Phillipé, the Platypus, landed softly on slippery shingles, dark costume blending with the cold Jengao night. His thick fingers seized a rough board, which he pried up with his large hands before sending his slender arms snaking into the space below. Made of tangible, the thin ceiling thrummed beneath his sensitive fingertips: someone chopped wood within.

Phillipé pulled out his chisel and mallet, and began chipping away at the ceiling. Satisfied with his work, he set his tools down, stepped back, and jumped. He noticed the drag just before he hit the tangible.

The ceiling shattered exactly as he had planned, green shards raining into the room below. Both men looked up, astonished. Phillipé jolted hard, and vertigo rocked his stomach as his head and torso overtook his legs. Two of his daggers slipped from their hidden pockets and clattered to the floor: he’d snagged a spur on his rope when he stepped back, and it held him suspended now, like a giant piñata.

The larger of the two men hefted an axe, not bothering to dislodge the wood fixed to its head. Phillipé jerked himself upright, bending at the waist and exercising muscles he didn’t know existed in his paunchy gut. The man swung and the log grazed Phillipé’s back — bouncing off vertebrae. The main force of the blow landed squarely on the chest of the smaller man, sending him back-pedaling across the room.

Straining with the effort — but motivated by the sound of the log thumping to the floor, and the firelight gleam of the uncovered axe-head — Phillipé gripped the rope just above his foot and dislodged his spur. He landed hard on his back and air whistled from his lungs.

The axe-man approached, and Phillipé flung one of the daggers that had fallen from his pockets. A clumsy throw; the man stepped aside and batted the dagger into the fireplace, causing a spray of sparking ash. Phillipé used the time it bought him to suck air back into his lungs, and to grab a second knife.

The second dagger cut through the air, and the axe-man leapt back to avoid it. Phillipé struggled to his feet and slipped a proper throwing dagger from a hidden pocket. He had the range to make it a killing toss.

The smaller man tackled him from behind, and the knife clattered to the floor. “Just hold him, Barl,” said the man with the axe, charging forward.

Barl cried out as the Platypus jabbed him with his left spur and shook free of his arms. Locking eyes with the large, charging man, Phillipé counted three seconds. The axe man snarled, the weapon arced, and Phillipé leapt into the air, propelling himself up the rope with his arms. He twirled as the axe sliced the air below him, then jabbed his right spur into the axe-man's beefy shoulder.

Somehow the man managed to turn and swing his axe again, and Phillipé gave him a kick in the face for his troubles. The man fell beside Barl and did not move again.

Phillipé dropped to the floor and rubbed a hand over his sore back. He had gotten lucky. Again. Most assassins didn’t make mistakes like he made tonight and live to tell about it.

“That’s it,” he said. He waved his hands at the corpses and fallen weapons, a gesture of futility. “No more.”

Barl and his accomplice were petty criminals, preying on the people of Gloom. An image of Melinda came to Phillipé’s mind, and even though he had done this for her, he knew he had killed for the last time.

That night, Phillipé couldn’t sleep. At first he thought the pain in his back kept him awake, but he soon realized he needed to talk to Jack. He pushed the covers back, rose from the bed, and pulled plain brown slacks and a grey tunic over his Platypus costume.

His apartment consisted of a single unadorned room. Although he could easily afford a suite in one of the towers, Phillipé preferred his midsize anthill. He had even considered downgrading to one of the far less prestigious one-story lozenges. In Jengao, city of tangible towers, higher residences indicated higher status, but Phillipé wanted none of that game.

Slipping his shoes on, he stood in the center of his bed and tried a few bounces. The springs squeaked loudly, but remained strong. He bounced hard, swinging his legs level with his head, and wedged himself into the ceiling alcove. Unlatching the trapdoor, he slid across the roof and landed gracefully on the bridge.

Phillipé needed to come and go unseen when dressed as the Platypus, but he tended to use the secret exit even when not on duty. Chatting with neighbors left him tired and a little thirsty.

Jengao never slept, as the saying went, but fewer people filled the bridges, chutes and ladders at this time of night. Up Phillipé went, and up and up, climbing ladders and stairs until it seemed he had ascended to the heavens themselves.

Dawn brightened the horizon between towers. A notorious night owl, Jack probably was still at one of Jengao’s many tearooms. The Tea Folio was the highest, and Jack loved the heights, so Phillipé decided to make for it. He glimpsed it, perched on top of a nearby tower, rooms drooping like wilting petals from the central hub. Crossing a bridge that took him further away, he backtracked and finally found the correct tower. Jack sat at a table in the third petal, sipping tea and reading through a stack of old books.

“Phillipé,” Jack said, jumping from his seat. He smiled and gestured at an unoccupied chair.

“Thank you,” Phillipé said, sitting. He recalled when Jack had first proposed their partnership, and considered that the intervening years had hardly aged the thief at all. But then, Jack had always had an indeterminately aged face.

Phillipé noticed a few of the Folio’s other patrons glancing at Jack. “You need to be more careful,” he said. “Especially after what happened at the Hall of Masters.”

“I am being careful,” Jack said, turning in his chair. “See?”

Phillipé followed Jack’s gaze and saw Avasa, Jack's new apprentice, seated a few tables away. She wore a foolish green and white costume with a pointed green cap. “She’s dressed like a thief from a play,” said Phillipé. “And you are not safe.”

“Why not?”

“Because Avasa is easy to spot and easy to kill. That’s why not.”

“So?”

Phillipé hated when Jack pretended he didn’t understand a perfectly obvious state of affairs.

“Look,” Jack said, “it’s only the appearance of protection that matters. Anyone looking to do me harm will see that I have backup.” He glanced in Avasa’s direction again, lowered his voice, and said, “I asked her to blend in. To follow me at a discreet distance.”

“She’s awful,” said Phillipé.

“Exactly. No one could miss her. And no one would take the chance of attacking me without knowing who else I had watching my back — especially since it has become known that Jengao's greatest assassin, the Platypus, is my partner.”

Phillipé glanced around to see if anyone had overheard; he wished to keep his identity as the Platypus a secret.

“Relax,” said Jack, eating a forkful of the fluffy white pie in front of him. “If you act like you have a problem, people will pick up on it. If you act like there’s no problem, there won’t be one. It’s all perception.”

Phillipé squared an elbow on the table and rested his head in his large hand. If something did happen, at least he was here to handle it. If he didn’t screw up again, of course.

Jack balanced some pie on his fork, and extended it to Phillipé. “Pavlova,” he said. “Excellent. Eat.”

“I’ll see what else they have.” Phillipé pushed his chair back and stood. “I don’t care for pie.”

Short, interconnected staircases led up the slope of the petal to the central hub and the display cases. Phillipé returned to the table with rum balls and a tall glass of water. Deep in a book, Jack didn’t notice his return.

Annoyed with himself for delaying so long, Phillipé let his plate clatter down on the table. Jack looked up. “Problem?” he asked.

“I can’t do it anymore,” Phillipé said. “I came to tell you that I have to retire.”

Jack reached for his tea press and poured another cup of amber liquid. “Is this a rhythm thing?” he asked.

“No, it’s a wanting to remain alive thing. I’m no good to you anymore.” Phillipé sat heavily in the chair. “I’m sorry. I never wanted to let you down.” He studied Jack’s face, waiting for the wave of sadness, of regret, of betrayal.

It didn’t come. “Does this have to do with the Medusa?" Jack asked. "The way you saved her, even though she's your sworn enemy? I thought you figured that all out.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t. I’ve been talking to Melinda about my problems. She said I had to access the mystery in my life, or my soul would vanish and shrink.”

Jack nodded. “You should always listen to oracles.”

Phillipé nodded. “I’m still not sure what it all means: the temporal and the eternal.”

“Dead god’s puppet-show,” Jack said, as if the strange phrase explained everything.

Phillipé stared for a moment, then turned his attention to his dessert when he realized no further explanation was coming. Jack pulled a scroll out and started sketching a pointed cannon with big wheels, and fire spewing from the head.

“Dead god’s puppet-show?” Phillipé prompted.

Jack looked up from his drawing and placed his piece of charcoal on the table. “You should consider reading books, Phillipé.”

Reading always took a long time for Phillipé. Each word affected him deeply, and he found the process too painful to repeat often.

“Stalactites,” Jack said. “Cool. Damp. Subterranean.”

Phillipé relaxed a little, and allowed himself to feel he was in the place Jack described.

“A fire crackles behind you. You are bound to a chair — but you don’t know you’re bound: you were born that way. Everyone was. The firelight is uneven, flickering. Shadows play on the cave wall.”

“What is this?” Phillipé asked. He would never close his eyes in a public place, but he allowed his lids to narrow, the tables around him transformed into grey rock by his long lashes.

“This is the temporal,” said Jack.

It was foolish. It was absurd. It made perfect sense.

“The temporal world is shadows. Everyone agrees that what you see is all there is. Until.”

“Until?”

“Until one day, you turn your head. You see the fire. You see the people making the shadow-puppets. And, beyond the cave entrance, you see the sun. It burns your eyes. You turn away. You become aware of your bonds.”

Jack sat back, wiped his hands, poured a little more tea into his cup, and took a bite of pavlova.

“And then what happens?” Phillipé demanded.

“You tell everyone what you know. You explain that what is commonly perceived as reality is merely a puppet-show.”

“And?”

“And no one believes you. They treat you like you’re crazy even though it’s clear you know something they don’t. And then, one day, you slip your bonds and turn away from the puppet-show. You stroll past the fire. You leave the cave.

“It takes a long time for your eyes to adjust to the pure light of the sun. For months you can’t even function. But, eventually, you adapt and embrace the eternal.”

It was as if a glimmer wand lit up in Phillipé’s soul. “That’s where I need to go,” he said.

Jack shrugged. “I suppose. But where do you go once you’re there? You have to return to the cave, try to free the others.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“They don’t want to be freed. Or they’re too stupid to understand. Truth is all around us, Phillipé, but no one knows how to listen.” Jack finished his pavlova and began sucking noisily on a passionfruit seed. “The fire is where you want to be. Manipulating the shadows.”

“But the shadows aren’t real,” Phillipé said. “They’re only perception.”

“Exactly.” Jack flashed him a congratulatory look. “Perception is all that matters.” He stood up, stretched and ascended the hub in search of more food.

Jack’s story rang true. Phillipé would mention it to Melinda tomorrow, and see what the oracle made of it. He looked to the hub of the Folio and saw Jack examining the pies and flirting with the owner’s daughter, and his heart went out to him. Phillipé had failed to hold up his end of the partnership, and Jack wasn’t angry at all. On the contrary, his former partner had done his best to help.

A pot of tea, a cup and a plate of sweets balanced on his arm, Jack slid down the banister, feet never touching the floor. Sporadic applause broke out from the other tables, and Jack winked at Avasa.

So much for incognito, thought Phillipé.

Jack set his selections on the table and lifted a book, revealing a picture of a man holding what Phillipé had originally taken to be a cannon in the palm of his hand. A righteous light shone in the man’s eyes and fire flowed from the weapon’s tip, smiting his enemies.

“This is our next caper,” said Jack, sitting.

“Didn’t you hear a word I said?” Phillipé asked. His nose reddened like it always did when he got upset. Jack wished he would eat a rum ball.

“I heard, Phillipé,” Jack said, trying to put a note of indignation into his voice. “The question is, did you hear?”

“I did. And I appreciate the fable. But it doesn’t change the fact that I can no longer perform my job.”

“Do you want to give up everything we’ve worked for?”

A hurt expression twisted Phillipé’s flexible face. “Of course not. My losing my abilities is the worst thing that could have happened.”

“If you don’t want it to end things,” Jack said, “then don’t let it. There are always options. You just have to learn to think outside the box.”

Phillipé pressed his hands to his temples, a gesture of his inability to understand. “If I can’t kill people anymore, I can't be an assassin,” he said. “There are no options.”

Jack shook his head, annoyed with Phillipé’s closed mind. He poured himself some tea, a new blend from the Xiao-Ling homeland, and picked up one of the jalabis. The crisp outer layer broke against his teeth and sweet orange syrup dripped onto his tongue. Intent on savouring it, he set the dessert down and licked sweetness from his fingertips.

“This is the question,” Jack said. “Is it necessary to kill in order to be an assassin?”

“Yes, Jack,” Phillipé said. “I think it is.”

“No,” Jack said, not sure where this line of reasoning would take him. He sipped at the tea and marvelled: a truly unique blend. Even in a city as cosmopolitan as Jengao, a new tea was a rare treat. He leaned back, happy with his victuals, and soaked up the Tea Folio’s atmosphere.

And it came to him.

“We’re not really interested in killing, are we?” Jack asked. Phillipé’s expression said he did not understand. “The people you assassinate: do you want them dead?”

Motioning for Jack to keep his voice down, Phillipé leaned forward. “You mean do I personally want them dead? Of course not. It’s just business.”

“They’re doing something they shouldn’t be, or that someone wants them to stop doing.”

“Right,” Phillipé agreed.

“So,” Jack said, spreading his arms. “All you really need to do is stop people from doing what they’re doing.”

A look of sublime skepticism crossed Phillipé’s face. “You mean I just go up to these people and convince them to do something else?” Gesturing as he spoke, Phillipé’s hand grazed the plate of rum balls.

“How is your dessert?” Jack prompted. Phillipé popped a rum ball into his mouth, then reached for another.

Jack sipped at his exquisite tea. “We could do it, Phillipé.”

“People are very committed to the things they do, Jack. That’s why they need to be killed. They won’t just stop if we ask them to.”

“No,” Jack agreed, the solution growing clearer. “We just need to change their perception. We become the puppet-masters.”

Phillipé was intrigued now. Jack could tell. “What did you have in mind?” Phillipé asked cautiously. “For this caper, specifically?” He put a rum ball to his lips and began sucking on it.

“We’re going after the Cult of Monkey Testicles.” Phillipé stopped sucking, moved the ball away from his mouth, and stared at it. Jack knew his friend was torn between the unpleasant association the cult’s name inspired and the sweet taste of the dessert.

“The Fourth Family,” Jack continued, “is back on its feet, but a few new cults were able to take advantage of the power vacuum and gain a foothold in Jengao. All religious extremists want to be close to the Anarchy.”

“Who is running the Fourth Family now?” asked Phillipé. He placed the rum ball back on his saucer.

“I don’t know,” said Jack. “He hasn’t announced himself.”

“And what is this, this Cult of Monkey Testicles?”

“Ah,” said Jack, jumping at the chance to lecture. He pulled a small quarter-bound treatise from his pile of books, found the appropriate section, and handed it to Phillipé. “It’s a joke, actually.”

“It certainly sounds like one.”

“Two-hundred years ago,” Jack explained, gesturing to the book Phillipé held, “Taire Vol wrote a satire about Eld’s second edict.”

“Thou shalt turn the other cheek,” said Phillipé.

“Correct. Vol told the tale of a monkey who turned the other testicle, but found he couldn’t do it more than twice.”

“What kind of a monkey was it?”

“It doesn’t matter, Phillipé. The point is, Vol intended his story as criticism, but the fanatics of his day built a religion out of it.” He sipped the wonderful tea again. “Literalism is the last refuge of the dim.”

Phillipé shook his head and popped a rum ball into his mouth. “So,” he asked, his words distorted by the confection, “are they a cult of pacifists?”

“They think so. But you don’t want to know what they do to monkeys.”

Phillipé allowed the masticated ball to fall from his mouth. “Well,” he said, wiping chocolate from his lips. “I admit I’m intrigued by the notion of non-lethal assassinations, but it’s an idea that needs a lot of testing. We should be able to proceed in a month or two.”

“No good,” said Jack, again sipping the exquisite tea. Was that a hint of mango? “I already have a buyer set up.”

“What?!” Phillipé glanced around the room, as if for support, then locked eyes again with Jack. “When?”

“About thirty minutes. I would have come by your anthill already if you hadn’t stopped by.”

“We can’t proceed,” said Phillipé. “You’ll just have to tell the buyer you’re sorry.”

“We have to proceed tonight,” said Jack. He stood up and slipped an arm into his overcoat.

“You’re going alone?”

Jack shrugged. “I’ll have Avasa with me.”

Phillipé looked scandalized. “You... well.” He reached an oversized hand to his brow and pinched it. “You...”

Phase two, Jack thought, resisting the urge to smile. Mild distress turned Phillipé’s nose bright red. Moderate distress reduced him to monosyllabic non-sequiturs. Jack suspected Phillipé would enter phase three sometime in the next few hours.

“We’ll be at the anthill near the Mouser Crossroads. Climb over the shop lozenge across the street if you decide to join us.”

Jack took a moment to watch the sun come up behind the rectangular shop lozenge and the small anthill beyond it. “Is this the place?” asked Avasa, eyes sprightly despite the hour. “How are we going to get in?”

Jack fixed her with a somber stare. “Without the Platypus, I’m going to have to rely on you. Can you handle the guard?”

Avasa swallowed and her hand went to the dagger at her belt. Eyes wide, she nodded. “I’m ready.”

Willing to kill, Jack thought. He had to concentrate to keep his voice from wavering. He imagined undoing the buttons of her silly costume and parting the —

“Jack!” Avasa had drawn her knife. “I said I’m ready.”

Looking perplexed, she removed her hat. Jack took it from her, balled it up and tossed it onto the roof of the lozenge. “Lost,” he said.

Avasa stared after the hat for a moment, then turned her attention back to Jack. “So what am I supposed to do without the knife?”

“Talk to him,” said Jack, studying the anthill. “Tell him you’re looking for the reservoir. He’ll take you there.”

“He’ll leave his post?”

“To be with you he will. The guard's bald, pushing forty. Spends night after eventless night guarding a foyer.” Jack reached out to undo the top button of Avasa’s shirt, but she slapped his hand away.

She turned to regard the anthill. “How could you tell all that?”

“I checked the place out yesterday. So go in there, act lost and vulnerable, escort our friend to the reservoir and go home and congratulate yourself on the excellent work you’ve been doing.” Avasa looked confused, but not angry. Jack worried that he might have misjudged her.

He watched her walk across the street, costume lending her the perfect aspect of naïveté. She emerged with the eager guard sooner than Jack had expected, and Jack strode nonchalantly toward the building.

The foyer really was boring. Jack looked at the guard’s counter and picked up the play the fellow had been reading. It was an adventure, the kind where a barbarian sneaks into a castle and kills hundreds of dimwitted guards. Jack flipped to the last few pages, where the villain met his end, and read a passage. The villain’s guards never abandoned him. Even when the odds turned completely against them, they fought to the last man. “Loyal,” he said to the guard’s abandoned seat.

Jack followed steps to the second level and picked the lock on the first door. Two people slept on beds along either wall.

“Wake up,” he said. Both men jerked awake. One pulled the covers over himself, cowering.

“What is going on here?” demanded the other. “Chalmos!”

“Oh, he’s busy,” said Jack. He drew his knife and the man swallowed. “Here you go,” he said, holding it out handle first. The man did not move. “Take the knife. You’ve captured me.”

The man took the knife cautiously and stood up. “Quit snivelling, Lance. Get up and get dressed.” He waved the knife at Jack’s ribs. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t stab you.”

“You’re supposed to be pacifists, for one thing,” said Jack. “But come into the other room and look out the window.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see a good reason not to kill me.”

“Give me the knife, Amb,” said Lance, dressed now. “I’ll watch him.” Amb dressed while Lance held the knife.

“So is it just you guys here?” Jack asked.

“For now,” said Lance. “The rest of us are near. No one wants to be far from the Phallus. It — ”

“Shut up!” ordered Amb, taking the knife back and gesturing with it. “Into the other room.”

“You should always hold the knife steady,” Jack said, walking across the hall. “Don’t wave it around.”

“Shut up!” said Amb. “I caught you, didn’t I?”

“Well, no,” said Jack. “I gave you the knife. I was hoping I could maybe join your, uh, cult if I saved your lives.”

“Really?” asked Lance. Jack smiled: stupid people were always eager for other people to reinforce their beliefs. “Why are you smiling?”

“Just excited,” Jack said. “Open the shutters.”

Lance opened the shutters and the three of them looked down at the shop lozenge. For a moment, Jack worried that Phillipé wouldn’t come, but then he saw a dark shape pulling a rope down from the roof.

“Look there,” said Jack, pointing. “That’s the Platypus.”

“What’s he doing?” asked Lance.

“He’s coming to kill you.”

Lance and Amb exchanged worried glances. Forgetting his role as captor, Amb asked, “What should we do?”

“Leave,” said Jack. “Now. It’s either that or death.”

“What about you?”

“Oh, he won’t kill me.”

Amb pointed the knife. “Maybe we should take you hostage. To safeguard our escape.” Jack hadn’t considered this possibility.

“No,” he said, staring out the window again. His captors did the same, watching Phillipé’s dark form cross the street a few feet behind the guard, Chalmos. “The Platypus could disarm you at a distance without injuring me. Your only hope is to summon your allies. A platypus will always back down from superior numbers.”

“Is that true?” asked Lance.

Amb wasted no time answering, but turned to leave instead. “Stall him and there may be a place for you in our ranks,” he told Jack from the doorway.

“Great,” said Jack. “Don’t forget to take Chalmos with you.” He waited a few moments, then followed Amb and Lance down the stairs. Moving to the open doorway, he watched them lead Chalmos away at a hurried pace.

Jack turned around and looked for Phillipé, knowing he had hidden himself somewhere in the foyer. A figure flew at him, fists stinging Jack’s back and knocking him off balance. He spun about, raising his arms defensively and waiting for Phillipé to leap out and protect him.

“I am not your puppet, Jack!” Avasa yelled, brown cheeks red with anger. “You hired me to be a thief, not some damsel in distress. Don’t call me again until you have something real for me to do!”

Avasa turned and walked into the night. Jack sensed movement behind him, and Phillipé stepped out from behind the desk. “That went well,” Phillipé said sarcastically.

“Yes,” said Jack. “I was worried she wouldn’t be upset.”

“You wanted her to get angry?”

Jack walked over to Phillipé, slipped an arm around him, and began leading him up the stairs. “We needed something to overcome,” he explained. “To cement us as a couple. Like that whole lack of rhythm thing you have with Melinda.”

“What?”

“When the male has character flaws that the female helps him come to terms with, she feels like she’s winning. It’s simple biology.”

Phillipé stuttered and clawed at the air as if he could scratch just the right words from it. “I’m not looking for houghmagandy.”

Jack smiled: Phillipé had entered phase three. The more distressed he got, the more obscure his vocabulary became.

“I’m not saying that you are,” Jack said. “But your difficulties started right after you started spending a lot of time in Melinda’s company. Deep down, you know she’d never be with a killer. All I’m saying is that maybe one part of your brain manipulated the shadows for another part, that’s all.”

“This has been coming for years,” said Phillipé.

“True. But it has only now come to a head. Hey,” Jack exclaimed. “It worked. We just nonlethally assassinated three people. All we really need is the threat of death. And a good puppeteer.”

Phillipé smiled at that. “Now what?”

“Now,” said Jack, “we find the Phallus. Before the cultists return. Only two of them slept here, so they must be using the rest of the anthill to hold their holy relics.”

They continued down the hallway, picking locks and looking through rooms. Gaudy ornaments took up most of the space; crates stacked amid upright pews contained only curtains and costumes.

“I don’t think it’s up here,” Phillipé said. “Maybe it’s on the lower level?”

“I hope so,” said Jack. “I got the sense that the other testicular-faithful were nearby.”

They found the door beyond the foyer locked, and Jack slipped the picks from his belt. A moment later, he pushed the door open and glanced at Phillipé. “Smell that?”

“Animals,” said Phillipé, sniffing. The smell intensified as they traversed the corridor.

A large common area took up most of the space of the lower floor. Glow-stick lights provided twilight illumination. Nine cages of various sizes lined the left wall, more pews and crates on the right. On a dais in the back of the room sat the Phallus, a sputtering candle its only guard. Jack smiled and walked toward it.

Primates of all kinds stared back at Phillipé from the cramped cages. There were chimpanzees, orangutans, baboons and small monkeys, plus several animals he had never seen before, presumably brought back from the Anarchy. He reached a tentative hand out to the nearest cage and its resident chimp reciprocated, pressing slender fingers against steel bars. Phillipé recognised a kindred spirit in the animal; in his present condition, he was no better off than these poor monkeys. He was stuck in a psychic prison, and would remain there until he found something to believe in. Phillipé decided he would help the chimpanzee — would help all the caged beasts — or die trying.

“Phillipé,” Jack snapped as the primates began to gibber. “Those cultists will be here any minute. Hurry up.”

“Need a boost?” asked Phillipé, joining Jack in front of the dais and dropping to one knee. Palms up, he clasped his hands in front of him and helped Jack gain the dais. A moment later, Jack tossed the Phallus down to Phillipé.

Phillipé heard voices from the street outside. The cultists.

A crate tumbled from the dais and broke open, spilling linen. “There’s a window up here,” said Jack. “I think we might be able to squeeze through.”

“Don’t worry,” said Phillipé. He set the Phallus carefully on the ground, grabbed a dagger, and moved to the first cage. The lock was strong but internally simplistic, and he had it open in a few seconds.

“What are you doing?” Jack asked, keeping his voice to a hoarse whisper. “We don’t have time for this.”

“It’s all right.” Phillipé eyed the Phallus, certain that the cultists would prove no match for its power.

The animals in the first few cages had discovered their freedom and climbed out. Others barked and hooted in anticipation. Phillipé looked at the ape in the next cage, a strange, hulking creature with a red mane and yellow eyes. For the first time, he considered what a room full of agitated beasts might mean.

“Heathens!” came a righteous shriek. A mob came pouring down the steps.

It’s time to believe in something, Phillipé decided. He picked up the Phallus and held it in front of him like the man from Jack’s book. He decided to fire a warning shot, scorching the ground before the surging faithful. He closed his eyes and concentrated.

And nothing happened. Maybe there’s a magic word, he thought.

“Let’s go!” cried Jack, unfurling a rope and dangling it over the dais.

Phillipé tossed the Phallus up to Jack, then turned back to the cage with the big ape and shoved his dagger through the lock. The creature burst out, knocking Phillipé over, and charged at the cultists. Screams and the sounds of weapons being drawn filled Phillipé’s ears as he opened another cage, and then another.

The creature howled and whimpered and he knew it had met its end. The cultists were nearly upon him now, but he continued picking locks. Any moment, he would go down.

“Stop!” came Jack’s raised voice. “Let all the monkeys go, or I’ll smash this thing to bits.” Phillipé imagined Jack, up on the dais, holding the Phallus in a threatening manner, but he did not turn away from his work until the last cage had been opened.

“Make way,” said Amb, gesturing to his fellows. “Let the sacrifices through.” Phillipé was surprised to see that the primates went along with the plan, moving down the aisle the cultists created in a semi-orderly fashion. “Take two men with muskets,” said Amb, “and station them outside that window.”

Jack threw Phillipé a frown.

“Isn’t it time for you to make your escape?” asked Amb, grinning widely. The two gunmen entered the corridor behind the fleeing animals.

Phillipé went to the rope and started climbing. “Of course,” said Amb, “should you choose to return the Phallus, we may choose to be merciful."

“What do you think?” Jack asked as Phillipé clambered up.

“I think they’ll cut our testicles off.”

“I think they’ll cut your testicles off,” said Jack. “I’m pretty sure I can lie my way out of it.” He smiled at his own joke and turned back to Amb. “I think we’ll just go through the window and threaten to destroy the Phallus if your boys don’t let us go.”

Amb’s eyes narrowed to slits. “It’s your boys you should be worried about, in that case.”

“Nuts,” Jack said to Phillipé. “If it gets sticky out there, we’ll toss the Phallus and run for it.”

Jack crouched down, lifted the glass, and put his head through the window. Once Jack’s feet disappeared, Phillipé followed, sliding along on his back. He inhaled, but his gut still scraped and scratched along the tangible. He popped his head out the other side and looked up at Jack’s astonished face.

Taking Jack’s hand, Phillipé steadied himself on the narrow ledge. The unmoving forms of the musketeers lay in the blood-pooled street. The Medusa stood over the bodies, cleaning her dagger.

“Platypus,” she said through clenched teeth. “Your game won’t work. We’re even now, and I don’t intend to find myself indebted to you again.” She turned and stalked away.

Jack raised his eyebrows, a pleased but puzzled expression, and fastened the rope to a peg. “Off we go.”

They ran three blocks north, a block west, then two more north. Shops had opened, and they lost themselves in the morning traffic. Jack looked around at the stores and market stalls, amazement in his eyes. “I haven’t been up this early in years.”

“Are you going to try to sleep now, or go see your buyer?” asked Phillipé.

“Neither,” he said. “I have to go see Avasa while she’s still upset.” He studied Phillipé a moment, then asked, “What was that with the Phallus back there?”

Phillipé shrugged. “I’m just looking for something to believe in.”

Jack nodded. “When something comes along worth believing in, you’ll know it.”

Phillipé smiled. “Does that mean you have faith, Jack?”

Jack gave a dismissive snort. “In things? Never. But I do have faith in you.”

“Well,” said Phillipé. “I don’t really feel comfortable walking around in my assassin costume in broad daylight, so I’ll see you later.”

“Alright,” said Jack, turning to leave.

“Jack,” Phillipé called. “That stuff you said about Melinda and me. Do you really think that’s true?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Where were you before you came to the Folio?”

“I was taking care of some personal business.”

“You were guarding Gloom. And it’s very noble, but no matter how many petty criminals you kill, there will always be more to prey on Melinda and her flock. You need to look for different solutions. Think about it.”

Avasa lived in a housing lozenge with more than a hundred apartments. Jack gazed again at the address he had for her, still not certain that the door he looked at would be hers. He knocked, and images of a man answering — her boyfriend — raced through his mind. But he dismissed the anxiety. There had been definite signs: touches, hugs, even a kiss. She liked him, even if she didn’t know it yet. And if it turned out that she did have a boyfriend, Jack was confident she would leave him.

Avasa opened the door, bare legs protruding from an oversized shirt. “Jack,” she said, stepping to the side.

“I had to come,” he said, entering her apartment and launching immediately into his apology. The place was small, haphazardly decorated. An open doorway in the corner led to a bedroom. Avasa’s sweet scent carried from it. “I was wrong,” said Jack.

Avasa looked impressed. “I’m a little surprised to hear you say that,” she said. “You didn’t strike me as someone who could admit when they were wrong.”

Jack laughed, feigning surprise at his own repentance. “Neither did I.”

“Well,” she said, her expression growing sterner, “you should be sorry.”

“In a way I’m not.”

“You’re not?” she demanded. “Well, why not?”

He stepped toward her and stretched a tentative hand out to hers. “Because,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “It gave me an excuse to come to your apartment. And,” he said, looking up, “it gives me the opportunity to grow. Stagnation is a danger every one of us faces. When something comes along worth challenging your assumptions about yourself for, I think it should be treasured.”

Still clasping hers, he lifted his hand, running a finger along the soft skin under her jaw. “Jack,” she breathed, moving her lips closer to his.

“I really should go,” he said, pulling away and letting go of her hand. “I just wanted to apologize and — ”

Her arms were steel, pulling him toward her. Her mouth met his. They kissed, and she looked up at him. “Stay,” she cooed.

As if I have a choice, Jack thought, amazed at her vice-like grip. He bent at the knees, squatting until their eyes levelled, then scooped her up and carried her to the bedroom.

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