‘My,’ said Axl lightly, nodding towards the benches, ‘isn’t His Excellency popular?’

Hundreds of faces had turned to watch them come in.

‘Still, that’s the nice thing about Mexico. Even the meanest peon can request an audience with the Cardinal. Of course...' Axl shrugged, ‘whether they get to see him is another matter.’

Colonel Emilio nervously adjusted his empty sword belt. He was wearing full dress, like every other officer in the room. But minus his sabre. Weapons were not to be carried in the presence of the Cardinal, not even ceremonial ones. Those petitioners without uniform wore long dark soutanes or simple cassocks, belted at the waist with the colour of their order. And those without church dress wore dark suits, with white shirts or blouses.

Only Axl was dressed in basic peon uniform of black chinos and white T-shirt, and he was so obviously a prisoner that no one expected anything better.

‘Stand over there,’ ordered a fat usher, his expression so bored it had to have been surgically enhanced. Colonel Emilio was about to protest but never got the chance. ‘Over there,’ repeated the usher and was gone. Waddling past a crowded bench, the man managed to ignore every upturned and enquiring face, disappearing through a small wooden door which banged shut behind him.

Five, maybe six, hundred people waited in that room, with maybe twice as many in the queue outside. Almost all were men, with only a handful of women to leaven the mix. That was how Mexican politics still worked; to the despair of Mexico’s northern neighbour and the Emperor herself.

And how many waiting in that sweltering crowd would the Cardinal actually see in one day? Ten, fifteen… ? Axl didn’t know, but he wouldn’t have been remotely surprised if the Cardinal was somewhere else altogether, like Paris or Rome.

Or in the capital having a discreet meeting with the new emperor. And if not then maybe in New York talking to the UN about the ‘fugee lifts to Samsara. Rumour in the barrio said the Cardinal was irritated by the number of Mexicans approaching the Red Cross to claim ‘fugee status. And if the word had met the street, then it was pounding the beat because the Cardinal wanted it there. That was how Declan Begley worked.

‘Would you emigrate to Samsara?’ Axl suddenly asked the Colonel, who went bug-eyed. A woman sat behind sniggered, but most of those around them looked away. Leaving Mexico was disloyal. Even prisoners should know that.

‘Clean air,’ said Axl lightly. ‘Better climate.’ He glanced slowly round the crowded chamber and stopped at the carved door he knew led through to the Cardinal’s study. ‘Better class of criminal...'

A captain of police standing by the wall stepped forward, noticed he was outranked by Colonel Emilio and stepped smartly back. But he didn’t lower his gaze and when he spoke it was direct to the Colonel’s prisoner.

‘Keep your mouth shut.’

‘Or what… ?’ Axl asked. ‘You’ll have me condemned to death?’ His laugh was abrupt, at odds with the polite irony in his voice. Enough at odds to make the fat woman beside them suddenly stand up and walk away.

‘Axl O’Higgins Borja...'

The voice from the flat speaker set into the far wall was soft, almost reedy, with the faintest Fall’s Road accent. And of all the waiting petitioners, only Axl recognised it and he wasn’t even really petitioning. Unless he was meant to count asking for his life, which he didn’t. As far as Axl was concerned he was owed that, whether the Cardinal intended to pay up or not.

Heads were being raised around the waiting room, as every petitioner glanced frantically round to see who’d been called. Even the hot chocolate sellers who ambled with little silver trolleys from bench to crowded bench stopped their endless round of fleecing the bored, weary and upset.

Jaw clenched against his own embarrassment, the Colonel yanked Axl forward and began to push his way down an aisle, treading on the feet of those who didn’t move their boots fast enough. Axl tagged along behind him, staring back at anyone who looked at him. Raybans would have helped his defiance, but the only person allowed to wear shades when the Cardinal was around was the Cardinal himself, and his were tiny pebble glasses that only just kept the sunlight from his eyes.

‘Which one of you is Axl O’Higgins Borja?’ The major-domo’s smile was sympathetic, but he didn’t look at the prisoner.

Axl raised his chin. ‘That’s me.’

‘Okay. In you go…’

The Colonel stepped forward and the small man slid neatly in front of him, blocking the door. ‘Borja goes in,’ he said shortly.

‘But the man’s my prisoner ...'

Tiny slit pupils narrowed, memorising the Colonel’s face. ‘Whose prisoner?’ The small man had that low gravel growl so popular back when vampyres were in fashion. Only with him, you got the feeling it was for real.

‘I am to escort the prisoner,’ the Colonel said, sounding suddenly formal.

‘And you’ve done so,’ said a soft voice from behind the door. ‘Now go and buy some of that God-awful chocolate and wait, in case I need you further ...'

He wouldn’t, of course. He just wanted to make Colonel Emilio wait. The Cardinal didn’t like the Colonel, not least because he was Maximillia’s spy. Other politicians might try to keep spies out of their offices but not Cardinal Santo Ducque. He held his friends close and his enemies closer still, where he could keep a jaundiced eye on them.

Saluting smartly, the Colonel turned on his heel. There wasn’t space to sit so the cavalry officer pushed his way towards a huge window that overlooked lush terraces and the sea beyond.

‘Right,’ said the major domo to Axl, ‘in you go.’ He stepped back and as Axl slouched forward the small man gave an irritated hiss, pointedly straightening his own back and squaring his shoulders. Axl immediately followed suit and the major-domo gave a nod so slight Axl might have imagined it.

‘Mother of God. Stop sympathising with the fool,’ said the voice inside the door, ‘and send him in. I don’t have all day to waste.’

‘No, Your Excellency,’ said the major-domo. ‘Of course not.’

There was a sour joke that had done the rounds a few months back about the Cardinal.

The emperor, her uncle and the Cardinal land in the United States on their first visit. The first thing Max sees is a black goat. ‘Look,’ exclaims the emperor excitedly, ‘all the goats in America are black.’

‘No,’ responds her uncle cuttingly, ‘in the US some goats are black.’

The Cardinal sighs. ‘All we can truly say,’ he says firmly, ‘is that in the US there exists at least one field, containing at least one goat, at least one side of which is black. Now that’s solved, let’s eat it. . .’

What put that into Axl’s head he didn’t know. Simple fear, maybe. Or perhaps it was the handwritten list on the black glass desk in front of the Cardinal that the man was busy annotating with an old-fashioned pen. The kind that ran on ink. The list on the desk could be anything, Axl knew that. Imports and exports, revenues collected, coming engagements ... A note of those recently condemned to death.

The old man tugged once at his small pointed beard but said nothing, did nothing, merely kept amending the list in front of him. And then he started over again… Just when Axl was beginning to think the Cardinal really had forgotten he was there, the old man spoke without looking up, his voice dark as treacle.

‘I won’t even begin to ask where you’ve been.’

Since when? Not since the second series of WarChild got bounced off the networks after a three-year run through the jungles of South America. The Cardinal knew all about that. And not since Axl had ripped a suit, because that alone wasn’t enough to bounce him out of the Cardinal’s employ. Besides, that occasion had worked out well, for both of them.