“We’ve got to get out of here,” Helen explained. “There are some people chasing after me. Just as bad as those three. Worse, probably.”

That news caused Berry to sit erect. Try to, at least. The effort was too much for her. But, again, she gave evidence that her mind was still intact.

“If you—you and Lars—can get us maybe two hundred yards, there’s a crossover to another channel. And after that—not far—there’s another. That one leads up, and then down. That’ll be hard. I’ll try to walk, but you’ll probably have to carry me. But if we can get down there it’s the perfect place to hide.”

For a moment, something like pride seem to come into the battered face. “That’s my secret place. Mine and Lars’. ” Softly: “It’s a special place.”

Helen had already decided that she would have to take the two children with her. In truth, the “decision” had come automatically—even though she understood that she was almost certainly ruining her chances of escape. Now, for the first time, she realized that Lars and Berry would be an asset as well as a liability. She was quite certain that they were two of the small horde of vagrant children who were reputed to dwell in the lower reaches of the Loop. Castoffs of castoffs. They would know the area—their part of it, at least—as well as mice know their cubbyholes and hideaways. Helen would be moving slower, but at least she would no longer be moving blind.

She heard Lars re-entering the lean-to.

“What took so—”

She closed her mouth, seeing the object Lars was gripping. She recognized the knife. It had belonged to one of her assailants. Lars had apparently wiped it off, but the blade was still streaked with drying blood.

Lars’ eyes were bright and eager. On his hands and knees, he scurried over to his sister and showed her the knife.

“Look, Berry—it’s true! They can’t ever hurt you again.” He gave Helen an apologetic glance. “I think they were already dead. But I made good and sure.”

Berry managed to lift her head and stare at the knife. Then, smiling for the first time since Helen had met her, she laid her head back down. “Thank you, brother,” she whispered. “But now we have to help Helen go away to our special place. There are more men coming to hurt her.”

Less than ten minutes later, they were on their way. Lars, somewhat to Helen’s surprise, proved strong enough—or determined enough—to carry his end of the stretcher. He had trouble at first because he refused to relinquish the knife. But, soon enough, he discovered the obvious place to carry it.

As they stumbled as quickly as they could down the channel, Helen found it hard not to laugh. She’d read about it, of course, in her beloved adventure books. But she’d never actually thought to meet one—especially twelve years old! A pirate, by God, with the blade clenched between his teeth to prove it.

Suddenly, she felt better than she had since she was first abducted. She actually had to restrain herself from whooping with glee.

Durkheim

Victor Cachat reported to work as early as ever the next morning, Durkheim noted. The young officer’s new found vice hadn’t affected him that much, apparently. Quite the little whore-chaser the boy had turned into, according to the reports.

But Durkheim didn’t let any of his amusement show when he summoned Cachat into his office, immediately upon his arrival.

“We’ve got a problem,” the SS commander snapped. “And I need you to fix it.”

In the time that followed, as Durkheim spun his tale and elaborated his instructions, Victor Cachat leaned forward in his chair and listened attentively. Durkheim, though not generally given to humor, almost found himself laughing. Cachat could have made an ideal poster boy for an SS recruitment drive. Young and earnest officer of the Revolution, eager and willing to do his duty.

And though Durkheim noticed the hard, dark gleam in the eyes of the officer across the desk from him, he thought nothing of it. Simply the natural ruthlessness of a young zealot. Ready, at an instant’s notice, to strike down the enemies of the Revolution with neither pity nor remorse.

Anton

By the time Anton reached the rendezvous, he was utterly lost. Not in the sense that he had any trouble following the directions given to him by Lady Catherine’s messenger. Anton had years of experience finding his way through the three-dimensional maze of giant warships under construction, guided by nothing more than blueprints or verbal instructions. But when he walked through the door of the small coffeehouse at the end of an alley in the Old Quarter, he couldn’t for the life of him have told anyone if he was headed north, east, south or west. He thought he still knew up from down, but he was beginning to wonder about that.

He wasn’t entirely pleased, then, to see Robert Tye bestowing upon him that particularly obnoxious grin by which the expert greets the tyro. Tye had taken a different route than he. But, though they had left at the same time, it was obvious the old martial artist had been comfortably ensconced on his seat at the table for quite some time.

But Anton didn’t give Tye much more than a sour glance as he strode up to the table. His attention was riveted on the other two people sitting there. In the case of one, because he was fascinated. In the case of the other, because he was flabbergasted—even outraged.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded. “Lady Catherine,” he added, a bit lamely.

Cathy started to bridle, but Jeremy cut her off.

“Didn’t I say it?” he remarked cheerfully. “The good Captain’s sweet on you, girl.”

That remark caused both Anton and Cathy to choke off whatever words they had been about to speak and glare at Jeremy. The ex-slave bore up under the burden with no apparent effort.

“Those who speak the truth are always despised,” he added, turning to Robert. “Isn’t that so?”

Tye said nothing, but the smile on his face as he reached for his coffee indicated his full agreement. Anton and Cathy looked back at each other. Cathy seemed to flush a bit. Anton didn’t—his complexion was quite a bit darker than her ivory pale skin—but he did straighten stiffly and clear his throat.

“I am simply concerned for the Countess’ safety,” he pronounced.

“Isn’t that what I just said?” asked Jeremy. “Why else would a proper Gryphon highlander give a damn about the well-being of an idle parasite?” He cocked an eye at Cathy. “Well… parasite, at least. You can hardly accuse the lady of being idle.”

Anton restrained his temper. Partly, by reminding himself of his daughter. Partly—

Damn the imp, anyway! But there was a trace of humor lurking under the irritation. Anton could not deny that the impudent little man—like a sprite, he was, both in size and demeanor—had cut rather close to the truth.

Bull’s-eye, actually, admitted Anton, as his eyes moved back to the countess. This morning, Cathy was not wearing an expensive gown made of thin material. She was dressed in much heavier garments—pants and a long-sleeved shirt—suitable for outdoor hiking. The outfit was obviously well-used and fitted her comfortably.

Cathy, Anton knew, was in her fifties. But she was a third-generation prolong, with the youthful appearance that such people carried for decades. Although most people would have said her outfit did nothing for her tall, slim figure, Anton thought it made her perhaps even more appealing than the gown she had been wearing the previous evening. The practical clothing fit her plain, open face to perfection. Young, healthy, vigorous—a woman who enjoyed life to the fullest.

He found himself swallowing, and groping for words.

“I am concerned, Cathy,” he muttered. “This is likely to be dangerous.”