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for my bed and board, and the occasional prostitute.'
    'But it doesn't compare with soldiering.'
    'No.'
    'Well,' said George, flashing his broadest smile, 'I might have the solution. How would you like to work for me? My name's James Harper. I'm employed by the Anglo-Indian Trading Company and in two days I leave for Kabul to find new business. But as it's my first time in the country I need a bodyguard-cum-guide-cum-language tutor. Your background and military training suggests you would be just the man.'
    Ilderim raised his eyebrows. 'You say you're a businessman, huzoor ? You look more like an officer to me.'
    'Are you calling me a liar?'
    'I know a soldier when I see one.'
    George's jaw dropped. He could not believe how easily Ilderim had seen through his cover story, but knew it would be counterproductive to lose his temper. 'I was a soldier, but I'm not any longer. Are you satisfied?'
    'It means nothing to me, huzoor , but I will say this. Soldier or no, your grasp of Pashto is shakier than a Hindu's rifle aim. I heard you practising earlier. Not good.'
    'Bloody cheek!' said George, laughing. 'Though I won't deny I've much to learn, which is where you come in. Clearly you think highly of yourself so I'll pay you double what you're earning here, and a bonus of a hundred rupees when we return to Karachi. What do you say? It must be better than opening doors for fat businessmen and their ugly, uptight wives.'
    Ilderim grinned wolfishly. 'They're not all ugly, huzoor , or so uptight they won't ask for Ilderim to deliver a glass of warm milk to their room. But what you say is true - it's no job for a warrior. So I'll eat your salt if you treble my pitiful wage and offer a bonus of two hundred rupees.'
    'Is there no limit to your effrontery?' asked George. 'Two and a half times and one hundred and fifty rupees. Take it or leave it.'
    'I will take it.'
    'Then let us shake on it,' said George, and regretted this excess of bonhomie as Ilderim's huge fist closed painfully over his.

    Two days later, after a hearty breakfast of lamb chops and curried fowl, George was striding across the lobby to the main staircase when he was hailed by the clerk at the desk. 'Excuse me, Harper Sahib, a letter has arrived for you from South Africa.'
    George's heart gave a little skip. Perhaps it was from Fanny Colenso, the daughter of the Bishop of Natal, with whom he had fallen in love the previous year, only for her to tell him that she did not reciprocate his feelings. Instead she would devote her life to clearing the name of her lover Colonel Durnford, killed at Isandlwana and a convenient scapegoat for the defeat. But the childlike handwriting on the cream envelope told him it was from Lucy Hawkins, the former housemaid he had been trying to protect when he had killed Henry Thompson in Plymouth. He had written to both women before his departure with the barest outline of his mission and his alias, saying that the Metropole would forward any mail. How typical, he thought, that Lucy was the first to respond. She had done well for herself since their first parting at Cape Town in March 1878, and was now running a successful saloon in the diamond town of Kimberley. She loved him still - and had said as much as he lay in hospital in Pietermaritzburg, recovering from the wound he had received at Rorke's Drift. He had told her he was in love with Fanny Colenso.
    Did he still feel the same? He suspected as much from his initial disappointment that the letter was not from Fanny; yet he could not deny the depth of his feelings for Lucy, whose generous gift of a diamond had helped to pay off his mother's previous debts. They had been through much together and there was no question that he found Lucy attractive. She was a natural beauty, with her delicate oval face, green eyes and curly chestnut hair. What self-respecting man would not desire her? She also had spirit and determination - traits that George prized above all others - and, despite her lowly