It only took me one look over the bush to be certain we were in the right place. Quickly, I ducked down again and whispered: "That's it! Lord Dalgliesh is here!"

"How do you know?" Mr Ambrose enquired, not looking at me, but staring through a gap in the foliage at the man standing at the entrance to the abandoned mine. "That's not Dalgliesh! I don't see him anywhere."

"Yes, but the guard at the entrance...!"

"He's wearing a French uniform. He's not one of Dalgliesh's men."

"Oh yes, he is! That's just it! I recognized him the moment I saw him. He was one of the men on the ship, one of those who were on deck when I climbed aboard."

Immediately, Mr Ambrose eyes turned sharper, more focused. They seemed to drill into the man who was standing at the entrance to the old mine, right in front of a worm-eaten old sign that said: Danger! Ne pas entrer!

"Hm. Well, if I can forge a uniform, then so can Dalgliesh. He might not even need to. Maybe he is actually in league with the French. They cannot like the idea of a canal at Suez under the control of an Englishman any more than he does."

I stared at him, incredulously.

"You... you actually think he'd consider treason?"

"It wouldn't be the first time."

There was a moment of silence, while I tried to digest that piece of information.

"All right," his voice finally cut through the silence, cold and controlled. "There are two possibilities. Either this guard is genuine, in which case he will turn us back with a few polite 'Pardon, Messieurs'..."

"I told you he isn't genuine!"

"...or you are right and he is in Dalgliesh's pay, in which case he should take us for soldiers of the Presidency Armies and let us pass." He shot me a dark look. "But in that case, there is no return. Once we're out in the open, we have to keep going, down into the mine. Do you understand, Mr Linton?"

I hesitated – then nodded. "Yes, Sir."

"I assume it would be of no avail trying to convince you to stay behind?"

I raised an eyebrow. "After I've come this far, you want me to stay here and miss all the fun? Are you mad?"

"You have a strange definition of 'fun', Mr Linton."

"And you don't have one at all."

"Mr Linton?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Be quiet."

"Yes, Sir!"

Methodically, he took his watch out of his pocket and fiddled around with the dials. I wanted to ask what he was doing, but that would rather have been incompatible with staying quiet. Finally, he seemed to be content, and put his watch away.

"Mr Linton?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Are you ready?"

"Yes, Sir, I am, Sir."

"Then follow me."

Slowly, he rose to his full height. Stepping out from behind the bush, he advanced on the guard in French uniform, his stride perfectly confident, as if nothing in the world could turn him back. I followed close at his heels. The guard turned his head, and spotted us.

Bugger! Please don't shoot us, don't shoot us, don't shoot us...!

He didn't make a move. Was he just too startled to react? For one moment, I questioned my own memory. Was he really one of Dalgliesh's men? His French uniform looked perfect to the last button. He could have come from a parade on the Chance Elysée. But if he was Dalgliesh's man, and saw through our disguise....

He reached into his pocket. Oh God! What was he going for? His gun?

He pulled out a pipe and lit it. We were only ten yards away now. His eyes followed us closely. Seven yards. Six. Five.

Please don't get suspicious! Please don't! Please!

He took the pipe out of his mouth. Three yards. Two. One.

We were past. He hadn't stopped us, hadn't acted as if we were there at all. The tunnel swallowed us, and we continued on, down into the darkness. I had been right. This was Lord Dalgliesh's layer.

*~*~**~*~*

I don't know how long we wandered down the gloomy tunnel. In the half-light, only interrupted by the occasional burst of brightness from an opening in the ceiling, time seemed to stand still. Or at least to me, it did. To Mr Ambrose, as the quiet ticking of his pocket watch reminded me, time was always running, and he had to catch up.

At some point, rusty rails started to appear on the ground beside us, and we saw one or two mine carts lying keeled over on the ground. Spiderwebs hung from the rusted iron and from the low, vaulted ceiling over our heads. Ahead, a point of light appeared.

"What is that?" I asked.

"That," came Mr Ambrose's reply, his voice as dark and cold as the tunnel around us, "is where Lord Dalgliesh is."

His pace quickened. I almost had to run to keep up with him. The light in front of us grew larger and brighter, until the tunnel finally opened up spat us out. My mouth dropped open. And this time not because of seeing women display their knees on the beach.

We were standing at the edge of a huge natural cave. The ceiling high above our heads was a monster's jaw, armed with stalactites as tusks and teeth. Torches hung from iron brackets on the walls, their smoke disappearing through a dark hole in the ceiling. With the view thus unobscured by smoke, as it usually would have been in any mine, I could clearly see the figures that stood and marched all around the giant cavern: soldiers.

No French uniforms here. These were all soldiers of the Presidency Armies, proudly proclaiming their allegiance in colours of blood-red and blue. They rolled around crates on mine carts, patrolled along the walls, or carried messages. All was a buzz of activity. And over the heads of the busy little underground kingdom hung the sign of their king: the two golden Lions.

"He's not very concerned about concealing who is behind this, is he?" I asked, staring up at the huge banner.

"He doesn't have to be, Mr Linton." Mr Ambrose wasn't looking at the lions. His eyes were already wandering over the crowds of soldiers, as if he could wrest the file from them by the pure force of his gaze.

"There!" Breath hissed through his teeth, and he made a sharp motion with his head, not daring to attract attention by lifting his hand to point. "There, do you see him?"

I looked, and I saw. Lord Dalgliesh was stepping out of a wooden building that had been erected on a higher level of the cave, only accessable via a single staircase, built on wooden supports along the stone walls.

"There," Mr Ambrose whispered. His eyes were not following Lord Dalgliesh, but were fixed on the wooden hut. "That is where he keeps the file. It's the ideal place. High up, easy to guard, difficult to reach."

Like an arrow shot from a string, he started towards the stairs. I had a hard time keeping up with him as he wove through the maze of stalagmites and soldiers. We reached the bottom of the staircase in no time at all.

"What if we meet Lord Dalgliesh on our way up?" I hissed into his ear.

With his usual loquacious eloquence, Mr Ambrose made a jerking movement with his hand over his jugular.

"Thank you so much for your reassurance, Sir!"

"You're welcome, Mr Linton."

Truth be told, I had expected nothing less, but still, the thought made sweat appear on my forehead. Slowly, we began to ascend. We were about half way up when my worst nightmare happened. I heard footsteps from above us. Mr Ambrose steps didn't falter. He continued upwards as if nothing had happened.

A man appeared in front of us, in the uniform of a Colonel. He stopped dead as he saw us.

What now? Is he going to offer us iced lemonade?

"Hey! You two! What the blazes are you doing here?"

Apparently not.

"Private Williamson and Private Jones, Sir. Change of guard, Sir," Mr Ambrose said, deadpan, and snapped to attention. Thank the Lord I had enough presence of mind to emulate him.

"Really?" The Colonel frowned and took a watch out of his pocket. "I didn't think it was time yet... No, it isn't time yet! You are early. What is going on here?" His eyes narrowed suspiciously, and I had to work hard to resist wiping the sweat off my forehead.

"Really? Early?" Mr Ambrose voice rang with honest surprise. "Are you sure, Colonel...?"

"Colonel Townsend."

"Are you sure that we're early, Colonel Townsend, Sir?" Taking his own watch out of his pocket, Mr Ambrose let it snap open. "Sorry, Sir, but according to my watch we're exactly on time. Look."

The officer stepped up beside Mr Ambrose and looked over his shoulder.

"S'truth! You are absolutely right, soldier. It's just time for the guard to change. How the time flies."

"And my watch is very reliable, Sir."

"Looks like it." Colonel Townsend glanced at the silver pocket watch with admiring eyes. "Mine is such a modern piece of trash. Yours looks like a much nicer piece. A family heirloom?"

A muscle in Mr Ambrose jaw twitched. Suddenly, he didn't look nearly as much like the obedient soldier of a second ago. "Yes! Why?"

The officer seemed taken aback by such abrupt tones from an underling. "I just asked because the crest on the lid looks a little familiar."

With an obvious effort, Mr Ambrose forced a polite mask on his face. "My... father gave it to me, Sir"

His father? I stared at him out of the corner of my eye. Mr Ambrose had a father? Did that mean he had actually been conceived in connubial congress, not hewn out of the rock of some mountain, as I had always suspected? Could it be true? Or just another lie to put the officer off?

"I see." The colonel shrugged. "Well, you may continue, men. I'll have to go and reset my watch..."

And he went off, mumbling about the unreliable modern mechanics.

We continued up the stairs. I did my best to try and appear calm, ignoring the fact that my heart was pounding and my head was buzzing with a thousand questions.

"How did you know when they changed the guard here?" I demanded in a low voice, as soon as he was out of earshot.

And do you really have a father? Well, do you? And if so, how did your poor mother ever survive giving birth to a living rock?

"I didn't, Mr Linton. I knew from Warren's report when the guard changed at number 97 East India Dock Road, and, based on the hypothesis that all the Presidency Army Soldiers were likely to operate on the same schedule, I set my watch to local time before we went into the mine."

I had to admit, he had brains, even if they were frozen. But that answer wasn't enough. I itched to ask him just one more question.

Was the watch really your father's? Why is there a crest on the lid? Does it really belong to a noble family, and if so, what the heck are you doing with it? You're no nobleman, right?

All right, maybe that was more than just one question. To be honest, I had a mountain of questions about him, his somewhat scary plans for the domination all the trade in the world, and his past, and his future. But none of these things were actually any of my business, and with us sneaking into the villain's lair, this was certainly not the right time and place for curiosity. So I swallowed my questions and followed him up the stairs, until we reached a large landing at the top, hewn out of the rock floor of the raised plateau.

We had hardly set foot on the stone when, from up ahead, we heard voices. Among the echoing noises of the busy cave, they were too indistinct for me to recognize – but not for Mr Ambrose.

"Get down!"

Grabbing my arm, he shoved me behind one of the wooden buildings that stood right beside the landing. Stumbling, I fell to my knees, and remained like that, cowering on the cold stone, while the voices drew nearer. Mr Ambrose appeared beside me, his whole body tensed like a panther about to spring.

We waited, in silence. I didn't dare move a single muscle.

"...the men made any progress so far?" A familiar smooth, magnanimous voice came from the other side of the building. It sounded so charming, so relaxed. Even now, knowing what I knew, I could hardly believe this was Lord Dalgliesh, chief shareholder of the Honourable East India Company and close friend to the crown, discussing criminal enterprises.

"No, My Lord. The code of the documents in question seems to be well developed."

"I see. Please be so kind as to see to it that they are properly motivated, will you? I wish them to understand how important this project is to me and to the Company."

"Um, yes, My Lord. I shall think of a suitable motivation."

"Excellent. I'm sure I can rely on you."

"Yes, My Lord. Certainly, My Lord."

"And what about the diplomatic treaties that were not encoded? The secret agreements with Muhammad Ali Pasha? Were they genuine?"

"Oh yes, My Lord. Every word."

"I see. Do we have an East-Indiaman scheduled to go to Egypt?"

"Yes, My Lord."

"How fortunate. Please send one of my agents on board and instruct him to courteously discourage his Highness the Khedive from any such further action. Tell him it would be unwise. He would not want to lose my good will, now, would he?"

The words were so soft, so friendly – not angry at all. And yet, I caught a glimpse of the other man, who walked beside Lord Dalgliesh as they passed by the building behind which we were hiding. At the words 'lose my good will', he flinched as if hit by whip.

"Certainly not, My Lord," he said, hurriedly. "The Khedive will surely take that into consideration."

Lord Dalgliesh smiled.

"Yes. I'm sure he will."

They began to descend the stairs, their voices fading into the distance. I just continued to cower on the stone floor, my heart still hammering like an insane woodpecker. After a while, I tried to get up, but found I couldn't get my legs to move.

"Who is this Khedive-person?" I asked, my voice slightly unsteady.

Mr Ambrose had risen beside me. His legs didn't seemed to have been filled with pudding.

"The ruler of Egypt," he responded curtly.

"Lord Dalgliesh can tell the King of Egypt what to do?"

Mr Ambrose lowered his eyes until he met mine.

"Lord Dalgliesh can tell the Queen of the British Empire what to do. Ali Pasha hardly presents a challenge to him. And neither, apparently, do I." His left little finger twitched, once. "It cost me a fortune to negotiate these secret treaties! It will cost me another to renegotiate, now that Dalgliesh knows. This is... quite inconvenient."

"Inconvenient? Dear me. Such strong words, Sir."

"Mr Linton?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Shut and get up."

"Yes, Sir."

Unsteadily, I got to my feet. "What now?" I wanted to know.

Holding up a finger, Mr Ambrose took two quick steps to the corner of the building and spied across the corner.

"There is only one other building up here," he said, his voice hardly audible. I leaned closer. "Two guards, one on either side of the door."

"How will we get past them?"

"I will trick them the same way I tricked the officer on the stairs."

"And what if they don't fall for it?"

He didn't answer. And he didn't really need to. I already knew.

"Ready, Mr Linton?"

I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders and tried to appear as male and soldierly as I possibly could.

"Yes, Sir."

"Three, two, one...now!"

We emerged from behind the building in what I hoped looked like lockstep, and not like a pair of gallivanting giraffes. The guard's eyes immediately focused on us, and their hands closed more tightly around their rifles. Oh-oh. That was no good sign.

"Afternoon, fellows." Mr Ambrose nodded to the men. He didn't stop in his move towards them, obviously expecting them to step aside. "Ye can go and have a nice lie-down, now. Me and my mate, we're taking over."

The two men didn't move an inch.

"It ain't time for the changing of the guard yet," soldierly exhibit A said. He was a broad-shouldered man with curly, blond hair and long ears. I had never trusted people with long ears. Spaniels had long ears, and so had the Prime Minister.

"It ain't?" Again, Mr Ambrose took the watch out of his pocket and opened it. "Aye, it is. Look."

Soldierly exhibit A took a brief look at Mr Ambrose's watch, then slid his hand into his pocket and took out his own.

"Your watch is going wrong," he stated, after a short examination. "I swear, it ain't time yet! It's still more than half an hour."

Mr Ambrose sighed. "My watch ain't never wrong. Yours must be. Look, if ye don't believe me, go ask Colonel Townsend."

The soldier's long ears twitched at the name. "Colonel Townsend? He knows ye're here?"

"He's the one that sent us up here, pal. You can have it out with him, if ye want, but you ain't gonna stop me and my mate from staying. This is our shift, and we're gonna do as we was told."

The long-eared guard bit down on his lower lip. The name of the officer had apparently eradicated his suspicions and simultaneously sown doubts in his mind about the reliability of his watch. You could almost hear the words – after all, the modern trash today ain't very reliable, things ain't what they used to be...

"All right," he growled. "But if I find out ye've been pulling one over on me, pal, I'll get back at you, don't ye doubt it."

Mr Ambrose gave a little snort of duration. "Why d'ye think I'd wanna do that, eh? Do I look like I enjoy pushing my legs in my liver? I'd rather sit down and have a drink than stand around all day for no good reason."

"There's a reason all right," the guard growled. "Whatever's in that place," he pointed to the hut he had been guarding, "is pretty important."

"Aye, aye, be off with you." Mr Ambrose waved them away. "Don't ye fear. We ain't gonna let anybody nick My Lord's stuff."

"Ye'd better not."

With that. The long-eared guard waved to his silent companion, and the two disappeared down the stairs.

I opened my mouth to speak, but immediately, Mr Ambrose held up a warning hand. I shut my mouth again. With a jerk of his head, he indicated for me to follow him, and took up his position to the right of the door. I placed myself to the left, and stood straight, arms hanging loosely down my sides, just as he did. In this position we remained – one minute, two minutes, three. I was beginning to wonder what we were waiting for, when I heard it, or rather its absence: footsteps. They were gone. We had been waiting until the guards were out of hearing distance.

As soon as there was silence, Mr Ambrose sprang into action. Fishing two small pieces of metal out of his pockets, he bent down in front of the dor of the wooden hut and began fumbling at the keyhole.

"Where in God's name do you have the keys for this place from?" I hissed.

"I don't," was his calm reply. "These are no keys. They are lock picks."

"Lock picks? What does a respectable gentleman want with lock picks?"

"Nothing, probably." He threw me a cool glance. His fingers didn't stop. They moved in an intricate dance, producing clicking noises from the lock. "But then, I never claimed to be respectable."

He turned his eyes towards the lock again.

"Listen closely now, Mr Linton. We have exactly 26 minutes and 31 seconds until the next shift of guards arrives – less even, if those two who just left should happen to meet Colonel Townsend and discuss with him our appearance here. I will need approximately another three minutes to open this lock, and there might be other, more complicated locks between us and the file inside the hut, so we will have to move fast. As soon as the file is in our possession, we will move to the tunnel at the end of the cave..."

"What tunnel, Sir?"

"Didn't you see the tunnel at the other side of the cave as we came in?"

"No, Sir."

"Well, I did. As I past it, I felt a breeze come up the tunnel. It smelled of sea air. There's a direct connection to the coast through that tunnel. Judging from the general direction of the passage, it should come out somewhere near the harbour you told me about. If we go by that route, we might be able to make our escape before the soldiers realize they've been hoodwinked."

"And we might end up at a dead end and be trapped."

"We might. But better a risk in life than certain death, Mr Linton."

I couldn't argue with that.

"What should I do?" I ask him. "Can I help?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"Be quiet."

I bit back a sharp reply. This time, his terseness might actually be more than simply annoyance at my presence and general feminine existence. I had no idea if you needed quiet to pick a lock; it might very well be.

"And you can keep an eye on the stairs," he added in a voice that wasn't quite as granite-hard as usual – rather more akin to slate, or sandstone. "Tell me immediately when somebody approaches, understood?"

For some reason, a smile appeared on my face. "Yes, Sir."

I had been staring at the empty stairs for a few minutes when from behind me, I heard a click.

"Done! Let's go, Mr Linton."

When I turned my head, I saw that the door was indeed standing open a crack.

"What now?" I whispered. "Should I stand guard outside while you go in and get the file?"

"No," he said. "I don't want you to stay out here alone."

He gave no more explanation, but silently beckoned me to follow him inside. I did so, feeling confused. What was that supposed to mean? That had sounded almost as if he wanted to keep me at his side because he cared more about my safety than securing his precious secret file, the key to all his greatest dreams of wealth and power. But that couldn't be the case, surely.

Compared to the distant, echoing hum of voices and clatter of cargo out in the cave, it was almost eerily quiet inside the hut. It was only a small, one-room building, made of wood, but still I felt as though I had entered a church, or a throne-room, or another place of majesty. And at the other end of the little room, only a few yards away from me and Mr Ambrose, stood the throne, the Holy Grail of this palace: a small, black safe, with a lock on its door that looked considerably more complicated than the one on the door outside.

Mr Ambrose took two quick steps towards the safe and bent forward to examine the lock. His eyes narrowed the faction of an inch.

"Mr Linton?"

"Yes?"

"We might have a slight problem."

"Indeed, Sir?"

"Yes. I calculate I will need about twenty minutes to open this lock."

"And how many minutes do we still have left until the guards appear, Sir?"

"Twenty."

"Oh. That might be a problem Sir."

"Yes, indeed."

Without another word, he shoved his lock picks into the lock and started fiddling. The sound of metal clinking and scraping was nerve-wrecking, and just after a short time, I was hardly able to stay still. I started to walk up and down the hut, trying not to think of what would happened if the real guards walked in on us now. They probably wouldn't look kindly on two of their supposed colleagues trying to crack Lord Dalgliesh's safe.

"Mr Linton?" came a terse voice from the floor-level, in the direction of the safe.

"Yes, Sir?"

"Stop walking about. You are distracting me."

I forced myself to stop, and instead leaned against the wall and started to nervously flex my fingers. I wouldn't have thought anything could distract Mr Ambrose. But then, the prospect of being shot would probably even face a stone statue such as he.

"Mr Linton?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Stop flexing your fingers. I can hear your knuckles cracking from over here."

"Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir."

I clenched my hands into fists and folded my arms in front of my chest, just in case. I even tried to breathe more evenly so as not to disturb him. Please let him be quick, I prayed. Please!

Click.

"Done!" He exclaimed. Was that a tiny hint of excitement I heard in his voice? Whatever it was, it was gone immediately. He gripped the handle of the safe, and I launched myself forward, eagerly gazing over his shoulder. After weeks of searching, weeks of wondering what the bloody hell we were after, I was finally going to see the mysterious file. What would it look like? I imagined a black steel case, with the letters 'top secret' printed in dark red on the top, and a padlock on the side. Or maybe...

The door of the safe swung open. Inside lay a thin, beige envelope, about the size of a standard letter.

"Yes!" Mr Ambrose reached inside, grasped the envelope and flipped it open. Quickly, he skimmed through the contents. I saw dozens of sheets, covered with column upon column of numbers, and a few pieces of paper covered in a squiggly, foreign script I could not decipher.

"That's it?" I demanded.

"Yes. Everything is here!" He didn't notice the dire disappointment in my voice. Or if he did, he chose to completely ignore it. His dark eyes were glittering with an inner frost, as if he had just been given an award by the International Miser Society.

With silent reverence, he held up the envelope for a moment, as if it indeed were the Holy Grail to him. Maybe it was. Then he slipped it into his pocket, and from his other one withdrew a similar-looking envelope, which he placed inside the safe before closing and locking it.

What was that about? Why not just take the envelope? Why leave one behind? Was it an apology letter? Sir, I am deeply regretful to have had to disturb your criminal operation, but it was necessary to retrieve an item which you stole from me. My sincerest apologies, Rikkard Ambrose.

I glanced at Mr Ambrose's chiselled face and shook my head. No. He wouldn't write anything remotely like an apology, or write or say anything at all for that matter. He would just stay silent, in the knowledge that he had given his opponent a solid figurative kick in the bollocks. So what was the envelope for?

I burned to ask, but this was neither the time nor place. We had to–

"We have to get out of here," Mr Ambrose cut short the very same words in my mind. He sprang to his feet and strode over to the door. Carefully, he peeked outside. "The guards are still nowhere in sight. If we hurry, we can reach the tunnel before they arrive and the alarm is raised."

He was already about to open the door, when suddenly, an idea struck me and I grabbed his arm.

"But why leave at all?" I demanded.

Turning, he threw a look at me that could have frozen lava. "Would you prefer to stay and ask for hospitality? I imagine Lord Dalgliesh would be delighted to receive you for tea and biscuits. Especially when you will have such interesting topics of conversation as where the most precious document on this entire island has disappeared to."

"I meant," I said, trying to be patient, "why should we run now before the guards arrive? We could shut the door of the hut, and stand outside like real guards, until the next shift arrives. They will think we are the real guards, the ones they're supposed to be relieving, and we'll saunter off without anybody ever being the wiser."

It may have only be a trick of the torchlight, but I thought I saw Mr Ambrose's mouth drop open slightly. He was quiet for one or two moments. Then he said:

"This... actually sounds as if it were a reasonably feasible plan."

"Blimey! Don't be all over with me with your compliments!"

"Don't worry. I won't."

"So we're going to do it?"

He hesitated. I could see the struggle in his eyes – the same struggle as on the day I had asked for a dress and a bag of onions. He hated to adopt any plan of mine, probably because it meant admitting I actually was of some use. But he was nothing if not practical, and – I could see the thought enter his mind as clearly as it were painted on his forehead – at least this plan wouldn't be expensive.

"All right," he conceded. "We will." And he stepped outside to take up his position beside the door.

*~*~**~*~*

To my own great surprise, my plan actually worked perfectly. The two guards showed up only two minutes after we had left the hut, greeted us in a quite friendly manner and sent us off downstairs. I followed Mr Ambrose down at a steady pace, although what I actually wanted to do was run.

Stay calm, I told myself. There is no need to run. Nobody knows the file is missing. You can walk out of here slowly and nobody will ever know. Everything is going great.

Yes, everything was going great – until, as we passed under a shadowy arch of stone, I saw, a few dozen yards away, the two guards we had relieved of their duty half an hour ago. They were engaged in an energetic discussion with Colonel Townsend.

"I? Send them up there?" The Colonel was saying. "No, why in God's name should I do something like that. I thought they were the regular shift that..."

Mr Ambrose had seen them, too. He stiffened.

"Seems like not attracting attention is no longer an option," he stated, icily. "Move. Now!"

Grasping my hand, he tugged me away from the colonel, towards the entrance of the tunnel he had pointed out earlier. He didn't have to tug hard. I hurried after him, trying my best to keep up with his long strides. He was right. We had to get out of here right now, or we were as good as dead. Quickly, we neared the entrance to the tunnel. There was a soldier standing beside it. A guard?

"Do you think he'll try and stop us from entering the tunnel?" I asked out of the corner of my mouth, nodding towards the soldier.

"It is interesting how you always seem to assume that I know everything about this place, when, in fact, I haven't been aware of it's existence any longer than you have, Mr Linton. I have no idea."

"Well, what if he does?"

No answer.

"Sir?"

Silence. So I just continued on, trying to avoid the rising feeling of panic in my stomach. The guard definitely looked alert and suspicious enough to justify my fears. He had a narrow rat's face, with a long, twitching nose. I had never trusted people with long noses.

"Sir?" My voice was a harsh whisper. "Mr Ambrose, Sir, what will we do if he doesn't let us pass? Sir?"

More silence. I looked up at his face, and saw that although it was cool and serene as ever, his eyes were totally focused on the guard, burning with cold ice. Maybe, just maybe, he didn't know what to do yet, either.

We were only ten yards or so away from the tunnel entrance now. I tried to look as innocent as possible.

If you think about it, we are innocent, right? After all, we're just stealing back something that had been previously purloined.

One hundred per cent correct. My ears, though, didn't seem to agree: they were red hot with guilt. Never before had I been so thankful for my tanned skin, which would at least hide the blush on my cheeks.

Five yards.

Four.

The guard didn't move.

Three yards.

Without warning, the guard stepped sideways, blocking our way. My hands clenched into fists, and it took a conscious effort to relax them, and to look the man straight into his little rat's eyes.

"Hey, you there! You know nobody is allowed in the tunnel without permission from the colonel."

"But we 'ave permission," Mr Ambrose said, his voice absolutely credible, almost affronted at being questioned like this. "We're to stand guard at the other end. New safety measures."

"Oh? Let's see your permission slip, then."

"Certainly."

Reaching into his pocket, Mr Ambrose withdrew a slip of paper. What was this? Had he somehow managed to magically forge Colonel Townsend's signature? I was beginning to think that nothing about him would ever surprise me again.

I was wrong.

"Here." He held out the paper two the guard, who leaned his rifle against the wall and took it.

"Hey, wait just a minute! This isn't..."

Mr Ambrose's fist moved so fast I didn't even see it coming. Neither did the guard. He flew backward and crashed against the stone wall beside the tunnel, sliding to the ground unconscious.

"Run," Mr Ambrose said. He didn't yell. He didn't shout. He just said it.

"Y-you knocked him unconscious!"

"Yes, Mr Linton. Now move." And then he was running, pulling me after him. I stumbled, still staring at the prone figure at the floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the shocked faces of hundreds of soldiers all over the cave, staring down at us, and then I was inside the tunnel, being dragged along the rails towards the foremost of the mining carts.

"Get in!" he commanded.

I looked from him, to the cart, and back again. "Into that? But why-"

"Get in, I said!" His tone was so deadly cold that my legs moved without consulting my mind on the matter. With a painful thud, I landed on my knees inside of the iron cart. I had hardly had time to grab the wall to steady myself, when I felt it: the cart started to move.

Bloody hell! What...?

I raised my head and stared at Mr Ambrose, who was grinding his teeth, both of his hands clasped around the back wall of the cart, pushing it forward. My head snapped around to look in the other direction where the rails lead down a steep decline, then it whirled back to face Mr Ambrose. Suddenly, I realized what he was planning to do.

"Are you crazy?" I yelled over the creak of the metal wheels.

"Not that I'm aware off, Mr Linton." How he managed to sound cool and distant while his muscles bunched with the effort of pushing the cart forward was a mystery to me – but not one I cared to solve right now. I had more pressing matters on my mind. Such as...

"Are there even any breaks on this thing?"

"Not that I'm aware of, Mr Linton."

"Well, are you aware of what'll happen if we run into a dead end?"

"Have you ever tried making meat and bone pancakes, Mr Linton?"

"Stop this at once!" I started to rise. "I'm getting out of this thing right now. I won't..."

There was an ear-splitting boom that echoed all around the cage. Something ripped my ridiculous blue hat from my head, and it smashed against the wall. I had just enough time to see the large hole in the middle before it rolled out of my field of vision. My incredulous eyes flicked from the place where my mutilated hat had lain, to the entrance of the tunnel, where in a patch of torchlight, I saw a soldier standing, his rifle raised. Others were appearing around him, shouting and yelling curses. Not bothering to consult my mind again, my legs dropped me to the floor.

"Um... all right. Maybe I'll stay in here after all."

"How gracious of you, Mr Linton."

The cart was gathering speed now; we were almost at the slope that would carry us away. Mr Ambrose shoved harder and harder, hardly breathing heavy at the effort. I would never have thought that there was this much raw power in that cold, hard body of his. He looked focused and determined, as if he had been pushing mine carts all his life.

"Hold on, Mr Linton," he hissed. He gave a last shove, and then jumped into the cart behind me. The force of his jump carried us forward another few feet, just far enough to reach the edge of the slope. We started to gather more and more speed. Wind rushed against my hair and tugged at my brown locks, making them fly all around me. Behind us, I could hear more shouts, and then there came another shot.

The car reverberated with a sound like a bell, and a scream tore from my throat. They had hit the car!

"Keep your head down!" Mr Ambrose hissed.

"Thank you for the valuable advice, Sir," I growled. "I'd never have thought of that!"

Another shot, and another. Stone dust rained down on us as it hit the ceiling above. The light around us dwindled fast as we gathered speed. The torches of the cave were only a distant glimmer by now, while the dark before us was a gaping maul waiting for a scrumptious meal of Ambrosia and Lilly. Somewhere out of the half-light behind us, I could hear the creak of more metal wheels, and knew what it meant.

They're following us!

Then, all thoughts disappeared, as we shot around a corner and down, down, away from all light, down into the darkness.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

The month of October is finally gone by, and yet, regardless of the deadline that Wattpad had told us about earlier in regard to when they would publicly announce the winner, the results of this year's contest haven't yet been publicly proclaimed :-( I humbly apologize for the delay, my dear readers. Yet we shall not give up hope so far! We shall find out the results of the competition is one way or another! ;-)

As a little consolation, I've written  an especially-long chapter for you! I hope you enjoyed it? :-)

Yours Truly

Sir Rob