There was only one person in the food-stall who knew exactly what that sound was that was rolling in across the plain, along with the silver curve of the Irrawaddy, to the western wall of Monday’s fort. His name was Rajkumar, and he was an Indian, a boy of twelve – not an authority to be relied upon.

The king walked out of the pavilion, flanked by Queen Supayalat and her mother. The procession passed slowly through the long corridors of the palace, and across the mirrored walls of the Hall of Audience, past the shouldered guns of the guard of honour and the snapped-off salutes of the English officers. Two carriages were waiting by the east gate. Just as he was about to step in, the King noticed that the ceremonial canopy had seven tiers, the number allotted to a nobleman, not the nine due to a king.