"No, I just wanted to explain that the tower's quite a way from here. I don't want you 
thinking I'm leading you astray."
  "Be fast, then," she said, and Lazarevich took her at her word, leading them back 
across the bridge towards the stairs, explaining as he went that the quickest route to 
the tower was through the Cesscordium, and that was two floors down.
  They had descended perhaps a dozen steps when shots were fired behind them, and one of 
Lazarevich's two comrades staggered into view, adding shouts to his gunfire to raise the 
alarm. Had he not been groggy he might have put a bullet in Nikaetomaas or Gentle, but 
they were away down the stairs before he'd even reached the top, Lazarevich protesting as 
he went that none of this was his doing, and he loved his children and all he wanted to 
do was see them again.
  There was the sound of running in the lower gallery, and shouts answering those of the 
alarm raiser above. Nikaetomaas unleashed a series of expletives which could not have 
been fouler had Gentle understood them, and reached for Lazarevich, who hared off down 
the stairs before she could snatch hold of him, meeting a squad of his comrades at the 
bottom. Nikaetomaas' pursuit had taken her past Gentle, directly into their line of fire. 
They didn't hesitate. Four muzzles flared; four bullets found their mark. Her physique 
availed her nothing. She dropped where she stood, her body tumbling down the stairs and 
coming to a halt a few steps from the bottom. Watching her fall, three thoughts went 
through Gentle's head. One, that he'd have these bastards for this. Two, that stealth was 
irrelevant now. And three, that if he brought the roof down on their murderous heads, and 
word spread that there was another power in the palace besides the Autarch, that would be 
no bad thing. He'd regretted the deaths he'd caused in Lickerish Street, but he would not 
regret these. All he had to do was get his hand to his face to tear away the cloth before 
the bullets flew. There were more soldiers converging on the spot from several 
directions. Come on, he thought, raising his hands in feigned surrender as the others 
approached: come on, join the jubilee.
  One of the gathering number was clearly a man of authority. Heels clicked together as 
he appeared, salutes were exchanged. He looked up the staircase towards his hooded 
prisoner.
  "General Racidio," one of the captains said. "We have
  two of the rebels here."
  "These aren't Eurhetemecs." His gaze went from Gentle to the body of Nikaetomaas, then 
back up to Gentle again. "I think we have two Dearthers here."
  He started up the stairs towards Gentle, who was surreptitiously drawing breath through 
the open weave of the cloth around his face in preparation for his unveiling. He would 
have two or three seconds at best. Time perhaps to seize Racidio and use him as a hostage 
if the pneuma failed to kill every one of the gunmen.
  "Let's see what you look like," the commander said, and tore the cloth from Gentle's 
face.
  The instant that should have seen the pneuma loosed instead saw Racidio drop back in 
stupefaction from the features he'd uncovered. Whatever he saw was missed by the soldiers 
below, who kept their guns trained on Gentle until Racidio spat an order that they be 
lowered. Gentle was as confounded as they, but he wasn't about to question the reprieve. 
He dropped his hands and, stepping over the body of Nikaetomaas, came to the bottom of 
the stairs. Racidio retreated further, shaking his head as he did so, and wetting his 
lips, but apparently unable to find the words to express himself. He looked as though he 
was expecting the ground to open up beneath him; indeed, was silently willing it to do 
so. Rather than risk disabusing the man of his error by speaking, Gentle summoned his 
guide Lazarevich forward with the hooked finger Nikaetomaas had used minutes before. The 
man had taken refuge behind a shield of soldiers and only came out of hiding reluctantly, 
glancing at his captain and Racidio in the hope that Gentle's summons would be 
countermanded. It was not, however. Gentle went to meet him, and Racidio uttered the 
first words he'd been able to find since setting eyes on the trespasser's face.
  "Forgive me," he said. "I'm mortified."
  Gentle didn't give him the solace of a response but, with Lazarevich at his side, took 
a step towards the knot of soldiers at the top of the next flight of stairs. They parted 
without a word and he headed between their ranks, fighting the urge to pick up his pace, 
tempting though it was. And he regretted too not being able to say his farewells to 
Nika-etomaas. But neither impatience nor sentiment would profit him now. He'd been 
blessed, and maybe in the fullness of time he'd understand why. In the short term, he had 
to get to the Autarch and hope that the mystif was there also.
  "You still want to go to the Pivot Tower?'* Lazarevich said.
  "Yes."
  "When I get you there, will you let me go?"
  Again he said, "Yes."
  There was a pause, while Lazarevich oriented himself at the bottom of the stairs. Then 
he said, "Who are you?"
  "Wouldn't you like to know," Gentle replied, his answer as much for his own benefit as 
that of his guide.
  There had been six of them at the start. Now there were two. One of the casualties had 
been Thes 'reh' ot, shot down as he etched with a cross a corner they'd turned in the 
maze of courtyards. It had been his inspiration to mark their route and so facilitate a 
speedy exit when they'd finished their work.
  "It's only the Autarch's will that holds these walls up," he'd said as they'd entered 
the palace. "Once he's down, they'll come too. We need to beat a quick retreat if we're 
not to get buried."
  That Thes 'reh' ot had volunteered for a mission his laughter had dubbed fatal was 
surprising enough, but this further show of optimism teetered on the schizophrenic. His 
sudden death not only robbed Pie of an unlooked-for ally, but also of the chance to ask 
him why he'd joined the assault. But then several such conundrums had accrued around this 
endeavor, not least the sense of inevitability that had attended every phase, as though 
this judgment had been laid down long before Pie and Gentle had ever appeared in 
Yzordderrex, and any attempt to flout it would defy the wisdom of greater magistrates 
than Culus. Such inevitability bred fatalism, of course, and though the mystif had 
encouraged Thes 'reh' ot to plot their route of return, it entertained few delusions 
about making that journey. It willfully kept from its mind the losses that extinction 
would bring until its remaining comrade, Lu 'chur' chem-a purebred Eurhetemec, his skin 
blue-black, his eyes double-iri-sed-raised the subject. They were in a gallery lined with 
frescoes that evoked the city Pie had once called home: the painted streets of London, 
depicted as they'd been in the age into which the mystif had been born, replete with 
pigeon hawkers, mummers, and dandies.
  Seeing the way Pie gazed at these sights, Lu 'chur' chem said, "Never again, eh?"
  "Never again what?"
  "Out in a street, seeing the way the world is some morning."
  "No?"
  "No," Lu 'chur' chem said. "We're not coming back this way, and we both know it."
  "I don't mind," Pie replied. "I've seen a lot of things. I've felt even more. I've got 
no regrets."
  "You've had a long life?"