The man Jerichau was watching moved a step, and for an instant a fugitive beam of light caught him. Jerichau's stomach convulsed as he silently put a name to the face he saw. It bore a smile, but he knew there was no humour in it, for its owner knew no humour. Or love either; or mercy -

'Shout, my Kind! Shout!'

It was Hobart.

'Make them hear us, in their sleep. Hear us and fear our judgment!'

There could be no doubt of it. The time Jerichau had spent in the Inspector's company was burned into his memory forever. Hobart it was.

The voice of the Prophet was finding new strength with every syllable. Even his face seemed to have altered in some subtle fashion. Any sham of kindliness had been dropped; it was all righteous fury now.

'Spread the word -' he was saying. The exiles are returning!'

Jerichau watched the performance with fresh eyes, keeping up a pretence of enthusiasm, while questions fretted his thumping head.

Chief amongst them: who was this man, stirring the Kind with promises of Deliverance? A hermit, as Nimrod had described him, an innocent, being used by Hobart for his own ends? That was the best hope. The worst, that he and Hobart were in cahoots; a conspiracy of Kind and Humankind, created with what could only be one intention: possessing and perhaps destroying the Fugue.

The voices around him were deafening, but Jerichau was no longer buoyed up by this tide, he was drowning in it. They were fodder, these people; Hobart's dupes. It made him sick to think of it.

'Be ready,' the Prophet was telling the assembly. 'Be ready. The hour is near.'

With that promise, the lights above the platform went out. When they came on again, moments later, the voice of Capra had gone, leaving an empty chair and a congregation ready to follow him wherever he chose to lead them.

There were cries from around the hall for him to speak to them again, but the door at the back of the stage was closed and not reopened. Gradually, realizing they wouldn't persuade their leader to appear again, the crowd began to disperse.

'Didn't I tell you?' said Nimrod. He stank of sweat, as did they all. 'Didn't I say?'

'Yes, you did.'

Nimrod seized hold of Jerichau's arm.

'Come with me now,' he said, eyes gleaming. 'We'll go to the Prophet. We'll tell him where the carpet is.'

'Now?'

'Why not? Why give our enemies any more time to prepare themselves?'

Jerichau had vaguely anticipated this exchange. He had his excuses prepared.

'Suzanna must be persuaded of the wisdom of this,' he said. 'I can best do that. She trusts me.'

'Then I'll come with you.'

'No. I'll do it alone.'

Nimrod looked wary; perhaps even suspicious.

'I watched over you once,' Jerichau reminded him, 'when you were a babe in arms.' This was his ace card. 'Remember that?'

Nimrod couldn't keep a smile from his face. 'Such times,' he said.

'You're going to have to trust me the way you trusted me then,' Jerichau said. He didn't much like the deception, but this was no time for ethical niceties. 'Let me go to Suzanna, and together we'll bring the carpet here. Then we can all go to the Prophet; the three of us.' 'Yes,' said Nimrod. 'I suppose there's sense in that.' They walked to the door together. The throng of devotees was already dispersing into the night. Jerichau made his farewells and his promises to Nimrod, and headed away. When he'd gained sufficient cover of distance and darkness, he made a long arc around the building, and headed back towards it.

IV.

AS GOOD MEN GO.

It began to rain while he kept watch at the rear of the foundry, but after twenty minutes his waiting was rewarded. A door opened, and two of the Prophet's Elite Guard emerged. So eager were they for the shelter of their car - there were several parked behind the building - that they left the door behind them ajar. Jerichau lingered in the shelter of the dripping undergrowth until they'd driven away, then crossed at speed to the door, and stepped inside.

He was in a dirty, brick-lined corridor, off which several small passageways ran. A lamp burned at the end of the corridor where he stood; the rest of the place was in darkness.

Once away from the outside door - and the sound of the rain - he could hear voices. He followed them, the passageway becoming darker as he left the vicinity of the bulb. Words came and went.

'... the smell of them .. .' somebody said. There was laughter. Using it as cover, Jerichau moved more swiftly towards the sound. Now another light, albeit dim, reached his straining eyes.

They're making a fool of you,' a second voice said. It was Hobart who replied.

'We're close, I tell you,' he said. 'I'll have her.' 'Never mind the woman .. .' came the response. The voice was perhaps that of the Prophet, though it had changed timbre.

'... I want the carpet. All the armies in the world are worth fuck-all if we've got nothing to conquer.'

The vocabulary was less circumspect than his words from the platform had been: there was no reluctance to lead the army here; no false modesty. Jerichau pressed close to the door from beyond which the voices came.

'Get this filth off me will you?' said the Prophet. 'It smothers me.'

No sooner had he spoken than all conversation on the other side of the door abruptly ceased. Jerichau held his breath, fearful he was missing some whispered exchange. But he could hear nothing.

Then, the Prophet again.

'We shouldn't have secrets ...' he said, apparently apropos of nothing. 'Seeing is believing, don't they say.'

At this, the door was flung wide. Jerichau had no chance to retreat, but stumbled forward into the room. He was instantly seized by Hobart, who wrenched his captive's arm behind his back until the bones threatened to snap, at the same time seizing Jerichau's head so hard he could not move it.

'You were right,' said the Prophet. He was standing stark naked in the middle of the room, legs apart, arms spread wide, the sweat dripping from him. A bare bulb threw its uncharitable light upon his pale flesh, from which steam rose.

'I can sniff them out,' said a voice Jerichau recognized, and the Incantatrix Immacolata stepped into his line of vision. Despite his situation the terrible maiming of her face gave him some satisfaction. Harm had been done to this creature. That was cause for rejoicing.

'How long were you listening?' the Prophet asked Jerichau. 'Did you hear anything interesting? Do tell.'

Jerichau looked back towards the man. Three members of the Elite were working about his body, wiping him down with towels. It wasn't just his sweat they were removing; parts of his flesh - at the neck and shoulders, on the arms and hands - were coming away too. This was the smothering filth Jerichau had heard him complain of; he was sloughing off the skin of the Prophet. The air was rank with the stench of venomous raptures: the corrupt magic of the Incantatrix.

'Answer the man,' said Hobart, twisting Jerichau's arm to within a fraction of breaking.

'I heard nothing,' Jerichau gasped.

The steaming man snatched a towel from one of his attendants.

'Jesus,' he said, as he rubbed at his face. This stuff is a trial.'