Harper held up the phosphor lamp and read the encoding over the hatch he had just reached, Deut 15-6. "Deuteronomy, chapter 15, verse 6. 'Lend unto many nations, but borrow of none, so shall thou reign over many.' Pipes for the Banker's rows, I'll bet."

He turned and walked past three more hatches. At last, he found the one marked Deut 19-18. Harper smirked at the wordplay of the chosen verse: And the judges shall make diligent inquisition.

The hatch screeched a sharp protest as Harper forced the rusted bearings of the hinge to swing open. Rank yellow water dribbled out from the open shaft. The air smelled both stale and putrid. Clearly, the water pipes leading to the Brighton Inquisition House hadn't been checked in a few years. Harper ducked inside, pulling the hatch closed behind him.

The shaft was narrow and tall. Water seeped from the pipe running overhead and spattered down onto Harper's cap. A stagnant stream of water rippled around his ankles. Harper moved fast through the dank pools, his phosphor lamp casting an eerie green glow over the water. Where the maintenance shaft split into a Y juncture, he scanned the concrete walls for the few short letters that indicated the streets far above him.

Movement soothed his mind. It almost drowned out the incessant count of seconds that ran through his head. He had, perhaps, another half hour before the Inquisitors completely evacuated the Civic Plaza. After that, it would only take a quarter of an hour be-fore one of them discovered that the gas lines were fine. Harper had simply tampered with the intake valves of a few streetlamps to ensure that their explosive displays set off the city alarms.

Harper broke into a run. It eased him to finally take action. Forced to watch and wait for Belimai to surface from his private torture all of the previous week, he had felt helpless. It had drawn him perilously close to prayer, and Harper knew he no longer had the faith for that.

But motion fed him. His muscles devoured the space between himself and his desire. He poured himself into the pure sensation of his body. He leapt up onto an access ladder and climbed into an adjoining shaft. He raced through the second shaft, ducking and jumping the smaller water pipes that cut across his path.

At last he stood directly under the Brighton Inquisition House. He clipped the phosphor lamp onto a narrow pipe and gripped the rusted entry hatch with both hands. Even through his gloves, the metal felt rough. Harper shoved hard against the hatch, feeling the ragged metal bite into the palm of his right hand. The thick seal of rust cracked with a low scrape, and the hatch swung open. Harper crawled forward through the series of tiny chambers that buffered the Inquisition House in case of a burst pipe. He climbed a narrow rung ladder up to a final hatch, forced it open, and pulled himself out onto a cracked tile floor.

The pump room was cluttered with an assortment of mops, brooms, and valve wrenches. Harper wrung the water out of his pant cuffs. His right palm stung. He squeezed his hand closed around the cut. He straightened his cap and left the pump room.

The Inquisition House wasn't empty, but there were fewer men than usual. Most were still out at the Civic Plaza, Harper guessed. He climbed an immaculate white staircase to the third floor. His heart beat in his chest like a jackrabbit in a wire trap. An acolyte passed him. They exchanged brief smiles.

Harper strolled past two more Inquisitors and let himself into the records room with his own key. Once he had pulled the door closed, he raced to the open cases. He flipped rapidly through break-ins, stabbings, robberies, and heresies.

At last he found Edward's name. He was being held as a witness for prosecution against Nick Sariel and another undisclosed suspect. Harper folded the page of charges up, slipped it into his pocket, and then looked over the record of Edward's testimony. Harper knew better than to feel betrayed at seeing his own name disclosed. He hadn't expected Edward to be able to hold out against trained Confessors.

Harper added the testimony to his pocket and then scanned through the files for Nick Sariel's name among Captain Brandson's cases. The file was nearly an inch thick. Harper skipped over Nick Sariel's past crimes and dug out the recent accusations. An unsigned confession waited in the file. Harper found his own initials penciled in several times beside the word accomplice. The handwriting wasn't Brandson's; it was Abbot Greeley's.

For a moment Harper simply stared at the page. He didn't know why it surprised him that Abbot Greeley would frame him for murder. Greeley hated him, and Harper was a liability to him. And yet Harper hadn't expected the abbot to sink so far.

Harper pocketed the confession and then dropped Nick Sariel's entire file inside another sheaf of papers containing cases that were up for dismissal. It was doubtful that Nick would be released, but at least the lost paperwork would delay his interrogation.

From the floors below, Harper heard a rising rumble of voices. The first of the Inquisitors were returning from the false alarm at the Civic Plaza. Soon, men would come bustling in to file their reports. Harper thought he heard familiar voices coming up the stairs.

He slipped out of the records room and took the back stairs down to the first floor. He passed a few other Inquisitors, but they took as little note of him as they did of each other. The broad black lines of his uniform melted into the mass of other Inquisitors on the first floor.

Harper's pulse beat wildly. If he was caught now, he could offer no reasonable explanation. The idea of fighting his way free was ludicrous. Inquisitors were everywhere. The brilliant white halls were filled with the whispers of their black coats. Men bumped and jostled past Harper. For the first time in his life, Harper felt unsafe among them.

From a distance he caught sight of Miller. As usual, Reynolds was beside him. Harper dropped back, pacing himself along-side an acolyte. He kept his gaze averted as Miller and Reynolds passed him.

Just ahead, Harper noted a shock of red hair amidst the sea of black caps. Captain Brandson had forgotten his cap again. Harper whispered silent thanks for that. Miller and Reynolds might not have been watching for him, but Brandson would be.

Harper quickly turned down the hall and took a back corridor to the witness holding cells. He couldn't get past the heavy security in the Prodigal section, but at least he could try to free Edward.

Harper didn't know the young man standing guard, and he hoped that the man didn't recognize him either. Harper stopped himself from pulling his cap a little lower.

"I need to take one of the witnesses down to the engines." Harper paused as if the name weren't burning on his lips. "Talbott. I believe the first name is Edward."

The young guard hardly looked beyond the shining silver insignias on Harper's collar. He scanned through the ledger of the prisoners and then pushed the book and a cell key to Harper. Harper paused only an instant as he glanced at the previous sig-natures in the prisoner ledger. He signed in Brandson's initials, took the key, and went to Edward's cell.

Two cells down another Inquisitor was checking in on a witness of his own. Harper hoped that Edward was still cognizant enough to keep quiet. He unlocked the door and stepped into the small cell.

Edward crouched on a narrow cot with his legs drawn up and his face pressed down into his knees. The confessor had not been gentle with him. His right arm was bandaged from the elbow down. Splints jutted out from under his first two fingers. Edward didn't even glance up.

"Don't take me back there," Edward whispered. "I'll sign what-ever you want. Just don't take me back."