Petronio nodded off. Or at least, he thought he had. Had hours or minutes gone by? All he knew was the difference in the rhythm. His eyes shot open and he was instantly aware. It was colder, for a start, as if he’d ridden into the next season. An early autumn mist had suddenly descended, softening the edges of his view, cutting distance down to only twenty yards. His riding cloak was already clammy with dew. The road looked no different, a bit rougher, maybe. Then he realized what had changed. The way ahead was lined with gas lamps, creating halos in the fog. But most of them had been smashed so that only about one in ten flickered feebly. Also, the sides of the branch were littered with trash — bits of old food, discarded clothing, twisted wicker shopping baskets. Why hadn’t a rubbishman swept them over the edge? The trees themselves were carved and gouged with strange markings that looked like doodles. As he peered closer, he realized that some of the inscriptions contained swear words that even he hadn’t come across. The place was a mess.

As he took in the new surroundings, Petronio began to realize that some of the gloomy hollows lurking at the sides of the branch line weren’t in fact shadows. He pulled on the reins, and the horse went from canter to trot to a standstill. He twisted around in the saddle. Behind him now, figures detached themselves from the thick darkness and began to move toward him. At the same time, in front of him, he could see someone else moving to lean against one of the unbroken lamps, picking at the nails of his left hand with a knife as if hoping he’d discover some treasure under the grime. The boy’s head was shaved, except for three straggly braids of hair at the back, woven in with silver bells. This marked him out from the other dozen or so total baldies who now surrounded Mercury.

The boy looked up lazily. “All right?” he drawled.

Petronio tried to stay calm. “Yeah. All right.” That is, as much as he could be, surrounded by a bunch of knife-wielding thugs. They were all dressed in loose-fitting clothes that matched their messy surroundings: cotes too big, with lots of pockets, ill-fitting cloaks, and floppy boots, all in black.

**The boy unglued himself from the lamppost and pointed the knife at Petronio. “Doesn’t look like your manor, does it? Not lost, are you?”

“No,” said Petronio, looking around, “I think I’m in the right place.” But as the gang closed in, he wondered, remembering his father’s warning words about mincemeat.

11• SEWERS ARE A BOY’S BEST FRIEND

“Oi! What do you think you’re doing?” the voice shouted again.