THE
TRAITOR’S
GATE

The Nowhere Chronicles
BOOK II

SARAH PINBOROUGH

For Tim Lebbon and Mark Morris, my first buddies on this adventure of writing. Thank you for everything. One for all, and all for one!

THE MAGI’S PROPHECY

Nine there are, and standing side by side
Linked by Love, Truth, Freedom, Hatred, Pride –
Their blood, it is the river’s ebb and tide.

Here are two reflections of the same,
The dead bones of the one, the other’s frame –
The Magi see the unravelling of the game:

This, their Prophecy.

The dark man comes to rule the new Dark Age.
His door admits those too who come to save.

Travellers from without, within
Bring honour, valour, hate and sin.
Light and dark and shades of each,
Will move through voids, the worlds to breach.

When life and death are bound in one,
The balance of all will come undone,
And love, the greatest damage cause
And forge the war to end all wars.

Eternal stories held unready shall bring
Black tempest, madness, and a battle for King.

The Magi cannot see the Prophecy’s end,
Perhaps the Order of Travellers will defend.
Perhaps the stories will hold strong and clear,
The damaged keep us from the abyss of fear.

Don’t fight these tellings: their passing must come,
But prepare, both worlds, for that which must be done.

When one plus one plus one is four.
All the worlds shall wait no more.

THE STORY SO FAR . . .

On Finmere Tingewick Smith’s sixteenth birthday, during his annual visit to Orrery House, he finds a strange old man in a secret room who appears to know a lot about him. He’s hauled out by his guardian, Judge Harlequin Brown, who declares it high time Fin learned more about his life, and his strange one-year-here and one-year-there existence, split between two schools and two best friends.

Before the Judge has time to fully explain Fin’s enigmatic background, he is murdered, stabbed through the heart with a golden double-edged sword, and with his death, Fin and his two best friends, Christopher Arnold-Mather and Joe Manning, are thrown into the middle of an adventure. The Storyholder, who holds the Five Eternal Stories within her, and thus safeguards all the worlds, has been kidnapped, and the teenagers must travel into The Nowhere, an alternate London, and find Fowkes, a long-lost Knight, to help rescue the Storyholder. She is in the hands of St John Golden, the Commander of the Knights of Nowhere, who has turned from the path of good to bad. He believes the stories will make him the Dark King, talked of in the Prophecy handed down by the long-banished Magi.

Fin wants revenge for the murder of the Judge, but he also hopes to learn something about his unknown parents – he was found in a cardboard box as a baby on the steps of the Old Bailey, here in The Somewhere, as our world is known, the only clues to his parentage a knitted blanket and a ring. Now it’s beginning to look like his father might be Baxter, a long-dead Knight, for Fin has discovered it was Baxter’s ring left in his cardboard box on the steps of the courthouse sixteen years before.

During their quest, Fin and his friends are helped by a Nowhere girl called Mona, who joins them to find Fowkes, meet the cursed Prince Regent, push a Knight called George Porter down a bottomless well, and fight the Black Storm that threatens both worlds.

Finmere manages to save the Storyholder from the Incarcerator Prison, but she’s had to bite off her own tongue in order to keep the stories secret from St John Golden. Christopher has accidentally discovered that his father is in league with Golden, and to make up for his father’s evil acts, undergoes a ritual with a Magus which costs the Magus his life and Christopher more than half of his own lifespan. The result of their dark magic is a potion that allows three of the Knights, Aged by Travelling between the worlds, to become young men again. The boys return to Orrery House in time to help in the fight against Golden.

After Golden is defeated and the Black Storm disperses, Fin – who still has no idea who his parents are – takes the recovering Storyholder to where he has hidden the blanket found with him in his cardboard box – for that is where she had hidden the Five Eternal Stories. As they pour out in stripes of colour, only three of the five find their way back inside her. The final two – the red and black – instead go into Finmere’s friend Joe.

And here in The Somewhere’s London, Justin Arnold-Mather, his own treachery undiscovered, is preparing for his next dark move.

PROLOGUE

The smell of blood, sweet, warm . . . everywhere. The air was thick with it under the sludgy stink of life. The air was . . . familiar. It had been such a long, long time that sometimes he didn’t even remember who he was. What he was. Tongues and teeth and heat flashed behind his eyes. He shuddered. He wasn’t there, not anymore. That nightmare was over. He’d clawed his way back. His torn and bleeding fingernails were testament to that.

Blood.

So sweet.

His mouth watered as he wandered through the dark, cobbled streets. It was night but unlike where he’d been, there were lights here. Lights, and life, and laughter. The human sounds hurt his ears and tugged at his heart as his feet shuffled along the dirty road. He squinted in the yellow glow of the gas lamp. Everything was familiar: not quite home, but almost. He thought he might be crying; it was all so confusing. He’d been gone for an eternity. He thought perhaps he’d half-become one of them, he’d lived like them for so long. He’d eaten like them. If he wasn’t crying then he thought he should be.

‘Night, Albert,’ the young woman called as she stepped out into the street right in front of him. He ducked into a doorway and peered cautiously round the side of the rough stone.

A disembodied arm, cut off just above the rolled-up shirt sleeve, waved the girl off.

‘Night, Tilda. See you tomorrow.’ A man’s voice, with a soft East End London accent.

London. That’s where he was. Of course.

‘I’ll be sharp.’ The young woman smiled over her shoulder.

The pub door closed and he heard the hard squeal of a metal bolt being drawn across it.

Blood.

The girl’s blonde hair shone in the light from the pub windows, the curls carefully styled so they still fell neatly onto the collar of her coat, even after having worked behind the hot bar all evening. She was pretty, and her low heels clicked on the stones as she passed him and turned down the narrow alley opposite.

Blood. He smelled blood.

His feet slithered after her. It was night after all. And his tongue was growing.

PART ONE

ONE

If the ground floor of Orrery House was always slightly too warm, the third floor was a virtual sauna. Jarvis had hung up Fin’s jacket downstairs, and as soon as the door was shut behind him the teenager stripped off the thick sweatshirt and long-sleeved top he was wearing over his T-shirt to keep him warm against the icy December blasts; in Orrery House they were definitely surplus to requirements.

His face was still flushed with heat as he looked around. This had been Simeon Soames’ room. It was less than two months since Fin had come to shave that old man’s face, just one of the old boys who filled the house. It felt like a lifetime ago – but time was a funny thing, as everyone around him was so fond of saying. Simeon Soames was no longer confined to a wheelchair by the Ageing, and he had moved out to a flat close by. Whole new worlds had quite literally opened up for Finmere since that night, his sixteenth birthday, though they hadn’t stopped Ted and Fowkes packing him back off to Eastfields Comprehensive for the remainder of the term. That had been an abject lesson in how time could slow itself down when you least wanted it to. Fin hadn’t needed to do any Travelling to find that out. Still, school was done now, and the holidays were here. It was Christmas and there were two whole weeks before he had to think about Eastfields again.

He tugged the stiff window open slightly, allowing a small, sharp breeze to cut through the oppressive heat, and stared out at the dark evening. Fairy lights twinkled on the trees and bushes that lined the square, and through one of the windows opposite – the offices of some bank or business – he could see a large, heavily decorated Christmas tree. The colours were simple, just red and gold, nothing too gaudy for a work environment, and the tree was strung with pearls instead of tinsel, but it was beautiful all the same. Normally the sight of any Christmas tree was enough to make Fin smile – a blend of holiday excitement and festive good cheer – but this time he found there was also a tiny kernel of sadness mixed up in all that traditional warmth.

He looked down at the ring on his middle finger and the jewel that glinted at its centre. Even in the short time that had passed it was fitting more snugly than when Harlequin Brown had handed it over. Another sign that he was growing up. Funny, he’d always thought that when you got older you got more answers, but that didn’t appear to be true. His world was still full of questions. He still didn’t know who he really was, or where he’d come from. If only the Storyholder—

‘Your sword’s under the bed.’

Fin jumped slightly at the sudden intrusion on his thoughts.

‘You know, for if you want to visit Joe. And your friends. And there ain’t no reason you shouldn’t ’ave it when you’re ’ere, is there?’ Ted smiled from where he stood in the doorway. ‘And it’s good to ’ave you ’ere, Fin. For Christmas. It really is.’

‘Thanks.’ Fin smiled. The old man was no longer a once-a-year-almost-stranger, and the strange bond between the boy and man had grown into something strong. Until he knew anything different, Ted was the only family Fin had, as close as, anyway. It was good to be at Orrery House for the holidays – the first he’d ever spent there – but it also felt like another sign of the changing times, and as much as his old life frustrated him, sometimes Fin couldn’t help but be afraid of where his new life might lead him. Ted, dressed in his nightwatchman’s uniform, looked just the same as ever, though. There was always something comforting about seeing Ted.

‘How have things been?’ Fin asked. ‘Is everything okay now?’ The past few weeks at Eastfields had not only gone by tediously slowly, but he’d had very little information about events in The Nowhere. It was as if, now that his adventure was done, he was expected to just slip back into school life as if nothing had changed. How was anyone supposed to do that? Especially as Joe hadn’t been there to keep him company.

Thinking of Joe, Fin’s heart tightened he felt slightly ashamed. What was he whining about anyway? He’d dragged his two best friends into the madness of his strange life and neither of them had come out unscathed.

‘So-so,’ Ted said. ‘Fowkes is Commanding the Order now. I think Harlequin would have approved of that.’ The old man’s eyes softened at the memory of Judge Harlequin Brown, Fin’s erstwhile guardian, and Fin gave him a small smile. He wanted Ted to know that he felt the Judge’s loss too.

‘Joe’s still with the Storyholder. They’re ’aving some problems getting the stories out of ’im, but they’ll get there.’ Ted’s smile was kind. ‘Things could’ve been worse, you know, Fin. You did good – we all did good.’

Fin crouched down and pulled the heavy double-edged sword out from under the single bed. The metal was warm, and he felt the familiar tingle running through his veins. Ted was right, of course: things could have gone a whole lot worse. St John Golden was beaten, lost in the Incarcerator Mirror, and the Knights were regrouping. For the moment the Black Storm had disappeared. So why did he have this feeling that perhaps they were all celebrating a little too soon? And was that feeling coming from the black space behind the locked door in his mind? He was tired of it, whatever it was. The Christmas holidays were finally here and he fully intended enjoying them with his friends, his family, the Knights of Nowhere, and all those who had helped them in their fight against St John Golden and his gang. If they weren’t worried, when they knew far more about all this Somewhere and Nowhere business than he ever would, then why should he be?

Fin lifted the sword and turned it this way and that, catching the soft light in the room on the edges. It felt good in his hands, and he had to fight the urge to slice open a doorway to The Nowhere. His fingers tingled. The sword was as eager to be used as he was to use it.

‘One of the finest, that sword,’ Ted came further into the room and let the door shut behind him, ‘and you’re a natural with it, that much is clear. You’ll make a fine Knight one day, Fin, and that’ll make this old man very ’appy.’

The ruby embedded in the hilt winked at Finmere, and the boy looked from the sword to the ring on his finger and back again. At the centre of the black and gold ring sat a sparkling jade-coloured stone. Unlike everyone else who wore both sword and ring, his two stones were different colours.

‘I wonder where Baxter’s sword is,’ he said, the thought slipping out of his mouth before he could stop it.

‘It’ll turn up when it’s good and ready.’ Ted leaned on the desk beside the bed. ‘These things ’ave an ’abit of doing that. My guess is the Storyholder’s got it safe somewhere. She’ll give it back when she thinks the time’s right.’

‘I wish mine matched, that’s all. Like all the others.’

‘But you’re not like all the others, mate.’ Ted smiled, wrinkles creasing his face as he did. ‘So maybe everything’s exactly as it should be.’

Fin put the sword down next to his holdall on the bed and shook the tingles out of his fingers. Nothing felt like it was as it should be. He wished that niggle was as easy to shake away as the sword’s tingle.

‘Is Fowkes here?’ he asked.

‘No, ’e’s over at The Rookhaven Suite. Got a few things to do.’ Ted’s eyes darkened slightly. ‘But ’e’ll be along later to say ’ello. You know, if all ’is business gets done.’

Finmere wasn’t surprised. He got the feeling that Fowkes didn’t like him very much, and he wasn’t sure exactly why. Sometimes he caught the Knight looking at him oddly out of the corner of one eye, and it felt like Fowkes chose every word he said to Fin, rather than just talking to him naturally. It was weird. Maybe Fowkes just didn’t like that Fin had Baxter’s ring. After all, they’d been best friends, back in the day. Still, whatever it was that made Fowkes act odd around him, Finmere was pretty sure it wasn’t his fault, and that made it worse, because he didn’t know how to make it better. Grown-ups were hard work. He was happy to stay a teenager for a while longer.

The strains of ‘God rest ye Merry, Gentlemen’ drifted through the open window and both Finmere and Ted stared out. The small Salvation Army band had taken up position in the square and were singing at the door of Orrery House. The brass instruments blew the wind aside as they blasted out the tune and the singers – many much older than the true ages of the men they were singing to – held up sticks with old-fashioned lamps attached. Watching them and listening to the soft blue notes of their carol made Fin feel happy and sad all rolled into one.

‘They come every year,’ Ted said quietly. ‘There might be no sign outside, Fin, but some folk knows we’re ’ere.’

Fin almost smiled. Outside, it was nearly Christmas, a time of good cheer. Why couldn’t he feel that?

‘Jarvis will be getting some mulled wine and ’ome-made mince pies ready to take out to ’em. Why don’t we go and give ’im an ’and?’ Ted’s kind eyes twinkled. ‘I could use a mince pie and a drop o’ something warm meself. And then of course we’ve got the tree to decorate.’

‘I didn’t see a tree.’ Fin’s mood lifted slightly.

‘We was waiting for you. There’s always a tree. Who doesn’t ’ave a tree at Christmas? What kind of thinking is that?’

Fin smiled, and this time he felt it in the pit of his stomach.

‘Unless, of course,’ Ted said, ‘you’re too old for decorating a Christmas tree—’

‘You can never be too old for that, Ted. You going to help?’

‘’course I am, son. Now let’s go before that lot out there eat all the pies.’

Grinning, Fin followed the old man out into the heat of the third-floor landing and towards the stairs. He glanced over at the inconspicuous little alcove behind which, not so long ago, he’d found a secret room. Where there had been a vase of lilies then now stood an arrangement of holly and berries. Fin wondered what would happen if he reached out and moved it. Maybe later, he thought, as they took the spiral stairway down into the heart of the house. It was Christmas, after all.

TWO

‘At least they brought you back in an unmarked car,’ Mr Arnold-Mather said dryly as he watched the tall gates at the end of the drive swinging slowly shut. He closed the front door and turned to face his son. ‘It could have been worse. The police, at least, don’t wish to embarrass me.’

Christopher favoured his father with an unfocused glare and headed into the kitchen. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he called over his shoulder, aware that he was slurring his words slightly, ‘the man in the off-licence recognised me. Well, he called me “that bastard politician’s son”. I presumed from that he must know you.’

He drank a glass of tap water, aware of his father watching from the doorway. His stomach rolled and his throat burned. The combination of alcohol and cigarettes made him feel sick, but he was going to keep going with it until he got used to them. He’d only drunk four bottles of beer, but that was enough to leave him with a dull headache once the initial buzz had worn off, and although he was way past the ‘two cigarettes and whitey’ stage, any more than three or four left his chest feeling tight and sore.

‘Why are you doing this, Christopher?’ His father’s voice oozed disappointment and irritation. Christopher did his best to hear some sort of care in it, but failed to find any. That didn’t come as any great surprise.

‘The sergeant said you were demanding a bottle of vodka, and smoking in the shop.’ Arnold-Mather’s eyes were cold. ‘It’s almost as if you wanted to get arrested.’

‘There’s no flies on you, Dad.’ Christopher leaned back against the sink and crossed his arms. Just looking at his dad made him angry in ways he couldn’t even put into words. It was like a river of rage flowing constantly through his veins. He’d thought when he’d gone through the ritual with the magus that it would somehow make everything better, but it hadn’t – everything was worse. His dad still had that smug, superior smile on his face, and Christopher still couldn’t bring himself to tell anyone about the cigarette case. Not that there’d been anyone to tell. Fin had been sent straight back to Eastfields, and he’d gone back to St Martin’s. What was it with adults that made them think they could just turn the world on its head and then expect you to believe that school was important? Like he even cared about school any more . . .

‘Where’s Mother?’ he asked, a small twinge of guilt adding to the nausea roiling his insides. His mother was kind. She was a good person. When he’d been suspended and sent home from school a week early, the only option left at St Martin’s for a boy who insisted on sneaking out every night and rabble-rousing, he’d seen the hurt and confusion in her face. Where was her good boy? that face said. What was he supposed to tell her? That he was still there, somewhere deep inside, but that he’d done something good that he couldn’t feel good about? Or that she was married to someone who was prepared to kill to get what he wanted? To tell her that would mean that he’d have to admit that to himself, and worse, he’d have to tell Fin, and Fowkes and the Order. What would they think of him then, the son of a ruthless bastard?

He would do his best to discredit his father, to do what damage he could where possible, but he couldn’t bring himself to confront him with what he knew – and that made Christopher dislike himself even more.

‘She’s at church.’ Justin Arnold-Mather looked as if he’d forgotten he even had a wife. ‘They’ve got a carol service on tonight. She’s doing whatever it is she does up there.’

‘Getting away from you, probably.’

‘What is it, Christopher?’ His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘What is it that’s made you so angry? You’ve been different ever since you ran away from me after that school trip to the House of Detention.’

Christopher stared at his father. He felt a small knot of fear tangled up in his insides. This was a game they were playing. There was no way that his dad still believed they’d been on a valid school trip – even if he hadn’t known all along that the Doorway was there then, he had to by now. In fact, his dad knew everything, it turned out. He’d played Christopher.

Well, now Christopher knew something no one else did. ‘Teenage angst, Dad,’ he said. ‘There’s a lot of it going around.’

‘Not like this there isn’t,’ Arnold-Mather said thoughtfully. ‘You’ve gone from straight As to not bothering in the space of a few weeks, and as for all the rest of it . . .’ His right shoulder twitched, as much of a shrug as he could bring himself to make. ‘St Martin’s will expel if you keep this up, the Headmaster has made that quite clear. And that,’ he said, ‘would break your mother’s heart.’

The well-chosen words pricked like a dart. Christopher didn’t like letting his mother down; he didn’t like seeing that pain on her face. But what was he supposed to do, just play happy families and ignore everything he’d discovered his father to be?

‘You’ll throw your life away if you carry on down this road,’ Mr Arnold-Mather said. ‘Is that what you want?’

The irony almost made Christopher laugh out loud. Much of his life was gone, but he hadn’t thrown it away. ‘I don’t know what I want,’ he said finally. That was the truth.

‘We should be standing together, you and I.’ Arnold-Mather took a few steps further into the room. ‘Father and son.’

Christopher watched him warily. What was he suggesting – that they join up in whatever nefarious plans his dad might have for the Order? After everything he’d done? Or maybe he thought that Christopher was as power-hungry and heartless as he was? What would his father make of the sacrifice he’d made? Call him a fool, probably. Perhaps there was a kind of revenge in that.

The buzzer saved him from having to say any more and as his father answered the gate intercom by the kitchen door Christopher splashed cold water on his face. He didn’t feel good at all.

‘And you are?’ Mr Arnold-Mather spoke into the machine. He listened for a moment, then said, ‘I see. And you want to talk to me about Christopher?’

There was another pause. Then he said grudgingly, ‘Well, you’d better come in then.’

Christopher could feel his father’s eyes burning into his back.

‘What now?’ Behind him, Arnold-Mather’s words echoed his son’s thoughts.

What now?

‘Merry Christmas,’ Christopher muttered. ‘Merry bloody Christmas.’

London’s streets were always busy, but as Fin wove his way through the crowds with Ted there was barely space for them to walk side by side without being jostled this way and that. Last-minute Christmas shoppers filled the pavements, using their bags full of as-yet-unwrapped gifts as weapons against the wave of on-comers. Those dressed in suits strode equally purposefully towards their offices, knowing that the days would be filled with staff parties and after-work drinks. The crisp air was filled with the anticipation of good times, and although it was freezing, the sun shone down from a cloudless blue sky.

‘Where are we going?’ Fin asked, lengthening his stride to keep up. Ted might be due to retire, but he didn’t show any signs of slowing down. When they’d left Orrery House half an hour earlier, the old man hadn’t given him any clues as to their destination, except to say that he thought it was a trip Finmere might like to tag along on. Which was fine with Fin: getting out in the fresh air might be just the thing to clear the lingering sense of trouble he couldn’t shake.

His first night at Orrery House hadn’t done anything to set him at his ease. Fowkes hadn’t appeared, and he’d only seen Lucas Blake in passing – although at least that Knight had given him a cheerful wink before disappearing into Freddie Wise’s room. After decorating the tree, Ted had gone off to his job as nightwatchman at the Old Bailey, and Fin had eaten his supper alone, down in the basement kitchen. For a house that was supposedly full of people he’d barely seen anyone, and when he’d asked the butler what they were all doing, Jarvis had just looked at him like he was some kind of mental and said, ‘They arrive tomorrow – the selected,’ before disappearing off to do whatever it was he did all day. That had left Fin none the wiser – not that that was any surprise. The one certain fact in his life was that Orrery House would always raise more questions than it would ever provide answers.

Left to his own devices, Fin had gone back up to the third floor and moved the vase of holly out of the alcove, but to his disappointment no secret doorway appeared. Instead, he was left staring at the painted plaster. A cautious exploration of the rest of the house had revealed no evidence of anything interesting, so by nine-thirty he was back in his room, lying on the narrow single bed with a book and pretending it wasn’t at all weird to be sleeping there.

Needless to say he didn’t have a very restful night. For a house dominated by apparently very elderly men, there was an awful lot of shuffling along the corridors at night. Day and night didn’t seem to mean much to the Knights of Nowhere, retired or otherwise – but time was a funny thing, after all.

‘’Ere we are.’ Ted suddenly stopped, halfway along one side of Russell Square.

‘Here?’ Fin looked around him. As far as he could tell they weren’t anywhere overly exciting.

Ted tilted his head. ‘Use your eyes, Fin mate. Blimey!’

Fin did as Ted had instructed him and looked around. Ted had brought them to a halt outside a green hut that stood alongside the railings that enclosed the square’s garden. Its painted panels shone glossily, and there were three hanging baskets bright with winter flowers of some sort beside the open door. How had he not seen it? He remembered Judge Harlequin Brown pointing out how much of the city people missed by not looking up at the buildings every once in a while – so how much of London did Fin miss by being so lost in his own thoughts all the time? He looked at the hut again. It was a strange thing: completely out of place, and yet totally belonging where it was, all at the same time.

‘What is it?’ he asked at last.

‘It’s a cab shelter – you know, for taxi drivers. There’re thirteen of them. Some might say that’s an unlucky number, but luck’s a funny thing – it can go either way. There ain’t lucky or unlucky numbers; that just ain’t true. But there are special numbers, and thirteen’s one of them.’

‘Like sixteen, then.’

‘That’s right, like sixteen.’ He paused and lit a cigarette. ‘And eleven. That one can be a funny bugger too.’

‘So what’s so special about cab shelters?’ Fin had never heard of them before. ‘What’s the point of them?’

‘That’s two different questions.’ Ted exhaled a long stream of smoke. ‘Most people would say that the point of ’em is to give your ’ard-working cabbie a place to rest up and grab a cup of tea or a bacon sarnie – or maybe on days like this an ’ot chocolate – without ’aving to find somewhere to park up and pay a meter. Why’re they special? Now, that’s a different question.’

Fin didn’t interrupt. The air was cold, and his freezing nose had reached the stage when he was sure that it was about to start running uncontrollably, as if even his snot was desperate to get somewhere warmer, but he just sniffed hard and shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets. Ted had a way of sharing extraordinary things in the most ordinary way, and Fin had a feeling something was coming up now.

‘Cabbies’ve got the Knowledge. You ’eard of that?’

Fin nodded. Everyone in London knew about that: Black Cab drivers had to take an exam on it before they could get their licence. ‘They have to know all the streets in London or something, don’t they? Or at least the middle of it.’

‘Six-mile radius of Charing Cross, to be exact. That’s the official Knowledge. But some drivers – and you’ll always find ’em ’ere – they ’ave’ – and he tapped the side of his weather-beaten nose – ‘they ‘ave the knowledge.’

Fin sniffed hard. His nose was definitely running now. ‘Sorry, Ted, but you’ve lost me.’ He gave up and ran his sleeve across his face.

‘Wake up, lad. The knowledge – about us.’ He threw his cigarette down and ground it out. ‘You ever need to get a message to me, if you’re stuck in the city and don’t know where to go or what to do and you don’t think the Old Bailey or Orrery House are safe, then you find one of these cab shelters and you wait. When a cab parks up, you check and see if it ’as a small sticker in the bottom left-’and corner of the windscreen – if it does, then the driver knows. You pass a message on through ’im, or maybe ’e’ll give one to you. That’s ’ow the knowledge works.’

‘They know about the Order? The Nowhere?’ Fin’s eyes widened as he looked around at the cabs that were weaving their way through the traffic circling the square. Ted’s words might not have done much to allay the gnawing sense of wrongness in his stomach, but the idea that there were strangers cruising the streets of the city who shared his secrets was slightly comforting.

‘They don’t know everything,’ Ted said, ‘but they know enough. And anyways, everyone knows cabbies are far more interested in talking than asking questions, and that suits us just fine.’

‘Shall we go in and get a hot chocolate then?’ Fin stamped his feet in an effort dispel some of the numbness that was spreading up from his toes.

‘It ain’t for us – we ain’t cabbies. You got to know your place, Fin. No, we’ll just wait out ’ere, and then when we get back to the big ’ouse, there might be a surprise waiting for you. Stop you being so bored on your ’olidays.’

Ted winked again, and Fin smiled. His life was full of surprises, most of which seemed completely unsurprising to Ted and the Order. What could this one be?

‘So, what are we waiting for? A message?’

As he asked the question, three sleek black cabs drew up in a line in front of them. Fin peered at the window of the first. Down in the corner, almost out of sight, was a small black and white sticker. He could just about make out a sword at the centre of it.

‘Oh no,’ Ted answered, ‘this is better than that. We’re not the only ones waiting at the shelters today. Simeon Soames ’as gone to Chelsea Embankment and ’arper Jones is at ’anover Square.’ He drew himself up tall and nodded at the drivers. ‘We’re ’ere to meet the selected – new blood, Fin, new Knights to rebuild the Order.’

Doors opened and the taxis, whose engines hadn’t even stopped running, drove away, leaving their cargo on the pavement: three young men, each with a small suitcase at his side.

‘Are you Ted Merryweather?’ the closest to them asked. He was tall, with a shock of ginger hair nesting on his head, and he wore thick-framed glasses. ‘I’m Alex Currie-Clark.’

‘So you are, me lad.’ Ted grinned. ‘So you are.’ He nodded to the other two. ‘And you’re the twins, Benjamin and ’enry Wakley. Glad to see you’re not identical. Life’s confusing enough without people going around looking ’xactly the same as other people.’

The twins were both sandy-haired. One smiled back, his eyes twinkling with adventure; the other stared seriously at both Ted and then Fin himself. No, Fin decided, these two weren’t identical at all.

‘Right then,’ Ted rubbed his hands together, ‘let’s get you back to Charterhouse Square. There’s a lot to be done before the Initiation Ceremony tonight.’

The young men fell in step behind Ted, and with Fin in their midst they formed something of a bundle rather than two pairs as they headed back through the biting air. Fin was still slightly short for his age, but his head at least reached the shoulders of the three men. He no longer felt like a child – they weren’t that much older than him, after all.

‘Which one of you is which?’ he asked, his nose running again.

‘I’m Henry,’ the twin with the grin said. ‘That’s Benjamin. He was in the Army, hence that serious expression – although he was always the serious one, even before that explosion exploded his eardrum. Bloody good at sport though.’

‘Is this my CV?’ Benjamin asked, casting a sideways glance at his brother. ‘Shall I tell yours?’

‘No need.’ Henry winked at Fin. ‘I like to think of this as a fresh start.’

‘I was in the Army,’ Currie-Clark chimed in. ‘Well, the Territorial Army, really. I was thinking of trying out for the real thing – or maybe the Navy – when my current government contract ran out. But then – well, this came up.’

‘Government contract?’ Henry asked.

‘Just computer stuff. You know.’ Currie-Clark shrugged it away, but Henry’s eyes were sharp. ‘You’re some kind of techno whizz kid, aren’t you?’ he asked. ‘Like a hacker?’

‘We don’t actually like to use that term, and I’ve never done anything illegal but—’

‘I bet you could make a lot of money with a skill like that.’

‘Little brother,’ Benjamin said, ‘fresh start?’

The lighter-haired twin laughed, and Fin liked the sound.

‘“Little brother”. Two minutes off the mark and I’ll always be the youngest.’

Finmere let the men creep slightly ahead of him as he listened to their banter. He felt somehow older than the three of them – well, Currie-Clark and Henry Wakley, anyway. He’d already learned that the downside of the excitement of an adventure was that adventures invariably caused damage, and these two didn’t yet know that, he suspected. He watched the stiff spine of the man in the middle. Benjamin Wakley was different. He knew, Finmere was pretty sure of that.