the road, was a spacious, quiet place, the Blue Lizard , even this early, was noisy, and it smelled. It was a small, dank place set away from the river, and Smith had difficulty getting to the bar to order an ale and breakfast.
  It felt strange to be out of the village. He knew the Bureau kept rural agents around the village â making sure the inmates remained where they should. Confirmation of that came quickly. As he was tucking into his fried eggs a small, slim figure slid into the seat across from him. Smith looked up, and his face twisted into an expression of dislike that made the other man grin.
  "Charles," Smith said.
  "Peace," the other said, and laughed.
  "I thought they hanged you," Smith said.
  Charles Peace shrugged. "I'm a useful feller, ain't I," he said, modestly.
  "Useful how?" Smith said.
  "Keeping my eyes open, don't I," Peace said. "Sniffing about, by your leave, Smith. Ferreting things."
  He looked like a ferret, Smith thought. But he was nothing but a rat.
  "What do you want?" he said.
  Peace tsked. "No way to talk to an old friend," he said mournfully. "You know you shouldn't be out of the village, Smith."
  "I'm back on active."
  "Really." Peace snorted. He was a violinist, a burglar, and a murderer. Which is a different thing entirely, Smith preferred to think, to a killer.
  Murderers didn't have standards, for one.
  "Really," Smith said.
  "I did not get the memo."
  "I don't doubt that."
  Charles Peace looked sharply up. "What does that mean, me old mucker?" he said, almost spitting out the words.
  Smith ignored him. The Blue Lizard was busy with rail workers, farmers in for the market, and such visitors to the castle low enough on the social pecking order not to have been extended an invitation to stay at the castle grounds. It was dark inside and the air turned blue with cigar and pipe smoke. Across from him, Peace made himself relax. He rolled a cigarette, yellow fingers shaking slightly as they heaped tobacco into paper. "Having a laugh," Peace said, smiling again. His teeth were revolting. Smith pushed away his breakfast, took a sip of ale. "You have something for me?" he said at last.
  But now Peace was disgruntled. "Should report you, I should," he said. "Out and about, when you should be retired an' all."
  Smith looked at him closely. Had Fogg not rescinded the watch order on him? He had assumed Peace had a message for him from the Bureau. But if he hadn't, what did he want? Smith knew the instructions that affected him, and the rest of the village. Watchers were told that under no circumstances were they to engage with retired agents. Report and wait , was the standing procedure.
  So what was Peace playing at?
  He waited the man out. Peace finishing rolling, lit up the cigarette. Loose tobacco fell on the table. The man's hands were shaking. Disgraceful. "You do something you shouldn't have?" Peace said at last.
  Smith didn't answer. Watched him. Watched the room.
  He'd had trouble finding a table. He sat in the corner, his back to the wall, his eyes on the door. It was the way he always sat. Busy place. Was anyone watching him , in their turn? Was anything out of place?
  "Been a naughty boy," Peace said. He spat out tobacco shreds. Made to get upâ
  Smith kicked the table from underneath, lifting it over â it hit Peace full in the face, sent him reeling back. Smith dropped behind the table as three shots rang out. Screams in the pub â he caught movement coming forward as everyone else moved back, towards the door or, if they were smart, stayed down. Two figures, guns drawn. He was getting sick of guns.
  "We just want to talk, Mr. Smith."
  The voice was cultured, sort of, a London accent, with only a hint of the continental about it. More agents of the
  It felt strange to be out of the village. He knew the Bureau kept rural agents around the village â making sure the inmates remained where they should. Confirmation of that came quickly. As he was tucking into his fried eggs a small, slim figure slid into the seat across from him. Smith looked up, and his face twisted into an expression of dislike that made the other man grin.
  "Charles," Smith said.
  "Peace," the other said, and laughed.
  "I thought they hanged you," Smith said.
  Charles Peace shrugged. "I'm a useful feller, ain't I," he said, modestly.
  "Useful how?" Smith said.
  "Keeping my eyes open, don't I," Peace said. "Sniffing about, by your leave, Smith. Ferreting things."
  He looked like a ferret, Smith thought. But he was nothing but a rat.
  "What do you want?" he said.
  Peace tsked. "No way to talk to an old friend," he said mournfully. "You know you shouldn't be out of the village, Smith."
  "I'm back on active."
  "Really." Peace snorted. He was a violinist, a burglar, and a murderer. Which is a different thing entirely, Smith preferred to think, to a killer.
  Murderers didn't have standards, for one.
  "Really," Smith said.
  "I did not get the memo."
  "I don't doubt that."
  Charles Peace looked sharply up. "What does that mean, me old mucker?" he said, almost spitting out the words.
  Smith ignored him. The Blue Lizard was busy with rail workers, farmers in for the market, and such visitors to the castle low enough on the social pecking order not to have been extended an invitation to stay at the castle grounds. It was dark inside and the air turned blue with cigar and pipe smoke. Across from him, Peace made himself relax. He rolled a cigarette, yellow fingers shaking slightly as they heaped tobacco into paper. "Having a laugh," Peace said, smiling again. His teeth were revolting. Smith pushed away his breakfast, took a sip of ale. "You have something for me?" he said at last.
  But now Peace was disgruntled. "Should report you, I should," he said. "Out and about, when you should be retired an' all."
  Smith looked at him closely. Had Fogg not rescinded the watch order on him? He had assumed Peace had a message for him from the Bureau. But if he hadn't, what did he want? Smith knew the instructions that affected him, and the rest of the village. Watchers were told that under no circumstances were they to engage with retired agents. Report and wait , was the standing procedure.
  So what was Peace playing at?
  He waited the man out. Peace finishing rolling, lit up the cigarette. Loose tobacco fell on the table. The man's hands were shaking. Disgraceful. "You do something you shouldn't have?" Peace said at last.
  Smith didn't answer. Watched him. Watched the room.
  He'd had trouble finding a table. He sat in the corner, his back to the wall, his eyes on the door. It was the way he always sat. Busy place. Was anyone watching him , in their turn? Was anything out of place?
  "Been a naughty boy," Peace said. He spat out tobacco shreds. Made to get upâ
  Smith kicked the table from underneath, lifting it over â it hit Peace full in the face, sent him reeling back. Smith dropped behind the table as three shots rang out. Screams in the pub â he caught movement coming forward as everyone else moved back, towards the door or, if they were smart, stayed down. Two figures, guns drawn. He was getting sick of guns.
  "We just want to talk, Mr. Smith."
  The voice was cultured, sort of, a London accent, with only a hint of the continental about it. More agents of the
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