Unexpectedly, it deepened his sympathy for Clare. Her prison was the invisible walls of her race, her sex and her status, but she was a captive as much as he was. He could not imagine how it must be, living such a life for years on end.

  He told himself it was better if he did not call on her again. He had revealed too much of himself already. But he thought about her all day, obsessively, and at night he dreamed about her. He told himself it was because he was so bored, he had nothing else to think about.

  He held out for three days. Then he went to find her.

  It was the first time he had tested the bounds of his agreement with Panjit. No one stopped him leaving the palace, but again when he reached the gate of the outer walls the smiling guards would not let him through. He tried the mango orchard, but the trees near the walls had all been chopped down, and the gaps in the rampart repaired with fresh bricks and mortar.

  Adam would not get out again that way. He suspected Panjit would have taken similar precautions elsewhere, but he walked the whole circuit of the walls anyway. It took him a full day. There were no trees overhanging the rampart, no ladders or ropes left lying about, no outbuildings he could clamber up. The guards who manned the watchtowers hailed him as he passed, friendly, but making sure he knew they saw him.

  He returned to the city weary and defeated. Panjit smiled at him.

  ‘Did you enjoy your walk?’

  ‘Most invigorating.’

  The impossibility of escape did not crush Adam’s hopes. Instead, it goaded him on. He dreamed up more and more impractical schemes, each more life-threatening than the last. He could go out of the window and climb down where the wall gave way to the cliff face. He could strap himself to the belly of a cow and let it carry him out through the gate. He could make a giant kite from his bed sheets and fly down from the citadel to land on Clare’s lawn.

  At that point, he realised he had lost his senses.

  You are not Icarus or Odysseus or some figure from myth, he told himself. You are in a city of thousands. Men come and go all the time. There must be a way.

  One afternoon, Adam was sitting in the palace courtyard when two workmen came to repair the fountain. It was built in the shape of a life-size elephant: the spout was hidden in the trunk, so that when the fountain was turned on, water sprayed out of the trunk over the animal’s back as if it was washing itself. But there was no water coming out that day.

  ‘The wheel has jammed again,’ said one of the workmen.

  Adam watched, glad of any diversion and curious to see how the contraption worked. He expected the workmen to open some door in the elephant’s belly. To his surprise, they went to a squat little building at the side of the courtyard, a square stone structure about the size of a single room. Adam had not paid it any attention, except to assume it must be some kind of storeroom. But now he looked closer, he did not see any door, only a small flight of stairs leading up to the roof.

  The workmen climbed the stairs and kneeled. One of the men inserted a crowbar, and lifted one of the paving stones that covered the roof. Adam, down in the courtyard, could not see what was underneath it, but he guessed it must be some kind of opening or trapdoor.

  The thinner of the two men tied a rope around his waist and slithered into the hole. The other man kneeled beside it, passing down various tools and pieces of rope.

  They worked for about an hour. Suddenly, with a belch of air, a gush of water splashed out of the elephant’s trunk and began to flow again. The man climbed out of the hole, soaking wet and filthy. They gathered their tools, replaced the stone and wandered away.

  Adam waited for a few minutes after they had gone, then – as casually as he could – went up the stairs to the roof of the building. The crowbar had left scratch marks around the stone that had been lifted – and there was a sign, too: a small ideogram chiselled into the corner of the slab. Three curling lines, like waves.

  *

  ‘Has the city ever been taken by siege?’ Adam asked Panjit later that evening.

  They were playing their usual game of chess.

  ‘Never,’ said Panjit. ‘Though many have tried.’

  ‘I would have thought a determined army would have no difficulty starving the city out.’

  ‘The orchards and gardens give us all the food we need.’

  ‘And water? I have not seen many tanks.’

  It was true. Everywhere he had travelled in India, in towns and roadsides and by temples or pagodas, one of the features was the large open tanks that collected water. In Calcutta, the Great Tank was the centre of town and a favourite spot for promenades. Yet in Holkar, despite its thousands of residents, there were only a few small pools.

  Panjit studied his rook.

  ‘There are springs under the mountain that feed all our needs.’

  ‘Truly? Even for so many people?’

  Adam had tried to make the question sound as casual as possible. But Panjit’s antennae were sensitive to the faintest tremors of deception. He heard the motive in Adam’s voice and raised his eyes from the board.

  ‘Have you taken an interest in our plumbing?’

  ‘If Hugo lays siege to the city, I want to be sure I am not going to die of thirst.’

  Panjit’s mouth tightened in a smile. ‘Do not worry about that. Hugo Courtney’s bones will have rotted to dust before Holkar runs out of water.’ He moved his bishop and knocked over Adam’s castle. ‘Check.’

  *

  Adam puzzled over what Panjit had said. He felt certain there were things Panjit had not told him, and equally sure that the answer lay inside the building by the fountain. But the courtyard was near the Maharani’s quarters. It was always busy during the day, and by night, guards patrolled it too often.

  Then one day the Maharani went to attend a religious festival at a shrine in the countryside. Adam watched the procession depart: twenty elephants, with the Maharani in a golden howdah on a crimson saddlecloth. After she had gone, the palace was quiet.

  That night, he crept out into the courtyard with a candlestick, a lamp and a small carpet. He waited behind a column. Fireflies blinked like an ever-changing constellation of stars; water gurgled off the stone elephant’s back.

  When he was certain no guards were coming, he crossed to the building and climbed the steps onto its roof. It was hard to find the slab he wanted in the dark, but he swept his hand around on the paving until his fingers felt the grooves of the carved waves.

  There was a thin crack around the stone. Adam unrolled the carpet and put it on the ground beside him. He took the iron candlestick he had brought from his room, levered it into the gap and heaved.

  The stone lifted clear. Adam slid it over the carpet to muffle the noise. From inside the hole, he heard the rattle of wheels and the splash of running water. Something was moving.

  Adam lit the lamp and held it inside the hole. Everything inside was wet, so that the flame gleamed off every surface. The rattling grew louder.

  The lamplight revealed, at last, the secret that lay beneath Holkar. It was a waterwheel, like the chain pumps Adam was familiar with from aboard ship, but on a larger scale. Scoops brimming with water were attached to a thick hawser that ran straight up a deep shaft and bent around a large wheel before descending again into the darkness. As each scoop reached the top, its water tipped out into a stone channel that led away into the darkness. It must serve the whole palace. The building Adam was on top of was what housed the machinery.

  Adam held the lamp as far down as he could. He could not see anywhere near the bottom of the shaft.

  ‘Only one way to find out,’ he told himself.

  He sat down on the edge of the hole and lowered himself in. The channel had a small lip, wide enough to stand on. Gripping the lamp in one hand, he sized up the waterwheel rattling past. The scoops were spaced about six feet apart. They didn’t move quickly, but they were made of iron, and they came over the top of the wheel with a whipcrack motion that was enough to knock him unconscious if he mistimed his jump.

  Years at sea had trained him well. He leaped, grabbed the rope like a backstay and hooked his feet around the hawser just as the next scoop came over.

  It was like climbing the rigging in a storm in the middle of the night watch. The noise of the pulley thundered and echoed off the shaft walls, while at the bottom he could hear a churning noise like a high wind. Water rained down on him from the upturned scoops and ran in his eyes. He had to close the shutter on the lantern to protect the flame. His wet muscles stretched and groaned, but he could not loosen his grip or he would fall.

  Gradually, the churning noise grew louder. It felt like he was slipping into the cold, hard entrails of a viciously lethal machine. Looking down, he saw the white froth of foam and the gleam of a wheel turning to drive the pulley. He waited until he was almost on top of it, then jumped, holding the lantern up above his head.

  He landed in a pool of water, chest-deep. The surface was choppy with the turbulence of the scoops coming down into the pool, turning around the wheel and rising again full of water. A thick axle led away from the wheel and – by means of a series of gears – through a wall. Adam guessed that on the other side of the wall there must be men or animals driving the shaft, turning the wheels day and night to keep the palace supplied with water. In here, he was alone.

  The lantern flame guttered. The jump had loosened the catch and the shutter had swung open. The flame heeled over. Even here in the bowels of the hill, a strong breeze was coming from somewhere.

  Adam closed the shutter again, then breasted through the water with the breeze on his face. The pool was bigger than he’d expected – an underground reservoir so extensive the candle could only illuminate a small portion of it. The pulley he’d come down wasn’t the only one. In the candlelight, he saw the shadow lines of other ropes rising into the darkness. Some were complex mechanisms like the one he’d descended by; others were simply buckets on ropes. This pool must supply the whole city.

  The breeze grew stronger as he walked towards it. He had to cup his hand ever closer to the candle flame. He could feel a current in the water, pushing harder against him. Ahead, he saw a stone wall that marked the edge of the reservoir. There was an opening a few feet above his head, and a torrent of water pouring out of it over a weir and into the pool.

  A wooden ladder was bolted to the wall beside it. Adam climbed up and peered into the hole.

  He had been right. This was not a natural spring. He was looking down a brick-vaulted tunnel, bringing a stream to fill the reservoir. He couldn’t see where it came from, but he could guess. The walls were slick with moss and black with watermarks. It must come from the river: after the monsoon rains, the stream would rise to fill the tunnel. But this was the driest part of the year, and the water was only knee-deep.

  He splashed through, arms braced against the wall so he would not lose his footing on the slick stones. The tunnel was longer than he expected; the lantern started to burn low. He wished he could blow it out to save oil – the tunnel was straight enough that he didn’t need it – but he had no way of relighting it. He hurried on.

  ‘At least it smells better than the drain in Port Louis,’ he muttered to himself. And then, ‘Oh.’

  The lantern went out. He was in darkness. Tendrils of claustrophobia started to creep around his insides, making him sweat. But as his eyes adjusted, he could see a dim glow ahead. He went on, more slowly. The stream was getting louder, but he could hear a new sound – the chattering of frogs and crickets, and what sounded like a nightjar trilling in the distance.

  By the time he reached the end of the tunnel he could see clearly. Moonlight poured through an iron grille where the water entered. The grille was solid, but there was a ladder beside it, leading to a trapdoor. The bolt was rusty, but Adam worked it free. He lifted the hatch and came out into the clean night air.

  He was in a small domed building – a tomb or a shrine – on the banks of the river. It was built over the water, so that the tunnel entrance beneath was completely hidden. The trapdoor was disguised to look like the paving.

  But it was not empty. A fat-bellied man sat cross-legged on the floor. He must have been deployed to guard the tunnel entrance – he had an axe in his hands, and an elaborate helmet – but he had not noticed Adam. He sat stiffly, his back to Adam, staring across the river. Perhaps he was asleep, but he might wake at any moment.

  Adam stayed still. So did the guard. Unnaturally still – you could not tell he was breathing.

  On his travels, Adam had sometimes seen yogis in a similar state, a trance so deep they might as well be dead. It could last for hours, and Adam did not have that much time. He edged around for a better view. Could he creep past?

  Then he laughed out loud. The man had been set to guard the tunnel, but not the way Adam thought. In fact, it was not a man at all. His face had a trunk, wide ears and two tusks jutting out – and it was made not of flesh, but of stone. It was Ganesha, the elephant god.

  Adam touched the god’s toe for luck, as he had seen pilgrims do at roadside shrines. In the distance, he could see the bulk of the citadel blocking out the stars, the glow of the few fires and lamps that were still burning at that hour.

  He was out of the city. For a moment, he savoured his success.

  Where next? He had done this to prove there was a way out, not because he wanted to leave Holkar. He had to go back. But his plan had some crucial flaws – he would never find his way through the reservoir and the pumping system without a candle or a lamp. And if he turned up at the front gate, Panjit would hear of it. He would work out how Adam had got out, and close up the route.

  There was only one place to go.

  *

  In the moonlight, the bungalows of the British residence glowed as white as tombs. Adam flitted down the lanes between them like a ghost. It would have been easy – sensible, even – to enter through one of their open windows and find a lamp and a tinderbox. Adam passed them all.

  His pulse quickened as he approached the great house. A servant dozed by the locked gate, but the wall was not high. Adam scaled it with the help of a palm tree and dropped into the garden. The mansion was dark – except in one corner room on the ground floor, where light glowed.

  Adam crept up and peered in through the windows. It was the library: shelves lined with books, and an untended lamp sitting on a side table by a high-backed chair. The room was empty.

  The lamp was what he needed; there was even a jar of oil sitting beside it. A servant must have been trimming the wick and forgotten to extinguish it.

  The window was not locked. Adam hoisted the sash and climbed through. Clare must have been in the room that evening: her perfume lingered in the air, scenting it with camellias. She could not be far away. She would be lying in her bed, maybe right above him.

  Against all reason, he found himself yearning to see her again. But that would be madness. He didn’t know how long he had taken getting there, and he had a lengthy journey back. Dawn could not be far off. He could not risk being discovered.

  He crossed to the lamp and picked it up. The bowl was half empty. He refilled it from the oil jar. That would be enough to see him home.

  A sneeze echoed across the room.

  Adam spun around. The jar, slick with oil, slipped through his fingers and smashed on the floor. Thankfully he had the wit to hold on to the lamp or he might have set the library ablaze.

  Clare was sitting in the high-backed chair, her legs curled under her and a bottle of wine tucked beside her. The chair’s wings had hidden her when Adam entered. Now she was staring at him, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

  Afterwards, Adam thought he should have run off into the darkness that instant. Let her imagine it had been a dream. But in the moment, his feet were rooted to the spot.

  ‘What are you doing?’ There was a tremor in her voice, but she appeared remarkably calm. ‘Have you come to murder us in our beds?’

  ‘I . . . ah . . .’ The question had thrown him. He stumbled for an answer and realised he could think of no lie better than the truth. ‘I needed to borrow a lamp.’

  ‘That is the most preposterous excuse I have ever heard.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  She laughed. Adam relaxed a fraction.

  Did anyone hear the jar smash?

  ‘Is Hugo here?’

  Her gaze flicked over him. The wine had left a red stain around her mouth, and her hair was tangled from sleep. Adam felt her eyes were asking him a question she could not voice.

  ‘He has not returned yet.’

  She uncorked the bottle and poured it into a glass that had been sitting by the chair leg.

  ‘You cannot imagine the expense of getting tolerable claret to the middle of India, but it makes life here more bearable.’ She waved the bottle at him. ‘Would you care for a glass?’

  Only a few dregs sloshed around the bottom of the bottle. Adam began to understand why she had fallen asleep in the library chair.

  ‘Perhaps a different time. My hosts did not want me to leave the palace, and they will be displeased if they find I have gone.’

  Clare nodded. The wine had started to make her eyes drift shut again.

  ‘A gilded cage is still a cage,’ she said softly.

  The night was warm, but her dress was thin. Adam found a shawl on a sofa and laid it over her. He took the glass from her hand and put it on the table so it would not spill. Her breathing had slowed; her eyes were shut tight. She moved a little in the chair, sinking into a more comfortable position.

  Without thinking, Adam leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.

  Her eyes fluttered open; she smiled and murmured something.

  Adam took the lamp and left her in darkness.

  *