'You're wrong,' Gudin said. 'That's a rifle.'

'A rifle!' Sharpe had heard of such weapons, but he had never handled one, and now he peered inside the muzzle and saw that the barrel was indeed cut in a pattern of spiralling grooves. He had heard that the grooves spun the bullet which somehow made a rifle far more accurate than a shot from a smoothbore musket. Why that should be the case he had not the slightest idea, but every man he had ever spoken to about rifles had sworn it was true. 'Still,' he said dubiously, 'near a quarter-mile? Long ways for a bullet, sir, even if it is spinning.'

'That rifle can kill at four hundred paces, Sharpe,' Gudin said confidently. 'It's loaded, by the way,' the Colonel added, and Sharpe, who had been peering down the muzzle again, jerked back. Gudin laughed. 'Loaded with the best powder and with its bullet wrapped in oiled leather. I want to see how good a shot you are.'

'No, you don't, sir,' Sharpe said, 'you want to see if I'm willing to kill my own countrymen.'

'That too, of course,' Gudin agreed placidly, and laughed at having had his small ploy discovered. 'At that range you should aim about six or seven feet above your target. I have another rifle for you, Lawford, but I don't suppose we can expect a clerk to be as accurate as a skirmisher like Sharpe?'

'I'll do my best, sir,' Lawford said and took the second rifle from Gudin. Lawford might be clumsy at loading a gun, but he was a practised shot in the hunting field and had been firing rifled fowling pieces since he was eight years old.

'Some men find it hard to shoot at their old comrades,' Gudin told Lawford mildly, 'and I want to make sure you're not among them.'

'Let's hope the bastards are officers,' Sharpe said, 'begging your presence, sir.'

'There they are!' Gudin said, and, sure enough, just beside the cistern beneath the two palm trees across the river, were a pair of red coats. The men were examining the city walls through telescopes. Their horses were picketed behind them.

Sharpe knelt in a gun embrasure. He instinctively felt that the range was much too long for any firearm, but he had heard about the miracle of rifles and he was curious to see if the rumours were true. 'You take the one on the left, Bill,' he said, 'and fire just after me.' He glanced at Gudin and saw that the Colonel had moved a few feet down the cavalier to watch the effect of the shots from a place where the rifles' smoke would not obscure his glass. 'And aim well, Bill,' Sharpe said in a low voice. 'They're probably only bloody cavalrymen, so who cares if we plug them with a pair of bloody goolies.' He crouched behind the rifle and aligned its well-defined sights that were so much more impressive than the rudimentary stub that served a musket as a foresight. A man could stand fifty feet in front of a well-aimed musket and still stand a better than even chance of walking away unscathed, but the delicacy of the rifle's sights seemed to confirm what everyone had told Sharpe. This was a long-range killer.

He settled himself firmly, keeping the sights lined on the distant man, then gently raised the barrel so that the rifle's muzzle obscured his target but would give the ball the needed trajectory. There was no wind to speak of, so he had no need to offset his aim. He had never fired a rifle, but it was just common sense really. Nor was he unduly worried about killing one of his own side. It was a sad necessity, something that needed to be done if he was to earn Gudin's trust and thus the freedom that might let him escape from the city. He took a breath, half let it out, then pulled the trigger. The gun banged into his shoulder, its recoil much harder than an ordinary musket's blow. Lawford fired a half-second later, the smoke of his gun joining the dense cloud pumped out by Sharpe's rifle.

'The clerk wins!' Gudin exclaimed in astonishment. He lowered his spyglass. 'Yours went six inches past the man's head, Sharpe, but I think you killed your man, Lawford. Well done! Well done indeed!'

Lawford reddened, but said nothing. He looked very troubled and Gudin put his evident confusion down to a natural shyness. 'Is that the first man you've ever killed?' he asked gently.

'Yes, sir,' Lawford said, truthfully enough.

'You deserve to be better than a clerk. Well done. Well done both of you.' He took the rifles from them and laughed at Sharpe's rueful expression. 'You expected to do better, Sharpe?'

'Yes, sir.'

'You will. Six inches off at that distance is very good shooting. Very good indeed.' Gudin turned to watch as the uninjured redcoat dragged his companion back towards the horses. 'I think, maybe,' Gudin went on, 'that you have a natural talent, Lawford. I congratulate you.' The Colonel fished in his pouch and brought out a handful of coins. 'An advance on your arrears of pay. Well done! Off you go, now!'

Sharpe glanced behind him, hoping to see what devilment the western walls held, but he could see nothing strange there and so he turned and followed Lawford down the ramp. Lawford was shaking. 'I didn't mean to kill him!' the Lieutenant said when he was out of Gudin's earshot.

'I did,' Sharpe muttered.

'God, what have I done? I was aiming left!'

'Don't be a bloody fool,' Sharpe said, 'what you've done is earned our freedom. You did bloody well.' He dragged Lawford into a tavern. The Tippoo might be a Muslim, and the Muslims might preach an extraordinary hatred of alcohol, but most of the city was Hindu and the Tippoo was sensible enough to keep the taverns open. This one, close to Gudin's barracks, was a big room, open to the street, with a dozen tables where old men played chess and young men boasted of the slaughter they would inflict on the besiegers. The tavern-keeper, a big woman with hard eyes, sold a variety of strange drinks: wine and arrack mostly, but she also kept a weird-tasting beer. Sharpe could still hardly speak a word of the local language, but he pointed to the arrack barrel and held up two fingers. Now that he and Lawford were dressed in the tiger-striped tunics and carried muskets they attracted little attention in the city and no hostility. 'Here.' He put the arrack in front of Lawford. 'Drink that.'

Lawford drank it in one go. 'That was the first man I've killed,' he said, blinking from the harshness of the liquor.

'Worry you?'

'Of course it does! He was British!'

'Can't skin a cat without making a bloody mess,' Sharpe said comfortingly.

'Jesus!' Lawford said angrily.

Sharpe poured half his liquor into Lawford's glass, then beckoned to one of the serving girls who circled the tables refilling glasses. 'You had to do it,' he said.

'If I'd have missed like you,' Lawford said ruefully, 'Gudin would have been just as impressed. That was a fine shot of yours.'

'I was aiming to kill the bugger.'

'You were?' Lawford was shocked.

'Jesus Christ, Bill! We have to convince these buggers!' Sharpe smiled as the girl poured more liquor, then he tipped a handful of small brass coins into a wooden bowl on the table. Another bowl held a strange spice which the other drinkers nibbled between sips, but Sharpe found the stuff too pungent. Once the girl was gone he looked at the troubled Lieutenant. 'Did you think this was going to be easy?'

Lawford was silent for a few seconds, then gave a shrug. 'In truth I thought it would be impossible.'

'So why did you come?'

Lawford cradled the glass in both hands and stared at Sharpe as if weighing up whether or not to answer. 'To get away from Morris,' he finally confessed, 'and for the excitement.' He seemed embarrassed to admit as much.

'Morris is a bastard,' Sharpe said feelingly.

Lawford frowned at the criticism. 'He's bored,' he said chidingly, then he steered the conversation away from the danger area of criticizing a superior officer. 'And I also came because I owe gratitude to my uncle.'