“Only a shadow, but I bet you do have rats. Stands to reason. Underground. Tea and biscuits about,” Nick said as he ripped out the second page. He folded it, wrote “Mr. Thomas Garran” on the outside, and handed it to Malthan, at the same time stepping across to shield his next action from everyone except Lackridge, whom he stumbled against.

“Oh, sorry!” he exclaimed, and in that moment of apparently lost balance, he slid the palmed first note into Malthan’s still-open hand.

“I . . . ah . . . still not quite recovered from the events at Forwin Mill,” Nick mumbled, as Lackridge suppressed an oath and jumped back.

The policemen had stepped forward, apparently only to catch him if he fell. Sergeant Hodgeman had seen him stumble before. They were clearly suspicious but didn’t know what he had done. He hoped.

“Bit unsteady on my pins,” continued Nick. “Nothing to do with drink, unfortunately. That might make it seem worthwhile. Now I must get on upstairs and dress for dinner. Who’s taking Malthan over to the Golden Sheaf?”

“I am, sir. Constable Ripton.”

“Very good, Constable. I trust you’ll have a pleasant evening drive. I’ll telephone ahead to make sure that my uncle’s staff are expecting you and have dinner laid on.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Ripton woodenly. Again, if Nick hadn’t been paying careful attention, he might have missed the young constable flicking his eyes up and down and then twice toward Sergeant Hodgeman—a twitch Nick interpreted as a call for help from the junior police officer, looking for Hodgeman to tell him how to satisfy his immediate masters as well as insure himself against the interference of any greater authority.

“Get on with it then, Constable,” said Hodgeman, his words as ambiguous as his expression.

“Let’s all get upstairs,” Nick said with false cheer he dredged up from somewhere. “After you, Sergeant. Malthan, if you wouldn’t mind walking with me, I’ll see you to your car. Got a couple of questions about the Old Kingdom I’m sure you can answer.”

“Anything, anything,” babbled Malthan. He came so close, Nick thought the little trader was going to hug him. “Let us get out from under the earth. With that—”

“Yes, I agree,” interrupted Nick. He gestured toward the door and met Sergeant Hodgeman’s stare. All the policemen moved closer. Casual steps. A foot slid forward here, a diagonal pace toward Nick.

Lackridge coughed something that might have been “Dorrance,” scuttled to the door leading back to the tunnels, opened it just wide enough to admit his bulk, and squeezed through. Nick thought about calling him back but instantly dismissed the idea. He didn’t want to show any weakness.

But with Lackridge gone, there was no longer a witness. Nick knew Malthan didn’t count, not to anyone in Department Thirteen.

Sergeant Hodgeman pushed one heavy-booted foot forward and advanced on Nick and Malthan till his face was inches away from Nick’s. It was an intimidating posture, long beloved of sergeants, and Nick knew it well from his days in the school cadets.