'In Sheffield?' Gudin asked. 'Is that not where they make iron? And — what is the word? — cutlery! You don't look like a cutler, Lawford.'

'I was a lawyer's apprentice, sir.' Lawford was blushing violently. He knew he had mixed up the name of the pub, though it was doubtful that Colonel Gudin would ever know the difference, but the Lieutenant was certain his lies were as transparent as a pane of glass.

'And your job in the army?' Gudin asked.

'Company clerk, sir.'

Gudin smiled. 'No ink on your breeches, Lawford! In our army the clerks spatter ink everywhere.'

For a moment it seemed as though Lawford was about to abandon his lie and, in his misery, confess the whole truth to the Frenchman, but then the Lieutenant had a sudden inspiration. 'I wear an apron, sir, when I'm writing. I don't want to be punished for a dirty uniform, sir.'

Gudin laughed. In truth he had never doubted Lawford's story, mistaking the Lieutenant's embarrassment for shame at his family's bankruptcy. If anything, the Frenchman felt sorry for the tall, fair-haired and fastidious young man who should plainly never have become a soldier, and that, to Gudin, was enough to explain Lawford's nervousness. 'You're a clerk, eh? So does that mean you see paperwork?'

'A lot, sir.'

'So do you know how many guns the British are bringing here?' Gudin asked. 'How much ammunition?'

Lawford shook his head in consternation. For a few seconds he was speechless, then managed to say that he never saw that sort of paperwork. 'It's just company papers I see, sir. Punishment books, that sort of thing.'

'Bloody thousands,' Sharpe interjected. 'Beg pardon for speaking, sir.'

'Thousands of what?' Gudin asked.

'Bullocks, sir. Six eighteen-pounder shot strapped on apiece, sir, and some of the buggers have got eight. But it's thousands of round shot.'

'Two thousand? Three?' Gudin asked.

'More than that, sir. I ain't seen a herd the size of it, not even when the Scots drive the beeves down from Scotland to London.'

Gudin shrugged. He very much doubted whether these two could tell him anything useful, certainly nothing that the Tippoo's scouts and spies had not already discovered, but the questions had to be asked. Now, waving flies from his face, he told the two deserters what they might expect. 'His Majesty the Tippoo Sultan will decide your fate, and if he is merciful he will want you to serve in his forces. I assume you are willing?'

'Yes, sir,' Sharpe said eagerly. 'It's why we came, sir.'

'Good,' Gudin said. 'The Tippoo might want you in one of his own cushoons. That's the word they use for a regiment here, a cushoon. They're all good soldiers and well trained, and you'll be made welcome, but there is one disadvantage. You will both have to be circumcised.'

Lawford went pale, while Sharpe just shrugged. 'Is that bad, sir?'

'You know what circumcision is, Private?'

'Something the army does to you, sir? Like swear you in?'

Gudin smiled. 'Not quite, Sharpe. The Tippoo is a Muslim and he likes his foreign volunteers to join his religion. It means one of his holy men will cut your foreskin off. It's quite quick, just like slicing the top from a soft-boiled egg, really.'

'My prick?' Sharpe was as aghast as Lawford now.

'It's over in seconds,' Gudin reassured them, 'though the bleeding can last for a while and you cannot, how shall I say?..' He glanced at Mary, then back to Sharpe. 'You can't let the egg become hard boiled for a few weeks.'

'Bloody hell, sir!' Sharpe said. 'For religion? They do that?'

'We Christians sprinkle babies with water,' Gudin said, 'and the Muslims chop off foreskins.' The Frenchman paused, then smiled. 'However, I cannot think that a man with a bleeding prick will make a good soldier, and your armies will be here in a few days, so I will suggest to His Majesty that the two of you serve with my men. We are few, but none of us are Muslims, and all of our soft-boiled eggs retain their full shells.'

'Quite right too, sir,' Sharpe said enthusiastically. 'And it'll be an honour to serve you, sir,' he added.

'In a French battalion?' Gudin teased him.

'If you don't flog, sir, and you don't carve up pricks, then it'll be more than an honour.'

'If the Tippoo allows it,' Gudin warned them, 'which he may not. But I think he might. I have other Britishers in the battalion, and some Germans and Swiss. I'm sure you will be happy there.' He looked at Mary. 'But what of you, Mademoiselle?'

Mary touched Sharpe's elbow. 'I came with Richard, sir.'

Gudin inspected her black eye. 'How did that happen, Mademoiselle?'

'I fell, sir,' Mary said.

Gudin's face flickered with a smile. 'Or did Private Sharpe hit you? So that you would not appear attractive?'

'I fell over, sir.'

Gudin nodded. 'You hit hard, Private Sharpe.'

'No point else, sir.'

'That is true,' Gudin said, then shrugged. 'My men have their women. If His Majesty allows it I don't see why the two of you should not stay together.' He turned as his sergeant reappeared, bringing with him an elderly Indian who carried a cloth-covered basket. 'This is Doctor Venkatesh,' Gudin said, greeting the doctor with a bow, 'and he is quite as good as any physician I ever found in Paris. I imagine, Sharpe, that removing those filthy bandages will hurt?'

'Not as much as circumcising, sir.'

Gudin laughed. 'All the same, I think you had better sit down.'

Removing the bandages hurt like buggery. Mister Micklewhite, the surgeon, had put a salve on the lashes, but no army surgeon ever wasted too much precious ointment on a common soldier, and Micklewhite had not used enough salve to stop the bandages from crusting to the wounds and so the cloth had become one clotted mass of linen and dried blood that tore the scabs away from the wounds as the Indian peeled the bandages away. Doctor Venkatesh was indeed skilful and gentle and his voice was ever soothing in Sharpe's ear as he delicately prised the horrid mess away from the torn flesh, but even so Sharpe could not forbear from whimpering as the bandages were lifted. The tigers, smelling fresh blood, lunged at their chains so that the courtyard was filled with the clank and snap of stretching links.

The Indian doctor plainly disapproved of both the injury and the treatment. He tutted and muttered and shook his head as the carnage was revealed. Then, when he had picked the last filthy scrap of bandage away with a pair of ivory tweezers, he poured an unguent over Sharpe's back and the cool liquid was wonderfully soothing. Sharpe sighed with relief, then suddenly the doctor sprang away from him, stood, clasped his hands and bowed low.

Sharpe twisted round to see that a group of Indians had come into the courtyard. At their head was a shortish plump man, maybe fifty years old, with a round face and a neatly trimmed black moustache. He was dressed in a white silk tunic above white silk leggings and black leather boots, but the simple clothes glittered with jewels. He wore rubies on his turban, diamond-studded bangles on his arms, and pearls were sewn onto his blue silk sash from which there hung a sapphire-studded scabbard in which rested a sword with a golden hilt fashioned into the face of a snarling tiger. Doctor Venkatesh backed hurriedly away, still bowing, while Gudin stood respectfully at attention. 'The Tippoo!' Gudin warned Sharpe and Lawford in a whisper, and Sharpe struggled to his feet and, like the Frenchman, stood to attention.

The Tippoo stopped a half-dozen paces short of Sharpe and Lawford. He stared at them for a few seconds, then spoke softly to his interpreter. 'Turn round,' the interpreter ordered Sharpe.

Sharpe obediently turned, showing his back to the Tippoo, who, fascinated by the open wounds, stepped close so he could inspect the damage. Sharpe could feel the Tippoo's breath on the back of his neck, he could smell the man's subtle perfume, and then he felt a spider-soft touch as the Tippoo fingered a strip of hanging skin.