Ducos unhooked the spectacles from his ears and wiped the round lenses on a corner of his blue jacket. “The consignment is safe?”

“Downstairs. It’s in an artillery wagon that’s parked in the yard. The escort need food and water, and so do their horses.”

Ducos frowned to show that he was above dealing with such humdrum requirements as food and water. “Do the escort know what is in the wagon?”

“Of course not.”

“What do they think it is?”

Maillot shrugged. “Does it matter? They simply know they have fetched four unmarked crates to Bordeaux.”

Ducos lifted the dispatch’s remaining sheet of paper. “This gives me authority over the escort, and I insist upon knowing whether they can be trusted.”

Maillot sat in a chair and stretched out his long, weary and mud-spattered legs. “They’re commanded by a good man, Sergeant Challon, and they’ll do nothing to cross him. But can they be trusted? Who knows? They’ve probably guessed what’s in the crates by now, but so far they’ve stayed loyal.” He stifled a yawn. “What they’re more concerned about now is food and water.”

“And you, Colonel?” Ducos asked.

“I need food and water, too.”

Ducos grimaced to show that his question had been misunderstood. “What do you do now, Colonel?”

“I return to the Emperor, of course. The consignment is your responsibility. And if you’ll forgive me, I’m damned glad to be shot of it. A soldier should be fighting now, not acting as a baggage-master.”

Ducos, who had just been given the responsibilities of a baggage-master, restored the polished spectacles to his face. “The Emperor does me great honour.”

“He trusts you,” Maillot said simply.