man who had spoken. He was dressed in a tattered European uniform
jacket of green cloth hung with small silver chains, and he ! l had a
lean scarred face with a nose as hooked as Sir Arthur Wellesley’s.
He now grinned down at Sharpe.
“Syud Sevajee,” Sharpe said.
“I never did congratulate you on your promotion,” Sevajee said, and
leaned down to offer Sharpe his hand.
Sharpe shook it.
“It was McCandless’s doing,” he said.
“No,” Sevajee disagreed, ‘it was yours.” Sevajee, who led this band of
horsemen, waved his men away from Sharpe, then looked down at the boy
who struggled in Sharpe’s grip.
“You really want to save that little wretch’s life?”
“Why not?”
“A tiger cub plays like a kitten,” Sevajee said, ‘but it still grows
into a tiger and one day it eats you.”
“This one’s no kitten,” Sharpe said, thumping the boy on the ear to
stop his struggles.
Sevajee spoke in quick Arabic and the boy went quiet.
“I told him you saved his life,” Sevajee explained to Sharpe, ‘and that
he is now beholden to you.” Sevajee spoke to the boy again who, after
a shy look at Sharpe, answered.
“His name’s Ahmed,” Sevajee said, ‘and I told him you were a great
English lord who commands the lives and deaths of a thousand men.”
“You told him what?”
“I told him you’d beat him bloody if he disobeys you,” Sevajee said,
looking at his men who, denied their entertainment, had gone back to
looting the dead.
“You like being an officer?” he asked Sharpe.
“I hate it.”
Sevajee smiled, revealing red-stained teeth.
“McCandless thought you would, but didn’t know how to curb your
ambition.” Sevajee slid down from his saddle.
“I am sorry McCandless died,” the Indian said.
“Me too.”
“You know who killed him?”
“I reckon it was Dodd.”
Sevajee nodded.
“Me too.” Syud Sevajee was a high-born Mahratta, the eldest son of one
of the Rajah of Berar’s warlords, but a rival in the Rajah’s service
had murdered his father, and Sevajee had been seeking revenge ever
since. If that revenge meant marching with the enemy British, then
that was a small price to pay for family pride. Seva^e had ridden with
Colonel McCandless when the Scotsman had pursued Dodd, and thus he had
met Sharpe.
“Beny Singh was not with the enemy today,” he told Sharpe.
Sharpe had to think for a few seconds before remembering that Beny
Singh was the man who had poisoned Sevajee’s father.
“How do you know?”
“His banner wasn’t among the Mahratta flags. Today we faced Manu
Bappoo, the Rajah’s brother. He’s a better man than the Rajah, but he
refuses to take the throne for himself. He’s also a better soldier
than the rest, but not good enough, it seems. Dodd was there.”
“He was?”
“He got away.” Sevajee turned and gazed northwards.
“And I know where they’re going.”
“Where?”
“To Gawilghur,” Sevajee said softly, ‘to the sky fort.”
“Gawilghur?”
“I grew up there.” Sevajee spoke softly, still gazing at the hazed
northern horizon.
“My father was kill adar of Gawilghur. It was a post of honour,
Sharpe, for it is our greatest stronghold. It is the fortress in the
sky, the impregnable refuge, the place that has never fallen to our
enemies, and Beny Singh is now its kill adar Somehow we shall have to
get inside, you and I. And I shall kill Singh and you will kill
Dodd.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Sharpe said.
“No.” Sevajee gave Sharpe a sour glance.
“You’re here, Ensign, because you British are greedy.” He looked at
the Arab boy and asked a question. There was a brief conversation,
then Sevajee looked at Sharpe again.
“I have told him he is to be your servant, and that you will beat him
to death if he steals from you.”
“I wouldn’t do that!” Sharpe protested.
“I would,” Sevajee said, ‘and he believes you would, but it still won’t
stop him thieving from you. Better to kill him now.” He grinned, then
hauled himself into his saddle.
“I shall look for you at Gawilghur, Mister Sharpe.”
“I shall look for you,” Sharpe said.
Sevajee spurred away and Sharpe crouched to look at his new servant.