Riley balled his fists, as he had been taught, and punched Garrick in the nerve cluster above the knee. The assassin’s leg had no choice but to collapse, causing Garrick to list sideways in the narrow stairwell. Riley got off one more punch to the gut before Garrick raised his guard.

“Some fighting spirit,” he said, his voice reedy from the blow. “Too late for that, my boy. We are at the tail end of this story.”

Riley fought on, searching for the chinks in Garrick’s guard, finding them down low, around the hips and kidneys. And though Garrick’s expression was untroubled, he was reluctantly impressed by Riley’s skill, and surprised at how difficult it was to defend himself against the boy.

I have never fought someone who employs my exact style, he realized.

Finally Garrick grew tired of the game. He swept one arm around in a rapid arc, clouting Riley soundly on one ear, disorientating him utterly and sending him tumbling to the base of the stairs, into the basement corridor and out of sight.

Riley will turn on his master no more, thought Garrick.

All that stood between him and total peace of mind was one American teenager, who was probably unarmed. Still, he would take no chances.

Garrick spared a moment to finish crushing the Timekey beneath his boot, grinding the innards with great relish.

I could leave now. Just ascend and go. I have destroyed the Timekey.

This voice Garrick now recognized as the last wisps of Felix Smart’s conscience, attempting to manipulate him. Garrick was delighted to realize that he could not be turned from his path.

Riley knows my face. His voice must be silenced.

Death was the only answer. Unto dust, as he always said. And now he could proceed to the basement bedchamber without fear. The bed’s metal frame was nothing more than that without a Timekey to activate it. In truth, Garrick knew he should have come here during the night and disassembled the bed, but he had been wary of ambush and had to ensure the price on his head was removed. No need for fretting now.

Garrick almost wished for twenty-first-century surveillance cameras so that he could record what was going to happen next. This was an episode he would like to view critically, to confirm that his presence was as striking as he supposed.

There is always room for improvement in a performance.

Garrick banished such thoughts and allowed a cold, efficient sense of purpose to encase his brain, like the cold steel of a dragoon’s helmet.

I must be the assassin now. Tomorrow my world changes—in fact the entire world may change—but for now, I am performing a job of work. And Albert Garrick always takes pride in his work.