They descended at the first ladder, in just-controlled falls. Someone's forces were coming toward them. Billy and Dane skirted the battleground, past startled hedge wizards and junior prophets. The birds still harassed them, taking some saurian aggregate shape.

THINGS WERE MOST BLOODY DEFINITELY NOT TAKING THE DESIRED shape. She'd always known this plan was a bit of a long shot, but she'd gone along in good faith. It didn't seem stupid, it was worth a shot. Collingswood, still almost stamping from Marge's ridiculously expert evasion- shape. She'd always known this plan was a bit of a long shot, but she'd gone along in good faith. It didn't seem stupid, it was worth a shot. Collingswood, still almost stamping from Marge's ridiculously expert evasion-whose skills you freeloading, mate?-had not expected her and Vardy's pet endings to run away with them.

She yelled at the officer partnered with her to come on, yelled into her hidden mouthpiece for Baron's suggestions and orders, but whether it was static, magic or his anxiety there was only silence. If he was issuing commands she had no idea what they were. She did not know where to find him. The knowledge that a few other scattered police cells watched this unfolding did not comfort her. If she she was having a time of it ... was having a time of it ...

"Get your fucking arse here!" The young man tried to obey her. He wasn't SO19. No firearms. She'd complained at the time. What was he supposed to do, carry her bag? All he was really doing was staring at the warring sky.

"... Tattoo ... incon ... can't tell ... bloody ..." said Baron, or some Baron-aping airwave-dwelling thing. She'd dealt with that that before. before.

"Boss, where are are you?" She wouldn't say she agreed with Baron about it to his face, but she could bloody well have wished Vardy hadn't disappeared on this of all bloody nights, too. you?" She wouldn't say she agreed with Baron about it to his face, but she could bloody well have wished Vardy hadn't disappeared on this of all bloody nights, too.

"... too is here," he said. "Tattoo is here."

DANE HEADED FOR THE LABYRINTH OF L LONDON. HE AND B BILLY were shepherded, brilliantly, by the pigeons they thought they were evading. At a little square overlooked by unlit houses and guarded by leafless trees, men and women in municipal uniforms stepped out of the shade. They wore leaf-blowers, engines on their backs, hoses to gust fallen leaves from pavements. They aimed their contraptions like ludicrous guns. They sent whirling gusts of leaves toward Dane and Billy. were shepherded, brilliantly, by the pigeons they thought they were evading. At a little square overlooked by unlit houses and guarded by leafless trees, men and women in municipal uniforms stepped out of the shade. They wore leaf-blowers, engines on their backs, hoses to gust fallen leaves from pavements. They aimed their contraptions like ludicrous guns. They sent whirling gusts of leaves toward Dane and Billy.

"What the hell is this?" said Billy. The leaves slapped him. The blowers were moving in careful formation, the leaf-mass taking whirlwinding shape like a bait-ball corralled by sharks. The men and women ran about each other, a puppeteer collective. The leaves they sculpted with their air machines took the rough shape of a man, three metres high, in tree-muck swirls.

"Monsterherds," Dane said. Flicks of the machines, and the man's head was a bull's. The horns were tubes of leaf. "Get out of here, go."

The men and women made the figure reach. It nearly closed its big leaf-gust fingers on Dane, but he evaded. The minotaur made of air and leaves slammed its whirlwind fist and cracked the paving stones. No mnemophylax came this time. Billy shot, and his phaser beam did nothing but send a few leaves flying. Dane said, "Byrne."

Grisamentum's vizier was a suspended arachnid on a wall. Her face was vividly outraged. She leapt and came after them, straight through the minotaur, which reconstituted the hole of her.

Dane headed back toward the flyovers, where spectators scattered as the pounding leaf-figure appeared. "Wait," shouted Billy abruptly. He took a moment's bearings, took several turns.

Dane yelled, "What are you doing?" but followed him, as the leaf beast, Byrne and the monsterherds came behind them.

At a new brick alley, Billy found what he was looking for. Facing them where the streetlet ended in rubbish, staring at Dane and Billy with unreadable emotion, was the punk man.

The Tattoo himself, his entourage, the guards who held the Tattoo-bearer still, were facing the other way, watching the last mopping-up operations in the arena. The man opened his mouth and stared at Billy and Dane, but did not speak.

Then came the gust of leaves and the shouts of Byrne, and a moment's hush, and Billy and Dane were standing right between the Tattoo and Byrne, representative of Grisamentum, the Tattoo's oldest, greatest enemy.

THE T TATTOO HEARD THE SHOCK NOISES OF THE MAN WHO BORE IT, and shouted for his entourage to turn, and to turn him. The two forces stared at Dane and Billy, and at each other. Were those police sirens in some not-near-enough street? Billy thought. Were those the shouts of state functionaries on their way? No matter. The 'herders made the leaf minotaur stand and paw the ground. Billy could feel, like an animal running between Byrne and the Tattoo, a question- and shouted for his entourage to turn, and to turn him. The two forces stared at Dane and Billy, and at each other. Were those police sirens in some not-near-enough street? Billy thought. Were those the shouts of state functionaries on their way? No matter. The 'herders made the leaf minotaur stand and paw the ground. Billy could feel, like an animal running between Byrne and the Tattoo, a question-maybe we should focus on these two?-but the whole shape of London had been cut by their enmity for years. It was a logic too strong to set aside, as Billy had hoped. So the warriors of the Tattoo and Byrne and Grisamentum's monsterherds closed on each other.

The autumn-coloured leaf figure ran, at its 'herders' expert motions, into several smaller versions of the same bull-head man, lurching with windblown grace into the fight. The knuckleheads carried knives and slashed without effect at the leaves, which gripped them in temporary leaf-claws made solid. Dane smashed a helmet with a shot from his gun. The figure fell, the giant clutching hand of its head visible behind the broken dark glass. Dane ducked a leaf-arm blow and pulled Billy out of the way. His weapon click-clicked. They crouched by rubbish at the fight's edge.

"Look," said Billy. The tattooed man shivered in his oversized jacket while his guards faced the leaves and the gang fight took their attention. Billy and Dane looked at each other.

Billy decided. He ran, and spasmed, and time stuttered and glass broke. His phaser blasted one guard away. Dane followed him and grabbed the tattooed man, who stared in terror so great it was overwhelming to see.

"Go!" Dane and Billy pulled him with them-half hostage, half rescue-across to the dirtland where the last bodies lay for collection. There were police, now, figures shouting absurd arrest threats from and into the darkness, maybe slinging spells of some kind that could that night only sputter around like sodden fireworks. The man in leather swung almost like a child between Dane's grip and Billy's. He whispered. Below those noises another sound was audible, the growling, the rage and threats of the Tattoo beneath his jacket.

PART SIX

INKLINGS

Chapter Sixty-Three

WAS THAT IT? WERE THEY IT, PERHAPS M MARGE SHOULD SAY? There were two, after all, weren't there? There were two, after all, weren't there?

Not that what Marge had seen wasn't impressive and strange and something that wouldn't have floored her a few weeks before. Only that she had been hoping for revelation, and revelation came there none.

So what was it she'd seen? She was unsure. She had, after her escape from Collingswood, been rather far from the epicentre while whatever had happened had happened. Some of it had been-whatever it was she was going to say instead of magic: the way some of the people she had noticed moved, those dusty vague humans in the scrubland; the somethings she had never quite glimpsed above and around the sweeps of concrete road; her own repeated slippery moonwalk escapes from the attention of other tourists of finality. And there was the sweep of autumnal sky colours that really could, that really might be dramatic little storms.

There was nothing to do with squid, that she could see, and whatever the micropolitics had been, they had been opaque to her. She was no wiser, and frankly a little awe-numb by now.

So what now?

"WHAT'S YOUR NAME?"

At very last the man spoke.

"Paul."

Cleaned up of the muck and blood that stained him, Paul was a thin man in his forties or fifties. When lucid he was cowed.

"Hush, hush, wait," Billy and Dane said to him as he shook in their grip, as they skulked in hiding. "They're going to come find find me," he kept saying. And during all that careful calming of him was the intervention of the Tattoo. The voice came continuously. Threats, insults, commands from the tattoo mouth on Paul's skin. me," he kept saying. And during all that careful calming of him was the intervention of the Tattoo. The voice came continuously. Threats, insults, commands from the tattoo mouth on Paul's skin.

"What do you think's going to happen?" the Tattoo screamed. "Unfuckinghand me you little shits shits or I will kill you where you stand." or I will kill you where you stand."

They could not think for his bilious spiel. Dane held Paul and they removed his jacket. From his back, expressions passing in ink tides, bad-magic animation, the Tattoo snarled. It sneered. It looked side to side at Dane and Billy.

"Fucking clowns," clowns," it said. It puckered its lips and made spit noises. No spit came out of the black-ink pretend hole of its mouth, only that sound of disgust. "You think this is it? You think Goss can't taste where I've been? Look at this cunt's feet." They were a little bloody. The Tattoo began to laugh. it said. It puckered its lips and made spit noises. No spit came out of the black-ink pretend hole of its mouth, only that sound of disgust. "You think this is it? You think Goss can't taste where I've been? Look at this cunt's feet." They were a little bloody. The Tattoo began to laugh.

"Goss isn't here," Billy said.

"Oh, don't you worry, Goss and Subby'll be back. Where's your bastard commie friend?" They said nothing. "His plan's going up in piss and so are you, soon as they're back. You're all going to die."

"Shut up," said Dane. He kneeled by the vivid black-outlined features. "What do you you want the kraken for? What's your plan?" want the kraken for? What's your plan?"

"You worthless little snail-worshipping turd, Parnell. You're so fucking bad at that you got kicked out of your church."

"What do you know about Cole?"

"I won't insult your intelligence with if you let me go now I'll let you live if you let me go now I'll let you live, because I totally won't."

"I can hurt you," Dane said.

"No, you can hurt Paul."

That shut them up. Billy and Dane looked at each other. They looked at Paul's skin.

"Shit," whispered Billy.

"Oy Paul," the Tattoo shouted. "When we're out of here I'm going to have my boys fucking sand sand your feet off. Hear me, boy? You keep your mouth shut if you want any teeth, if you want a tongue, if you want lips or a fucking jaw." your feet off. Hear me, boy? You keep your mouth shut if you want any teeth, if you want a tongue, if you want lips or a fucking jaw."

They wound parcel tape around Paul's midriff. He stayed still to let them. The Tattoo spat spitlessly and cursed them. He tried to chew on Paul, but it was only the motion of ink under the skin. Paul sat patient as a fussed-over king. Billy silenced the Tattoo, and taped also over its eyes, that glared at him until all obscured. Paul had other tattoos. Band names, symbols. They all behaved-motionless but for his muscles.

"I'm sorry," Billy said to Paul. "You've got a bit of a hairy chest-we should've shaved you first. That'll hurt to get off." Beneath the tape, the mmm-mmm mmm-mmm mutterings continued awhile. mutterings continued awhile.

That was how they brought him, with them, to the god.

"Why would you bring bring him here?" Saira said. him here?" Saira said.

The kraken in its tank in the truck watched them deadly. Londonmancers surrounded them. There were more of them than previously-the insider cabal had spread, as secrets like this will not behave. They left behind "to hold the fort" the supposed mainstream of their antique tribe, now a truncated and confused remnant. Every one of the Londonmancers in the lorry was staring aghast at their unwanted captive. Billy and Dane had tracked them, worked out their route with the tiny satnav and gone ahead to intercept them. It had been a difficult journey, fearful that they were chased at every step by some or other power in the city's war.

The Londonmancers would not relax the charms they had to keep Wati from the lorry. Billy was enraged on his behalf, but the strike spirit had been agitated, in any case, had needed to circulate, to fight against another last strike crisis. "Just give me a doll or something on the roof," he said. "Just something."

"We need to find Grisamentum," Billy had said. "He's got to be-"

And Wati had said, "I'll do what I can, Billy. I'll do what I can. There's things I have to ..."

Where could Grisamentum be? Much of the city was still in denial about the fact that he was anywhere at all other than heaven or hell, but there was no way the monsterherds and Byrne's strange intercession, that terrible knacked gang fight, could be finessed out of facticity. London knew who was back. It just didn't know where, why or how, and no amount of cajoling of even the most eagerly treacherous or venal set of the city's streets, grifters or apocalypse chancers would reveal anything. Much of the city was still in denial about the fact that he was anywhere at all other than heaven or hell, but there was no way the monsterherds and Byrne's strange intercession, that terrible knacked gang fight, could be finessed out of facticity. London knew who was back. It just didn't know where, why or how, and no amount of cajoling of even the most eagerly treacherous or venal set of the city's streets, grifters or apocalypse chancers would reveal anything.

"What would you rather we'd done?" Dane said to Saira.

"We don't have much time," Billy said.

"It's coming," Fitch said. "It's suddenly closer. Much more certain. Something happened to make it ... more near."

"We've got the Tattoo," Tattoo," Billy said. "Do you not get that?" Billy said. "Do you not get that?"

"We needed to get this poor sod off the streets as quick as," Dane said. Paul sat still, looked at them all. He stared at the kraken in its stinking liquid, through its glass.

"Don't show him him that," Paul whispered. They looked at him. He wiggled his shoulders to indicate who he meant. that," Paul whispered. They looked at him. He wiggled his shoulders to indicate who he meant.

"No one's going to show him anything," Billy said carefully. "Promise."

"We've interrupted him," Dane muttered to Saira and Fitch. "We can find out what his plans are."

"His plans?" plans?" said Saira. said Saira.

"He's been trying to get hold of the kraken," Billy said. He tapped Paul gently on the back.

"Oh, but it's ... look," Saira said. "Whatever it is ... it's already happening," she said. She actually mopped her forehead with whatever expensive scarf it was she was wearing. "The burning's started." In the last two days, two smallholdings had gone. Been burned, acts of strange arson. Self-cancelling. The memories of the destroyed buildings went almost, not quite but almost, as totally as the buildings themselves.

One had been part of the Tattoo's empire, a kebab shop in Balham that doubled as a lucrative source of drug money, distilling down the third eyes extracted from and sold by the desperate. The other, a medium-scale jeweller in Bloomsbury, had historically had an association with Grisamentum. Both had gone, and according to most attempted recall, Saira said, there had never been either such place.

"You remember them, Dane?" Saira said.

"No."

"Yeah." She crossed her arms. "You don't." The lorry lurched and she adjusted while Fitch staggered, his beard and hair wild. "You and everyone else."

"So how do you you know there was ever anything there?" Billy said. She stared at him. know there was ever anything there?" Billy said. She stared at him.

"Hello," she said. "Perhaps we haven't met. Hi. My name's Saira Mukhopadhyay, I'm a Londonmancer. London's my job."

"You remember them?" Billy said.

"I don't, but the city does. A bit. It knows something's up. The burn's not perfect. The ... skin's puckered, sort of. I remember remembering one of them. But they were never here. We've checked records. Never there. There was a fire-engine farting around the day Grisamentum's must have gone up. The firemen were just driving around, didn't know why they were supposed to be there."

"It's Cole's thing, it's got to be," Dane said slowly. "Who is it getting him to ... Where's that paper? The one that was in the book?" Billy gave it. "Here. 'Katachronophlogiston.' Look."

"Burning stuff right out of time," Billy said. "Yeah. So, who and why?"

"He might know," Saira said. "He knows more than us." She stared at Paul. Indicated his back. A long, unhappy pause. "He might know stuff about Cole. Might not even know he does." They waited, they hesitated. They tried to think of interrogator's tricks. might know," Saira said. "He knows more than us." She stared at Paul. Indicated his back. A long, unhappy pause. "He might know stuff about Cole. Might not even know he does." They waited, they hesitated. They tried to think of interrogator's tricks.

Paul spoke. "Don't," he said. "He won't ... I can tell you." He was so quiet they thought they had misheard, until he said it again. "I can tell you. Why he wants it. What he wants it for. I can tell you everything."

"IT WAS A TATTOOIST IN B BRIXTON," HE SAID. "I "I CAME IN TO HAVE A CAME IN TO HAVE A big, you know, Celtic cross on my back, but not only black and white-I wanted greens and stuff too, you know, and it was going to take hours. I always rather do that in one go-I can't get my head around loads of sessions, you know, it's all or nothing for me; it was always that way." No one interrupted him. Someone brought him a drink that he drank without looking anywhere other than the nowhere at which he was staring. big, you know, Celtic cross on my back, but not only black and white-I wanted greens and stuff too, you know, and it was going to take hours. I always rather do that in one go-I can't get my head around loads of sessions, you know, it's all or nothing for me; it was always that way." No one interrupted him. Someone brought him a drink that he drank without looking anywhere other than the nowhere at which he was staring.

"I knew it was going to hurt, but I'd got drunk even though you ain't supposed to. I been to that tattooist before. We'd talked, so he knew a bit about me. About the people I knew, about what I did, that sort of thing, you know? I think he was saying what he'd been told, because I think he was like searching for candidates.

"He asked if I minded him having this other bloke there, who was like another tattooist, he said, and they were comparing designs, and I said no, I didn't care. He wasn't much like a tattooist, I thought. I don't know what I meant. I was too drunk, though, to care.

"He watched while the guy did me, and he was like giving him advice. He kept going into a back room. I think we know what was in there? Who Who I mean I should say." He gave a horrible sad little pretend laugh. This was not the story they had hoped for, but who could interrupt him? I mean I should say." He gave a horrible sad little pretend laugh. This was not the story they had hoped for, but who could interrupt him?

"They kept showing me my back in the mirror. The tattooist was giggling every time he did, but the other bloke wasn't-he was all quiet about it. They must've done something to the mirror. Because when I looked in it, it was a cross. It looked fine. I don't know how they did that.

"The second day I unwrap the bandages to show a friend, and she's like, "I thought you was going to get a cross." I thought she meant it was too finickety. I didn't even look at it. It was a little while after that, when the scabs came off, that it woke up."

It had been Grisamentum overseeing the design. And there in that back room, imprisoned and diminished over the hours, the man who then became the Tattoo. What an arcane gang hit. Not a murder-these men were too baroquely cruel for that-but a banishing, an imprisonment. Perhaps it had been blood colouring the ink. Certainly some essence, call it soul, drained from the man and left a man-shaped meat husk behind.

PAUL HAD WOKEN TO THE MUTTERINGS FROM HIS SKIN. THERE WAS no one in his bed but him. The voice was muffled. no one in his bed but him. The voice was muffled.

"What did they do? What did they do?" That was what Paul first heard. "What did those fuckers do to me?"

When at very last he unwound his bandages the glam had faded and Paul saw the real tattoo. Two shocks in immediate succession: that what he wore was a face; and much worse-much much worse, much greater, quite shattering-that it was moving.

The face was shocked too. It took minutes for it to understand what had happened to it. It terrorised Paul. It began to tell him what to do.

He had not eaten. "I need you healthy," said the tattoo on his back. "Eat, eat, eat," until Paul ate. It had him test his strength. It appraised him like a trainer. He told it to leave him alone, that it did not exist. Of course he went to a doctor and demanded to know how it might be removed. The Tattoo stayed motionless, so the doctor assumed Paul was merely an agitated drunk who had taken against his hideous design. There would be a very long waiting list, she told him. For cosmetics.