When Wheezle finished reading, neither of us spoke for several seconds. Even the wights were silent, their burning gaze lost in some unknown distance.

«Miriam told us Rivi hated magic,» I said at last.

«Indeed,» Wheezle nodded. «And if she finds the two grinders… one grinder makes it impossible for people to cast magic, and the other is essentially the antidote. An exceedingly powerful pair of weapons.»

«What would happen,» I asked, «if she spread the white dust over a battlefield? While she and her allies were safely covered in the brown.»

«Magic decides many battles,» Wheezle replied, «especially when your opponents have none. With proper tactics, Rivi could become a fearsome conqueror.»

«Of course,» I said, «some god would eventually stop her. Step in and seize the grinders.»

Wheezle shook his head. «I think if one god tried to possess such powerful artifacts, other gods would prevent that from happening. Suppose, for example, that a good god claimed the grinders; evil gods would fear such weapons wielded in the cause of virtue, and would try to take the grinders for themselves. The struggle might precipitate Ragnarok itself – the final battle of god against god, wherein the cosmos is destroyed. No,» Wheezle said, «the gods will be extremely wary of intervening… and if any god does, Rivi will be the least of the multiverse's problems.»

«But suppose Rivi tries to conquer Sigil!» I protested. «Suppose she spreads her dust, then leads in an army equipped with magic. Surely The Lady of Pain would take direct action then – it's her job to protect Sigil.»

«The Lady of Pain may or may not be a god,» Wheezle replied. «She is Sigil's legendary protector, but she is also a great mystery. Perhaps she is only a sorcerer herself; in that case, she will be as helpless as any streetcorner conjuror. If by chance she is a god… well, as I say, gods of all persuasions would band together to prevent any other deity from claiming the grinders. Who knows the outcome?»

I shuddered. Scant minutes ago, our party had just come to rescue Yasmin and the others; now, it looked like the fate of whole worlds was on the line. Truth to tell, I still cared about Yasmin more than some abstract threat toward Sigil or any other realm… but the added pressure didn't help.

Somberly, Wheezle and I left the control bunker, emerging once more into the full din of the machinery room. My Dustman colleague had stuffed his pockets with scrolls and documents, including the diary of Felice DeVail. Perhaps we didn't have time to read any more right now, but he fully intended to check through everything when he got the chance.

The wights greeted us with spike-toothed smiles, but Hezekiah and Miriam didn't notice us at first – they were too busy talking, or rather yelling into each other's ears so they could be heard above the clang of pistons. Even with them shouting, I couldn't make out what they were saying from any distance away; and as we approached, Hezekiah saw us and guiltily broke off his conversation.

I didn't like the look of that. Miriam was scarcely an irresistible seductress, but how much voluptuous charm would it take to turn the Clueless boy's head? She could never talk him into knifing Wheezle or me in the back – he was too naively virtuous for that – yet I worried he might help her «just a little» and get us into trouble just a lot.

«Remember she's the enemy,» I told him, shouting loudly myself. «She's untrustworthy and dangerous.»

«She says I'm dangerous too,» he replied. «The way I scared her makes her want to… she says she'd like to serve me.»

That made me blink in surprise – I hadn't expected her taking the submissive approach. When Hezekiah made himself the embodiment of terror, did he touch a responsive chord in Miriam's heart? Some people love to be overwhelmed, I knew that… and when I glanced at Miriam, I saw her gazing at the boy with an expression that was almost worshipful. Of course, it was quite probably a sham: just a different sham than I'd anticipated. «Be careful,» I muttered to the boy, then turned away, embarrassed.

Within a minute, we had left behind the clamor of ratchets and throttles and gears. It hadn't been an interesting noise anyway – lots of volume but no finesse.

«Where are you leading us now?» I asked Miriam.

«Petrov's quarters are just up ahead,» she answered. «You said he might have helped capture your friends. If he's in his room, you can ask him yourself.»

«Looking forward to it,» I assured her as I drew my rapier from its sheath. Even if she was leading us into a trap, I'd be happy to face Petrov with sword in hand.

The corridor opened into a sizable chamber with at least twenty bunk beds set into the walls, like the recessed niches of a mausoleum. In the middle of the room stood a few metal tables bolted to the floor, the sort of tables you might see in an army barracks, where the soldiers sit, play cards, and boast of their sexual exploits. These tables, however, were too brightly polished for a real barracks, with nary a stain from spilled beer, nor scratches from mugs slammed down in anger when someone's poker hand held one ace too many. The rest of the room also lacked any of the normal signs of occupation: the lingering smells of bodies, the scuff marks of boots on the floor.

«Remarkably tidy for a hide-out,» I said to Miriam. «Is this really where your cronies live?»

«Don't be a leatherhead,» she growled. «We underlings live farther down the hall. Mr. High-and-Mighty Petrov couldn't bear to tuck down with the likes of us, so he moved into this empty room. He tried to tell us Rivi wanted him close in case she got cold in the night… but that slag has so much ice in her veins, she couldn't warm up if she kissed a red dragon.»

«Uncle Toby once gave a sponge bath to a dragon,» Hezekiah piped up. «I don't know what color it was.»

«Hush,» I told him.

«No, really, this is an interesting story. The dragon had contracted a case of mummy rot from some adventurer she'd eaten, and Uncle Toby —»

I put a finger to his lips. «Button it,» I whispered. «Someone's coming.»

Chalk up another for a Sensate's razor-sharp hearing. Some distance ahead of us, a stream of grunts and groans echoed down the corridor, punctuated now and then by a juicy upswell of profanity. Wheezle gestured and immediately one of the wights wrapped its rotting hand over Miriam's mouth, just in case she tried to shout a warning. She tossed Wheezle an aggrieved look, as if the thought would never enter her mind… but even if she yelled her head off, the man approaching us probably wouldn't have heard. He seemed too caught up in venting his piteous moans to notice any of the world around him.

Thirty seconds later, he walked into what he thought was an empty room. The bleached white hair showed it was our old friend Petrov… but a Petrov who had clearly seen action since the showdown on the Vertical Sea. His head sported a blood-soaked bandage, and his bare chest had turned a bright lobster red. Under other circumstances, I might have believed his skin was sunburned; but I knew this particular damage was frostbite, courtesy of the blistering cold from Oonah DeVail's staff.

It made me smile that Petrov hadn't walked away from the fight unscathed. Unfortunately, the fact that he was walking at all suggested his side had won in the end. If Yasmin had come out on top, Petrov would even now be dining on dust outside the Spider.

Like a mountain of misery, the big basher shuffled to one of the tables and sat down with a heavy thud, letting his head slump forward into his hands. In all the time it took for him to get into the room, he had never spared a glance into any of the recessed bunks… which means he didn't notice eight wights and assorted breathers lying there in wait. His first clue that he wasn't alone must have been the tip of my rapier pricking the back of his neck.