The two men, Hoa.r.s.e Voice and Whiny Voice, backed away, cursing.

The king's agent, remembering his disguise, straightened but kept his back hunched. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and looked again at the ripped and shredded intestines and organs that were spread messily across the cobbles. His eyes followed their long, b.l.o.o.d.y trail, past the outspread legs, across the torn thigh with its bone glinting wetly in the lamplight, and into the hollowed-out rib cage.

Above tattered sc.r.a.ps of coat and shirt and skin, the glazed eyes of Montague Penniforth stared up through the fog at whatever lay beyond.

"It were the dog things," hissed Whiny Voice.

A gaunt, elderly man limped forward. He had a peg leg and three fingers missing from his right hand.

"Where are you from, Mister?" he said, in a surprisingly gentle voice.

"Mile End," mumbled Burton.

"You've been lucky-the dogs didn't kill you."

"They weren't dogs. And they took a little kid," said the king's agent, noticing the corpse of the child's companion.

"They always do. Why don't you get off 'ome? We'll sort this lot out."

"Sort it out? What do yer mean?"

"I mean we'll get rid o' the stiffs; beggin yer pardin if that fella was yer boy."

"What'll yer do with them?"

"The usual."

Burton knew what that meant: what was left of Monty would be thrown into the Thames.

He put a hand to his forehead. How many deaths must he have on his conscience? First Lieutenant Stroyan in Berbera; then Speke, who must surely have died by now; and, tonight, Montague Penniforth.

He felt sick; he hadn't bargained for this, but what could he do? He couldn't call the police-or even an undertaker to come and collect Monty's remains. No matter how much he wanted the big cabbie to receive a decent burial-and Lord knows he'd willingly pay for it himself-there was no way to get the cadaver out of the East End without arousing suspicion; and if his disguise failed him, he himself would probably end up in the river.

His head throbbed. He felt wet blood in his hair.

He dropped his hand and clenched it, fingernails digging into his palm. In the other hand, something got in their way. The note from Findlay!

No, wait, not from Findlay-so, from whom?

He waited until Throaty Voice, Whiny Voice, and Peg-Leg were distracted, then surrept.i.tiously unscrewed the paper and glanced at the words on it: Mes yeux discernent mieux les choses que la puplart ici. Je vois a travers votre masque. Rencontrez moi vers la Thames, an bout de Mews Street dans moins dune heure.

My eyes are more discerning than most here, Burton translated rapidly. I see through your mask. Meet me at the Thames end of Mews Street within the hour.

He put the note in his pocket and moved over to Peg-Leg's side.

"'Ere, mate, I gotta get to Mews Street," he grumbled in a low voice. "Which way is it?"

"What's yer business there?" asked Peg-Leg, his rheumy eyes looking Burton up and down.

"My business, that's what!" responded Burton.

"All right, fella, no need to get shirty. That alley over there-take it down to the river then turn right 'n' follow the bank-side road 'til you come to a p.a.w.n shop what's closed an' boarded up. That's the corner of Mews Street. You gonna be all right on yer own? You know yer shooter got pinched?"

"Yus, the thievin' b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. I'll manage, matey. Me bruvver is expectin' me an' I'm already a good five hours late!"

"Stopped off at a boozer, hey?"

"Yus."

"Sorry abaht yet boy, Dad. f.u.c.king bad way to go."

Burton forced himself to give a heartless East End shrug and moved away, shuffling into the clouded mouth of the alley that the one-legged man had indicated. The increasing distance between himself and Penniforth strained behind him; stretched to its snapping point-but didn't snap. It, like Stroyan's death and Speke's suicide, would pull at his heart for the rest of his life; he knew that, and he realised the commission he'd received from Palmerston-to be "king's agent"-carried with it a terribly heavy price.

The alley was cramped, almost entirely devoid of light, and ran crookedly down a slight slope toward the river. Burton kept his fingers on the right-hand wall and allowed it to guide him. He repeatedly stumbled over p.r.o.ne bodies. Some cursed when his foot struck them; others moaned; most remained silent.

His mouth felt sour with vomit and alcohol. The toxic fog burned his eyes and nostrils. He wanted to go home and forget this disastrous expedition. He wanted to forget all his disastrous expeditions.

Dammit, Burton! Settle down! Become consul in Fernando Po, Brazil, Damascus, and wherever the f.u.c.k else they send you! Write your d.a.m.ned books!

He walked on, and when a man stepped into his path and said, "'Oo do we 'ave 'ere, then?" Burton didn't reply or miss a step but simply rammed a fist as hard as he could into the man's stomach. He kept going, leaving the wretch lying in the fetal position behind him.

Every few yards, his hand fell away from the wall as he encountered junctions with other pa.s.sages. Each time, he walked ahead keeping his arm outstretched until he came to the opposite corner. Eventually, instead of a corner, he found railings spanning his path, and by the intensity of the stench realised that he'd crossed the Thames-side road and was beside the river. He returned to the other side of the street, found the wall, and staggered on in a westward direction.

As he pushed on through the bilious fog, the fumes seeped into his bloodstream, starving his brain of oxygen. He began to feel a familiar sensation, a feeling which had haunted his malarial deliriums in Africa. It was the notion that he was a divided ident.i.ty; that two persons existed within him, ever fighting to thwart and oppose each other.

The death of Penniforth became their battlefield. Pervading guilt struggled with a savage desire for revenge; the impulse to flee from this king's agent role wrestled with the determination to find out where the loups-garous came from and why they were, apparently, abducting children.

"Monsieur!"

The word was hissed from a doorway.

Burton stopped and fought a sudden wave of dizziness. He could just about make out a figure crouched in a rectangle of denser shadow.

"Monsieur!" came the whisper again.

"Dore?" he said, softly.

"Oui, Monsieur."

Burton moved into the doorway and said, in French: "How did you recognise me, Dore?"

"Pah! You think you can fool an artist's eye with a dab of stage makeup and a toupee? I have seen your picture in the newspaper, Monsieur Burton. I could not mistake you; those sullen eyes, the cheekbones, the fierce mouth. You have the brow of a G.o.d and the jaw of a devil!"

Burton grunted. "What are you doing here, Dore? The East End is no place for a Frenchman."

"I am not merely a Frenchman; I am an artist."

"And you possess a cast-iron stomach if you can put up with the stink of this place."

"I have grown used to it."

In the absence of anything but the dimmest of lights-from three red blemishes floating over the nearby riverbank, perhaps the lights of a merchant vessel or barge-Burton could barely see the Frenchman. He had a vague impression of rags, a long beard, and wild hair.

"You look like an old vagrant."

"Mais out! I owe my survival to that fact! They think I possess nothing, so they leave me alone, and quietly and secretly I draw them. But you, Monsieur-why are you in the Cauldron? It is because of the loups-garous, no?"

"Yes. I've been commissioned to find out where they come from and what they are doing."

"Where they come from I do not know, but what they are doing? They are stealing the chimney sweeps."

"They're doing what?"

"Mais je to jure que c'est vrai! These loups-garous, they are most particular. They take children but not any children-just the boys who work as sweeps."

"Why the devil would werewolves kidnap chimney sweeps?"

"This question I cannot answer. You should see the Beetle."

"Who-or what-is the Beetle?"

"He is the president of the League of Chimney Sweeps."

"They have a league?"

"Out, Monsieur. I regret, though, that I know not where you should look for the boy."

"My young friend Quips might know."

"He is a sweep?"

"No, a newsboy."

"Ah, out out, he will know. These children, they-what is the expres- sion?-'stick together,' no? I have heard that a word given to one is pa.s.sed to the next and the next and spreads across your Empire faster than a fire through a dry forest."

"It's true. Anything else, Monsieur Dore? You know nothing of where the loups-garous come from?"

"Mais non. I can tell you that they have been hunting here for two months and that their raids now come every night, but I can tell you no more. I must go. It is late and I am tired."

"Very well. Thank you for your time, Monsieur. Please be careful. I understand that art is your life, but I would not like to hear that you had died for it."

"You will not. I am nearly finished here. The sketches I have taken, Monsieur Burton-they will make me famous!"

"I'll keep an eye open for your work," replied Burton. "Tell me, how can I get out of the Cauldron?"

"Keep going along this road; that way-" He pointed, a vague motion in the darkness. "It is not far. You will come to the bridge."

"Thank you. Good-bye, Monsieur Dore. Be safe."

"Au revoir, Monsieur Burton."

It was past five in the morning by the time Sir Richard Francis Burton collapsed onto his bed and into a deep sleep.

After his meeting with the French artist, he'd made his way past the Tower of London, following the fog-dulled cacophony of the ever-awake London Docks until he reached London Bridge. He'd then walked northward away from the Thames. As the river receded behind him, the murk thinned somewhat and a greater number of working gas lamps enabled him to better get his bearings. He trudged all the way to Liverpool Street and there waved down a hansom of the old horse-pulled variety.

At home, under the conviction that his malaria was about to flare up again, he'd dosed himself with quinine before divesting himself of the disguise and washing the soot from his face. Then, gratefully, he slid between crisp, clean sheets and fell into a deep sleep.

He dreamed of Isabel.

It was a strange dream. He was standing on a low rocky hill overlooking Damascus and a black horse was pounding up the slope toward him, its hooves drumming noisily on the ground. As it came closer, he saw that it was ridden by Isabel, who was wrapped in Arabian clothing and rode not as a woman, sidesaddle, but as a man. She radiated strength and happiness.

The animal skidded to a halt and reared before coming to rest in front of him, its sweat-flecked sides heaving.

Isabel reached up and pulled aside her veil.

"Hurry, d.i.c.k-you'll be late!" she urged, in her deep contralto voice.

From behind him he heard a distant noise, a clacking. He wanted to turn to see what it was but she stopped him.

"No! There's no time! You have to come with me!"

The sound was drawing closer.

"d.i.c.k! Come on!"

Now he noticed that there was a second horse, tethered to Isabel's. She gestured at it, urging him to mount.

Clack! Clack! Clack! Clack!

What was that? He started to turn.

"No, d.i.c.k! No!"

Clack! Clack! Clack! Clack!

He twisted and looked up at the hill behind him. A freakish figure was bounding down it, approaching fast, taking huge leaps.

Clack! Clack! Clack! Clack!

The sound of its stilts. .h.i.tting the rock.

Isabel screamed.

The thing gave an insane and triumphant yell, its red eyes blazing.

Burton awoke with a start and sat up.

Clack! Clack! Clack! Clack!