Awareness came, departed, and returned. Hazy shapes moved, and voices drifted in and out of cognition. Slowly Burton realised that the cold, flat surface pressing against the side of his face was a flagstone. Blurs coalesced and gained edges. He saw a barred gate.

He was back inside his cell, with the five coffins, but without Swinburne. Instead, he found Thomas Honesty sprawled beside him.

The explorer stifled a groan, rolled over, and sat up. The cell swayed around him. He held his head in his hands and fought the urge to vomit.

I’m tired. So bloody tired. How much more of this madness can I take?

As much as is necessary to get the job done.

Then Damascus.

Except he didn’t want Damascus any more.

He gritted his teeth, raised his head, and looked at Honesty. The groundsman’s eyes were open but glazed, his face slack.

Burton reached out, shook him by the shoulder, and croaked, “How are you feeling, old chap?”

“Where am I?” Honesty slurred.

“That’s a long story. What do you remember?”

The man rubbed his eyes. “Nothing. Saw you murder John Judge. Nightmares. Have I—have I been in the Cauldron? Why do I think that? I recall—no—I don’t know. By God, I feel weak.”

Burton got to his feet. His head was aching abominably and his lower left molars felt loose. Half-dried blood caked his moustache, lips, and the left side of his face. His arm was throbbing.

He looked through the gate. Crowley’s people were clearing the central passage, moving the machines and equipment into the side corridors. The twisted, multi-limbed carcass of Gregory Hare lay where it had fallen, with blood pooled around it. The Trans-Temporal Man was sitting cross-legged on a table and appeared to be meditating.

A voice hissed from the cell to the right. “Sir Richard, are you with us?”

“Is that you, Krishnamurthy?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, sir—that didn’t quite go to plan.”

“My fault. I shouldn’t have got caught in the first place. Is Algy with you?”

“No, just Bhatti.”

Swinburne’s voice came from the left. “I’m here. What shall we do?”

“Watch and wait.”

Sister Raghavendra, perhaps hearing the whispering, looked up and saw that Burton had revived. She walked over and checked the padlock. “If you attempt to escape again, Sir Richard, you’ll be shot in the kneecaps. The Master wants you alive but he has no reservations about causing you immense pain. Tomorrow you will serve not a primitive government, but a visionary leader.”

“A despot!” Burton snorted.

She winked at him. “Benign. All those who support him will be artificially advanced to a new stage of physical and mental development.”

“And those who oppose?” he asked, puzzled by the wink.

“They will provide manual labour or die.” Raghavendra leaned closer to the bars and, in barely audible tones, said, “I’m free of him but he doesn’t realise it. Stand ready, Richard. I’ll do what I can.” Aloud, she added, “Do not cause further disruption. If you attempt anything, your friends will be killed in front of you.”

“What’s he doing?” Burton mouthed, nodding his head in Crowley’s direction.

“He’s settling into his new form. Its brain has been designed to accentuate his mediumistic connection with his alternate selves but it will take him time to learn how to use it. I have to leave you now, else I’ll rouse suspicion.”

She moved away.

Burton watched her go then turned back to Honesty and squatted beside him, peering into his eyes. “You were possessed, Mr. Honesty. I shall try to explain.”

For half an hour, the explorer spoke quietly and rapidly, describing the nosferatu and how, like a parasite, it had lodged in John Judge before transplanting itself into Honesty. He told how Honesty had been used to create strigoi morti in the East End, their presence causing panic, and how that panic had been channelled into rioting by the Enochians’ seditious anti-German campaigning.

“Un-dead,” Honesty mumbled. “And me? Oh, God! Am I strigoi morti?”

“I don’t think so. Perdurabo can’t feed off the volonté of a body he inhabits and didn’t occupy you long enough to transform you into a nosferatu, but when we’re through with all this, we’ll have Monsieur Levi examine you to make sure.”

Burton pointed past the bars of the gate at Crowley’s new form. “Our enemy has his own flesh now,” he said. “There’s no other presence inside it to resist him the way you did, which means he can move around in daylight as easily as any of us. He’s intent on attacking the British and Germanic governments when they gather in Green Park tomorrow morning.”

“Attack how?”

“I don’t know. We’ll have to—”

A low whistle from Krishnamurthy interrupted him. He moved to the corner of the cell and murmured, “What is it?”

“I was listening. I know how he intends to do it.”

“Tell me.”

“For half the length of the River Effra, where the new sewer tunnel encloses it, there’s a wide brick shelf running alongside the water. For the rest of the way—the upper reaches—the shelf narrows and is of hard clay, but between those two stretches there’s a short section where the clay has been cut away and shaped ready for the next section of brickwork. The workmen have dug a large niche into the wall there for storing their tools and materials. Bhatti and I encountered two Enochians by it. We overpowered them and found they’d been guarding a wheeled trolley on which rested a big barrel-shaped affair. We took a closer look. I’m certain it was a bomb, Sir Richard—a bloody huge one. If Crowley drops it on Green Park, it’ll leave nothing but an enormous crater.”

Burton was silent as he digested this. Then, “Drop it how? He’ll never get past the Orpheus. It would take—” He stopped. His eyes widened. “Bismillah!”

“Sir?”

“He’s going to hijack the Sagittarius!”

“No one knows the secret of the Sisterhood of Noble Benevolence. They work with the diseased but never fall sick. They move among criminals but never fall victim. They surround themselves with sinners but never fall from Grace. These women appear blessed. Good fortune favours them. Some say they emanate some manner of mediumistic defence. Others say that God protects them. All I know is that I wish I was one of them, and I would have given anything to have had them with me during the dark days of the Crimean War.”

—NURSE FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE

Hours passed. The prisoners alternated between short naps and watching as Crowley’s people tended to their wounds, loaded their weapons, packed away equipment, and prepared to move.

Swinburne said to Burton, “How can Crowley possibly take the Sagittarius?”

“You’re forgetting,” Burton replied, “even if Detective Inspector Slaughter’s raid on the Enochians’ clubhouse has succeeded, there were only twenty or so members in it, which—if Trounce got his figures right—leaves well over a hundred unaccounted for.”

“Ah, a sizeable raiding party.”

“Exactly, and the airfield isn’t expecting an attack. With Crowley’s ability to quash gunfire, they could wrest control of the ship before anyone realises what’s happening.” Burton rubbed his aching arm. “The Orpheus has been fitted with weapons but it wouldn’t stand a chance against that battleship.”

“Confound it!” the poet cursed. “We have to get out of here!”

“We still have hope,” Burton noted.

“In what form?” came the dubious reply.

“Sadhvi Raghavendra.”

However, four more hours went by before Burton was able to speak to the Sister of Noble Benevolence. She had slept for a period before reappearing at the far end of the passage, only to then vanish into the tunnel that led to the Effra. After an agonising wait, he saw her return to the catacomb. Many more minutes dragged by before she moved close enough for him to attract her attention.