Ockham breathed deep, weighing all before he nodded. “¿Cardigan?”

“We serve the Humanist Membership,” Sniper stated simply. “They elected Ganymede.”

“Thank you. ¿[Sydney/Eureka]?”

The set-set stretched within their electrode mesh. <¿you’re asking if we should take a small risk to prevent the cousins crashing down? yes, we should. of course we should. you haven’t seen these numbers. the sky is falling. yes, we should catch it before it buries everyone alive.>

Again Ockham breathed deep. “That’s two for following the order, one against. ¿Thisbe?”

The witch Thisbe gazed down into her teacup. (Mycroft, must we have this fight again? No talk of witches.) “We should make the hit. We’re in no danger. Even if the investigation is looking at the cars, they can’t track my personal technique, and I’m sure Cato has a dozen fresh methods lined up. Martin Guildbreaker and Dominic Seneschal have no better chance now than ever of catching a one-time Cato concoction. If switching methods every time let an amateur like Mycroft Canner kill seventeen people in a week with the whole world chasing them, I think the nine best-trained killers on Earth can manage one hit without being caught by an uptight Mason and a perverted Blacklaw.”

“And Ἄναξ Jehovah,” I would have added had I been there, “He Who sees what cannot be seen, and judges all by His unknowable Law. He too is watching.” So I would have warned, but I was not there, reader, nor am I even listening with you in Mukta. I am at Madame’s still, nestled in the unmerited heaven of Saladin’s arms. It was irresponsible of me, I know, to let the world spin on without watching. I who owe you seventeen lifetimes of service have no excuse.

Eighteen lifetimes, Mycroft, don’t forget; thy victims’ and thine own.

“I’m right. ¿Aren’t I? ¿Cato?” Thisbe prompted, scraping one boot across the other so the squeal of the surfaces penetrated even Mukta’s vents. “There’s no way they’ll catch you, you’re too good at this.”

His demonstrations of static electricity, famous at the science museum, do not make Cato’s wiry hair stand more on end than Thisbe Saneer. “¿What? Um… yes. I mean, I’ve already picked out a method. It’s normal. As untraceable as normal, I mean, which means it could be traced only if you know what I don’t know… I mean, I don’t know how it could be traced, but nothing’s impossible. If somebody knows more than me maybe… except nobody… ¿is it hot in here?”

Thisbe tossed her head. “It was a yes or no question, Cato.”

“Yes,” he answered, quick as a kicked pup. “I mean, no. ¿What was the question again?”

“¿Do you think you can make the hit without danger of exposure?”

His answer came slowly, like a pulled tooth. “Ggggggyyyyyyes. Yes. It’ll be ready to go in a few hours, as safe as it ever has been, assuming they don’t have any resources we don’t know—”

“Et cetera, et cetera…”

His black brows furrowed. “Don’t ‘et cetera’ it away, Thisbe. This universe contains infinite possibilities, therefore it’s possible that we’ll be caught. It always is.” Cato had more conviction in his voice here than you have ever heard from him, strength, one might almost call it, hope, for it was hope to Cato, that tiny thousandth of a percent of a chance, each time they made him do this, that it might be the last time.