Crouching down and raising his lantern, Arthur saw the stone floor simply ended as if it had been sheared off clean by an enormous knife. Swirls of smog blew along the edge of the precipice, cloaking how far down the drop might be. Arthur couldn’t see the other side at all.

He guessed that he had found the edge of the Pit. Slowly he backed away, not feeling safe until he had returned to the other side of the railway.

Now that he knew he was on the edge of the Pit, Arthur realised that the railway slanted down in one direction. That would be the way he was supposed to go. But if he followed the rails, he would be drawn deeper and deeper into the horrible life of an indentured worker in Grim Tuesday’s realm. On the other hand, if he followed the rails up, he’d probably get steamed . . . and unlike a Denizen, would not survive the experience.

I’m in trouble.

It was really sinking in now that he was trapped in a very unpleasant part of the House. He didn’t have the Key, so apart from some faint lingering power in his hands, he had no magic to help him and no weapon. He had no way to get out and no way to communicate with his friends. No one knew he was here except the Lieutenant Keeper – who couldn’t tell anyone unless they asked first.

He’d rushed in to try to stop his family from suffering any more financial assaults, but all he’d managed to achieve was to get himself into very serious trouble.

Arthur sat down on the rail, put his head in his hands, and massaged his temples. He felt slow and stupid and utterly defeated. He had to figure out a way to escape. There was no way he could survive going farther down the Pit.

He started rocking back and forth. Somehow that slight motion made him feel better, as if any movement might help him come up with an idea. As he rocked, he felt a slight pain in his chest. Not the internal ache of a stiffening lung, but something poking into him from his pocket.

The Atlas.

Suddenly full of hope, he got the green cloth-covered book out and rested it in his lap. Then he laid both hands flat on the cover and thought out his question.

How can I get out of the Pit?

The Atlas opened with less than its usual alacrity, and instead of growing to its usual dimensions, only expanded to twice its pocket-sized form. It also kept partially closed, so Arthur had to peer in. Clearly the Atlas didn’t like the air in the Pit either.

A single letter was slowly sketched out in ink, then the unseen hand grew faster and wrote a word, then another. As in the first time Arthur had used the Atlas, the words were not in English, and the letters were not any that he knew. But as he looked at them, they changed into a more recognisable form.

There are numerous ways to leave the fearsome Pit of Grim Tuesday. There are the official ways, requiring suitable passes and permits. They include:

a. by walking up the service road;

b. as a passenger upon Grim Tuesday’s train; and

c. as one of the Grim’s messengers, with a wheel recalibrated for ascent.

There are the unofficial ways, which are dangerous or self-defeating. These include:

a. by flying, with its attendant risks, some specific to the Pit; and

b. by destruction at the hands of a Nithling or an eruption of Nothing.

‘No,’ said Arthur. ‘I mean specifically how can I get out of the Pit now?’

Nothing happened. The page of the Atlas remained still and frozen. No unseen hand wrote, no ink shimmered.

Arthur slowly closed the Atlas and put it in his pocket. For a moment he had thought it would give him some easy way out, some secret way to exit the Pit. It had helped him back in his world, but it either couldn’t or wouldn’t help him here.

I suppose I could go to an Overseer and ask to see Grim Tuesday, Arthur thought despondently. And just sign the stupid paper that would give him the First Key and the Lower House . . .

‘Excuse me! I think you’re meant to go ahead of me,’ said a polite voice out of the smog. Arthur looked around and saw the Denizen who’d been behind him in the line.

‘They seem quite keen on staying in line here. Name’s Japeth, by the way. Former name, I suppose.’

‘I’m Arthur,’ said Arthur. He extended his hand. Japeth took it, but before he could close his hand, blue sparks erupted from Arthur’s palm and lashed around Japeth’s wrist. The Denizen let go with a yelp and withdrew, sucking his fingers.

‘You’re not an indentured worker!’ he exclaimed.

Arthur tensed for the Denizen to call out to the Overseers, who would surely be somewhere near in the smog. Japeth might get a reward, or early release, or something. So he mustn’t be allowed the opportunity . . .

‘Don’t worry!’ Japeth added quickly as Arthur bent down and picked up a piece of the weird stone ballast from the train track. ‘I’m not a snitch, tattletale, dobber, blabberer, squealer, fink, or indeed, easy-mouth. Whoever you are, I shan’t say a word, phrase, utterance, syntag –’

‘You’d better not,’ warned Arthur. He tried to sound severe but was very relieved as he dropped the stone. ‘I’m here . . . on a mission to help all the indentured workers.’

Japeth also seemed relieved. He bowed and doffed an imaginary hat. His courtly manners were rather at odds with the extremely ragged velvet pants he wore under his leather apron. His shirt was no longer white, but yellow, and the cuffs were done up with string rather than buttons. Like most Denizens, he was handsome, but his face looked a little squashed, as did his body. As if he’d been pushed down and broadened, an imperfect clay model that had once come from a handsome mould.

‘I would be honoured to assist,’ he said. ‘That is to say, aid, support, succour, abet, reinforce, or give a leg up.’

‘Thank you,’ said Arthur. ‘Um, do you always talk like that?’

‘You refer to my constant, even habitual, use of a multiplicity of words and terms?’

‘Yes.’

‘Only when I’m nervous,’ replied Japeth. ‘I am . . . I used to be a Thesaurus Minimus Grade Two. It is an occupational hazard, danger, or threat that we sometimes become prolix, verbose, long-winded, longiloquent . . . I fight against it, I assure you. Shall we move on before someone comes looking for us?’

‘I suppose we should,’ agreed Arthur, after a moment’s hesitation. He needed more time to think, and they couldn’t stay where they were.

‘After you,’ said Japeth, bowing and once again waving his imaginary hat.

‘No, after you,’ replied Arthur, bowing a little himself. He didn’t want the Denizen walking close behind him, not with all the ballast stone about. He sounded sincere, but Arthur didn’t want to risk being hit on the head and handed over unconscious to the Overseers.

Japeth inclined his head and strode off down the tracks, his clogs echoing hollowly on the stone sleepers. Arthur followed, still thinking furiously and occasionally tripping over his own clogs. If only he could get a message out to the Lower House. Every idea he came up with had a flaw. He got all excited for a second when he remembered that Monday’s Noon had been able to summon a telephone apparently out of nowhere in the House and the Secondary Realms. But even if Arthur could do that, the Lower House’s telephone service had either been cut off or required cash payment up front, and he had no money.

But perhaps I could get some, he thought. Then I could call theWill, or Suzy, or Monday’s Noon . . .

‘What currency do they use in the Pit?’ asked Arthur as they continued down the tracks without running into anyone or anything.

‘I believe the Far Reaches used to have a very nicely minted gold noble, silver real and copper bice,’ replied Japeth. ‘However, Grim Tuesday has gathered all actual coinage to himself, and everyone else must make do with ledger entries. Like our indentures.’

He pulled out a rectangular piece of card that he wore on a string around his neck.

‘Do you mind if I have a look?’ asked Arthur.

‘I can’t take it off, remove, or displace it from my person,’ said Japeth. ‘But please do take a glance, preliminary examination, indagation, or, indeed, look.’

The paper looked like a label, with neat writing in a sickly green ink. It had one column headed EARNINGS and one headed OWING. The EARNINGS column had a single line with 0n 0r 0b. The OWING column had 4n 6r 18b. As Arthur watched, the OWING column rippled and changed to 4n 7r 1b.

‘You see why no one ever earns their way free of their indenture. We are not paid until we reach the bottom of the Pit and, even then, only if we find usable amounts of Nothing. But we are charged for every breath of this foul air, and ridiculous amounts for our meagre equipment.’

‘So there is no money, I mean coins or notes, at all in the Pit?’

‘So I have been told, informed, clued in,’ said Japeth. He started to walk along the railway again. ‘Shouldn’t we be getting on, moving along, advancing, progressing?’

Arthur nodded. Japeth was clearly getting more and more nervous, and it was infectious. Arthur hurried after the Denizen, the sound of their clogs clattering faster and faster till they were almost running.

It was just as well they hurried. A hundred yards farther down the track, an Overseer suddenly loomed up out of the smog. He was marching with purpose along the railway, his steam-gun ready. When he saw them, he grunted and waved them past, then followed. Clearly he had started to investigate the delay in new arrivals.

The smog cleared a little in front of Arthur. He saw several groups ofDenizensmarching awaywithoutOverseers. Another group was standing nearby, watched by anOverseer who had his visor up and was polishing his teeth with a cloth and an open tin ofwhite paste.Hewas shorter by a head than the Denizens he watched, but much broader across the shoulders. His face was really squashed down and two of the teeth in his lower jaw protruded out like small tusks.

‘Here you go,’ shouted the Overseer behind Arthur. ‘Couple of laggards.’

The Overseer rubbed his teeth one last time, slipped the tin under his apron, gave a surprisingly gentle sigh, and clanged down his visor. Immediately a change came over him. He hunched forward, growled and drew his steam-gun. His backpack steam engine went from a purr to a harsh rattle, pumped out a heavy cloud of black smoke, and vented steam to either side behind his elbows.

‘Hurry up!’ he shouted. ‘Get in line.’

Arthur and Japeth ran to the group of Denizens, who were milling about, trying to get into a line. But no one wanted to be closest to the Overseer, so whoever ended up there ducked around the back and joined the end of the line. This went on for a minute or so, till the Overseer blasted a jet of steam into the air.

‘Stop!’ he yelled. ‘You, stand there! You, stand there! Right, now stand in line.’

When everyone was in line, the Overseer marched up to Arthur and Japeth and roared, ‘Why were you late?’

‘I fell on my head,’ said Arthur. It seemed to be an all-purpose excuse. ‘Where are we?’

‘You are on HisMightiness Grim Tuesday’s Pit Railway Service Road!’ shouted the Overseer. ‘You are very lucky!’

‘Why?’ asked Japeth. ‘How come? On account of what –’ ‘Shut up! I ask the questions!’

Japeth shut up. The Overseer growled, then repeated, ‘I ask the questions! And my first question is . . .’

His voice trailed off as he struggled to get a grimy piece of paper out from the inner pocket of his leather coat. Having got the paper out, he had trouble unfolding it. When it was finally unfolded, he held it up to his visor.

The question, when it finally came, was not what Arthur expected.

‘You all been branded?’ asked the Overseer.

Arthur nodded with the others and kept his head down, hoping to hide the fear that he was sure showed in his face.

‘Any swift healers?’ asked the Overseer, obviously reading from the paper.

Everyone shook their heads. The Overseer looked across at them, then back at the paper.

‘Orright, let’s see your soles, then,’ instructed the Overseer.

Our souls? thought Arthur in surprise. How can we show our souls?

He was particularly surprised when everyone stepped out of their right clog, took off their right sock, and started hopping about, each presenting their right foot towards the Overseer.

‘Come on, then, no time to waste in the Grim’s service,’ barked the Overseer. ‘Don’t hop about, you idiots! Lie on your backs and hold your soles out.’

Arthur, still mystified, sat down with everyone else in a line along the cold stone floor. But as he slipped off his right clog, he looked at Japeth’s bare foot and saw what the Overseer was looking for.

The brand was on the sole of the right foot! A brand that ran from the heel to the ball and said in glowing green type: INDENTURED TO GRIM TUESDAY.

Arthur froze for an instant, then pretended his clog was stuck, as he feverishly tried to think about what he could do. The Overseer had a steam-gun, there was the other Overseer somewhere back up along the railway, and certainly many more on the platform above it.

‘I knew it!’ shouted the Overseer. ‘There’s always one!’

Arthur snapped his head back. For a horrible second he thought the Overseer was talking to him, then he saw the squat figure was standing over one of the Denizens at the other end of the line.

‘Swift healer for sure,’ declared the Overseer. ‘When were you branded?’

‘Yesterday, when I arrived,’ replied the Denizen dejectedly. ‘But I don’t always heal swiftly, sir. Sometimes it takes days.’

‘Days! That brand’s supposed to last a year. I’ll have to ear- or nose-clip you instead. Stand up.’

‘Oh, sir, please, I’d prefer another branding.’