Magistrates of Hell

panic.

The thought of being wounded – of wounding the yao-kuei in a fight and getting enough of their blood into his own veins to turn him into one of them – brought the instant conviction: No. Not as long as there’s a bullet left. There really were worse things than death.

He waded out into the lake, ice breaking before his legs and the water excruciating. Plowed his way back toward the mouth of Big Tiger Lane, which led south toward more populous streets. A yao- kuei came down the slope toward him at a shambling run, from another hutong somewhere ahead along the wall in the dark. Asher backed further into the water, almost to his waist. Debris underfoot slithered and rocked, and he cut at the first of the rats with his halberd, struggling to keep his balance.

The next moment the yao-kuei flung itself at him, floundering in the water, clawed hands grabbing, fanged mouth gaping to gouge. Asher had sufficient experience with quarterstaff and single-stick to know how to leverage the halberd blade to deadly effect, and his first blow took the thing’s head three-quarters off . . . but only three-quarters. Head dangling by a flap of flesh, arteries fountaining blood, the yao- kuei staggered, threshing its clawed hands to find its prey. Asher stepped in as close as he dared and severed the hamstrings of both legs, then turned and stumbled through the water, scanning the banks.

He was in luck. Something – a dog pack, he thought, though in moonlight and the black shadows of the bank it was impossible to tell – had scented the enormous multitude of rats on the bank and charged in for a hunt. Asher had an impression of scuttling black forms, of red eyes sparking as the smaller animals fled. He pulled the slide from his lantern, hurled the tin light into the thick of the rats that swarmed between him and the dark rectangle that he hoped and prayed was the opening to Big Tiger Lane. Everything on the bank was wet with slush, but the scant oil in the lantern’s reservoir flared up as it hit the ground. The rats scurried from the flame, and Asher ran upslope as he’d never run before.

From the corner of his eye he glimpsed two yao-kuei running up the bank far behind him, moving as if coordinated by some unheard communication. His mind logged the phenomenon even as he threw himself into the indigo chasm of the alleyway, as he fled, stumbling, one hand on its wall to guide him.

He didn’t stop running till he reached the back gates of the Forbidden City; skirted its massive walls, taller than the average London house, clear around, to pass it on the eastern side rather than go anywhere near the walls of the Palace Lakes to the west. The Palace Lakes connected with the ‘Seas’, as did the Forbidden City’s moats and the canal that flowed a little further east. Soaked to the waist, shivering and numb, Asher finally hailed a rickshaw near the new University, but he flinched every time they passed over another canal.

At this hour the streets were empty. He thought of Lydia, safe among lace-trimmed pillows in the Wagons- Lits Hotel, and wondered if she were being watched.

Probably. By the Tso Family or those who might work for them – who might or might not be riding Grant Hobart like a horse on a curb bit. Or by the Legation police, who wanted nothing more than to do their duty and slap a suspected traitor in a cell where some employee of the Tso would have a good chance to get at him . . .

Asher rubbed his frozen fingers and wondered how long his hideout in Pig-Dragon Lane would be safe.

And whether Karlebach would stay out of trouble until it was safe to get word to him.

And if Lydia was safe.

And what had happened to Ysidro . . .

It was three days before Lydia realized that Ysidro was missing.

On Sunday – the day after Lydia received Mizukami’s packet of further police reports – the Count himself called at the Wagons-Lits Hotel, to extend to her whatever help he was capable of giving and, a little to her surprise, to offer to arrange her journey home.

‘Thank you.’ She leaned across the hearth of the blue-curtained private parlor off the hotel’s lobby, pressed the Colonel’s white-gloved hand. ‘I feel that I can be of some use here. The task Jamie set out to accomplish is unfinished.’ Her eyes met Mizukami’s – slightly blurred even at a distance of two feet. She put back the veils of her hat, an elegant confection of sable tulle and plumes, to see him more clearly. ‘And it is something which cannot be walked away from.’

‘I honor you for wishing to continue it, Madame. You are willing, then, to go on as you have begun with the reports? For I begin to suspect that these tenma – these creatures – may indeed be in Peking as well.’

‘I am, thank you,’ said Lydia. ‘Though it’s rather difficult to pick out patterns in a foreign country, a world not my own. Could you – would you . . .’ She hesitated. ‘Is it possible that it is within your powers to get me access to banking records as well?’

‘Nothing simpler.’ He took a small tablet from the pocket of his plain blue uniform jacket and made a note to himself. ‘You understand that the Chinese – particularly the more traditional families – use a different system . . .?’

‘This would be Western banks,’ said Lydia. ‘The Franco-Chinois, the Hong Kong Specie Bank, the Indochine . . .’

‘It will be my pleasure, Dr Asher.’

She was aware that something she’d said had sparked his curiosity. His head tilted a little, and she felt, though she could not see his expression clearly, that behind his own thick lenses he was studying her face.

Crossing the lobby to return to her suite, she was accosted by the most persistent of her would-be suitors, Mr Edmund Woodreave: tallish, stooped, pot-bellied and wearing a coat which had seen better days. ‘Mrs Asher,’ he said, striding so quickly to cut her off from the stairs that she would have had to break into a run to avoid him, ‘I beg of you to give me the opportunity to express to you how sorry I am . . .’

‘Please . . .’ She made one of her Aunt Lavinnia’s best I’m-going-to-faint gestures.

‘Of course.’ Woodreave took her hand. ‘I quite understand. I only mean to tell you how deeply I appreciate the position in which you find yourself now, and to place myself entirely at your service.’

‘Thank you,’ said Lydia, in her most frail and failing accents. ‘If you will—’

He tightened his eager grip. ‘I hope you know that you can call upon me, at any time, for any service whatsoever. I know we’re not well acquainted, but I know also how difficult it is to be suddenly left on your own —’

‘I’m quite—’

‘—and any service that I can render you, at any hour of the day or night, you have only to send a note round to my lodgings at the Legation . . .’

Only the rigor of Lydia’s instruction by her Nanna, four aunts, and a stepmother prior to being brought ‘out’ in London Society, that she could not, must not, ever ever scream at anyone: Would you go away and let me alone? no matter how much they deserved it – and the knowledge that to do so now might announce to someone that she was not truly a widow and that Jamie was hiding somewhere – kept her silent for the next thirty minutes while Mr Woodreave explained to her how terrible it was to be a widow and how much he would like to help her.

Returning to her suite, she then had to deal with a stream of callers who arrived to pay their respects. Madame Hautecoeur and the Baroness turned up first – indeed, it was the Baroness who finally drove Mr Woodreave from the lobby – and presided over the tea table, bearing the brunt of the conversational duties while Paola Giannini stayed, loyal and blessedly silent, at Lydia’s side. Lydia felt sick with dread that Lady Eddington would appear. Much of the talk, in fact, was of that bereaved lady, who was preparing for the terrible task of accompanying her murdered daughter’s body home to England on the Princess Imperial. The women who came to comfort Lydia in her supposed grief spoke with genuine sorrow of Holly, and for the most part she hadn’t the courage to even open her mouth.

She finally pleaded a headache, and for the remainder of the day she stayed in her room, reading stories to Miranda and tallying police reports . . .

And scanning through banking records that were delivered at supper time, for any of a dozen names she had encountered in previous research.

On the following day she found one.