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next to her overturned closet. ‘Gives us a hand with this.’
    Tark helped Zyra lift the closet back into its spot against the wall. Zyra reached out and yanked at the door without using her other hand to hold it in place. The door fell off its hinges, revealing a rack of clothing on old hangers and a box of assorted old weapons – everything from rusty daggers to empty pistols.
    Zyra reached in behind the clothes and pulled out a shopping cart. It was the old-fashioned, vinyl-covered sort that old women usually pushed around. She shoved it at Tark.
    ‘Puts it in ’ere,’ she instructed.
    Tark nodded and went to load their stash. As he did so, Zyra reached into the closet and pulled out her leather travelling coat. Well-worn and dark red in colour, this was her signature piece – the one bit of clothing that meant more to her than any other, the coat which she looked best in, the coat that swayed and swished as she walked, the coat with a great many pockets in which to conceal a great many weapons. She loaded up those pockets with some extra knives, a pair of tarnished brass knuckles and the last of her stars.
    With the cart loaded and Zyra dressed for the occasion, they headed for the exit.
    ‘Wot wuz that?’ asked Tark, whirling around.
    ‘Wot wuz wot?’ asked Zyra, nervously.
    ‘That sound,’ said Tark. ‘Like shifting rubble.’
    They both looked towards the pile of rubble. Nothing moved. Everything was silent.
    ‘Ya don't suppose,’ started Tark.
    ‘No way!’
    ‘Comes on,’ said Tark, turning away, deciding it was best not to think about what he thought he might have heard. ‘We betta go.’
    ‘Yeah,’ agreed Zyra. ‘Let's go sees the Oracle.’

10: Where to Go
    Tark and Zyra looked up at the imposing building. Although still crumbling, attempts had been made to patch it up. Dried mud held old bricks in place and wooden beams supported leaning walls. The enormous windows on either side of the double doors still had a few pieces of stained glass in place. The remaining sections were covered over with cardboard, wood and even old newspapers. The yard around the building was neat and cared for, something unheard of elsewhere in the City.
    Above the double doors was a wooden beam with words carved into it: ‘The Temple of Paths’.
    ‘’Ere goes,’ said Tark, striding up to the front of the building, shopping cart in tow. He pulled the chain by the double doors.
    ‘Hopes we gets an easy path,’ said Zyra.
    ‘Yeah, like that'll happen!’
    Easy paths were not assigned to thievers like them. The Designers’ rules set out certain types of paths for certain classes of people. The best they could hope for was a path that wasn't too life-threatening.
    The door creaked open to release the sound of chanting from within. Brown robes and a cowl concealed the identity of the monk who had opened the door. A small Designers Paradise logo, the letters DP in an intertwined silver and gold swirl, hung around the hooded figure's neck on a long piece of twine.
    ‘In the name of the Designers,’ said Zyra, ‘we seeks the wisdom of the Oracle to shows us the way to Paradise.’
    The monk inclined his head and stepped back to allow them entry. Tark and Zyra stepped into the gloom. The building was all one room, with a high vaulted ceiling. The interior was in much better condition than the exterior. The walls were lined with a row of television screens on sconces, each displaying the image of flickering candles. More screens hung from the ceiling joists, these displaying nothing but static. The combined screens, along with the streams of sunshine entering through the few remaining pieces of stained glass, gave the room an eerie quality.
    Just below the ceiling joists, a set of four booths protruded from each of the longer walls. They had the appearance of opera boxes, except that each of them had a Designers Paradise logo stencilled onto its rounded front. Tark wondered if distinguished people sat in them