Somewhere nearby, a gas lamp flickered and went out. No one dared to breathe, waiting for the blood to spill. The pack mentality was already kicking in. The stranger could kill one of them, but once the rest of them piled in, he didn’t stand a chance. A couple of the older lads were already working out who would take over, who would be next top man. King Flinty was about to die. Long live the king.

Petronio was no fool. Killing the boy was the equivalent of committing suicide. The knife came to a sudden halt, pricking the underside of the boy’s chin.

“Well! Well! Well!” announced Petronio to astounded silence. “Who’s the softy now, Flinty?”

The leader wasn’t entirely stupid. “You’ve made your point, pretty boy. Wotchu want?”

And that’s when Petronio pulled off the biggest surprise of all. He let the boy go and put away his knife. “I’ve come to see your father. So let’s get on with it.”

Flinty’s eyes went wide. “How d’ya know ’oo my old man is?”

“Oh, please. Work it out. Your colleagues here call you Flinty.”

Flinty paused. He didn’t like the sound of it. “And wot’s my dad gotta do wiv this?”

Petronio took hold of Mercury’s reins. “Plenty. Shall we go?”

He could see that Flinty thought he was mad. One second, the stranger was about to kill him, and the next, he wanted to see his old man. With the knife out of the way, all it would take was one look for the rest of the gang to do him.

“And I have a feeling that if I turn up damaged in any way, your father, Julius Flint, Commander of the Arborian Armories, won’t be pleased.” Petronio’s words were sharper than any knife.

“Why didn’t you say before?” Flinty muttered.

“Like you said,” Petronio answered reasonably, “they’re soft as squit down south. Now, I’ve been riding for hours and would like a drink….”

Flinty pulled out a flask from inside his cote and handed it over. “Get that down your neck!” he sneered. The fiery, forty-proof, home-brewed hooch would soon have the boy spewing his guts.

Instead, Petronio glugged away merrily. “Not much flavor, though it hits the spot. Brewed from scaffield potatoes, I believe?” He wiped his lips in satisfaction.

“Suppose …,” muttered Flinty. Even this small victory was denied him.

“Lead on!” said Petronio, pointing into the mist.

13• THE SLIPPERY TRUTH

Five minutes later, Ark came to, his head throbbing with an all-too-real headache this time. He’d blown it. Did it look like he was capable of killing a king? They obviously thought he did. He should have brought Mucum with him. Ark tried not to open his eyes. He was aware that he was sprawled on the ground, but where, he had no idea. He could smell … ammonia. Better to pretend for a while longer.