Inside the committee room, there was an atmosphere of euphoria. Sir Adam was standing behind the lectern, and about half the delegates from the district councils seemed to have packed themselves in. Someone had opened a crate of cava and orange farmers from down south were toasting shipyard workers from the east bay with foam sparkling from their chipped tea mugs. Erasmus grabbed the first shoulder he could catch inside the doorway. "What's going on?" he demanded.

"It's the king!" The man grinned broadly. "He's gone! Packed up his bags in New London and ran. The garrison in Montreal picked him up!"

A sharp stab of anxiety gnawed at Erasmus.

"Are they ours?" "They mutinied three weeks ago and elected a workers' and soldiers' council! They're with the white guards!"

Erasmus blinked. "Excuse me." He began to elbow his way through the crush towards the lectern where Sir Adam was earnestly holding forth to a gaggle of inner party graybeards who remained obdurately sober in the face of the collective derangement.

"Ah, Erasmus." Sir Adam smiled. "I gather the good news has reached you."

"I need to know where it came from"-Erasmus pointed a thumb over his shoulder-"if we're to get the word out where it's needed. I've got a stenographer waiting in the guardroom, and a front page to fill by three."

"That's easy enough." Burroughs gestured. "You know Edward MacDonald, I take it."

Erasmus nodded. "We've met." Ed, Lady Bishop's right hand man, nodded back, cautiously.

"He brought certain other news of your activities out east, news that I personally consider would stretch the bounds of credibility-if anyone less than Lady Bishop vouched for their truth." Burroughs contemplated Erasmus, an expression of perplexity on his face that reminded Burgeson of a schoolteacher examining a pupil who had just done something that, while not actually deserving of punishment, was inexplicably wrong. "We'll need to talk about it in due course."

"Yes, we will." Erasmus surprised himself with the assurance of his answer. "But this isn't the time for addressing longterm problems. We've got to get the word of these momentous events out first. Once the loyalists realize they have been abandoned by their false monarch, that will change the entire situation!" He nodded at Edward. "What's happened out east? What can you tell me that I can print? I need pictures, damn it! Who witnessed the events?"

The attack began an hour before dawn. Otto ven Neuhalle watched from a discreet distance as his men walked their precious M60s onto the front of the gatehouse from long range, firing parsimonious bursts-wary of his threats to damage any man who damaged his precious guns. The defenders declined to fire randomly into the dark, although a ghastly white glare opened its unblinking eye above the barred front gate, casting long shadows across the beaten ground before it-shadows that promised pain and death to anyone who ventured into view of the firing slits in the walls.

"Keep their heads down!" he shouted at Shutz and his men. "But watch for our own!"

They didn't have many minutes to wait. Creaking and squealing with an ominous rumble, two large wagons rolled round the shoulder of the hill, following the road that led to the gate. The bullocks that pulled them didn't sound too happy, roaring and lowing beneath their heavy burden. Otto bared his teeth as he heard the voice of their driver and the crack of his whip.

"This should be fun," a familiar voice commented from behind him.

Otto shivered as a chilly sweat broke out across the nape of his neck. "Your Majesty has the better of me." He turned around slowly-it was a faux pas to turn one's back on the monarch, and he had no desire to draw attention to it-and bowed deeply.

"Rise." The king gestured impatiently. The lance of royal bodyguards around him faced outward; the armor and colors he wore were indistinguishable from their uniform, but for the lack of an armband of rank. "Two minutes, no more. They should be shooting by now."

Otto found his tongue. "May I ask if the carts are for men or explosives, my liege? I need to prepare my men…"

"Explosives." Egon nodded towards them. "The driver will take them up to the gate then set them off."

"The-oh." Otto nodded. The driver would do what he was told, or his family would be done by as the king had decreed: probably something creatively horrible, to reinforce his reputation as a strong and ruthless monarch. "By your leave, I shall order my men to take cover just before the blast."

"We wish them to advance and provide covering fire for the cavalry immediately afterwards," Egon added offhand.

"Cavalry?" Otto bit his tongue, but even so the word slipped out first. Beyond the gatehouse was a wet moat, and then a steep descent into a dry moat before the gate into the castle's outer battlements. Nobody in their right mind would use cavalry against the layered defenses of a castle!

"Cavalry." The royal grin was almost impish. "I hope you find it educational."

"My lord-" One of the guards cleared his throat.

"Momentarily." Egon stared at Otto. "I intend to surprise everyone, Baron. This is just the start."

Otto bowed his neck jerkily. "Yes, Your Majesty."

"Go." Dismissed, Otto turned to warn Shutz and his gunners about the wagons-and to leave the king's disturbing presence. Behind him, Egon was mounting the saddle of a stallion from the royal stable. A pair of irreplaceable witch-clan night vision glasses hung from his pommel.

The defenders were asleep, dead, or incompetent, Otto decided as he watched the wagons roll along the road towards the gatehouse. Or they'd been struck blind by Sky Father. The glaring hell-light cast a lurid glow across the ground before the gatehouse, but there was no shouted challenge, no crack of gunfire. What are they doing? He wondered. A horrid surmise began to gnaw at his imagination. They're dead, or gone, and we're advancing into their ground while they sneak through the land of the dead, to ambush us from behind-

Rapid fire crackled from the gatehouse, followed by a squealing roar of bovine distress: Otto breathed again. Not dead or gone, just incompetent. They'd shown little sign of movement earlier in the campaign, and despite their lightning-fast assault on the castle when he'd taken it, they'd failed to follow through. The witch-clan were traders, after all, lowborn tinkers, not knights and soldiers. He grinned as the wagon ground forward faster, the uninjured oxen panicked halfway to a stampede by the gunfire and the smell of blood. It had fifty yards to go, then forty-why aren't they firing? Are they low on ammunition?-then twenty, then-

Otto knelt close to the ground, bracing himself, mouth open to keep his ears from hurting. The moments stretched on, as he counted up to twenty heartbeats.

"Is he dead?" called one of his gunners.

"I think-" someone began to reply, but the rest of his comment was forestalled by a searing flash. A second later the sound reached Otto, a door the size of a mountainside slamming shut beside his head. The ground shook. A couple of seconds later still, the gravel and fragments rained down around the smoke-filled hole. "What was that?" Otto shouted, barely able to hear himself. It wasn't like any powder explosion he'd ever heard, and he'd heard enough in his time. What's the Pervert got his hands on now? he added silently, straightening up.

The hell-light had gone out, along with the front of the gatehouse. The wagon hadn't been small-there could have been half a ton, or even a ton, of explosives in it; whatever kind of explosives the king's alchemists had cooked up, using lore stolen from the witches.

Otto cleared his dry throat, spat experimentally. "Break them down, get ready to move out," he shouted at Shutz. "The cavalry will be through here next."