The thieves were arguing over how to sell the ivory carving. It seemed to go on interminably. There were nine of them, not ten. Monk must have miscounted earlier. He was cold to the bone, his feet numb, his teeth chattering. The odds were against them. But the statue was what mattered; above all he must get that back, that and the Fat Man.

The stench of the mud almost choked him.

Why didn't they agree with the obvious and take the carving to the Fat Man? He was the king of the opulent receivers. He would give them the best price for it because he would be able to find a buyer.

They weren't going to! They knew he would take half, so they were going to try to sell it themselves. Then all Monk would get would be the carving back, and a handful of petty thieves. It would stop the robberies for perhaps a week or two, but what was that worth? Instinctively he turned towards Orme and saw his face for an instant in the faintest light from the thieves' candles. The defeat in him twisted inside Monk as if he himself were responsible for the failure.

Another rat squeaked and ran, claws rattling on the wood. Then there was a different sound: softer, heavier. Monk's heart pounded in his chest and his mouth was dry. Orme turned the same instant as he did, and both saw the shadow of a man blend into the sagging walls and disappear.

Monk swiveled around the other way. To his right Butterworth was rigid, listening. He too had heard something and was straining his eyes, but not to where Monk had seen the man disappear. Butterworth was staring at least fifteen feet away.

Monk was freezing. His hand clenched on the hilt of the cutlass was like ice, clumsy, all thumbs. His body was shaking.

He had been right the first time. There had been ten, but one of them had left, betraying his fellows. To whom?

The answer was already emerging into the pool of candlelight in what remained of the room. A grotesquely fat man stepped forward, his distended stomach swathed in a satin waistcoat, his bloated face wreathed in smiles, his eyes like bullet holes in white plaster.

Silence gripped the thieves as if by the throat.

"Well!" said the Fat Man in a voice little more than a whisper. "What a pretty piece of work." Monk was not certain if he meant the betrayal or the ivory.

One man squeaked half a word, then stifled it instantly.