At precisely 9:30, disheveled and a little out of breath, Kitty arrived at the Stage Door of the Coliseum Theatre, pushed gently, and found it unlocked. She took a quick look behind her at the rubbish-strewn street, saw nothing, slipped inside.

A drab and dirty corridor was filled with buckets and obscure wooden constructions presumably destined for the stage. A little light filtered through a grubby window; there was a strong smell of paint in the stale air.

Ahead was another door. Obeying her memorized instructions, Kitty soundlessly crossed to it and passed through into a second room, this one filled with quiet racks of costumes. The staleness of the air increased. Someone's bygone lunch—pieces of sandwich and potato chips, and half-filled cups of coffee—lay scattered on a table. Kitty entered a third room and found a sudden change: beneath her feet was a thick carpet and the walls were papered. The air now smelled distantly of smoke and polish. She was near the front of the theater, in the public corridors.

She paused and listened. In all the empty building, not a sound.

Yet somewhere above, someone was waiting.

She had received her instructions that morning, in an atmosphere of fevered preparation. Mr. Pennyfeather had closed the shop for the day and had retired to the cellar storeroom to begin sorting their equipment for the raid. Everyone else was busy, too, assembling dark clothes, polishing tools and, in Fred's case, practicing knife-throwing in the privacy of the cellar. Mr. Hopkins had given Kitty directions to the Coliseum. The mysterious benefactor, he said, had chosen the disused theater as a suitably neutral venue, a place where magician and commoner might meet on equal terms. There she would be given the assistance they required to break into Gladstone's tomb.

Despite certain misgivings about the whole enterprise, Kitty could not help thrilling to the name. Gladstone. Stories of his splendor were legion. Friend to the People, Terror of their Enemies... To desecrate his tomb was an act so unthinkable her mind scarcely comprehended it. And yet, if they succeeded, if they returned home with the Founder's treasures, what wonders the Resistance might yet accomplish.

If they should fail, Kitty was under no illusion about the consequences. The company was crumbling. Pennyfeather was old: despite his passion, despite his fury, his strength was dwindling. Without his stern guidance, the group would splinter—they would all return to their humdrum lives beneath the magicians' heels. But if they had the crystal ball and the magic purse, what then? Perhaps their fortunes might be turned around and new blood won to fight their cause. It made her heart pound to think of it.

But first, she had to meet the unknown benefactor and win his aid.

Kitty passed a number of half-open doors along the corridor; through them she could see the shrouded reaches of the theater's auditorium. It was very still, every sound muffled by the heavy carpet and the elegant furred paper on the walls. The carpet was a wine-dark red, the wallpaper striped with pink and terra-cotta. Fading theatrical posters and chipped brass candelabras, which emitted a weak, flickering light, were the only decoration. Kitty walked swiftly until she reached the stairs.

Up a long, curving flight of shallow steps, then—doubling almost back upon herself—up a second flight, along a silent corridor and so to the place where six curtained alcoves waited along the left-hand side. Each was the entrance to one of the boxes used by the magicians, overlooking the stage.

Each alcove had a number inscribed on a brass plaque above the curtain. Without pausing, Kitty made her way to the last alcove in the line. This was number 7; the place where the benefactor would be waiting.

As with all the others, the curtain was fully drawn. Kitty stopped outside, listened, heard nothing. A wisp of hair had fallen down over her face. She smoothed it back and, for luck, touched the silver pendant in her pocket. Then she grasped the curtain firmly and stepped through.

The box was empty except for two heavy golden chairs facing the stage. A curtain had been drawn across from the left, shielding the box from the auditorium below. Kitty frowned in perplexity and frustration. Had she mistaken the number, or come at the wrong time? No. More likely, the benefactor had gotten cold feet and hadn't shown up.

A small piece of paper was pinned to the arm of one of the chairs. Kitty stepped over to pull it loose. As she did so, she became aware of a slight shift in the air, the faintest of noises behind her. Her hand jerked to her coat. A small, sharp pressure was applied to the back of her neck. She froze.

A voice, quiet and reflective. "Please do not attempt to turn around at any time, my dear. The pinprick you feel is the tip of a stiletto, forged in Rome for the Borgias. Sharpness is not its only quality—a finger's width up the blade is a bead of poison; should this touch your wound, death will follow in thirteen seconds. I mention this simply so that we observe the proper niceties. Without turning, please take hold of the chair, and align it facing the wall.... Good. Now sit. I shall sit close behind you, then we shall talk."

Kitty dragged the chair to face the wall, moved slowly around, and sat gingerly upon it, feeling all the while the little sharpness on her neck. She heard a rustle of cloth, the squeak of leather shoes, a soft sigh as someone sat and took his ease. She looked at the wall and said nothing.

The voice came again. "Good. Now we are ready and I hope we can do business. You understand that the precautions I take here are merely safeguards? I do not wish you harm."

Kitty remained looking at the wall. "Nor we you," she said levelly. "Nevertheless, we have taken precautions, too."

The voice grunted. "Which are?"

"A colleague of mine waits outside the theater. She carries a small leather bag. Within it are six small demons trapped in an explosive gel. It is, I believe, an effective weapon of war and can level a whole building. We stole it recently from a Ministry of Defense storehouse. I mention this to impress you: we are capable of remarkable acts. But also because, if I do not return within fifteen minutes, my friend will activate the imps and toss them into the theater." Kitty's face was expressionless. This was a complete lie.

A chuckle. "Nicely put, my dear. Well then, we must hurry. As Mr. Hopkins no doubt told you, I am a gentleman of leisure with many contacts among the magicians; I have even dabbled in the art myself upon occasion. However, like you I am sick of their rule!" A note of anger entered the voice. "Owing to a small financial disagreement, the government has robbed me of my wealth and my estates! I am now a pauper, where once I slept on Tashkent silks! It is an intolerable situation. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see the magicians fall. That is why I will help your cause."

These remarks had been spoken with great emotion; at each emphasis, the stiletto point jabbed the back of Kitty's neck. She moistened her lips. "Mr. Hopkins said you had valuable information for us."

"I do indeed. You must understand, I have no sympathy for the commoners whose cause you serve. But your activities unsettle the great ones of the government, and that pleases me. So, to business. Hopkins has explained the nature of the proposition?" Kitty nodded carefully. "Well now, through my connections, I have had access to Gladstone's papers and have made some small study of them. By deciphering certain codes, I discovered details of the Pestilence he left guarding his remains."

"That seems a meager defense, for one of his power," Kitty said. "If I may say so."

"You are an intelligent, opinionated girl," the voice said approvingly. "When he died, Gladstone was old and weak, a spindly husk, capable of nothing more than that simple spell. Even so, it has done its job. No one has disturbed it, for fear of being raddled by the Pestilence. However, it can be bypassed, if you bring proper precautions. I can give you that information."

"Why should we trust you?" Kitty said. "I don't understand. What's in this for you?"

The voice did not seem to resent the questions. "If I wished to destroy your group," it said peaceably, "you would have been in police custody the moment you poked your head through this curtain. Besides, I have already told you that I wish to see the magicians fall. But you are right, of course. There is something else in it for me. When I scoured Gladstone's archive, I discovered the list of his grave goods. It contains objects to interest both you and me."

Kitty shifted a little in the broad gold chair. "It will take me at least two minutes to leave the building," she said. "I assure you, my friend is very punctual."

"I will be brief. Mr. Hopkins will have told you of the wonders the crypt contains—you may have them, magical weapons and all. I do not need them; I am a man of peace. But I do collect unusual objects, and I would be grateful to have Gladstone's cloak, which was folded and placed upon his sarcophagus. It has no magical properties, so it is of no use to you. Oh, and if his oaken staff has survived, I would like that, too. It is of negligible magical value—I believe he charged it with a small hex for keeping away insects—but I would be pleased to see it in my humble collection."

"If we get the other treasures," Kitty said, "we will be glad to give those to you."

"Very well, we have an agreement. We will both prosper by it. Here is the equipment you need." With a slight rustling, a small black bag was pushed along the carpet into view. "Do not touch it yet. The bag contains a casket and hammer. These will protect you from the Pestilence. Full instructions are included. Obey them, and you will live. Listen carefully," the voice continued. "Tonight, at eleven-thirty, the curators of the abbey will depart. Go to the cloisters door: I will arrange for it to be left open. A second door bars the way to the abbey itself; ordinarily it is secured by two medieval deadlocks and a drawbar. I will leave this unlocked, too. Find your way to the north transept and locate Gladstone's statue. Behind it, set in a pillar, is the entrance to the tomb. To gain entry, you merely have to turn the key."

Kitty stirred. "The key?"

Something small and glinting fell through the air to land beside the bag. "Guard it well," the voice said, "and do remember to cloak yourself in my magic before opening the tomb, or all this tiresome subterfuge will have been for nothing."

"We'll remember," Kitty said.

"Good." She heard the sound of someone rising from the chair. The voice spoke above her, close behind. "Then that is all. I wish you well. Do not turn around."

The sharp sensation in the back of her neck lessened, but so softly, so stealthily, that Kitty at first was hardly able to detect that it had gone. She waited a full minute, motionless, eyes wide and staring in her head.

Finally, she lost patience.

She turned in a single fluid motion, her knife already in her hand.

The box was empty. And when she ducked out into the silent corridor, key and bag safely in her grasp, she saw no trace of anyone in the vicinity.