Chapter Three

Daizell wasn't sure what was going on.

He'd been recognised, but this Cassian fellow hadn't told him where from. That might only mean that he'd been pointed out at some juncture with the usual litany: George Charnage's son; expelled from Eton; the man who failed to elope with Eliza Beaumont; dubious character; scarcely more than a Merry Andrew with his cut-out flummery; bad ton. Then he'd assumed Cassian was attempting to break his shins, in which case the joke was on him, since Daizell had approximately six pounds to his name. Still, he'd started paying attention to the slightly odd young gentleman, who wore a coat that had been made for somebody else two years ago, but whose very fine linen looked to have been fresh on in the last day or so. He was an unassuming sort physically, and modest in manner, yet he'd taken it for granted that Daizell would listen to what he had to say, and he'd been genuinely amused when Daizell had suggested he might be a tout. One could laugh at that sort of thing only if one didn't fear the mud might stick.

Cassian. The name didn't ring a bell, but then it was a long time since Daizell had been in good society. He might be a provincial gentleman who kept himself to himself. Either way, he was pleasant, and he didn't seem to be a humbugger, and this was the longest conversation Daizell had had in a while, so he might as well see where it went.

‘Help,' he repeated. ‘What sort of help?'

‘I need someone who knows how to negotiate this business.'

‘Negotiate what, precisely? Because if you mean with fences and thief-takers, I regret that is not my area of expertise.'

‘Oh, I didn't mean that!' Cassian said hastily. ‘Not at all. I meant – well, someone who knows about this sort of thing in general, or more than I do. Pawn shops, as you said, and people who give false names, and so on.'

‘Someone familiar with the more disreputable side of life, not the world of gentlemen.'

‘Exactly!' Cassian said, and then his face changed ludicrously. ‘Oh. Uh. I didn't intend any insult.'

That was the worst part: he clearly hadn't. He'd stated it as a fact because Daizell Charnage was so very obviously a man one would ask about pawn-shops.

Daizell should probably take offence, stand on his dignity, and consign Mr Cassian to the devil. Any self-respecting gentleman would. But Daizell was rather short on self-respect and indeed gentlemanliness these days, and was there really much point in taking offence at what was, after all, the truth?

Cassian looked exquisitely awkward, but he pressed on. ‘I apologise for my clumsiness, but to be honest, I find myself out of my depth. I only have a month, you see, and I've wasted two days of it already.'

‘What happens after the month is up?'

‘I have to go home.'

Daizell considered him. He looked to be in his mid-twenties. Mid-brown hair, middling sort of build, on the shorter end of mid-sized. Nothing noteworthy about him. If he was asking about a man who looked like everybody else, people might enquire whether he'd tried a mirror.

Except for the mouth. He had a nice mouth, well-shaped in an unobtrusive way, with a gentle, almost wistful upward turn to it as though it was his habit both to smile and to hope. Daizell liked people who smiled and hoped because he did so himself. Sometimes those were the only things he could do.

But, returning to the initial point of the examination, Cassian looked mid-twenties, and he felt well off, so why would he ‘have' to go home? A wife waiting? Responsibilities?

‘And you want a partner in your search?' Daizell asked.

‘Yes. Someone who knows his way around, a man of the world, which I freely admit I am not.'

‘And you think I am?'

‘You have that reputation. Uh—'

‘I know my reputation,' Daizell said. ‘I might even deserve some of it.'

‘I understand you live by your wits,' Cassian said. ‘That's precisely what I need, because my own wits – I shan't say they're blunt, but they need to be sharpened by experience that I don't have time to acquire. Naturally it would be entirely at my expense, and—' His eyes flickered over Daizell. ‘If it would not offend you, I'd be most glad to recompense you for your time.'

Of course it was offensive to suggest hiring a gentleman. Any man of good birth and self-respect would dismiss him at once. ‘What recompense have you in mind?'

‘Er.' Cassian looked blank. ‘Fifty pounds?'

Daizell did not spit out his mouthful of ale, though it was a close thing. Fifty pounds! That would keep him afloat for a full year if he handled it wisely. He wouldn't, of course: it would be gone in a month, but the concept was irresistible.

‘A month assisting you?' he clarified.

‘Yes, if you aren't busy. But you said you had an engagement?'

Daizell waved that away. ‘No matter. It isn't important.'

He mostly lived on the charity of people who owned large houses and liked to fill them with company. To make that work one had to avoid overstaying one's welcome, and these days he had a limited number of people willing to host him. A month fending for himself at Cassian's expense, then maybe two months living off his fifty pounds if he was sensible . . . yes, he'd make himself that bit scarcer now and with luck people would be pleased to see him come the winter. This could keep the wolf from the door for a while.

‘So,' he said. ‘What is this item you're seeking?'

‘It's a ring.'

Of course it was. A full-length portrait would have been too easy. ‘I'm not a Bow Street Runner either. What if we don't find it?'

‘I realise that's quite possible. Likely, even. But I need to try, to know I've done my best,' Cassian said, and his expressive mouth twitched, just for a second, into a look of deep distress.

‘Very understandable, but I meant, if we don't find it . . . ?' He let that hang. Cassian looked blank. Daizell sighed internally: people with money never thought about these things. He hadn't, when he'd had money. ‘I still get paid?'

‘Oh. Yes, of course. Your time and effort will still have been spent.'

What a very pleasant man. ‘And you want . . . what, a companion, assistant, generator of ideas about what to do next?'

‘All of that, especially the last.'

‘And you said fifty pounds?' Daizell checked, in case he'd misheard and it was fifteen. ‘Well, I am happy to do my best, for what it's worth.' Which was, apparently, fifty quid. He'd never been so highly valued in his life.

‘You will?' Cassian's eyes lit. ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.'

‘The pleasure is all mine. I think our first step should be to command a dinner, awaiting which you shall tell me everything, and then we'll make a plan.'

‘Of course. Yes.' Cassian looked remarkably pleased with himself, as if he'd achieved something greater than paying an aimless not-quite-gentleman for help. Odd fish, Daizell thought. ‘Perhaps we could order a meal, and I must ensure I have a bed. I slept dreadfully last night. So noisy.'

After years in coaching inns, Daizell could sleep through cries of ‘Fire!' and indeed had. Mr Cassian was clearly more delicate in his tastes. ‘Intolerable,' he agreed. ‘Shall I . . . ?'

He didn't particularly want to be a dragoman, arranging Mr Cassian's travels and smoothing his way, but it seemed only right to offer. Cassian gave an automatic-looking nod, then said, ‘No! That is, I should prefer to do it.'

‘Of course,' Daizell said, since he didn't care, and rang the bell. ‘Let's see what the rogue in charge here has to offer.'

The answer to that was mixed. The inn was very busy, the innkeeper Sturridge said dismissively; the gentleman would have to wait, and something to eat would be along in due course. As for a room, he dared say they could accommodate Mr Cassian on the top floor. Daizell listened to Cassian give politely ineffectual objections to the first, thus guaranteeing he'd eventually be served whatever was deemed unworthy of more determined guests, and reluctantly accede to the second, at which point he realised that ‘greenhorn' wildly overstated the man's experience of staging inns.

‘Enough of that, you wretched villain,' he informed Sturridge. ‘I'm eating with him, and we'll have beef collops, sweetbreads, and green peas, plus a bottle of whatever drinkable wine you may have, and not watered if you value your life.' If Cassian was paying – and he'd need to be, because Daizell couldn't – then Daizell would be taking full advantage. ‘And you'll put him somewhere decent, fool, not the attics or over the stables. Can you not recognise a gentleman when you see one?'

‘I might see one here, yes,' retorted Sturridge, turning his gaze on Daizell in a meaningful fashion. ‘And who's paying for this, I'd like to know? Paying with more than cut paper, I mean.'

‘I am,' Cassian said, sounding rather faint.

Sturridge gave a grudging nod. ‘Well. As for a room – if you'll share, there's the front room. Best I can do.'

‘Then I suppose it will suffice,' Daizell said. ‘If the sheets are damp, I shall personally wrap your head in them till you resemble the turnip you are.'

‘Sweetbreads and collops,' Sturridge snarled, making it sound like a particularly filthy oath, and departed.

Daizell caught Cassian's astonished expression. ‘Old friend,' he explained. ‘Acquaintance, anyway. Well, he's a shocking fellow but his good lady is an excellent cook. Now, tell me about this thief of yours.'

Cassian actually blushed, as if Daizell had said something embarrassing. ‘Er. Well.' He launched into a tale of a chance meeting, an invitation to dine and gamble, excessive drink. It was all very plausible, except that he told it with a certain amount of care, and the rather charming red stain over his cheekbones persisted. Probably whores had been involved, and the inexperienced Mr Cassian didn't want to admit it, as if Daizell gave a curse.

He wrung out a description of the thief John Martin – medium height, dark hair, hazel eyes, mulberry coat. It wasn't much to go on, although Daizell liked the sound of mulberry. Perhaps he should spend some of his fifty pounds on a new coat. Once he lost the remnants of a gentlemanly appearance, he'd be in deep trouble.

They discussed strategies for finding the thief's destination over dinner. Daizell thought they might as well throw darts at a map of England but the discussion seemed to make Cassian happy and they had a very pleasant meal, since Mrs Sturridge was indeed a fine cook, and had liked her profile. Wider conversation was a little stilted at first, since Cassian wasn't very forthcoming. He lived somewhere in the country to the west of Gloucester but not actually Wales, and that was about as much as he wanted to say of himself.

Daizell didn't press. He wouldn't have wanted to rehearse his own circumstances and recent history, and probably Cassian was aware of that, since he didn't ask. So instead they talked about the news, politics, and anything that didn't address awkward questions such as Who are you? What's your life like?

They were to share a room that night. That didn't trouble Daizell, who frequently found himself sharing sleeping quarters or even beds with strangers. A room with two people and two beds, paid for by somebody else and shared with someone who didn't look louse-ridden and wouldn't rifle through his pockets in the night, was luxury. Cassian might even be too refined to snore.

The room was quite adequate, considering. He checked under the beds all the same.

‘Er, what are you doing?' Cassian asked.

‘I once found a fellow lurking under the bed. No idea if he wanted a free night's sleep or to cut my throat and rob me, but it stays with you.'

‘I should think so!' Cassian looked alarmed. ‘Is that usual? Ought one always check?'

‘It rather depends the sort of inn you frequent.' Daizell had many stories of inns he'd frequented, ranging from absurd to alarming, and he deployed a couple of them now. He wanted to make friends, since he liked to be friends and the next month would be more pleasant that way, but he also had an urge to make Cassian laugh again, because he had a delightful laugh. It was a sort of surprised gurgle, as though he was startled and even a touch embarrassed by his own amusement, and Daizell thought it was charming. So was the smile that lingered after his laugh, keeping those expressive lips in a curve that took a moment or so to fade. One wouldn't call him handsome, exactly, but it was an endearing smile.

Not to mention that he was rather amusing too, offering an account of hostelries in France and Switzerland which had Daizell in stitches, even as he filed away that Cassian had made a Grand Tour.

They chatted very pleasantly as they both got ready for the night. Cassian did so with an odd combination of carefulness and carelessness, including dropping a perfectly good shirt on the floor, as if he expected someone to pick it up for him and to have a clean one waiting tomorrow. Daizell also couldn't help noticing that Cassian's bare torso in the candlelight was perhaps a little more impressive than expected. He was slender, but he had a rider's or a fencer's body, with gentle lines of muscle showing as he moved. Trim, Daizell thought appreciatively, and stopped looking on that thought. He had fifty pounds to earn. Now was not the time to do something rash.

The next morning they got down to business bright and early over a slapping breakfast. Daizell felt he could get used to someone else paying: the knowledge he wouldn't have to argue about the bill added savour to his sausages.

‘If we go back to Gloucester and try the pawn shops, we may find the ring,' he said. ‘But we have no guarantee it was pawned rather than fenced, or indeed if Martin has disposed of it at all. It will take a couple of days to go through them all, and if that fails, we will doubtless find it more difficult to pick up the fellow's trail. I suppose we could split up,' he added, with a little reluctance. He'd woken with pleasant anticipation of companionship for the day.

Cassian looked torn. ‘I suppose perhaps we could, but then, how would you find me again if you did locate the ring?'

‘You could give me your address?'

‘Oh. Yes.' He didn't leap on the idea, which was fair. He naturally wouldn't want Daizell Charnage turning up at his home claiming acquaintance and a bed for a week. ‘It's very hard to know what to do for the best. As you said, I can't simply ask at every coaching inn for an ordinary man in a mulberry-coloured coat.'

‘No, although . . .' Daizell stopped. ‘Just a moment. Is that what you've been asking?'

‘Yes, of course.'

‘In those words?'

‘Yes.' Cassian looked a little alarmed.

‘What colour is mulberry?'

‘Darkish purple with a touch of pink.'

Daizell snapped his fingers at Sturridge, who was walking by. ‘Rogue. What colour are mulberries?'

Sturridge gave him a look. ‘Black, what d'you think?'

‘Anything else?'

‘Red if they ain't ripe.' He pondered. ‘Green if they really ain't ripe.'

‘What sort of red?'

‘What d'you mean, sort of red? Red.' Sturridge rolled his eyes and walked off.

Daizell turned back to Cassian, who said, ‘I feel exceedingly foolish.'

‘Some people will have understood you. Sturridge is more than usually uninterested in the world around him. Nevertheless . . .'

‘Nevertheless, I have wasted two days by asking the wrong question. I should have realised it was the wrong question. I didn't think . And now I have lost time and doubtless the trail by making that assumption. Nobody ever said, what do you mean by mulberry? '

No, they'd just taken his money, and Daizell didn't blame them. Ask a silly question, get a useless answer. Still, he looked genuinely upset and Daizell felt a stab of sympathy. ‘Do you know what? I think we should start again. Let's go back to Gloucester, to the Bird in Hand. I might be able to get more out of the landlord than you did, since you were in an awkward position at the time.'

Cassian's shoulders sagged. ‘You probably could. I asked him about Martin, where he'd gone, but he was shouting about his bill, and I was only wearing a blanket, and I could hardly assert myself – or, I should have, I know that, but to start making a fuss in such humiliating circumstances—'

‘Hey,' Daizell said. ‘You had a cursed nasty time of it. You were robbed by someone you considered a friend, or at least a pleasant acquaintance. That's a distressing thing to happen even without the embarrassment of being caught in a state of nature. You needn't blame yourself for not being at your best.'

Cassian just looked at him for a few seconds. Daizell said, ‘No?'

‘No. I mean, yes. I mean . . . Do you realise, you haven't said a word of blame or ridicule to me about the whole affair?'

Daizell blinked. ‘Why would I?'

‘Everyone else has.'

If Daizell went around telling people when they'd been fools, it would be very like Cassian searching for ordinary men: they should both look in the mirror first. ‘I dare say everyone else must have led a very sensible, secure, consistently well-judged, and exceedingly fortunate sort of life where they have never made a mistake,' he said. ‘I envy you your acquaintance. That or they're a pack of hypocrites.'

‘They are not!' Cassian said strongly, with a flash of colour into his cheeks, which was overtaken by a lurking grin. ‘Perhaps a touch inclined to pass remarks. But it was foolish of me, so they have every right.'

‘Mmm,' Daizell said. ‘Let's find the Gloucester coach.'

They went to the yard. Cassian strode ahead with a determined stance, as if signalling his intention to take the lead. Daizell followed happily along.

Cassian found out about the Gloucester coaches without difficulty, paused, then asked the ostler, ‘I wonder if you can help me. I'm looking for a man, who would have come through here perhaps three days ago, or more recently. A little taller than me, dark brown hair.' He gave the rest of the nondescript description. ‘And he may have been wearing a coat in a dark purple-pink colour, like an over-ripe raspberry on the turn.'

‘Oh, him?' the ostler said. ‘Two days ago, that was.'

‘You saw him?'

‘Saw him?' The man snorted. ‘You might say. Passed me a dud shilling, he did! Me, done like a right Johnny Raw!'

‘I will be very pleased to replace it for you, with another for your trouble, if you can tell me where he went,' Cassian assured him.

The ostler put out his hand, and made a point of biting the coins he was given. ‘He took a seat to Worcester.'

Cassian turned to Daizell with a grin of triumph. ‘Then we shall need two seats on the Worcester coach.'

Daizell couldn't help a moment of optimism as he smiled back. Perhaps they could track down this Martin fellow; perhaps his aid might make the difference. It would be very pleasant to have a success chalked up to his name.

It was harder to maintain that optimistic frame of mind when they joined the stage. Stagecoaches were punitive things at best and this, a six-seater, was particularly bad. The interior was a little over three feet wide, so to wedge three adults onto each seat was difficult even when they were of slender build.

They were relatively fortunate to grab a centre and corner seat, less to have their backs to the direction of travel, significantly less so to be sharing the coach with several well-built and well-fed men. Daizell pushed Cassian into the corner, and wedged himself next to him, taking the middle seat with the fifty pounds firmly in mind.

He was quickly glad he'd done it. Cassian's knuckles were white on the strap as the coach bounded its bone-jolting way along the road, and Daizell, pressed up tight against his slim frame but not in an enjoyable way, could feel his tension.

‘Don't travel much?' he asked quietly. He hardly needed to shout despite the rattling of the coach: packed as they were, a turn of his head brought his mouth all too close to Cassian's ear.

‘Not on the public coach.' Cassian spoke with a grimness that made Daizell hope he wasn't going to be sick. ‘This conveyance appears to be entirely unsprung, and why are the seats not padded?'

‘You don't travel much,' Daizell agreed.

‘Could be worse, friend,' one of the men opposite said, jovially, and went on to make that a self-fulfilling prophecy by launching into a rambling anecdote. Daizell inferred from the expressions of the other passengers that he was a stagecoach bore, and would probably tell his stories from the start every time a new passenger joined them. He adopted the blank expression of a man who couldn't hear a thing in the faint hope it would discourage the talker, which was quashed by Cassian's polite, ‘Very good, sir. Excellent,' at the long-awaited end of the story.

‘Ah, if you think that's funny . . . !' the bore exclaimed. One of the men opposite shut his eyes in despair. Daizell trod on Cassian's foot, for all the good it would do. At least it relieved his feelings.

It was two stages to the Blue Boar at Worcester, through which the dull man talked without pause, mercy, or, as far as Daizell could see, breathing. Daizell clambered out of the coach in the usual exhausted, battered, rumpled state, but with a powerful sense of relief at escaping. He couldn't help noticing Cassian didn't seem to feel even that: he looked wretched.

‘Are you all right?' Daizell asked.

‘No. That was dreadful.'

‘You aren't mistaken. Lord, what a bore.'

‘I don't mean him. Well, I do, but – the stage, that appalling conveyance, the smell. The discomfort was beyond anything. I'd rather walk . How can anyone bear it?' He sounded strangled. ‘What the blazes – for a month? It's intolerable!'

‘If you can't stand it, why not hire a private carriage? It would be a deal more comfortable, not to say faster, and not that much dearer with two of us travelling.'

Cassian was already shaking his head. ‘No. I can't do that.'

Couldn't drive? Couldn't afford it? A carriage could be hired for five pounds a month. If he couldn't afford to drive himself, that put the promised fifty pounds in a different and significantly less certain light. Daizell wondered if he should ask for money up front, and decided against it as long as Cassian was paying his shot. Nevertheless, he felt a twinge of irritation at the unnecessary hardship that came out in his voice. ‘In that case, accustom yourself to the coach, or walk. But we've covered twenty-four miles or so in three hours, and I wouldn't want to do it on foot even for the sake of peace and quiet.'

‘Yes, I know I encouraged him,' Cassian said wearily. ‘And I should have ignored him, and a misplaced urge to be courteous merely exposes one to encroaching mushrooms. I know .'

He looked small and rather defeated. Daizell repressed a sudden urge to pat him on the shoulder and assure him it would be all right. ‘You should have ignored him, but it probably wouldn't have made a difference. That sort of man is like champagne.'

Cassian's brows came together. ‘In what possible way?'

‘Constantly giving off gas, and if too much builds up without an outlet, it explodes.'

Cassian gave a shout of laughter, again with that startled note to it. His eyes were bright with amusement. Daizell hadn't really noticed his eyes before: last night's inn had been too dark and he hadn't paid particular attention this morning. In fairness, they weren't attention-grabbing eyes, being fundamentally grey. Except, if you looked, the grey had an unusual yellow tint to it, giving it the luminous colour of a rainy day turning to sun. They might be a very striking feature in a more striking face.

Cassian had stopped laughing and was looking at him with puzzlement. ‘Is there something on my face?'

Dammit. ‘Not at all,' Daizell said. ‘I am merely faint with hunger. I suggest we obtain luncheon here – if it is not too late to call it that – and start asking questions.'

Food was indeed restorative. Even more so was an intelligent ostler who had seen the man in the mulberry (very overripe raspberry) coat, and informed them he'd taken the stage in the direction of Stratford-upon-Avon.

‘We're on the track,' Cassian said. ‘We are on his track and it's entirely thanks to you.'

Daizell didn't deny it. He sat back and enjoyed his ale, a bite of luncheon, being able to move and breathe before they got back on the stage, and, mostly, the pleasant and unfamiliar sensation of being the object of gratitude. He could definitely get used to this.

When the stage arrived, it was at a slapping pace, and pulled up very stylishly. It seemed the driver was encouraged by the applause of his companion on the box, a young sprig of fashion with exceedingly high collar points and many capes to his coat. They both got down, followed by the glares of at least ten outside passengers who looked like their ride had been bumpy, and the young man pressed the driver to a mug of heavy-wet as the horses were changed. Daizell cast them both a jaundiced look and prepared for a journey that would probably be both faster and less comfortable than usual.

Cassian looked a little uncertain. ‘I say,' he murmured to Daizell. ‘That fellow, the driver, is he quite sober?'

‘I highly doubt it.'

‘But—'

‘If you're waiting for a driver who's quite sober, we'll be here a while,' Daizell observed, which was a gross slur against at least a fifth of the drivers he'd encountered. ‘Not to mention that young oaf will probably want to tool the coach.'

Fashionable young men very frequently asked to take the reins of the stage. It was against the regulations, but they would beg, bribe or bully the drivers until they had their way. Daizell might have done it himself in his reckless, feckless days, if the idea had ever occurred to him. He couldn't see the point now, and it meant an uncomfortable journey for everyone else, but there was no point objecting since the driver was already the worse for wear. ‘Come on, get in. We don't both want to be stuck in the middle.'

It was another six-seater. Daizell heard Cassian's little despairing noise, but he didn't complain out loud. Daizell took the middle seat next to him once more, vaguely feeling that the fifty pounds made it his duty. That meant he had Cassian's slim frame squashed into one side, and on the other a woman who was buxom to the point of overflowing. Daizell appreciated a trim man, and indeed a generous bosom, but he preferred it when people actually wanted to be pressed up against him. The lady was very reasonable about it, merely remarking how dreadfully cramped these coaches were, and concentrating on her baby, which stared at him with huge eyes.

‘A very handsome child,' he remarked to be friendly, and won a beam of pleasure. He just hoped it wouldn't cry throughout the journey.

The coach rattled off at great speed, lurching and bounding. ‘Someone's in a hurry,' Daizell said.

‘At least they keep to time,' one of the opposite passengers remarked.

The baby mewed. The buxom woman jiggled it soothingly. ‘Nasty rattling things, aren't they, my poppet?'

‘Very tolerant young person you have there,' Daizell observed.

‘Oh, she's a good girl, aren't you? Say hello to the gentleman. Hello, sir,' the woman added in a high-pitched voice, presumably on her child's behalf, and flapped its pudgy wrist. A little starfish hand reached out towards Daizell.

He extended a finger out of curiosity and found it caught in a hot, sticky fist. Enormously round blue eyes stared at him with a look of uncomprehending examination, as though the baby was trying to establish what manner of man he was. Daizell wished it luck, and attempted to extricate his finger, only to realise that babies had rather stronger grips than he'd expected. He tugged discreetly; the baby held on like grim death with chubby cheeks. A choke at his shoulder indicated that Cassian found his predicament amusing.

His smile faded soon enough as the coach continued on its reckless way. If anything, it was speeding up, and Daizell felt the drag as they took a corner too fast. Cassian gripped his knees with white knuckles. ‘My God,' he muttered.

There was noise from above now, a few cries of encouragement, more of protest. The mother clutched the baby to her with a little scream as the coach hit a rock or some such and a wheel left the ground. ‘Lord!'

The baby wailed, but didn't release Daizell's finger. The coach bounded on.

‘This is too fast,' Cassian said. ‘Can we make him stop?'

‘How?'

Cassian's hands flexed, making fists as though he held reins. ‘It's too fast . If we take a corner at this speed with the coach top-heavy from all the people up there—'

‘Bless you, young fellow, this is nothing,' a man opposite said. ‘I've seen eighteen crammed atop a coach before now, and never—' They hit a bump in the road that jolted Daizell right off the seat despite the close-packed interior. Someone swore, in a mumble that suggested a bitten tongue. The coach lurched sideways, and down on one side.

‘The axle's going,' Cassian said sharply. ‘The axle— Hey! Fellow!' He shoved his head out of the window, yelling for the driver. ‘Stop! Stop! '

Daizell hauled him back in by main force. ‘Stick your head out when we roll and the window will chop it off quicker than a Frenchman,' he snapped. ‘Grab the strap. Everyone grab a strap. When that wheel comes off, we're going over.'

‘My baby,' the woman said on a terrified breath.

Daizell looked at her, at arms that kneaded and scrubbed longer than he ever could but shoulders that weren't used to taking weight, and at the tiny hand that held on to his finger as though he were someone to be trusted. ‘Give her to me. I'll hold her safe. Use the straps and brace with your feet when we go.'

‘There's no need to fuss,' said one of the men opposite, but his voice suggested he knew that was wishful thinking.

‘No, he's right. Hold on!' Cassian said.

The mother gave a sob of fear. ‘Please,' Daizell said. ‘Look to yourself and I'll hold her.'

She held the child out. Daizell pulled the heavy little bundle into his arms, grappled her to him, wrapped the strap round his other wrist, and readied himself for the moment he knew was coming.

And it came, with a crunch he felt more than heard. The axle gave; the wheel was off. The speeding coach lurched and rocked from side to side, so for a terrifying moment it might have gone either way. Daizell poured every ounce of concentration into locking the baby-holding arm immovably against his chest – why in God's name was he doing this, he'd probably break his neck – and then the coach tipped and fell sideways.

It was one of those moments that seemed incredibly slow. Daizell, who'd been braced and waiting for it, pushed himself up and off the seat with both feet, feeling the strap dig round his wrist, timing the motion to the inevitable crash as the coach hit, and skidded along the surface of the road on its side, and the screams rose.