Neel gave him a chilly smile: repelled as he was by the pilot's manner, he could not help reflecting on what a mercy it was that his ancestors had excluded wine and liquor from the list of things that could not be shared with unclean foreigners – it would be all but impossible, surely, to deal with them, if not for their drink? He would have liked another glass of simkin but he noticed, from the corner of his eye, that Parimal was making signals to indicate that dinner was ready. He took the folds of his dhoti into his hands. 'Gentlemen, I am being given to believe that our repast has been readied.' As he rose to his feet, the sheeshmahal's velvet curtain was swept back to reveal a large, polished table, set in the English fashion, with knives, forks, plates and wineglasses. Two immense candelabra stood at either end, illuminating the settings; in the centre was an arrangement of wilted water lilies, piled together in such profusion that almost nothing could be seen of the vase that held them. There was no food on the table, for meals in the Raskhali household were served in the Bengali fashion, in successive courses.

Neel had arranged the seating so that he would have Mr Burnham across the table from him, with Zachary and Mr Doughty to his left and right, respectively. There was a bearer behind each chair, as was the custom, and although they were all dressed in the Raskhali livery, Neel noticed that their uniforms – pyjamas, turbans and belted chapkan coats that came down to the knees – were strangely ill-fitting. It was then that he remembered that they were not bearers at all, but young boatmen, who had been hastily pressed into service by Parimal: their discomfort with the role was evident in their nervous twitches and shifty glances.

Now, on arriving at the table, there was a long pause during which Neel and his guests stayed on their feet, waiting for their chairs to be pushed forward. Catching Parimal's eye, Neel realized that the boatmen had not been told about this part of the ceremony: they, in turn, were waiting for the guests to come to them; clearly they were under the impression that the diners were to be seated at a distance of several feet from the table – and how indeed were they to know, it occurred to Neel to wonder, that chairs and tables belonged in much closer proximity?

In the interim, one of the young boatmen took the initiative and gave Mr Doughty's elbow a helpful tap, to indicate that his chair was empty and waiting to be occupied, some three feet to the rear. Neel saw the pilot reddening and intervened hastily in Bengali, ordering the boatmen to bring the chairs closer. The command was so sharply uttered that the youngest of the boatmen, a boy who happened to be attending upon Zachary, brought his chair forward in a startled rush, as though he were pushing a dinghy down a mudbank. The lip of the chair caught Zachary from behind, scooping him up and delivering him to the table – breathless, but otherwise unharmed.

Although he apologized profusely, Neel was pleased to see that Zachary was more amused than offended by the incident: in the short time they had spent together, the young American had made a considerable impression on him, as much for the innate elegance of his person as for the reserve of his bearing. The provenance and origins of strangers often provoked Neel's curiosity: in Bengal it was so easy to know who was who; more often than not, just to hear someone's name would reveal their religion, their caste, their village. Foreigners were, by comparison, so opaque: it was impossible not to speculate about them. Mr Reid's demeanour, for example, suggested to Neel that he might be descended from an old, aristocratic family – he remembered having read somewhere that it was not unusual for the European nobility to send their younger sons to America. This thought led him to remark: 'Your city, Mr Reid, am I not right to think it was named for a certain Lord Baltimore?'

The answer was oddly unsure – 'May… maybe – I'm not sure…' – but Neel persisted: 'Lord Baltimore was an ancestor of yours, perhaps?' This elicited a startled shaking of the head and an abashed denial – which served only to persuade Neel all the more firmly of the noble origins of his reticent guest. 'Will you be sailing back to Baltimore soon…?' Neel asked. He was about to add 'my lord' but caught himself just in time.

'Why no, sir,' Zachary responded. 'The Ibis is bound first for the Mauritius. If we make good time, we may sail to China later in the year.'

'I see.' This recalled to Neel's mind his original purpose in hosting this meal, which was to discover whether there was any immediate prospect of a change in his chief creditor's fortunes. He turned to Mr Burnham: 'There is an improvement, then, in the situation in China?'

Mr Burnham answered with a shake of his head: 'No, Raja Neel Rattan. No. Truth to tell, the situation has worsened considerably – to the point where there is serious talk of war. Indeed that may well be the reason for the Ibis's voyage to China.'

'A war?' said Neel in astonishment. 'But I have heard nothing about a war with China.'

'I am sure you haven't,' said Mr Burnham, with a thin smile. 'Why indeed should a man like you concern yourself with such matters? You have more than enough to occupy you, I'm sure, with all your palaces and zenanas and budgerows.'

Neel knew that he was being sneered at and his hackles rose, but he was saved from an intemperate response by the timely appearance of the first course – a steaming soup. The silver tureen having been stolen, the soup was presented in the one remaining utensil that was made of the same metal: a punch-bowl shaped like a seashell.

Mr Doughty permitted himself an indulgent smile. 'Do I smell duck?' he said, sniffing the air.

Neel had no idea of what was to be served, for the cooks on the kitchen-boat had been foraging for provisions almost till the last. Having reached the final leg of its journey, the budgerow's stocks of food had begun to run low: the news that there was to be a grand dinner had caused panic among the cooks; an army of piyadas, paiks and boatmen had been dispatched to fish and forage – with what results, Neel did not know. So it was Parimal who confirmed, in a whisper, that the soup had been made from the flesh of the very animal whose fat had been used to polish the table – but the latter part of the tale Neel kept to himself, conveying only that the soup was indeed concocted from the remains of a duck.

'Excellent!' said Mr Doughty, tipping back his glass. 'And a fine sherry-shrub too.'

Although glad of the interruption, Neel had not forgotten Mr Burnham's dismissive jibes about his preoccupations. He was convinced now that the shipowner was exaggerating in order to persuade him of the extent of his firm's losses. Taking care to keep his voice even, he said: 'You will no doubt be surprised to know, Mr Burnham, that I have been at some pains to be keeping myself informed – yet I know nothing about this war you speak of.'

'Well then, it falls to me to inform you, sir,' said Mr Burnham, 'that of late the officials in Canton have been moving forcefully to end the inflow of opium into China. It is the unanimous opinion of all of us who do business there that the mandarins cannot be allowed to have their way. To end the trade would be ruinous – for firms like mine, but also for you, and indeed for all of India.'

'Ruinous?' said Neel mildly. 'But surely we can offer China something more useful than opium?'

'Would that it were so,' said Mr Burnham. 'But it is not. To put the matter simply: there is nothing they want from us – they've got it into their heads that they have no use for our products and manufactures. But we, on the other hand, can't do without their tea and their silks. If not for opium, the drain of silver from Britain and her colonies would be too great to sustain.'