“He’s out.” Giff curled his lip. “He’s game enough, I have to give him that.”
“But little skill,” returned the captain. “His aim was all to pieces.”
“He’s likely out of practice.” Tarporley gave Giff a rueful smile. “I’d not meet you for a fortune, Giffard. Have you fought often?”
Giff was watching Sattar wind his improvised bandage tightly around his cousin’s injury, halting the blood, but he looked round at this. “I’ve had occasion to do my share. There are plagues of bandits in certain areas back home. And Sattar keeps me in practice.”
Rhoades looked up at him with a frown. “You consider India your home, then?”
A pang smote Giff. “It’s all I’ve known. I remember little to naught of this place.”
No one spoke for a moment, and Giff found himself again wondering what he was going to do. He shook off an unaccustomed feeling of despondency. First things first.
“Are you done, Sattar?”
“Almost, sahib.” He tucked the end of the now stained cravat into itself. He looked from one to the other of the three men. “To get him up is now the trick, sahibs all.”
Tarporley looked dubious. “Should we not carry him?”
“Better he walks, sahib. A man is stronger for moving. If he lies still, he becomes weaker.”
Giff nodded. He needed Piers as alert as they could make him, and Sattar knew what he was talking about. “Can you wake him, Rhoades?”
“I can try.” Rhoades peered down to the body he held. “Gaunt! Can you hear me?” A groan rewarded him. “We’re going to get you up, man. Come, try to stand.”
Between them, Rhoades and Sattar managed to lift Piers. He cried out, his eyes flying open as the Indian slipped under his injured shoulder.
“I must support you, sahib. The captain will take your other side.”
Willy-nilly, Piers began to walk as the two bore him slowly towards the ruins again.
Tarporley was wiping Giff’s sword with his already bloodied handkerchief. “Sheathe this, Giffard. I’ll take your cousin’s sword.”
Giff inspected his blade and saw it was wiped nearly clean. He dropped it back in its scabbard and joined the young man as he set off after the others.
“What do you mean to do, Giffard?”
“That remains to be seen. I’ve questions for Piers, and my decision may be based on his answers.”
Tarporley eyed him with unconcealed dismay. “You don’t mean to leave him the field, do you?”
“It may come to that.”
“After all you’ve gone through at his hands?”
“I’ve repaid him for some of it.”
“But he’s usurped your seat, man! Surely you mean to take it back?”
Giff eyed him with some degree of amusement. “You’d rather have me for your neighbour, I take it?”
“Infinitely! And I believe you are mad even to think of letting him hold what is yours.”
“Oh, I won’t do that.”
“Well, thank God for it! You had me worried there for a moment.”
Giff refrained from speaking of what was in his mind. Until he knew for certain whether his suspicions had foundation, nothing could be decided. Indeed, no decision could be made until he’d spoken to Delia, if it came to that. And to say true, he still had no valid proof, either of identity or ownership. Whether a portrait of a mother and infant would do was doubtful. Not to mention the testimony of a woman who had not seen him for more than twenty years, and then as little more than an infant.