‘How are you going to get me out of here?’ she asked.

‘That,’ he conceded, ‘is a problem. This damn door won’t budge. And I don’t know any magic word to open it.’

Drusher sat back and thought. He got up and wandered across to the workstation. It was cluttered with dirty surgical equipment and glass sample tubes he was quite certain he didn’t want to touch. He looked around for a tool or instrument he could use to lever the door open. As he searched, his movement wafted the flames of the fat candles dotted around the work space. There was nothing useable in any of the drawers. He checked the storage bins. Surely some tools, a crowbar…

Nothing. Just junk and more old medicae supplies.

‘Wait,’ he said suddenly. ‘Wait, wait, wait.’

‘What?’ asked Macks. She and Voriet stared at Drusher as he hurried back to them. Drusher pulled the gun out of his pocket and looked at it.

‘Custom bullets,’ he said. ‘That’s what poor Nayl said. Custom bullets, like the one he used to finish that undead thing. Etched by Eisenhorn himself. Like amulets to break this magic.’

He aimed the weapon at the door frame.

‘Whoa, whoa!’ Macks cried in alarm.

‘What?’ asked Drusher. ‘I know I’m not very good with guns, but…’

‘I don’t care what that thing’s loaded with,’ said Macks. ‘You’re aiming point-blank at cast iron, Valentin! It’ll ricochet… or you’ll miss the bars and hit me.’

‘The marshal’s right,’ said Voriet. ‘That’s not going to work.’

‘I suppose not,’ said Drusher. He laughed sadly. ‘I was almost feeling heroic for a second there.’

He paused, then turned the gun around in his hand and fumbled with it until he managed to eject the clip.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Macks.

Drusher slid the top bullet out into his palm. He tucked the gun and the clip away in his coat pocket and held the bullet up to the light.

‘There’s a word etched on it all right,’ he said, squinting at it. ‘Throne knows what it is. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

‘So?’ asked Macks.

‘I need to…’ Drusher said, thinking. ‘I need to make a cast, or…’

Clutching the bullet, he went back to the workstation and carefully picked up one of the candles. Its flame guttered and twitched. Wax dripped off its base and dribbled down his fingers. He used an old, glass specimen slide to scrape up hot, soft wax from the desktop.

He went back to the cages quickly and began to shape a lump of soft wax on the door frame, roughly where a lock would have been.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Macks.

‘Concentrating,’ said Drusher as he worked. ‘Damn, this stuff is surprisingly hard to work with. There…’

‘Now what?’ asked Macks.

‘Just let it cool for a second,’ he said. ‘Talk to me.’

‘What?’