The message cart came into view round the final bend in the river road. Russell’s ge-eagle had seen it five miles out, and he was right; Gorlar was riding it hard. The horse was flecked with foam, wild-eyed and galloping along as if they were being chased by wild haxhounds.

Gorlar steered it off the road’s newly compacted stone surface and slowed down as the horse reached the livery’s wide gates. The neat cart was Nigel’s design, its narrow bodywork made out of a drosilk-reinforced resin to combine strength and lightness, forming little more than a frame with a seating sling above the axle. People had been amazed by how fast the thing could travel between Adeone and Erond, especially now the road had been relaid. They’d concluded two years back that river travel, which was the usual way of getting between the two towns, was too slow for anything urgent, so Nigel through his expanding commercial concerns had lobbied and used some mild domination on local councillors.

Now the road was level and sound, with fresh or repaired bridges offering a clean route. They’d positioned new stables in towns at reasonable intervals, so the message carts could change horses.

‘The buggy express’, Nigel called it.

‘Ma’am,’ Gorlar said as he jumped down. He was out of breath, with an exuberant look on his face at the frantic charge from Erond. Hands rummaged round in the leather satchel and produced the pale-blue envelope. ‘It left Varlan yesterday,’ he said proudly.

‘Thank you.’ Kysandra took the letter from him. The big wax seal on the back was intact. Not that it was remotely important.

‘Imagine that,’ Gorlar said to Russell. ‘A letter from the capital here in less than two days.’

‘Yeah. Imagine,’ Russell said with a complete lack of interest.

‘Crud!’ Kysandra exclaimed, frozen in the act of opening the envelope. The letter and whatever Coulan had written was irrelevant. The paper contained a small biochip memory which her u-shadow had accessed. Coulan’s message was very clear. The political situation was destabilizing; they’d been forced to bring the date forward.

‘What—’ Russell began.

Kysandra held her hand up, closing her eyes to think. They were going to initiate phase one when the Captain inaugurated the new National Council, and the letter had taken nearly two days to reach her. That barely left a day until the cells hit Varlan’s water supplies. A day! And only at lunch she’d been thinking they still had several weeks left. There were few options now, but she had to choose. Time was slipping away fast, and Nigel was back at the farm, hours away.

Coulan needs confirmation that we’re in position and ready to retrieve the weapons from beneath the palace. So . . .

‘Right,’ she snapped. ‘Gorlar, get yourself a fresh horse: you’re riding to Blair Farm with a letter for Nigel. Russell, same for you. I need you to be on the eight-thirty express to Varlan.’

Russell pulled a face. ‘That’s tight.’

‘I know, so let’s move it.’

‘You haven’t even opened the letter,’ Gorlar protested. He was just one of their normal employees. Devoted to Nigel but not dominated, which left him free to question.

‘I know the handwriting,’ she said immediately. ‘It’s from an old friend, so it can only be one thing, I’m afraid. Important news. So I need you to ride as fast as you can for me. Nigel must get my letter this afternoon.’

‘Right-o, ma’am. You can rely on me.’ He almost saluted.

•

Kysandra had plenty of time to get changed out of the dress and into some practical jeans with a white blouse under a suede jacket, and some sturdy boots, all worn beneath a decent ankle-length coat of thin leather. Her small backpack had a few additional clothes, along with her basic kit of Commonwealth gadgets. She felt quite the adventurous traveller again.

Four hours after she’d dispatched Gorlar to the farm, she heard it clattering along the road. Now this should be interesting, she thought as she walked out of the livery.

Madeline was in the livery’s yard with her, also in travelling clothes, a happy grin spreading over her face. ‘He’s riding it.’

‘I know. Nothing else on this world makes that racket.’

They faced the road to the farm, which thanks to the ancient cedars on both sides was practically a green tunnel. The mechanical clanking and brief roars of high-pressure steam echoed off the trunks and branches. Kysandra’s ex-sight found him just before he came into view. Her grin rose to match the one on Madeline’s face.

Nigel was driving the steam car at about eighty kilometres an hour, with Fergus sitting in the front passenger seat. Smoke from the fire tube boiler was shooting out of the back like a grey flame before swirling away in its wake. The wheels with their fat low-pressure tyres were a blur, giving the suspension a hefty workout. Two horses trotting sedately down the road were immediately spooked, and bolted through the line of cedars. Carts and wagons swerved out of the way. Kysandra could feel a great deal of ex-sight swelling out from the town to scan the extraordinary vehicle.

It was beautiful to behold. She’d spent hours in the workshop over the last five months, helping him with the early models. The work was nothing a mod-dwarf couldn’t do, screwing parts together, hammering, even painting the bodywork, but she so wanted to be a part of it. The steam car was probably the most advanced piece of machinery to have been built on Bienvenido for a thousand years. They’d constructed two prototypes, testing the whole boiler system, then made three working models.

‘Dead-end technology,’ Nigel had called them. ‘Just like airships and paddle steamers. But romantics never give up on them. You can always find enthusiasts building them somewhere in the Commonwealth. They’re really quite evocative, like something from an alternative history.’

She was almost offended by him calling the splendid car a dead end. Driving it round the farm compound had been exhilarating. It had two seats in the front and three in the back, all of which could be covered by a retractable canvas hood if it started to rain.

The car rolled into the livery yard, startling the horses in their stables. Its weight dug deep ruts in the damp ground as it came to a halt. Nigel hurried out, long brown coat swirling round his legs, pushing his goggles up onto his forehead to reveal clean circles of skin round his eyes; the rest of his face was caked in soot and hot oily grime spat out by the engine. ‘Right, what’s happened?’

‘Message from Coulan,’ she told him. ‘The radicals are getting restless. They’ve had to bring the date forwards.’

‘When?’

‘Phase one is planned to start tomorrow.’

‘Hell. That doesn’t give us any time.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ve sent Russell on the express.’

‘Which express?’

‘The eight-thirty to Varlan. It’ll get into the city early tomorrow morning.’

Nigel looked at her for a long moment. ‘Okay. And what is Russell going to do when he arrives?’

‘He’s carrying a letter for Coulan—’

‘Yes! Saying what?’

She frowned at him. ‘Confirming we’ll be there, and to activate the external groups to assist phase two. Russell will also tell Akstan to get everything ready for us in Dios, and then he’ll contact our station chief in Willesden to make sure the Southern City Line is protected.’

Nigel’s shell attenuated slightly, allowing her to sense the lofty amusement colouring his thoughts – along with a steely thread of pride. ‘You said yes, then?’

‘What?’

He put his hands on her shoulder, giving her a steady look. ‘You said yes? You told Coulan to go ahead with the revolution?’

‘Well, obviously. Russell absolutely had to make the eight-thirty express. I didn’t have any time to consult with you. Why?’

‘You realize there’s no turning back now? You’ve fired the starting pistol – a shot that will be heard all over Bienvenido. Actually, all over the galaxy.’