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landing. He grabbed up another armful of chain and stopped himself tripping headlong down the stairs.
    Two of the Dominicans locked their clenched fists in the shoulders of his coat. A crash made him twist around and look back. A friar efficiently nailed boards across his closed door, fixing the Seal of the Holy Office of the Inquisition to them.
    Is it possible this is the last time I’ll leave these rooms?
    He was unaware he had stopped dead at the top stair until the accompanying Dominicans seized him, forcing him forward and down. A cluster of robed men waited on the next landing, a tall familiar man in their midst.
    â€œMerda! JohnJack, I’m sorry—” Conrad started.
    The nearest priest, a Mediterranean-coloured man barely older than a boy,slammed a fist into Conrad’s kidney. Conrad gasped for air and collided with the stair-rail, supporting himself on it, breathing hard.
    JohnJack Spinelli hauled Conrad up by an elbow, despite his own cuffs. “We’ll sort it out, don’t worry.”
    Five minutes ago the stairway might have been deserted, full only of cool brown shadows and green Roman tiles, the tenement deceptively barren. Now, the muffled laughter of the two very pretty girls who lived together on the fourth floor echoed down the open stairwell, and Conrad heard a choked-off enquiry by their male guest. Half a dozen wives bundled out together, one floor above, in a cloud of dark eyes gone brilliant for scandal. An old man, who had always had time to talk to Conrad, banged his stick against the hand-rail. The high-voiced, painfully honest enquiries of small children began.
    Conrad shut his ears to it, deliberately not looking up the stairwell to see who might be hanging over the railings.
    The Canon-Regular raised his voice. “Bring them. Keep them quiet!”
    Dominicans hustled Conrad down the final flight of stairs, Tullio Rossi behind him, JohnJack Spinelli in front.
    â€œHave Brother Marcantonio bring the closed coach round—”
    A loud, slow knocking interrupted Viscardo. The whole group of Dominicans shuffled to a halt behind the Canon-Regular. Conrad, stopped on a higher stair, had the height to see over most of the hooded men, but not all.
    He leaned out, over the rail, squinting at the foot of the stairs.
    The door to the street stood open, sunlight spilling into the foyer of the tenement house.
    Against the brightness, Conrad made out a figure in police uniform—a tall, sleek-haired young man with a cockade in his hat, who rapped his knuckles against the lintel of the door.
    â€œIt was open,” the newcomer murmured, “so I thought I’d come in…”
    The sunlight shifted and his silhouette became recognisable.
    Conrad gave a surprised exclamation, his bruised stomach muscles catching him. “Luigi?”
    Luigi Esposito, Chief of Police for the Port district, posed like a tenor given a particularly fine entrance. The sunlight brilliantly sparked off his belt-buckle, gorget, and the hilt of his ornamental sword. He occupied himself in pulling off his white leather gloves, one finger at a time, until every one of the priests there was staring at him.
    He looked up with a singular sweetness at Conrad.
    â€œI do hope you’re not trying to avoid our chess game, Corrado? How much is it you owe me now?”
    Before Conrad could recover from his speechlessness, Canon-Regular Viscardo stepped off the lowest stair, glaring at the younger man. “Gambling is against Church law!”
    If there was a smile of absolute insincerity, the police officer had mastered it years ago.
    â€œGambling for money? I’m shocked! Corradino and I merely keep a tally of points, and pay them off with a glass or two of fine wine…”
    Luigi’s bow to the churchman was a masterpiece of insolence masquerading as politeness.
    â€œâ€¦But first we have an appointment.”
    Viscardo seemed to gather all the power of the Church to him,