It felt like he had slept for an age. Xindii wiped the hard encrusted sleep from his eyes, ancient barnacles that ripped at the gelatinous texture of his eyeballs.

He tried stretching out his legs and arms, a morning ritual of habit which culminated in a massive yawn and an exorcism of morning fatigue.

He couldn't move his legs and his arms would only move so far. He turned in the cramped space and prodded at the moving wall opposite. It wasn't a wall! He held it within his fingers and felt the ragged fabric. He pulled the curtain aside and a light seared his delicate retinas.

Xindii rubbed his eyes. Bathing them in darkness once again.

'There's breakfast if ya want it boy. Don't keep Miss Fanny waitin'.'

He looked down at the ragged old man, cross-legged on the dirty floor of the carriage, his cards strewn across the floor.

Xindii hiked himself down from the baggage compartment; his makeshift bed, and landed in Hadigan's game of Shit Head.

'Ere, ruddy boy. Watch where ya goin'. Ruin my Shit Head.'

Xindii swayed with the rhythm of the monorail and lost his balance, tipping himself backwards onto a seat only to leap back up as Hadigan's cat, Kashmir, swiped at the boy.

'Go and sort ya self. Hell's Bells. Get some breakfast. Big day.'

Hadigan looked up at him, his serpentine tongue itching his unclean nostrils. His white beard hanging in tuffs. Wraithlike fingers dealt his cards.

'Get some grub boy. Be orf wid ya.'

Xindii walked through the carriage leaving the old scroat to his cards and puss. Hadigan, the man of pockets, governor - of a sort - of the monorail. A tribe, formed from artists and musicians, waifs and strays, orphans and the lost.

The monorail, powered by the prosperity of thievery. An eternal trail, bleeding through the city. They say if you travelled far enough on the monorail you would see yourself. Not literally of course, that would be silly. No, it was a belief. That the monorail took you in and on your travels you would recognise another like yourself, before the comfort and philosophy of the monorail nurtured you. If you travelled far enough you would recognise the plight of another, once shared. Then, well, it was your duty to bring them forward out of the cold so they could share in the monorail's word. The word of home.

A commune. An institution. Many had tried over the years to bring the monorail to heed. Especially within the last few years when the enigmatic figure of Hadigan has slinked into the framework of the monorail.

Hadigan, the man of pockets, master blackmailer and answerable to none. Many had tried to topple the beast but to no avail. Commodores, politicians, other criminal fraternities who had an axe to grind with the man of pockets. They couldn't touch him.

Admired and despised in equal measure, Hadigan was forthright when it came to the protection of the monorail. You did as you were told, if not then you would face his stare and there were many who had quivered and skulked back in obscurity.

Hadigan, the man of pockets.

Xindii entered the food cart and saw Tyke and Doolally chatting idly. They both acknowledged him with a wink as he peered into the steam and smoke of Miss Fanny's kitchen. He couldn't hear or see her so pulled a plate from the stack and started to ply his plate with some creamy hafflelat.

The bearded woman appeared out of the steam and slapped the boy's hand.

'Hilp ya self is it?' she asked in her coarse Hotch accent.

'Ah, no, jusst -'

'Whatta yi wan?'

'Hafflelat,' replied Xindii as if that wasn't obvious enough 'and a gunark egg.'

She grunted and heaved her fat frame through the compact kitchen, a trio of jibbertits appeared from the labyrinth depths of her beard and cheeped and chirped. The Hotch woman delved into a bowl of toasted almonds and tossed a handful in to her bosom. The jibbertits crawled through matted hair to retrieve their breakfast from Miss Fanny's deep heaving bosom.

'Krause? Beans?'

Xindii simply nodded, enthusiastically. He didn't want to upset her now. Old Hadigan had probably upset her again with promises of love play and flowers. The thought of the two heaped in a tangle of flesh and beards turned his stomach.

He looked at his breakfast and nearly left it but Miss Fanny eyed the boy with a sword of scrutiny. He decided to take it with him.

Doolally waved him over and he settled down to eat. Tyke sat casually, her feet on the table, top hat placed firmly on her bonce, an apple being eaten with a rapid relish.

'Are you ready, Xindii? All set for the big one?'

'I think-'

'You think? You better be or the old man will have your guts for garters.'

Xindii ploughed into the hafflelat.

Tyke leaned forward. 'I think he means let him have breakfast first.'

Doolally smiled. 'Of course, I'm sure the old man wouldn't have picked him for the retinue if he didn't have the balls.'

'Don't worry about me, Doolally.'

'I don't.'

Tyke sat there bathing in the frisson, her smile infectious, her appetite sated.

'Well then gentlemen, shall we leave your testosterone at the monorail. There is no room for machoism today. We fail, we're fucked.'

Xindii continued to eat, finishing off the creamy hafflelat and beans.

'All clear,' Xindii remarked.

Doolally leaned in closer.

'Just don't forget who found you starving in the gutter, Xindii.'

'I haven't.'

Doolally got up and Tyke followed.

'Good . . . five minutes. The market of souls awaits.'

The monorail took them to Nuttergut Hill where the 'Retinue of Thieves' ploughed downward to the underground and the tube to Jango Fey.

They sat in silence for nearly twenty minutes, the three of them alone with their thoughts. Hadigan's philosophy.

To commit a crime it was best to shroud yourself. Immerse yourself in the everyday banality of the gravity of Testament. People always watched, especially on the underground. They didn't want to talk but curiosity was a hard beast to quell.

If people witnessed you talking on the tube they would remember. If you had your head in a newspaper or a book, they would disregard you, steam on a mirror; transient.

The market of souls, it made the Brentish flea markets pale in comparison. The whole market was one island. A conglomerate of stores and stalls, eateries and street theatre carved into the massive sandstone.

Xindii only had the pleasure once. On a day trip with the school many years ago where he nearly lost himself in the vast sprawling market. A thousand purveyors of scented candles and woven wares from the Islands of Bish. Fish caught in the Black Swell, alien and pungent. Carvings from fallah wood and rullahund ivory; a metropolis of continents crammed into a corner of Testament.

He remembered it as a heady experience, the aroma of incense and fresh meat and fish swirling through the sandstone corridors. You could buy anything here, or so they said. Such rumours of barter gave way to urban myths of illicit black market dealings. Of babies sold to the highest bidders and slaves from Darklands smuggled into households of noble blood, for what reasons one did not want to dwell. Suffice to say, at the market of souls anything had a price.

Xindii watched a couple of people disembark at Gas Town and noticed his palms had become rather sweaty. He wiped them on his trousers and noticed the eye of Doolally cast his way

What?

Xindii crossed his arms again.

Doolally was rather pro-active when it came to a job. He'd found Xindii cowering in a back street hovel, starving and wet through with rust rain and on the run from the Watch. Doolally had offered his hand and the promise of warmth and food. The boy from Jeppa took it willingly. The prospect of sanctuary and a hearty meal a no-brainer.

Months passed and Xindii smoothly earned his place in the framework of the monorail and earned the attention of the man of pockets, much to Doolally's aggravation. The denizens of the monorail failed to see Hadigan's fascination. It was just a boy surely. It was as if Hadigan could look deeper than most, see the pain and tend it. Perhaps, the boy reminded him of himself.

Doolally took it to heart. You couldn't always see it but it was there, a crack; a rupture in the patriarchal bond. Sometimes you could see the venom bubbling.

Xindii knew this and quite frankly he didn't care. The monorail offered shelter and food and that was his main concern.

Hadigan had spoken to him over the months, almost touched at the power hidden within, told him to embrace it. He didn't know how the old scroat knew of his power but anything concerning this wily old man didn't surprise him. He had ears everywhere, informants and spies, his hands in the pockets of society.

You could never lie to the man.

Some had.

Fools.

Xindii did as he was bid, as did Doolally and Tyke. They all hadn't survived this long by asking questions. That was the denominator between the three.

Do as you are told.

The train pulled into Jango Fey and its passengers disembarked. Xindii and Tyke held back as Doolally joined the masses.

The remaining two waited for the crowd to die down and then Tyke joined the remaining few as they shuffled from the carriage.

Xindii was the last and he made his way along the platform, lingering at the back. The commuters and eager shoppers made their way through the tunnels and lifts, hunting eagerly for their passes within deep pockets and handbags.

Xindii casually made his way up the escalators and realised Doolally was standing behind him. Tyke, two Da'Ka Moths down. The Retinue weaving into the crowd, the populace oblivious.

Xindii slipped his ticket in the turnstile and walked into the iron bar. It didn't give. The machine spat out his ticket and almost whirred with a hint of malice. Xindii smoothed it between forefingers and thumb much to Doolally's annoyance and tried once more. The bar rotated as the boy walked through.

An attendant walked by and gave Xindii an accusing look. Probably just pissed at him for holding up the crowd. Still, he knew Doolally would give him a sarcastic comment as soon as they entered the market.

The boy was obvious.

Xindii followed Tyke's hat. The trick was to follow the hat four shops (or stalls) down. Tinker and browse and fondle the merchandise, while the one lagging behind caught up and strolled another four shops (or stalls) onwards. This way the Retinue were never seen together.

The chain continued throughout the market of souls. Xindii browsed some ankhs from the white continent, the claw of a butter-skeet from Kissledaw, the tooth of a dragon from the plateau of Dahrain.

He felt someone nip his arse as he placed the tooth back on its mount. Looking over his shoulder he saw the hat of Tyke disappearing into a consortium of nagging Da'Ka Moths, the girl looking back to give him a sly wink.

If Hadigan had seen that he would have had her strung up and exiled. 'Don't give nowt away, Xindii, you have the power to do the impossible,' the old scroat would have said.

He didn't mind. Tyke was likeable. He didn't see what interest she held in Doolally. Perhaps because they had been together a while. If they were even together? He had never asked. He didn't care. But she had guile and cunning. A deft hand at settling scores. A master strategist. He could see why Hadigan had brought her in. None would dare to tame her.

The burly frame of Doolally walked past him and he followed suit, keeping back from the boy. Careful not to rouse attention.

Twelve yards down the street Tyke and Doolally came to rest and browse the fabulous fabrics outside a rather ramshackle haberdashery and Xindii pulled a copy of the Nuttergut Tribune from his jacket and sat opposite on a bench. His head disappeared into the paper as Tyke and Doolally entered the shop.

The harsh warm sun bathed the concourse in a fabulous heat as Xindii reached into himself and found the beat.