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not to show fear. “What obligation are you referring to? We ain’t in Ram country here in Holborn.”
    But he knew. He knew in his gut what his obligation was.
    Otto did not speak; instead he tugged one lace glove from his giant paw with utmost deliberation, finger by finger, then tapped his own right shoulder.
    Riley knew what lay under the silken sleeve. A Ram tattoo similar to the one Farley had inked on his own shoulder six months previous, during a particularly testing escapade that would have puffed out Allan Quatermain himself. Riley’s choice at the time had been to either take the ink or be fed to the pigs. Taking the ink had seemed less immediatelyterminal.
    “You is one of us, lad,” said Inhumane. “You is Family.”
    Riley maintained his showman’s face, but behind the smile, panic was boiling his fluids.
    How could I not have foreseen this? I am a Ram. Everything I do belongs to them.
    “Everything of yours is ours,” said Malarkey sweetly, as though the king were privy to members’ thoughts. “This here building. The swanky velvet seats therein. Tell me, boy, you ain’t been spending Ram chink on refurbishings, have you?”
    Riley spread his arms. “Just a few knickety-knacks. Here and there, odds and ends.” It was gibberish, but he was stalling for time.
    “ ’Coz that would be a royal decision. Committee at the very least. You should’ve submitted a request form.”
    “I didn’t know there was such a form, Your High Rammity. I never thought.”
    This was apparently hilarious.
    Pooley drummed his thighs with bone-thin fists. “ ’E never thought. Hark at him.”
    “ ’E never finks,” said Inhumane, and he chuckled long and low, with a sound like far-off cannon fire. “That is the problem.”
    “Brass tacks then, Mr. Malarkey, sir,” said Riley. “What’s on my account?”
    “Brass tacks,” said Malarkey. “I like you, boy, which is why I ain’t taking this personal. I ain’t taking all of this sneaky earning the wrong way. I could see it like you been dipping into my pocket. Taking the bread out of my starving little brother’s pie hole.”
    A thought struck Inhumane. “I am starving, as it ’appens.”
    Otto laughed, waving the parasol like a baton. “See? He’s starving, is Barnabus. You wanna watch out—he’s likely to take a bite out of yer leg. He’s partial to tender meat, is Barnabus.”
    Riley went slightly on the offensive. “So, we’re all square at the moment, King Otto?”
    Had Riley been famed comic George Robey, the cacophony of laughter following this statement could hardly have been more enthusiastic. With eyes closed, one would have sworn that the Orient was packed to the gods based on volume alone. The mirth shook the men and the men shook the theater until their seats strained their floor bolts.
    “All square?” wept King Otto, having taken a pull of brandy from the handle of his parasol. “Dear me, Riley. You is a tonic and no mistake. All square?” He thumped the Rams in range. “Did you ever hear of such a thing? There ain’t no all square in the Brotherhood, my boy. All square is not a condition we deals in.”
    Riley felt despair drop over him neat as a butterfly net. “Perhaps you could set me straight, King Otto.”
    Financial details were too vulgar for royalty to deal with, so Otto delegated. “Farley, spell it out for the Great Savano. Keep it simple. After all, he’s only a lad, despite his grand title.”
    Farley smiled at Riley, the first display of friendly teeth since the Rams had arrived. The conservatively clad tattooist seemed out of place in such rambunctious company. A scrivener among pugilists.
    “Here’s the bad news, Riley. Once you take the ink, then your life is forfeit to the Rams. You may lease it back at the king’s pleasure for a half share of your worldly goods past and present.”
    “Past worldly goods? How’s that to be collected without a time machine?”
    Farley looked up from his notebook. “King