convoy would never get there without encountering British troops.

"I will save whoever I can," said the Rani, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. "Thank you, General."

Azimullah, he saw, had reached out a hand to one of the grain-sack-mountains, and was leaning against it, his shoulders shaking. But he was smiling.

Joel cleared his throat and tugged at the sleeve of Jack's shirt. "Um. Could I have a word with you in private, General?" He drew Jack aside and whispered, "If I'm going to be gone a long time, I might as well tell you now. Garrett is planning to kill you."

Jack waved a hand. "Oh, he's always been planning to kill me. Right back to the days when we trained together in Sicily, and I was always top of the class."

"Well, then, he's probably been planning it for long enough to contemplate carrying it out. Watch out for him. And—" He hesitated, and then plunged on recklessly. "—take care of the Sahiba."

"Yes, Joel. That's what I was doing when you interrupted me."

***

He got through the morning somehow—organizing the convoy and its new-breed guard, trying to soothe Joel's numerous worries. And, when he came back to her at lunch, she was just the same, just as desperate and passionate. She kept her eyes tight shut and clung to him in a delirium of need. And, again, the pleasure was so intense that it was almost pain.

There was something wrong. It was too good. She was too his. Jack felt just the way he had felt last night in front of the city gates, listening to the breathtakingly synchronized attack and wondering who was going to play the wrong note. Something terrible was coming—he just didn't know what it was, or when it was going to strike, or which direction to expect it from.

Afterwards, when they lay beside each other, gasping and shocked, like victims of a train-crash thrown clear of the wreckage, he said, "Little cricket... I wouldn't want you to think this has been anything other than the best day of my life, but is there something wrong? You seem so... focused."

Ellini turned her head to look at him. It was strange to see her with her eyes open—and to see how blank and inscrutable those eyes were. "Let's talk about it later," she said, creeping into his arms and resting her head on his chest. "I'm so tired."