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the heavy knife that had been left on the hearth for the purpose.
Camp chairs were quickly brought, sheets for the two iron beds promised and
bed-rolls for those condemned to the floor, but the first things Holmes
demanded were a honed razor and a pot of well-boiled water. I sat before the
fire and pointedly turned my back to the operation behind me. Clothing
rustled, Holmes and O Hara consulted briefly, and then the patient was
wheezing a forced breath from his lungs as the razor bit in. In no more than
thirty seconds came the dulltinkof a metal slug sinking to the bottom of an
enamelled dish-pan.
Tea was brought and drunk with gratitude, and thekhansamabrought a hastily
killed and curried chicken to our table. We five ate enough for a dozen
civilised persons, and sprawled afterwards before the fire with tobacco in
various forms all but myself and, I noticed with private amusement, Bindra,
whose eyes followed the cigarette given by Nesbit to O Hara, but who did not
then pull out one of the foul littlebidis I felt sure he had about his person.
Instead, the boy took out the five coloured balls, and with the supreme
nonchalance that does nothing to conceal great pride, he juggled. His father
watched, making noises of appreciation and awe, his chest swelling along with
that of his son. Holmes scraped out a disreputable pipe that one of the
servants had found for him, and filled it with black leaf. A contented silence
fell on our unlikely little band.
When Nesbit reached the end of his cigarette, he tossed it into the flames
and glanced at where O Hara sat, comfortably cross-legged on the floor. Bindra
pocketed the balls and curled before his long-lost father, small head cradled
by the man s robes, the young face gazing at the low flames, eyes slowly
closing in the warmth. O Hara s left hand rested on the tousled hair, his
right played unceasingly with the beads of his rosary; he looked as content as
the child.
Nesbit broke the silence, keeping his voice low. Why did you not tell me
about the boy?
O Hara smiled. Because you would have wanted him. I was given over to
Creighton s hands when I was thirteen; plenty soon enough.
But the child has been living unsheltered for three years. Surely having him
come to us would have been better than wherever he s been.
Two years and three months, since we were separated. He has been among
friends. O Hara s fingers told the rosary, over and over, while the wood fire
crackled and the boy s breathing deepened.
But how on earth did he find us? I wanted to know.
The monk smiled down at his sleeping son. Until twelve weeks ago, he was
with his mother s brother, in the mountains. When I succeeded in getting the
amulet out, it passed through the hands of a man who knew where to find the
boy. He told the lad I was safe, and then my son got it into his mind to watch
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Nesbit, that he might participate in his father s rescue. You two came; he
followed Holmes as he came and went, talking to Nesbit, purchasing many
interesting things, and finally going to the horse-seller s; when you arrived
there to take possession of the donkey and the cart, Ram Bachadur himself lay
sleeping, thanks to some druggedpilauhe had eaten.
Who was the man that helped you? Nesbit demanded.
The calm eyes looked back. A friend.
He was one of us, wasn t he? Within the Survey?
That is possible.
What he s done could be called treason.
Or brotherhood.
There is some man performing treason, from within the walls of the Survey.
Men have died because of him. Men who were our brothers: Forbes, Mohammed
Talibi, and a new boy, Bartholomew.
O Hara s fingers paused on his rosary, his head dipped as the names
registered with him, but when he spoke again, his voice left no room for
doubt. I grieve for their deaths, Nesbit, but it was not he who put the knife
to their throats.
Nesbit scowled at the man on the floor; still he had little choice at the
moment but to put aside the question of the traitor in the Survey ranks, and
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