They put him in the back of a van with two guards and no windows, so he couldn’t see what the streets looked like. Pity. His days in Amberlough were ticking down and he would never get a look at the place. It would just be the jail, the van, the courthouse. Eventually the gallows.

Vaguely, he remembered the rotunda; remembered that the official entrance soared into sunlit marble arches, and that the floor was inlaid with a bronze seal, and probably some sort of platitude about justice.

He preferred the jail, and the bare metal of the transport van. These at least were honest.

For a while, he tried to keep track of the twists and turns, but the reality was he didn’t know which side of the building they’d come out of, and could be wildly off-base. Still, he knew in which direction they were headed, and the uninsulated walls of the transport let in sound. It was early, still, and the traffic around them light. No horns sounded; only the putter and grunt of engines navigating intersections.

Would there be a crowd, at the courthouse? Would they let reporters in? How many photographs of his razor-nicked face, his ill-fitting suit, would show up in the evening editions, or on tomorrow’s breakfast tables?

The van rolled to a stop and idled, frame juddering. Cyril looked up from his hands, cased both guards. One stared vacantly at a spot on the ceiling. The other picked her fingernails.

Just for a distraction, he ran his odds. Two against one, and him in handcuffs. Locked doors. And then the driver and likely another guard up front, once he got out. After that, the city on foot, with his hands still bound; yet another problem to solve.

It was a very long shot. He wouldn’t have put money on it. And Rinko would have been very disappointed.

They jerked forward. Stopped. Jerked forward. Stopped. Some kind of traffic backup; must be. He let his weight fall back against the side of the van, resting his head.

Then, the van lurched and his skull smacked the metal. And again. He felt it settle strangely, tilted toward the front. Flat tires. Two at once.

A commotion in the cab: shouting, slamming doors. Alert now, Cyril heard—though barely—the insectile zip of one silenced shot, and then another.

Both guards jumped to their feet but stumbled when the van shook again. Something squealed at the rear door, then let loose with a ringing crack.

The guards had drawn their guns, and when the door swung open they fired. But whoever had busted the latch had wisely taken shelter. A delivery truck close to the bumper blocked Cyril’s view of the street.