From his perch on the foremast, high up in the kursi of the crosstrees, Jodu had as fine a view as ever he could have wished: the wharves, the river and the schooner were spread out beneath him like treasure on a moneylender's counter, waiting to be weighed and valued. On deck, the subedar and his men were busy making preparations for the embarkation of the convicts and the migrants. All around them, lascars were swarming about, coiling hansils, rolling bimbas, penning livestock and stowing crates, trying to clear the deck of its last-minute clutter.

The convicts arrived first, preceding the migrants by some fifteen minutes: they came in a jel-bot, a large vessel of the budgerow type, except that all its windows were heavily barred. It looked as if it could hold a small army of cutthroats, so it came as a surprise when it disgorged only two men, neither of whom looked very threatening despite the chains on their ankles and wrists. They were wearing dungaree pyjamas and short-sleeved vests, and each had a lota under one arm and a small cloth bundle in the other. They were handed over to Bhyro Singh without much ceremony, and the jail-boat left almost immediately afterwards. Then, as if to show the convicts what they were in for, the subedar took hold of their chains and herded them along like oxen, prodding them in the arse and occasionally flicking the tips of their ears with his lathi.

On the way to the chokey, before stepping into the fana, one of the convicts turned his head, as if to catch a last glimpse of the city. This brought Bhyro Singh's lathi crashing down on his shoulder with a thwacking sound that made the trikat-wale wince, all the way up in their perch.

Haramzadas, these guards and maistries, said Mamdoo-tindal. Squeeze your balls at any chance.

One of them slapped Cassem-meah yesterday, said Sunker. Just for touching his food.

I'd have hit him back, said Jodu.

You wouldn't be here now if you had, said the tindal. Don't you see? They're armed.

In the meantime, Sunker had pulled himself upright, so that he was standing on the footropes. Suddenly he called out: They're here!

Who?

The coolies. Look. That must be them in those boats.

They all rose to their feet now, and leant over the purwan to look down below. A small flotilla of some half-dozen dinghies was coming towards the schooner, from the direction of Tolly's Nullah; the boats were filled with groups of men, uniformly clad in white vests and knee-length dhotis. The dinghy in the lead was a little different from the rest in that it had a small shelter at the back: when it pulled up alongside the side-ladder, a sunburst of colour seemed to explode inside it, with eight sari-clad figures stepping out of the shelter.

Women! said Jodu, in a hushed voice.

Mamdoo-tindal was not impressed: so far as he was concerned, few indeed were the women who could match the allure of his alterego. Hags the lot of them, he said darkly. Not one a match for Ghaseeti.

How do you know, said Jodu, with their faces hidden?

I can see enough to know they're bringing trouble.

Why?

Just count the number, said the tindal. Eight women on board – not counting Ghaseeti – and over two hundred men, if you include the coolies, silahdars, maistries, lascars and malums. What good do you think will come of it?

Jodu counted and saw that the tindal was right: there were eight sari-clad figures advancing towards the Ibis. It was the number that led him to suspect that they might be the same people he had rowed to the camp: had there been seven women in the group that day, or eight? He could not remember, for his attention had been focused mainly on the girl in the pink sari.

Suddenly, he leapt up. Stripping the bandhna from his head, he began to wave, with a foot in the tanni and an elbow hooked through the labran.

What're you doing, you crazed launder? snapped Mamdootindal.

I think I know one of the girls, said Jodu.

How can you tell? said Mamdoo-tindal. Their faces are all covered up.

Because of the sari, said Jodu. See the pink one? I'm sure I know her.

Shut your chute and sit down! said the tindal, tugging on his pants. You're going to be lundbunded if you don't take care. The Burra Malum's already got it in for you after your stunt with Zikri Malum yesterday. If he sees you honeying up to those coolie girls you're going to be a launder without a mast.

Down by the boat, the sight of Jodu, rising to his feet to wave, gave Paulette such a scare that she nearly fell into the water. Although her ghungta was certainly her most important means of concealment, it was by no means the only one; she had also disguised her appearance in a number of other ways: her feet were lacquered with bright vermilion alta; her hands and arms were covered with intricate, hennaed designs that left very little of her skin visible; and under the cover of her veil, the line of her jaw was obscured by large, tasselled earrings. In addition, she was balancing her cloth-wrapped belongings on her waist, in such a fashion as to give her the gait of an elderly woman, shuffling along under the weight of a crushing burden. With these many layers of masking, she had felt reasonably confident that not even Jodu, who knew her as well as anyone in the world, would harbour any suspicions about who she was. Yet, evidently, all her efforts had been in vain, for no sooner had he set eyes on her than he had begun to wave, and from a long way off, at that. What was she to do now?

Paulette was convinced that Jodu, whether out of a misplaced brotherly protectiveness, or by reason of the competitiveness that had always marked their quasi-siblingship, would stop at nothing to prevent her from sailing on the Ibis: if he had recognized her already, then she might as well turn back right now. She was contemplating exactly that when Munia took hold of her hand. Being close in age, the girls had gravitated towards each other on the boat; now, as they were going up the stepladder, Munia whispered in Paulette's ear: Do you see him, Pugli? Waving at me from all the way up there?

Who? Who do you mean?

That lascar up there – he's crazy for me. Do you see him? He's recognized my sari.

You know him then? said Paulette.

Yes, said Munia. He rowed us to the camp when we came to Calcutta. His name's Azad Lascar.

Oh, is that so? Azad Lascar, is he?

Paulette smiled: she was halfway up the stepladder now, and as a further test of her disguise, she tilted her face upwards so that she was looking directly at Jodu, through the cover of her ghungta. He was hanging from the shrouds in an attitude she knew all too well: exactly so had they played together in the tall trees of the Botanical Gardens across the river. She was aware of a twinge of envy: how she would have loved to be up there, hanging on the ropes with him; but instead, here she was, on the stepladder, swathed from head to toe, while he was free and at large in the open air – the worst of it was that it was she who had always been the better climber. Ushered along by the maistries, she stepped on deck and paused to look up again, defiantly, daring him to expose her – but he had no eyes except for her companion, who was giggling as she clung to Paulette's arm: See? Didn't I tell you? He's mad for me. I could make him dance on his head if I liked.

Why don't you? said Paulette tartly. He looks like he needs a lesson or two.

Munia giggled and glanced up again: Maybe I will.

Be careful, Munia, Paulette hissed. Everyone's watching.

And so they were: not just the lascars and mates and maistries, but also Captain Chillingworth, who was standing at the weather end of the quarter-deck, with his arms folded over his chest. As Paulette and Munia approached, the Captain's lips curled into an expression of disgust.