"Hah! Who with? Who's left? You?"

"I can make it worth your while. I know who b.u.g.g.e.red up your stars, Mrs Archer."

"Eh?"

"Atwood said you were very old, and very strong. Are you stronger than Lord Podmore?"

"That boy? Hmm. Perhaps." She motioned for her son to put Arthur down.

"Yes or no, Mrs Archer?"

"Don't hurry an old woman. I'm thinking."

The Savoy Hotel, which had opened only a few years previously, was currently among the most fashionable and exclusive establishments in London, boasting electric lighting, American elevators, the finest chefs that could be poached from Paris, and so on, and so on. Arthur's clothes were in such a shocking state that he would be lucky to be permitted to beg outside the gates.

He entered the courtyard by the carriage entrance, off Savoy Hill, slipping between two large black carriages and then following in the footsteps of a busy-looking footman, adopting the footman's purposeful stride: long-legged, youthful, a very particular combination of awkwardness and self-important swagger. Atwood had once told Arthur that walking in a man's shoes was half-way to being him. We are nothing but the sum of our motions, Atwood said. Atwood ill.u.s.trated that theory by copying Arthur's gait as they walked side by side along the Embankment, then dropping suddenly to his knees, causing Arthur to stumble and knock his head on a lamppost.

n.o.body looked twice at him as he crossed the courtyard. He might as well have been the young footman's shadow. Busy servants crossed his path as if he weren't there. Young lovers idling by the fountain glanced at him, untroubled, as if he didn't in the slightest blemish the beauty of the courtyard-which was all soft evening shadows, white brick, fragrant flowers, glinting pearls and turquoises. There were a thousand eyes on the balconies above and n.o.body cried out, Who the devil is that?

A magician is at home everywhere, Atwood used to say. A magician is at home among kings and princes; a magician is at home on Mars. That was easy for His Lordship to say.

At the last moment, just as the footman was about to go inside, Arthur couldn't resist an experiment. He reached up and scratched his head.

The footman stopped in the doorway. He shifted from foot to foot. He dropped one of the bags, took off his hat, and scratched crossly at his hair.

The footman stepped into an elevator and disappeared. Arthur strode directly through the ante-room, past fireplaces and two huge potted palms, into the restaurant, then across the big dining room to a table not far from the south-western quarter of the room, where Lord Podmore sat with George and two men Arthur didn't know. According to George, one of them would be an American stockbroker by the name of Frisch, the other a publisher by the name of Snaith.

They had not yet begun to eat.

"Podmore!" Arthur said. "What a pleasure to see you here. And George, and Mr Snaith and Mr Frisch."

A waiter in a white ap.r.o.n moved smoothly into view. Arthur commanded him to bring a chair, so that he could join his friends at their table.

"Arthur?" George said. He had a confused half-smile.

Podmore had been in the middle of an anecdote, or a joke, leaning back expansively with one hand on his enormous belly. Now he watched Arthur with curiosity, and perhaps just a sliver of wariness.

"I'm terribly sorry," George said. "This is Arthur Shaw. He's a friend of mine, and I'm afraid he's had a terrible run of bad luck lately-his fiancee is-ah ... Arthur, now is not the time."

The waiter hovered uncertainly. He looked from Arthur to George to Podmore, who remained silent and still.

Arthur indicated to the waiter where he wanted the chair to be placed, across the table from Podmore. The waiter dithered. Arthur looked at him patiently. A magician is nothing more than a man who expects his orders to be obeyed, as Atwood was fond of saying.

At last Podmore nodded very slightly. The waiter breathed a sigh of relief and rushed off to find a chair.

Arthur considered that a draw.

Podmore nodded to Arthur. "h.e.l.lo, Mr Shaw."

"h.e.l.lo, Your Lordship."

Poor George looked confused, and very uncomfortable.

"Arthur! You know His Lordship?"

"I might ask you the same question," Podmore said. "But everyone seems to know everyone these days. Yes: Arthur Shaw and I have met. A bright young man. I was so terribly sorry to hear about Josephine."

"Your Lordship is too kind."

"You have mud on your shoes," Podmore observed.

"I had business out in the country," Arthur said.

George tried frantically to meet Arthur's eye.

Arthur had a good view of the restaurant, and in particular the entrance and the lobby beyond it. At his back-it gave him a certain confidence-was a pillar, broad at its base and surrounded by a little pyramid of shelves laden with fine china and bottles of dozens of kinds of liquor. Above the shelves shone a row of electrical lights. The pillar, every other pillar in the great room, and every wall, was panelled with ornately carved mahogany. Heavy carved beams part.i.tioned the ceiling into squares of gold and red. In the distance, a tremendous painting dominated the scene, depicting Captain Cook encountering unfriendly natives under a stormy tropical sky. It was a Monday evening and the restaurant was perhaps not quite at the height of glamour that it was said to reach on Sundays, but it was still very busy: at the tables around them were dowager dames in pearls and rubies, and famous actors, and magnates of steel and shipping, and no doubt a smattering of Balkan princes or globe-trotting American heiresses.

Podmore reached for his wine-gla.s.s. Arthur noticed with satisfaction that he was favouring his left hand-his right appeared to have been hurt.

The man on Arthur's right-a stocky middle-aged gentleman with a thick moustache and rather rough-hewn features-opened his mouth and proved to be the American, Frisch. "If you don't mind my asking, Your Lordship, what's all this about?"

"I expect young Mr Shaw wants to talk about his unfortunate fiancee's condition-when last we met I indicated I might be able to help her. I thought I might recommend him to my good friend Doctor Thorold, but there's been some unfortunate news from that quarter too-had you heard, Mr Shaw?"

Arthur extended a hand to the American. "h.e.l.lo, Mr Frisch. I'm Arthur Shaw. I hear you're an American. Are you from Boston?"

"New York."

"I say. How exciting."

"It sure is, isn't it?"

Frisch seemed to sense conflict brewing, and found it amusing. The other man, who had to be Snaith, was keeping his mouth shut, presumably because he didn't understand the situation and was anxious to not somehow offend Podmore.

"Arthur," George said. "I don't know what-"

"George, I think it would be a very good idea if you left now."

"No," Podmore said. "Stay."

"George," Arthur said. "You've always been very kind to me, and I'm very grateful, and I'm very sorry. I hope you'll trust me when I say that it's very important that you leave at once. You too, Mr Frisch. Snaith."

"This is very silly," Podmore said. "You are causing a very silly scene, Arthur. We were talking business. George, sit down."

The waiter brought a gla.s.s, and attempted to pour Arthur wine, but Podmore glanced at him, raised an imperious eyebrow, and the poor fellow stumbled and spilled wine all over Arthur's coat.

"Quite all right," Arthur a.s.sured him. "Quite all right." He shrugged off the coat and gave it to the waiter to take away, and faced Podmore in his shirt-sleeves.

Podmore smiled unpleasantly.

By now people at adjoining tables were glancing over with curiosity and whispering.

Podmore dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. Then he smiled at Arthur and asked, "Is your friend Martin well?"

"I expect so," Arthur said.

"Hmm," Podmore said. "I must say, you're in good spirits, Mr Shaw. The last time we spoke you seemed rather-frankly, rather timid. Now here you are, barging into the Savoy, dressed like a savage, ordering Mr Weston and Mr Frisch and what's-his-name away from the table."

Snaith flinched.

"I confess," Podmore said, "I'd like to know what you think you have up your sleeve."

"All right," Frisch said. "Okay, gentlemen. That's enough beating about the bush. Is this business, or is this personal? What's going on here?"

"I'm here to make a proposal," Arthur said.

Podmore put his napkin down. "Well, let's hear it."

"I want you to give me Josephine, and Gracewell, without further unpleasantness."

Podmore laughed. Snaith-clearly a born toady-laughed too. Oh G.o.d, George said, putting his head in his hands. Neither Arthur nor Podmore listened to him. Podmore stopped laughing, stroked his beard, and stared with sudden ferocity into Arthur's eyes. It was all Arthur could do not to fall out of his chair. His skin p.r.i.c.kled; he felt shame, terror, despair, humiliation. He was worthless, lower than a worm, a ridiculous scarecrow of a man.... He buckled under Podmore's telepathic broadside, under the thunder of psychic cannon. Podmore's eyes had become very large and round, and they seemed to shine with a horrible black light. Sweat trickled down Arthur's brow. His hand shook, and the veins beneath his skin seemed to bulge and writhe disgustingly-he was a loathsome, decaying creature. He felt a terrible urge to get up and run. He didn't. He'd survived Gracewell's Engine. Lesser men had gone mad. He knew what discipline was. He clutched his napkin-ring so tightly that his knuckles hurt. He silently recalled the symbols of the Engine, and recited the names and mystical properties of the planets, and the stations of the Underground, and some fragments of Josephine's poetry that he knew by heart, and some bits of d.i.c.kens, and whatever else he happened to have in his head.

A waiter approached the table bearing a silver tray, but stumbled as if he'd been struck in the head, and fell to his knees, spilling hot borscht all over the floor. Frisch ran to check his pulse and help him back to his feet.

Podmore looked down at the waiter. "Oh dear," he said. "Poor fellow."

Arthur took a deep breath. He felt as if he'd been beaten, but Podmore was sweating too. Podmore looked surprised-not afraid, by any means, but at least annoyed.

Podmore leaned forward, and whispered, "Is Atwood here? Sun? The women? Any of your colleagues?"

Arthur shook his head.

"No," Podmore said. "No. I would know ... But you're not alone, are you, Shaw?"

"Oh G.o.d," George said. "Oh G.o.d, Arthur. You should go home-you're not well."

"Go away, George, please-it's better if you hear none of this."

"Arthur believes me to be a magician," Podmore said. "Of notorious reputation. He thinks I stole his fiancee. And he blames me for the burning of his friend Atwood's house-certainly an unfortunate incident. I hear that one Sergeant Jessop, a policeman, died in the fire."

George went pale.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Arthur said. "I liked Jessop. He was a good man."

"Well," Podmore snapped, "he shouldn't have worked for Atwood, then."

George sputtered. "Burning? Dead policemen?" He threw down his napkin and stood, with an expression on his face that suggested he was going to try to summon the authorities, if only he could think of the proper authority to call. Podmore barked no and he sat back down.

Podmore picked up his fork and stood it on its end. Snaith stood, stepped over to the shelf behind Arthur's head, and picked up a sharp knife. Moving by instinct, Arthur reached out and knocked over Snaith's wine-gla.s.s. Snaith slipped on spilled borscht. He lay on his back looking confused, as if he had no idea what had just happened or why he'd stood up in the first place.

They had by now attracted the attention of every other table in the restaurant. People were turning to stare.

A waiter approached, bearing another tray of soup. He trembled as he served them, then fled-rejoining a long row of waiters who stood by the wall, watching anxiously.

Arthur said, "George-I'm sorry."

He snapped the stem of his wine-gla.s.s, causing the leg of George's chair to snap so that he fell on the floor and hit his head on the chair behind him. The dowager dame who'd been sitting in that chair gave a little shriek, then got to her feet and left, taking her party with her. A couple of waiters quickly came and led George off, bleeding from the head, in search of first aid.

Podmore pushed his soup to one side. "Very well. Frisch-go. Snaith-go."

Both men stood at once, with the quick obedience of well-drilled soldiers, and left without a word. Frisch wore an expression of mild confusion; Snaith, relief.

"Well, Shaw. I see Atwood has taught you a trick or two."

"Give me Josephine, Your Lordship; Josephine and Gracewell."

"Did you come here to threaten me? I am tremendously insulted-not to mention inconvenienced-by this display. I doubt Mr Frisch will do business with me in future. People will talk-"

He looked around the restaurant, observed that he had an audience, and sighed. "I'll return your woman to you. I don't need her any more."

"And Gracewell?"

"I don't want to hurt you, Shaw. Every act of violence is a stain on the soul. It weakens; it corrupts. I do not want to go to war. I do not want to conduct myself in this unpleasant way. You may find this hard to believe, but I did not become a magician out of greed, or anger, or to play stupid tricks, but to purify my soul; and I still hold out hope of Heaven when I die. I will ascend then among the spheres in the usual orderly fashion." He sipped his wine.

"I've seen your thugs," Arthur said. "I know what they are."

"Do you? A necessity, that's what they are. A regrettable necessity. Because of people like Atwood."

"A regrettable necessity," Arthur said. "Quite." He glanced at the entrance to the restaurant, and shook his head. "I didn't come alone, Your Lordship."

Podmore slowly put his gla.s.s down, and turned his head. "Oh, good G.o.d."

He stood, resting his hands on the table.

Mrs Archer entered the restaurant, hanging off her great mute son's arm, breezing past anxious waiters, s.n.a.t.c.hing a peach off a stranger's table.

Arthur glanced at his watch. She'd promised him half an hour to get George out of the way and attempt to negotiate. She was a little early. Eager, no doubt. Keen to see who was stronger, her or Podmore. She bit cheerfully into the peach.

They stared at each other across the restaurant. Podmore swayed a little, his knuckles whitening on the table-top. Mrs Archer stepped forward, leaning, as if into a high wind. In the straight line across the Savoy restaurant between the two of them, people flinched, choked on their wine, or suddenly found reason to wipe their mouths, check their watches, and head for the exits. Waiters bearing trays declined to cross that line, turning back towards the kitchen.

Podmore muttered under his breath, invoking names that Arthur had never heard before, even in Atwood's books. A phalanx of white-ap.r.o.ned waiters formed and marched across the restaurant towards Archer, with the apparent intention of forcibly removing her. Her son stepped forward, scowling, to block their path.