‘Uracus,’ Javier murmured admiringly as Bethaneve constantly shuffled the cell members about, interpreted images, anticipated moves. ‘You own this city.’

She smiled, eyes still tight shut.

Coulan slipped into the Reynolds Hotel, emerging from a side door. A cell member, one of Bethaneve’s elites, was lounging casually at the end of the alley. The last cab dropped him off along Breamer Street, where there were a lot of people milling round at the end, shuffling slowly forwards towards the Colbal. He merged into them.

‘Only one reason for him to be there,’ Bethaneve said in satisfaction.

‘Cabby,’ Javier called loudly. ‘Quayside, and fast.’

*

For seventeen years Philious Brandt had been Captain of Bienvenido; a proud lineage, defending the world, maintaining order, regulating its economy, upholding the law, keeping politicians in line. The world belonged to him. And now it didn’t.

It had been a day of sheer terror for him and his family. One moment he’d been ’pathing frantically with Trevene and the First Speaker and the captain of the Palace Guard; the next moment gunshots had rippled around the palace. A mob had appeared, and some kind of well-organized and trained military force had stormed the walls and railings. Hidden gunmen had shot the Palace Guard. Staff panicked – some running for freedom, a heartening number rushing to the private apartments to shelter and protect the family.

Philious had ’pathed and ’pathed for help: the Marines, the sheriffs, the regiment officers stationed in Varlan. But they too were under siege. And one by one their minds vanished from his perception.

Then came the gunfire in the palace corridors themselves. Twice he heard explosions, the screams of the dying. Souls of dead guards drifted through the innermost apartments, apologetic as they drifted up, starting their long flight towards Giu.

The family had retreated to the central drawing room, with its crystal chandeliers and priceless furniture and polished floor, with tall windows looking out over the manicured gardens. Seven of his children were huddled round him (Dionene was out somewhere, thank Giu, but he had a pretty good idea of Aothori’s fate: his eldest son wasn’t popular at the best of times), the younger ones crying, the older two brittlely defiant. Little granddaughter asleep, cradled in her petrified mother’s arms. His wife stood beside him, stiff backed, showing courage for the children, her shell strong, but he knew the fear in her mind. Courtiers formed a protective picket around them, trying not to let their dread bloom.

Then the ’path had come. Coulan, offering terms of surrender. The life of everyone in the palace in exchange for taking the family into custody.

Philious agreed; he knew all about Coulan from Trevene’s long briefings on Slvasta and his cronies. Coulan was the level-headed one. Even so, he half-expected to be shot as soon as the doors opened; the horror of the Lanuux and Alfreed was still fresh in his mind. But Coulan kept his word, and his militia were efficient and disciplined.

They were escorted down to a covered wagon and fuzzed as they were driven through the streets. The ride went on for a long time, but it finished at a small hotel in the Nalani borough. There they waited, guarded by Coulan’s militia, while the mobs fought the authorities for control of the city.

Something about the militia members was eerily wrong. They wouldn’t speak to the family, they kept a perfect guard on their prisoners, they didn’t misbehave, nor threaten. The hotel was kept under an impervious teekay shell that must have been difficult to maintain, but it never wavered in all the time they were imprisoned. Philious half-suspected they were Fallers.

All they could do was wait. He forbade the children to discuss what their fate might be, but he knew speculation was gnawing at their minds. They might not be able to ’path through the militia’s shell, but the sounds of fighting were clear enough, and the upper rooms gave them a glimpse out over the rooftops, where smoke was visible across the city.

Philious endured as best he could, never quite understanding how this had come to pass.

Then on the third day of captivity, a man called Yannrith appeared and ordered Philious to accompany him.

‘No!’ his wife cried. ‘They’ll kill you, they’re animals, worse than Fallers! Don’t go.’

‘It’s not us who are the animals,’ Yannrith spat back at her. ‘I saw what’s inside the Research Institute. So did Aothori, a real close-up look.’

‘Bastard! Murdering bastard.’

Philious held up his hand, anxious not to annoy this imposing man. ‘I’ll go.’ He kissed his wife, very aware it was probably the last time he’d ever see her. ‘You’re not to worry. Be brave, for the children.’

There was an odd moment at the hotel’s entrance. Two militiamen stood guard there, staring blankly ahead.

‘Stand aside,’ Yannrith ordered.

They didn’t move.

‘By order of the People’s Interim Congress, which is this world’s legitimate government, you will stand aside so I may conduct our prime minister’s authorized business.’

It took a long moment, but the guards stepped aside. There were three cabs outside with armed comrades riding in them. Yannrith led Philious into the middle one, and fuzzed it heavily. Philious eyed the man, who was obviously regiment trained, and wondered again what had turned people like this against him.

‘I’m curious,’ Philious said. ‘What exactly have you done to those poor militia people? I thought they might be Fallers at first, but they’re not, are they?’

‘Shut up,’ Yannrith said.

‘Threads perhaps, in their brains?’

‘Last time: shut the crud up.’

Philious smiled at his small victory. He wasn’t entirely surprised when after forty minutes of travelling they arrived back at the palace. But when they did finally step out into the inner courtyard and he sent his ex-sight probing round, he was immediately demoralized by what he perceived. ‘Where is everything?’ he demanded. ‘What have you done with all— Oh, no! No!’

‘We thought we’d start the redistribution of wealth from the top down,’ Yannrith replied smugly.

‘My wife is right – you are crudding animals. And pathetic, petty-minded ones at that.’ Nonetheless he was worried about what the militia people had found below the palace; that would be far worse than the institute’s secrets. They won’t understand any of it, he told himself. Not that it matters any more.

A tall slender woman was waiting beside the door into the private residence. Her shell was as hard as any Philious had ever encountered. She had a mod-bird perched on her arm, and she was feeding it a chunk of meat. He blinked. The meat had looked suspiciously like a human finger.

As he approached, she sent the mod-bird off into the sky. ‘Welcome home, Captain,’ she said in mockery.

Philious didn’t respond. Nonetheless he couldn’t help his growing worry as Yannrith and the woman escorted him down the stone stairs into the vaults. The regiment man seemed to know exactly where he was going.

Philious’s final surprise was the man waiting for him in the ship’s armoury cellar. His eyes narrowed at the empty jacket arm pinned across his chest. ‘Captain Slvasta! Trevene warned me you were trouble.’

‘He was right.’

‘Are you going to kill me now?’

‘No. Do you know why?’

‘Because that would prove to the whole of Bienvenido that you’re naught but a savage, and your pitiful revolution is a sham.’

‘No. It’s because I need to know something, and you might have the answer. That is your only value right now.’

‘Go directly to Uracus. Even if I knew where Dionene was, I would willingly take Guidance to Giu before I told you.’

‘That’s not why you’re here.’

‘Then what . . .?’

Slvasta pointed his finger at the hulking mass of the Vermillion’s armoury behind him. ‘What was in there?’