"Jack Aviso. My wife is Carol. Listen..." Jack spread his hands. "There's been some sort of mistake. If you let me speak to someone in charge, I'm sure I can sort this out."

"Carol Aviso?"

"That's right."

The older man looked back up at the Complaint Wheel. His young companion said, "I'm afraid you're mistaken, Mr Adams. We haven't taken anyone by that name from the wheel."

"Yes you did," Jack said. "I saw you."

"No," he said. "You didn't."

Now the elder of the two suits scrutinised Jack. "Shouldn't you be at work, Mr Adams?"

"Aviso. My name is Aviso."

The older man took a step forward. "I think we'd better escort you back to work."

Jack stepped back. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Be reasonable, Mr Adams," said the younger of the two. "My name," Jack said, "is not Adams."

The older man grinned. He reached inside his jacket and withdrew a blackjack. "Just do me a favour," he said.

Jack eyed the weapon. "What?"

"Don't run."

Jack ran. He raced back the way he had come, past the queue outside the administration building, skidding round the corner and pounding down the stairs leading to the horse and carriage rank. Not once did he look behind him. When he reached the first of the carriages, he forced his way to the front of the line of waiting pa.s.sengers, leapt up into the empty seat, and screamed at the driver to go. And only then did he realise that the Reclamation Men were nowhere to be seen.

The late afternoon sunlight slanted into Lower Cog town, drawing people out of the houses and tenement blocks and into the streams of commerce surrounding the water's edge. Fishermen crowded the pontoons along the banks of the Sill. Stallholders roasted sardines over charcoal in iron kutas or sold gold and silver, cloth, spices, leather and carved wooden G.o.d figurines brought from Alipo, Desulore and beyond. A group of priests from the Temple of Rys sat under the shade of a fig tree and read from their texts, while old men stood listening nearby and young children ran around shrieking and hurling fruit into the water. The air smelled of spices and river mud.

Jack kept his head low as the carriage crossed the Port Ellen Bridge and rattled into the avenues of Cog Island, skirting the old market square with its pastel hotel facades and its bridal lace cathedral. Henry Sill himself lived in the penthouse suite of the finest hotel of them all, sharing the entire building with n.o.body but a few trusted servants, and-it was rumoured-the desiccated corpses of his parents.

The driver left the island via Theatre Bridge, and zigzagged up the lanes into Highcliffe. Carols family had deep roots here. Her grandfather, Hans, had been a successful playwright in his time, her grandmother, Julia, a respected actress. In twenty years they had ama.s.sed the fortune Carol's father would subsequently squander producing his lavish and wildly unpopular theatrical polemics. Their former town house on Gibbald Street now belonged to Mr Sill's bank, while Jack and his wife lived in an airy white-washed old apartment on Oldrum Place that she had inherited from her twitchy, one-armed aunt.

Jack considered himself lucky. Had they not owned their home outright, their combined wages would have confined them to Port Sellen or one of the other fish-roasting districts. Here, at least, he thought, as the driver reined in outside the front door of Jack's building, one has the s.p.a.ce and grandeur in which to unwind.

A coil of marble steps took him up to the third floor landing. But when he tried his key in his own apartment's door, the lock wouldn't turn. He struggled with it for a while before giving up and beating his handkerchief upon the wood. "Carol?" he called. "Are you there? It's me."

A moment later, he heard-to his great relief-the sound of footsteps inside the apartment. The lock clicked, and the door opened.

"You won't believe-"

Jack stopped. Standing there, inside his apartment, was a heavyset man wearing a dressing gown. His soiled white nightshirt constrained an ample paunch that ballooned out over the outer garment's cord. His jaw was unshaven, his long brown hair all knotted and tussled, and his eyes still bleary from sleep.

Jack said, "Who are you?"

The stranger's eyes focused on him, and his jaw moved back and forwards in a somewhat bovine manner. A frown creased his brow. "What do you want?" he said.

"What are you doing in my apartment? Where's my wife?"

The intruder frowned at Jack a moment longer, and then a light of comprehension seemed to come into his eyes. "Are you him?" he said.

"Who?"

The intruder's expression locked up again. "I don't have anything to say to you. You're not supposed to be here."

"Where's Carol?"

He went to close the door, but Jack pushed against it.

The pair of them struggled. "I bought this place fair and square," the intruder said. "Fair and square."

"Where is my wife?"

"I don't know!" With one final colossal heave, he managed to slam the door in Jack's face.

Jack beat his fist against the wood to no avail. Using his handkerchief, he pushed the letterbox open and peered in to see that huge dressing gown hurrying away down the hall. The narrow s.p.a.ce still contained the bookcase Carol had painted with daisies, and the rug they'd purchased at the Lammerday market last year. The sight of these things only renewed his frustration. He raised his fist, and was about to hammer on the door again, when he heard a voice from behind.

"We told you not to run, Mr Adams."

Jack turned to see the same two men in pudding bowl hats he'd encountered earlier, now standing a short distance down the stairway. They climbed the remaining steps to join him on the landing.

The younger of the two smiled in a condescending manner. "I am Mr Younger," he said, then gestured towards his companion. "And this is Mr Elder. He doesn't like to run after people."

"Too old for it," Elder said.

"Where is she?" Jack asked.

Younger shrugged. "That's not for me to say, Mr Adams."

"My name is Aviso."

Younger shook his head. "Not any longer, Mr Adams." He reached inside his suit pocket, took out a folded sheet of paper, and handed it to Jack. "The Henry Sill Banking Corporation has been forced to alter your circ.u.mstances in order to reclaim debts owed to them."

"What debts?"

"The doc.u.ment in your possession is a sale receipt," Younger said. "It pertains to your property at 113 Skiptag Road, Knuckletown."

Jack scanned the doc.u.ment. He could see that it did, indeed, relate to a sale by auction-this very afternoon-of someone else's house, but he couldn't have cared less. "This isn't mine," he said. "I've never owned property in Knuckletown. I don't even know where Skiptag Road is."

"That isn't significant," Younger said. "What is significant is that we have been authorised to reclaim the outstanding balance." He peered over the top of the paper in Jack's hand. "From a Mr Cotton Adams of-"

"I told you, my name is not-"

Elder broke in, his voice booming: "Your name is Adams. You live at-lived at-113 Skiptag Road, Knuckletown, and you owe us"-he glanced at the palm of his hand-"11,024 ducats and change." He leaned closer, until his nostrils almost touched Jack's cheek. "And you will settle this account one way or another."

Jack looked from Younger to Elder. His heart was fluttering in his chest, and now all the strength had drained from his legs. If he managed to shove the two men aside, would he even be able to run down the stairs and get away? And to what end? It wouldn't help him locate Carol. "Please," he said, "just take me to my wife. We'll work something out. I'll do whatever you ask."

The two Reclamation Men exchanged a glance. Some unspoken communication seemed to pa.s.s between them. Finally, Younger said, "I'm afraid we can't do that."

Elder grinned. "Mr Adams never married."

His hand seized Jack's arm.

Jack lashed out instinctively, overcome with feelings of fear and revulsion. He tried desperately to shake the Reclamation man off, but throughout their tussle Elder maintained an unbreakable grip on his jacket sleeve. His fear became terror. Howling, he struck out blindly with his other fist and punched the Reclamation man in the face. And then his shoe slipped on the marble floor. He stumbled sideways; his shoulder slammed into the wall. Elder must have lost his hold on him because suddenly Jack was free. He ran.

He clattered down the stairs, deaf to the sound of everything but his own thumping blood and heaving lungs. One landing, two landings, and then he reached the front door and burst through it and took off, the soles of his shoes slapping the cobbled road with a sound like applause.

The light spilling from Marley's living room window illuminated a skewed tombstone of pavement. Jack watched the street from the shadows of an alleyway opposite. He was still shaking. All seemed quiet. Even here, two streets back from the sh.o.r.e, he could smell the Sill River mud. He had spied a dark shape-what he imagined to be a figure, crouching under a shop canopy further down the road-but it hadn't moved an inch in all the time he'd waited here.

Just a shadow.

He had heard voices, too-shouts and barks of laughter coming from a nearby street, but they'd moved away in the direction of the harbour.

Just drunks.

Jack shoved his hands in his pockets, crossed the street, and rang Marley's bell.

He waited, listening for that sudden cry, the pounding of boots on the road behind him. But nothing happened.

Marley opened the door. "Jack?"

"Can I come in?"

Marley hesitated. He glanced up and down the street. "What are you doing here?"

"I don't know where else to go."

The old timer cast his eyes up and down the street once more, then beckoned Jack inside.

"You think the same thing happened to Carol?"

Marley nodded. "She'll have a new name, a new job, and new lodgings by now."

They had taken refuge in two of the three padded chairs before the old timer's fire. He'd closed the drapes and turned the oil lamp down. The room smelled of horsehair furniture and old carpet, mingled with a bitter hint of tea. A gla.s.s-domed clock on the mantle ticked away the moments while its silvery innards span like the vanes of an anemometer. Jack sat on his handkerchief and warmed his hands on his mug while he listened.

"They call it a Citizen Record Adjustment," Marley went on. "Whenever a debtor dies or absconds, and Reclamation can't recover enough from his a.s.sets, the bank has no legal right to transfer his debt on to someone else. However, under certain circ.u.mstances they do have the right to amend the citizen records and the land registry up at Cavendish Hall-typically in cases of suspected fraud. The bank will have claimed that this Mr Adams tried to escape his debts by a.s.suming a new ident.i.ty." He pointed at Jack. "They then provide a summary of their investigations to the court-investigations which are never undertaken, I might add. One of Sill's lawmakers then rubber stamps the transferral orders, and Reclamation takes over."

Jack shook his head. "I didn't think the courts would ever stoop this low."

"Well, Henry Sill owns the courts," Marley said.

"But why hasn't there been an outcry?"

Marley sighed. "There was. You probably didn't hear about it. Few people ever do. Look, the problem you face is trying to prove that you are who you claim to be, when the records clearly state otherwise."

"We have friends, people who can vouch for us."

"The court won't hear them," Marley said. "In their eyes you're a fraudster. They're not going to listen to anyone you summon in order to support that fraud. This isn't about who is right, Jack. It's about profit."

"Why me? Why us?"

The old man shrugged. "It could just be bad luck. You and Carol owned your apartment outright, but you don't have any children to inherit it. When the bank adjusted your records, they effectively wiped you out. You don't legally exist. The property then goes to so-called public auction, which isn't really public because it's not announced. The bank buys it at a fraction of its worth and sells it on to someone else, usually one of their debtors." He took a sip of tea. "The whole thing can take less than an hour if the paperwork is already in place."

"They were selling my house this morning? While I sat in that wheel and worked for them?"

Marley nodded. "Looks that way. Did you do anything to aggravate them?"

Jack hesitated. "Carol resolved a complaint."

"A debt?"

"I don't know."

"Nothing else?"

Jack shook his head.

Marley leaned forward in his chair, picked up a log, and tossed it into the fire. "It's unusual for them to target their own employees," he said. "But it does happen. And once they cut you out of the fold, there's no getting back in again. Do you have any money tucked away?"

"About 400. It was hidden in the apartment."

"Then it's gone. I'm afraid this is going to be a difficult time for both of you."

Jack clutched his mug. "How do I find her, Marley?"

Marley drained his own drink and then put it down beside the fire. "People like Henry Sill possess a very deep and profound sense of ent.i.tlement, Jack. They don't see people like us as anything more than barriers to wealth that ought to be theirs by rights. And the more wealth they acc.u.mulate, the more that feeling is compounded. They are the G.o.ds' chosen few. Carol means absolutely nothing to him. But I'll tell you this...if you find her, and if you try to take her out of whatever hole he's put her in, he'll react with just as much fury and moral indignation as if you'd kidnapped one of his own children."

"He has children?" Jack said.

Marley shrugged.

Jack got up from his seat. "So where do I look for her? Where do I even begin?"

The old man gazed into the fire. "There are rumours," he said. "But you're not going to like it, Jack."

"What do you mean?"

"Reclamation puts most of the men to work in the mines," Marley said. "It's possible they put her there, too."

"But you don't think so?"

He picked up the poker and jabbed at the fire. "Carol is a bright and attractive young lady," he said. "And Henry Sill owns a number of establishments where feminine charms are in demand."

Jack felt his gut tighten.

"Down by the harbour," Marley said. "Or, so I'm told."