"Where to, mate?"
  He astonished himself with the reply, giving not Esta-brook's address but that of 
another place entirely.
  "Clerkenwell," he said. "Gamut Street."
  "Don't know it," the cabbie replied, and for one heart-stopping moment Chant thought he 
was going to drive on.
  "I'll direct you," he said.
  "Get in, then."
  Chant did so, slamming the cab door with no little satisfaction and barely managing to 
reach the seat before the cab picked up speed.
  Why had he named Gamut Street? There was nothing there that would heal him. Nothing 
could. The flea-or whatever variation in that species it was that crawled in him-had 
reached his elbow, and his arm below that pain was now completely numb, the skin of his 
hand wrinkled and flaky. But the house in Gamut Street had been a place of miracles once. 
Men and women of great authority had walked in it and perhaps left some ghost of 
themselves to calm him in extremis. No creature, Sartori had taught, passed through this 
Dominion unrecorded, even to the least-to the child that perished a heartbeat after it 
opened its eyes, the child that died in the womb, drowned in its mother's waters-even 
that unnamed thing had its record and its consequence. So how much more might the 
once-powerful of Gamut Street have left, by way of echoes?
  His heart was palpitating, and his body full of jitters. Fearing he'd soon lose control 
of his functions, he pulled the letter to Estabrook from his pocket and leaned forward to 
slide the half window between himself and the driver aside.
  "When you've dropped me in Clerkenwell I'd like you to deliver a letter for me. Would 
you be so kind?"
  "Sorry, mate," the driver said. "I'm going home after this. I've a wife waiting for me."
  Chant dug in his inside pocket and pulled out his wallet, then passed it through the 
window, letting it drop on the seat beside the driver.
  "What's this?"
  "All the money I've got. This letter has to be delivered."
  "All the money you've got, eh?"
  The driver picked up the wallet and flicked it open, his gaze going between its 
contents and the road.
  "There's a lot of dosh in here."
  "Have it. It's no good to me."
  "Are you sick?"
  "And tired," Chant said. "Take it, why don't you? Enjoy it."
  "There's a Daimler been following us. Somebody you know?"
  There was no purpose served by lying to the man. "Yes," Chant said. "I don't suppose 
you could put some distance between them and us?"
  The man pocketed the wallet and jabbed his foot down on the accelerator. The cab leapt 
forward like a racehorse from the gate, its jockey's laugh rising above the guttural din 
of the engine. Whether it was the cash he was now heavy with or the challenge of 
outrunning a Daimler that motivated him, he put his cab through its paces, proving it 
more mobile than its bulk would have suggested. In under a minute they'd made two sharp 
lefts and a squealing right and were roaring down a back street so narrow the least 
miscalculation would have taken off handles, hubs, and mirrors. The mazing didn't stop 
there. They made another turn, and another, bringing them in a short time to South-wark 
Bridge. Somewhere along the way, they'd lost the Daimler. Chant might have applauded had 
he possessed two workable hands, but the flea's message of corruption was spreading with 
agonizing speed. While he still had five fingers under his command he went back to the 
window and dropped Estabrook's letter through, murmuring the address with a tongue that 
felt disfigured in his mouth.
  "What's wrong with you?" the cabbie said. "It's not fucking contagious, is it, 'cause 
if it is-"
  ". ..not.. ."Chant said.
  "You look fucking awful," the cabbie said, glancing in the mirror. "Sure you don't want 
a hospital?"
  "No. Gamut Street. I want Gamut Street."
  "You'll have to direct me from here."
  The streets had all changed. Trees gone; rows demolished; austerity in place of 
elegance, function in place of beauty; the new for old, however poor the exchange rate. 
It was a decade and more since he'd come here last. Had Gamut Street fallen and a steel 
phallus risen in its place?
  "Where are we?" he asked the driver.
  "Clerkenwell. That's where you wanted, isn't it?"
  "1 mean the precise place."
  The driver looked for a sign. "Flaxen Street. Does it ring a bell?"
  Chant peered out of the window. "Yes! Yes! Go down to the end and turn right."
  "Used to live around here, did you?"
  "A long time ago."
  "It's seen better days." He turned right. "Now where?"
  "First on the left."
  "Here it is," the man said. "Gamut Street. What number was it?"
  "Twenty-eight."
  The cab drew up at the curb. Chant fumbled for the handle, opened the door, and all but 
fell out onto the pavement. Staggering, he put his weight against the door to close it, 
and for the first time he and the driver came face to face. Whatever the flea was doing 
to his system, it must have been horribly apparent, to judge by the look of repugnance on 
the man's face.
  "You will deliver the letter?" Chant said.
  "You can trust me, mate."
  "When you've done it, you should go home," Chant said. "Tell your wife you love her. 
Give a prayer of thanks."
  "What for?"
  "That you're human," Chant said.
  The cabbie didn't question this little lunacy. "Whatever you say, mate," he replied. 
"I'll give the missus one and give thanks at the same time, how's that? Now don't do 
anything I wouldn't do, eh?"
  This advice given, he drove off, leaving his passenger to the silence of the street.
  With failing eyes, Chant scanned the gloom. The houses, built in the middle of 
Sartori's century, looked to be mostly deserted; primed for demolition, perhaps. But then 
Chant knew that sacred places-and Gamut Street was sacred in its way-survived on occasion 
because they went unseen, even in plain sight. Burnished by magic, they deflected the 
threatening eye and found unwitting allies in men and women who, all unknowing, knew 
holiness; became sanctuaries for a secret few.
  He climbed the three steps to the door and pushed at it, but it was securely locked, so 
he went to the nearest window. There was a filthy shroud of cobweb across it but no 
curtain beyond. He pressed his face to the glass. Though his eyes were weakening by the 
moment, his gaze was still more acute than that of the blossoming ape. The room he looked