She went limp.

“It’s perfectly simple,” Miz said, addressing the two guards who were sitting on the floor of the sacristy. Cenuij stood by the locked door. Sharrow and Dloan lifted the book out of its palanquin and put it on a long, low vestment chest. Dloan slit the stitching on the book’s skin cover with a viblade. The guards watched, eyes wide.

“We’re going to take this actually quite worthless book away with us,” Miz told them, “and replace it with this rather attractive crate of empty beer jugs.” Miz pointed at the squat beer crate. The guards looked at it, then back at him. “And you aren’t going to say anything, because if you do, and we’re caught, we’ll destroy the book. So the choice is; raise the alarm and have to admit you let us take this supposedly incredibly precious article without really putting up a fight, or say nothing.” Miz spread his hands, smiling happily. “And live to spend these small tokens of our appreciation for your cooperation.” He counted out some silver coins and slipped them into the guards’ pockets.

Sharrow held the skin cover while Dloan slid the book out. The case revealed was made of stainless steel embedded with smooth stones of jacinth, sard, chrysoberyl and tourmaline and inlaid with whorls of soft gold. Dloan checked the lock mechanism. He smiled.

Cenuij pushed him out of the way and put his hands on the book’s case, gently turning it on its side. There was a single glyph on what looked like the spine of the metal box. It wasn’t a script that any of the others recognised, but Cenuij’s face radiated joy when he saw it.

“Yes,” he whispered, stroking the surface of the casing.

“This is it?” Miz asked quietly.

Cenuij glanced at the two guards then went, smiling, back to his position at the door.

Sharrow lifted the beer crate up onto the vestment chest. She shook the crate, rattling it, then crouched down to the lowest of the shallow, two metre-long drawers in the chest, sliding it out and lifting the elaborately embroidered robe within. She sliced off part of its train with the viblade, then tore the material into strips and stuffed those in between the dumpy beer jugs. She shook the crate again, seemed satisfied with its silence, put the top on and slid it into the skin book cover as she kicked the vestment drawer closed again.

Dloan had found some needles and thread. “How’s your invisible stitching?” he asked Sharrow.

She shook her head. “Not so much invisible as non-existent.”

Dloan shrugged. “Allow me,” he said modestly, sucking the end of the thread.

“I love you, I love you,” Geis mumbled, trying to push his hand inside her knickers.

She remained limp. “Geis,” she said, very quietly and meekly.

“What?” he panted. His flushed face looked down at hers, concerned.

“Get OFF me!” she roared, bringing her head up to crack his nose while one knee came up between his legs.

Her knee couldn’t connect because Geis’s trousers were in the way but her forehead thumped into Geis’s nose and mouth. He gasped. She pulled her hands free from his and wriggled round, turning underneath him and forcing her arms and legs through the depth of foam squares. She found the floor beneath and half-crawled, half-swam away, then staggered out to a wall, hauling herself upright.

Geis sat in the middle of the wedge of white foam. He touched the end of his nose, glaring at her and breathing hard.

“That wasn’t very nice, cuz,” he said. His voice was soft and flat. There was an expression of predatory appraisal in his eyes that sent a chill through her. For the first time in her life she felt frightened of a man. Her bottom lip started to tremble and she clamped her jaw shut, raising her head and glaring right back at him. They held each other’s gaze for a while.

He glanced towards the ceiling. “It’s an awful long way back to the surface,” he said quietly. “We’re very alone.” He started to slide through the hill of white foam towards her.

She swallowed. “Forget it, Geis,” she said, and was relieved, even in her terror, that her voice sounded level and calm. “Lay a finger on me and I swear I’ll bite your fucking throat out.” She wasn’t sure she didn’t mean it entirely literally, but the way it came out it sounded absurd and pathetic in her ears. Her heart pounded and she couldn’t breathe.

Geis stopped moving. He stared at her a moment longer, that same expression of raptorial calculation like a mask across his eyes.

She gulped a breath and tried to swallow again, her throat dry.

Then Geis gave a small laugh, relaxed and looked bashful. He sniffed, inspected his fingers for blood and attempted to waggle his two front teeth.

“Well, cuz,” he said. “I take it the answer’s No.” He grinned.

She pulled the wrap back across her shoulders. “That wasn’t funny, Geis,” she said.

He laughed. “It wasn’t meant to be funny,” he said. “Fun, yes, but not funny.”

“Well it wasn’t either,” she said, slipping one shoe back on and looking around for the other one. “Find my shoe and take me back to the party.”

“Yes, sir,” Geis said, sighing.

They returned to the New Year party via the buggy and the tunnel and the elevator. Geis joked and was charming and apologised offhandedly for what had happened. He offered her a drink from the echirn bottle and another shoan cheroot; she stared at the lift wall, monosyllabic. Geis laughed at her for being such a poor sport.

She joined the anti-Tax forces a few months later.

“I never really intended to pursue a life of crime,” Miz told the two guards, glancing at his watch. The others had been gone five minutes. He was giving them ten minutes’ start. The guards still sat on the floor, watching him. He’d taken the magazines out of their projectile carbines and was walking round the sacristy with the clips in one hand and his gun in the other.

He glanced up at a tall wardrobe, then looked back at the guards. “But I fell in with a bad crowd when I was young…”

He climbed up on a solid-looking desk at the side of the wardrobe, keeping his gun trained on the guards all the time. “My family.”

He peeked quickly at the top of the wardrobe, then put the magazines up there and jumped down. “Of course,” he said. “Society was to blame…”

They sat together under the furs in the rear of the open sleigh as it charged between the steep banks of snow. The sleighman cracked his whip over the heads of the twin sials straining in their jingling traces; a breeze stirred the tree-tops overhead, dislodging powdery snow and making the road lights swing on their wires.

“I did see a VTOL,” Miz said to her as the hotel came into view round the side of the hill. The hotel and the other buildings in the small village were speckled with lights creating pools of amber, yellow and white on the snow, and behind the hotel, on the uncovered handball court, glittered the sleek, silver shape of a private jet. Traditional music thudded from the hotel ballroom and mingled with modern sounds from the open windows of the bar, the combined cacophony echoing off the cliffs behind the village.

People in furs and ski clothes were sitting drinking steaming bowls of winter wine on the hotel’s front steps; the sials’ breath blew out in great white clouds as the sleigh drew up.

Sharrow looked at the svelte body of the private jet, and frowned.

They were waiting five kilometres out of town, where the road crested a ridge and a series of root-tubes were carried diagonally over the track on enormous bark trestles, leaving about enough room for a rider to pass underneath without ducking.

Dloan climbed to the top of one of the tubes and watched the road leading back towards the town. He saw the single rider approaching. There was nobody following.

“Okay?” Sharrow asked him as Miz reined the jemer in.

He shook his head. “Hell no,” he said, rubbing his behind. “These things really give you a sore bum when they gallop, don’t they?”