A hundred voices in the crowd echoed her.

This was her moment. She was like Myrmidia, Goddess of War, leading her armies against the Chaos Powers.

Of course, Ulrike, unknowing, was serving those same powers.

Yefimovich could capture a crowd with his words. As he had discovered, there was even a sexual charisma to his fire-breathing. He could pull people in and make them his, convert them to any cause. Tomorrow, he could enlist in the service of the Emperor and turn these people around, making them into ardent supporters of the aristocracy. His slogans came from dozens of mouths and seemed to have been born there.

But he would never have what Ulrike had.

She was truly the Angel of the Revolution. In her, the madness glowed like the fire of the gods. She believed with a passion in the cause and her belief was contagious.

Of course, she was beautiful. Of course, she was young. And, of course, she had suffered mightily during her rise from house-slave to angel. But there was something else, something inside. Some actors had it, too few leaders of men, and all gods.

There was not a man in the street who would not follow Ulrike to the death. Men as disparate as Kloszowski, Brustellin and Stieglitz were desperately, hopelessly in love with her. It was rumouredincorrectly, as it happenedthat she had enslaved electors, courtiers and even the Emperor with her looks.

She sang songs of the revolution and her high, clear voice could be heard above the chorus of the crowd.

She gently tossed a torch through a second-storey window and cheers went up as the flames grew.

The crowd were hailing her even as she set fire to their homes. There was nothing a woman like this could not do.

Yefimovich's inner fires burned. The face Respighi had found for him was not settling well. He would need another before morning. That was an annoying distraction. There were too many important matters to take care of tonight.

'They'll be trembling in their palaces,' said Kloszowski. 'I'll write poems about this night. They'll live when the House of the Second Wilhelm is forgotten.'

The cart stopped. There was a press of bodies in the street.

'What is it?' Yefimovich asked.

'Templars,' said one of the ringleaders, a Fish called Ged. 'Blocking the bridges, trying to keep us on this side.'

Yefimovich grinned. There could not be enough of them.

The fires had been started in the East End, the smallest of the three triangular wedges within the city walls that made up Altdorf. To one side was the wedge with the palace and the Temple and to the other the one with the docks and the University. His plan was to take the docks and swarm through the Street of a Hundred Taverns to link up with the radical students of the Ulli von Tasseninck School. He had anticipated, even counted on, the blockade of the bridge.

'Stieglitz,' he said. 'You're the tactician. We have the weight of numbers. Can we break through?'

The ex-mercenary fingered his stump. He grunted. 'Boats. We'll need boats. And archers.'

'Done,' Yefimovich said. 'Ged, get him what he needs.'

'And you,' asked Kloszowski, 'what will you do?'

'I shall get across and make sure that we can surprise the Templars from the rear. I'll take Ulrike. She can stir up some support on the docks.'

'It's a good plan,' said Brustellin. 'Similar to the tactics of Bloody Beatrice the Monumentally Cruel in her campaign against the Thirteen Rebel Electors.'

Ulrike wasn't hearing them. She was still singing, still exulting in her communion with the crowd. Yefimovich pulled her down and helped her off the wagon. People got out of her way, treating her respectfully. A young man threw himself at her feet and kissed the hem of her dress. She smiled and made of him a radical for life.

Yefimovich's gloves were itching. His inner fires were troublesome tonight.

'I have a boat ready,' he told Ulrike. 'It's disguised. We're meeting friends on the other side.'

Ulrike allowed herself to be led like a child through the cheering multitude. It was slow going, but she did not stop too often to dispense blessings or accept embraces.

Five or six city blocks were burning now and the fires were spreading through the close-packed tenements. There would be plenty of burned meat for Tzeentch.

Finally, Yefimovich got Ulrike to the boat. Respighi had killed its owners earlier and had it covered with canvas, moored unobtrusively at a near-derelict jetty. People flowed by, swarming towards the bridges, as he pulled away the covering and helped Ulrike step into the boat. She shouted encouragement at them, but they mainly couldn't hear. Amid the crowds, they were strangely alone.

'Get down low, we don't want you to be seen.'

She crouched, looking up at him with adoration. He took a satisfaction in that.

'Here,' he said, 'roll this up and use it as a cushion.

She took the cloak. 'It's green velvet,' she said.

'Come the revolution, we'll all wear green velvet.'

She laughed. 'Come the revolution'

He began to row. His gloves chafed as he worked the oars. He would have preferred to have someone else do this, but Respighi was busy at the Matthias II.

The oars slapped water and the fog was all around them. Beyond Ulrike, Yefimovich could still see the glow of the fires in the East End.

'Are we there yet?' Ulrike asked.

'Past the half-way mark.'

They were well away from any of the bridges. He could not see the fog lanterns on either bank.

This was about right.

He upped oars.

'What is it?'

Yefimovich took the hook from under his seat.

'The Beast, Ulrike'

'What? Where?'

He stood up. 'The Beast is about to kill you.'

He struck. Blood spurted and his shoulder felt wrenched.

The look of surprise stayed in her eyes, even with the hook sunk into her forehead.

He pulled the weapon free and began his Beast-work.

VII.

The Luitpoldstrasse Station was a bedlam. When Harald had been there in the afternoon, just after his fight with Joost Rademakers, there had been a loose crowd of annoyed people outside, hurling curses and pebbles at the front of the building. Now there was a tight crowd of furious people and they were hurling more than words and small stones. The front windows had been smashed out and flaming torches were being lobbed into the station, lying on the floor to be stamped out by one of the officers of the watch. Harald wished he had not taken the trouble to push through the crowd to get into the place, since the crowd seemed to have closed behind him like a trap. And, to cap his carelessness, he had brought the server with him and needlessly subjected her to danger. This was what the Second Siege of Praag must have been like.

'Damn it,' said Thommy Haldestaake, an old skull thumping copper, 'I'm going to break out the crossbows. That'll dispel the bastards.'

Thommy looked at Dickon, who was sitting glumly in the corner, having evidently given up on the whole thing. He had a steaming pot of tea on his table and was occasionally gulping down cups of the stuff.

The captain didn't stamp on Thommy's suggestion and so the officer picked the station keyring off Dickon's desk and walked towards the armoury, sorting out the keys to the double lock.

'No,' said Harald.

Thommy stopped and turned round to outstare him.

Harald stood up and rubbed his forehead, where he still wore one of the bruises Rademakers had given him, and let his hand fall to rest on the hilt of his Magnin knife.

When he was first appointed to the watch, he had been partnered with Thommy. The old officer had shown him all the ways that a cunning copper could augment his salary, by accepting the occasional crown or two and turning his back on the odd crime, or by insisting on a modest cut of the profits of any pimps, dicers, weird-root vendors or pickpockets who wanted to stay in business on his beat. Harald had gone straight to Captain Gebhardt, Dickon's predecessor, and set out his evidence against the bent watchman, and been surprised when Gebhardt simply turned him out of the office.

Thommy explained that he had forgotten to mention that, in addition to making a profit, it was traditional for a watchman to tithe a portion of his personal earnings and turn them over to the captain. Then Thommy had tried to beat Harald to a bloody pulp.

That had been a long time ago and Thommy had been younger. But it had been an even match and neither had emerged the clear victor. Thommy's cheekbones were still asymmetrical and Harald still had the trace of a knife-slash across his hip.

Thommy put the first key in the lock and turned it. The works creaked.

'Thommy, I said no.'

The old copper turned, growling, and came at him like a wrestler.

This time it would be decisive. But Harald didn't have time for a head-to-head. So it would also have to be quick.

Harald pulled out his Magnin, tossed it in the air, caught it by the blade and hurled it.

He was merciful and the hilt slammed into Thommy's skull, stopping him in his charge. He blundered forwards, but was already senseless. Harald picked up his knife. Thommy was in an instant deep sleep, stretched out on the rough wooden floor.

Dickon didn't complain. His tidy world of regular bribes and comfortable corruption was falling down around his helmet. He swallowed some tea.

A torch came through the window and Harald caught it in the air, returning it to the foggy night with a powerful throw.

He and Rosanna had come back to have Dickon put the word out that Wolf von Mecklenberg was wanted for questioning. But the captain was no longer able to take care of that simple job, or even interested in Harald's case. The Beast was taking a very low priority this evening.

'Dickon,' Harald said, 'this place will catch fire eventually. Get your men out.'

Dickon looked up, but didn't seem to know where he was.

Harald stood over him and slapped his face with his open hand. The captain mumbled.

Rosanna stood by him. She picked up Dickon's half-full mug and sniffed the tea sloshing in it.

'Weirdjuice,' she said.

Harald tipped Dickon's head back and looked into his eyes. The captain wasn't seeing anything real.

'You dolt,' he said, with feeling. Dickon smiled, drooling a little.

There was a crash and a wagonwheel smashed through the window, sweeping in most of the casement. There were burning rags tied to it. The whole thing had been soaked in lamp-oil.

Thommy moaned and tried to get up.

The keyring was dangling from the armoury door. Harald got it and tossed it to Rosanna.

'Find someone half-decent and have him open up the cells. There'll only be whores, drunks and vagrants down there. Get the prisoners out and tell any watchmen you find to leave as well.'

The scryer went without question.

Harald looked at Thommy and Dickon. It was up to him to make sure that neither of these deadweights got burned to death in a fire.

He was tempted to leave them, but resisted.

The fire was spreading from the burning wheel. Dickon's potted plants were aflame and the blaze was spreading to a cabinet stuffed with arrest scrolls. The Luitpoldstrasse Station was a lost ship and it was up to Harald to get everyone evacuated.

Outside, people were shouting, 'Death to the watch!'

Great.

Harald picked up Thommy in a fireman's hold. The old officer accepted too many bribes in pies and cream, and Harald's knees buckled. But he stayed upright.

'Death to the Emperor!'

In the narrow passage outside, there were drunks and watchmen scrapping with each other and trying to get out of the front doors. They were emerging into a hail of cobblestones and bits of wood.

A lieutenant of the Imperial Militia was trying to keep order, rattling off tactical instructions which everyone was ignoring.

'Down with green velvet!'

Two coppers were deliberately stripping their tabards and insignia, arguing over a civilian's cloak. That was one way to resign from the watch.

'Death to Sigmar!'

Harald butted his way through and dumped Thommy on the steps of the station, rolling him towards the crowd. A pebble stung against his hand and he heard the crowd call for his blood.