“See that? What she done with her fingers there?” said one Ram, behind her.

“Fingers? I coulda sworn she used her thumb,” replied his comrade.

“Nah, dopey. Four fingers, held stiff, like so.” And the Ram demonstrated the move on Chevie, sending her lower back into spasm and giving Malarkey enough to time to get a grip on her neck.

Game over, thought Chevie, as her feet left the ground.

She chopped at Malarkey’s forearm and pinched the nerves in the crook of his elbow, just as Cord Vallicose had assured her would break the grip of the biggest son of a gun on this green earth. Apparently he hadn’t taken Victorian crime bosses into account.

Malarkey laughed in her face, but Chevie thought she detected a spark of relief in his eyes.

“You had help, Otto. Remember that when you’re gloating on your throne.”

Malarkey squeezed her windpipe, choking off the accusation along with her air. Chevie hung on to his arm, taking the strain off her neck, trying to avoid spinal damage, but already the lack of oxygen was blurring her vision and draining the strength from her limbs.

“Riley,” she croaked, though she knew the boy was under guard outside the throng. He could neither see her nor help her if he did catch a glimpse.

Malarkey drew back his free hand. “This pains me greatly, little maid. Yes, I prove my physical supremacy once again, but it will cost me a pretty pound to honor all the chink bet against you, not to mention the fact that I lose me own wager. I bet on you, girl, and you let me down.”

Malarkey clenched his fist, his knuckles creaking.

“I won’t kill you,” he promised. “And you should wake up with most of yer teeth and marbles.”

Chevie tried to draw away, but she was held fast. The ringing in her ears changed from Star Trek to something more strident. A simple bell. Was her subconscious trying to tell her something?

Malarkey cocked an ear, and Chevie thought for a second that he could hear what was inside her head; then the Ram king called, “Shush! Shut yer babbling gobs. Can you not see I am listening?”

Silence fell almost instantly, except for Mr. Skelp, who was just waking up.

“Wot’s occurring, mates? I remember having me porridge this morning and then... nuffink.”

Malarkey took three steps into the crowd and silenced Skelp with a boot to the chin.

“I said quiet, you dolts!”

There was dead silence, except for the curious ringing.

Malarkey’s eyes widened as his mind connected the noise with an object. “The Telephonicus! ’Tis the Telephonicus Farspeak!”

A chorused Awww rose through the Hidey-Hole’s ballroom, and all the heads swiveled, lemminglike, toward Malarkey’s throne. On a walnut parlor table stood a device, carved from ivory, in two parts: a base and cylinder, connected by twisting cables. The device jangled with each ring.