The fog was a thick, enveloping pea-souper the like of which London hadn’t seen for over fifty years. They used to be a feature of the city, impenetrable fogs that would fill up the streets, creeping through cracks and under doors, blanketing the everything in a suffocating smog. But running through this fog wasn’t just like running back through time; it was like running between two different worlds.

You couldn’t see more than a few feet so that people and objects would suddenly loom out of nowhere, quite unexpected, and then vanish again, almost before you’d had time to realise what they were. And in this fog you never knew what you were going to see next. Here were a couple of Japanese tourists, torn between bewilderment and wonder, lighting up the fog with their flash as they tried to take pictures of it. And then they were gone and here instead was a Wyvern, encircled by a group of rubbish bins that jumped and flipped and snapped their stinking mouths at it, driving it backwards against a shop window.

Everywhere, appearing and disappearing in the mists, sudden glimpses of everyday London - a bus, two taxi drivers swearing at each other, a group of pedestrians stranded on a traffic island like castaways, unable to make out the green man through the fog - and then of this extraordinary new London that Oscar had suddenly found himself swallowed up in. Here were a couple of Wish Hounds, snapping at the heels of a galloping park bench, here was a figure from an advertising hoarding, a beautiful woman no thicker than a sheet of cardboard, flapping along after a fleeing Knight Watchman, a post-box with shiny white teeth showing in its letter slot, a Wyvern darting overhead, a leather foot stool jumping past.

And, suddenly, the fog thinned and, in a matter of a few steps, disappeared, and they were back in the normal world again, standing on the rain slicked pavement under the church they had passed by earlier.

“Come on!” Thursby was insistent and enthusiastic, “There’s no time to stand around gawping!” And then he was off down the street again, with the others following along as fast as they could.

As strange as their escape through the fog had been, somehow this run was even stranger. Here there was only normality, ordinary shoppers scurrying through the rain to try and snatch up the last few Christmas bargains, and that made their little procession - the rebel wizards, the old woman who wasn’t a wizard anymore, the mysterious black cat and the boy who was there completely by mistake - all the stranger and inexplicable.

There was a shop with its windows full of film stars and famous monsters, superheroes and action figures - what would the customers think if they knew that the real thing was battling it out with genuine magic only just down the street? Here were, everywhere, people in fashionable outfits, shops with bizarre fittings and confusing windows, but nothing half so strange as what was lumbering through the fog behind them.

They had passed through a little square with a column in the centre of it that Maggs had, breathlessly, told Oscar was ‘Seven Dials’ and were now racing up one of the streets that radiated off it, passing through an area thick with shoppers. Oscar noticed that wherever they went traffic lights seemed to change in their favour and cars just stopped to let them past.

“How come no one notices?” He shouted across at Maggs as they dodged between groups of heavily laden shoppers.

“Notices what?” She gasped back.

Ridley suddenly appeared at Oscar’s shoulder, jogging along easily, barely showing the effort of running.

“People don’t see what they don’t want to see,” she said, “Ask me, they don’t even need to hide the battle in the fog… most of these people would simply refuse to believe what was going on in front of them and just ignore it.”

It suddenly struck Oscar how all of this must have been going on already, all his life, the Magi, the Knights Watchmen, the Wild Ride, the Knights Errant, all of this must have been happening, just out of sight and round the corner, and he never noticed, no one had ever noticed - except, of course, his godfather, Uncle Rufus, who had sent him the textbook… he hadn’t thought about it properly before, but that could only mean one thing: his uncle must be a Magi! Surely he must be at the Temple, surely Oscar would find him soon, and then how astonished he was going to be, how proud! Oscar couldn’t wait.

Which was when he ran into Cuddy’s back. The group had stopped dead at a junction. Ahead, on the other side of a road junction was a huge building. An enormous door, too large for normal people was dwarfed by an even bigger portico on two great columns with flaring lamps on each. Above that the building massed up into great steps leading up to a square tower topped by a single arched window. Above that was a large red star that glittered dimly in the streetlights. At the base of the tower was a single square window. It was dark but Oscar couldn’t help feeling that there was something large and important behind it, something pressed up against the glass, anxious to burst out in a blaze of light.

“The Temple,” whispered Maggs.

The main doors were open, spilling out a warm light onto the wet streets, and they all pushed their way through after Thursby into a brightly lit hallway. The hall was six sided, lit by flaming torches on each of the six columns that held up the distant ceiling. Each column was of a differently coloured marble and all the walls were covered in rich decorations of red and green and gold. Far above them, on a painted dome, a group of men in long white wigs and Roman togas were gathered around a building that looked very much like the Temple. Oscar couldn’t be sure whether it was the flickering torches or something else, but the painting seemed almost to be moving.

Two Knights Watchmen stood, irresolutely, by a pair of large double doors opposite the main entrance, apparently more interested in what was going on in the room beyond than in anyone entering the hallway. Ridley saluted them and Thursby and his friends walked in.

A poster making application for Cbeebies, designed by Alex at Swordfish, but coded by me.

Kids can select a background and images of animals to place on it - they can scale and move the animals how they like and also add their own titles.

They can also submit their picture to a gallery for other children to see, email a link to their friends to come and see their picture in the gallery and also print it off, either in colour or in black and white.

It’s built in Flash, inevitably, with a mySQL and php back-end, passing information back and forth in xml.

At that moment the lift bell rang and the doors slid open. At first Oscar thought that the lift was empty but then he realised that the passenger was, in fact, very small. It was a tiny figure, no larger than six inches tall, muddy brown except for a bright blue waistcoat. It had strange little stumpy limbs and indistinct features, apart from its beady bright eyes, like two black buttons. In fact, now he looked closer, not just like: they were black buttons, and it was more than just muddy, it appeared in fact to be made entirely of mud - Oscar could see things stuck in it - bits of old clay pipe, some roots, an old coin.

“A homunculus,” confided Maggs, “From the Watchmen.”

The homunculus stumped forward out of the lift, leaving behind it a trail of little muddy paw prints. It gestured as expansively as its limited arms would allow.

“I bring word from the Knights Watchmen to the rebels and prisoners in the White Tower. If you return to your cells no harm will come to you but should you attempt to resist the rightful representatives of the law of the Council of the Magi then the full force of that law will be pressed against you.” It paused and then said, in a very different tone of voice: “In other words: you’re stuffed, chums.”

The homunculus looked very pleased with itself and tried to put its hands in its waistcoat pockets, only it hadn’t any pockets and its arms weren’t long enough, so it only succeeded in wiping mud down its front. Then it spotted the black cat.

“Ah! A cat? Get it away from me!” The homunculus jumped in panic and turned, only to slip on its own footprints.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Thursby bent down and grabbed it by the waistcoat and, in one swift movement threw it into a flip-top bin that stood between the lifts. The lid rattled and slowly swung to a stop.

“That didn’t hurt me,” said a muffled voice, “I’m made of mud. You’re not:, though… made out of mud, you see… so you could be… hurt, I mean… are you following this?… that cat can’t get in here, can it?”

Thursby turned to the others.

“Listen,” he said, “We’re going to need your help, we’re going to try and get through to the Temple, rouse the Magi…”

“But the Watchmen are outside,” Harrison interrupted, “How are you going to get past them?”

“That,” said Murray, “Is where you come in.”

“Me?” Harrison’s voice quavered a little. But many of the other prisoners were smiling and nodding.

“All these years locked in here, enduring the White Tower,” Thursby gestured at the empty rooms around them, “This is your chance, your chance to take the fight to the Knights Watchmen, to show them what defeat feels like!”

The prisoners all cheered and some of them darted forward to clap Thursby on the back or shake his hand enthusiastically. Murray started gathering some of them round him.

“Right, you, you and you, come with me,” he crossed to the cell nearest to him and picked up the ‘Keep Out’ notice that was lying on the floor. He took in both hands and broke it in two and, at the sound, the chair in front of him suddenly shook itself and started ambling forwards on its four metal legs. “Come on, come on,” Murray was impatient, “Get a move on… Right, follow me…”

He started off down the corridor towards the windows. The chair followed him and as it went its plastic back began to warp and change, separating out into two orange wings that flapped experimentally. After them followed many of the prisoners, other chairs clattering from the empty offices to join them, all stretching new wings.

Meanwhile the prisoners who had been gathered round Thursby were already cramming themselves into lifts. Maggs grabbed hold of Oscar and hurried him into a lift with Thursby, Cuddy and Ridley, but Oscar couldn’t tear his eyes away from the strange, skittering column of flapping chairs.

“Oscar, please pull your head in before the doors knock it off,” Maggs pulled him back, but before she did so, he caught one last glimpse of Murray as he reached the window and flung it wide. Then, in the same movement, he jumped up onto the seat of the chair following him, like a surfer on his board, as the chair sprang through the window, spread its plastic wings, and dropped into the night.

Down in the lobby the fog pressed so thickly against the glass they couldn’t see further than a step beyond the front doors. Somewhere in the gloom dark shapes moved and massed, but it was hard to tell whether they were buses or monsters. If there was a difference between them out there.

The prisoners were all waiting by the doors when Oscar, Maggs, the black cat and the others stepped out of the lift. They were accompanied by various large pieces of lobby furniture, which all milled around, pawing at the ground, their overstuffed leather hides shining in the fluorescent light. Oscar could see that outside a couple of thin steel bollards had already taken up guard outside the front door, whipping long tentacles of chain over their heads to protect anyone who stepped outside. The security guard had disappeared from behind his desk.

“Are you ready?” Thursby’s voice was loud in the echoing hall.

“We’re ready!” came the answering cry.

“Remember - we need a clear path down through St Giles, if you can do it…” Thursby strode across the tiles and in one clear move leapt up onto the reception desk, “To the Temple!”

“The Temple!” shouted the prisoners, and at that the huge lobby sofas launched themselves forward, straight through the plate glass windows and out into the fog, with the Magi spilling out after them cheering and whooping.

Thursby jumped down from the reception desk and started for the front door when Cuddy put a hand on his shoulder.

“Clive, they’ll all be at the front - we should go out by the side - it’ll be quicker… and safer…”

Thursby paused for a moment, as if torn between the heroism of fighting his way through the fog and the need to get to the Temple.

“Alright, by the side, but hurry up,” Thursby turned and gestured and a small metal ashtray that had been left behind when the furniture escaped suddenly flipped onto its side and went rolling across the tiles, gathering speed until, at the last minute, it suddenly hurled itself into the air and flung itself through a window at the back of the lobby, shattering it into pieces.

“Come on, then!” They all ran after Thursby across the lobby towards the broken window.

And out they ran, out through the hole in the window and into the fog beyond.

All down the corridor people were coming out of the offices, freeing prisoners out of their captivity. Some walked out, some had to be dragged, some were carried and some were pushed but the moment they stepped free of the doorways all of them were elated, free of the terrible curse of the White Tower.

“What in Hel’s name do you think you’re doing?” The voice was clear and strong in the otherwise deadening silence of the Tower and everyone stopped in their tracks and turned. A middle-aged man in Knight’s watchman uniform was standing by the lifts, staring astounded at the scene before him.

“We’re ending decades of cruel and unnecessary punishment, what are you doing?” Thursby was defiant.

“I’m putting a stop to this nonsense right now,” The Knight Watchman lifted his black staff.

“And how do propose to do that?” Thursby started walking towards him, slowly, and everyone fell into step behind him, the freed prisoners included, so that they now made quite a crowd, filling up the corridor. The Knight Watchman looked at them all, advancing towards him, and wavered. Then he noticed Ridley amongst them.

“Ridley?” he said, astonished.

“Stand down, Sir Edward,” she said, in a calm voice, “I’m warning you.”

“This is treachery, Mistress Ridley, you’ll pay for this.”

“No, she won’t,” said Thursby, “But you might.”

“He’s the one who arrested me,” said a voice, “He put me in here.”

“He has to be punished…” said another.

“Lock him up…”

“No!” Ridley rounded on them, “We can’t. Stop, all of you, and think. That’s how they act - that’s what they do: lock people up. I’m a Watchman, aren’t I? Are you going to lock me up? If we’re going to do this, then we have to be better than them, we have to show we’re right.”

“Alright, Ridley’s right,” Thursby was grudging, “But we need to keep an eye on him anyway. Everyone else, let’s get a move on, we need to get as many people out as possible.”

Two of the prisoners stayed to watch the new Knight Watchman, who turned out to be called Edward Harker. The rest hurried off to rescue more people from their cells. Harker was persuaded to show Maggs were there was a coffee machine and she and Oscar were just fetching coffee for the freed prisoners when Murray came running up to them.

“Maggs,” he was breathless, although Oscar couldn’t tell whether it was with fear, excitement or simple exercise, “Can you come with me, he’s asking for you?”

“Asking for me? Who’s asking for me?”

“One of the prisoners,” Murray seemed reluctant to say who.

“One of the… who is it?”

“It’s…” Murray hesitated and leaned in closer, “It’s Hopkins…”

Murray’s voice tended to carry, even when he was trying to be quiet and Cuddy, who was passing nearby, stopped dead at the name.

“Hopkins?”

Harker turned, astonished “Hopkins! You’re trying to let that madman out? I knew you were fools, but this is beyond foolishness.”

“Hopkins?” Harrison looked up from his cup of coffee, “But wasn’t he… he was a… a necromancer… I mean, they said…”

“Who said, precisely?” interrupted Murray, “Lord Skelton, perhaps? Did he say he was a traitor, that he practised dark magic, that he was dangerous? Skelton said that you were dangerous, Harrison, and we can all see how right he was about that.”

“Murray,” Cuddy seemed nervous, “The last thing we need now is someone with a reputation like Hopkins…”

“But he’s asking for me,” interrupted Maggs, “He must know… have known me - he might know anything - I can’t not see him, Cuddy, I have to know…”

“Then this way, Maggs,” Murray waved her on after him, “Follow me.”

“Oscar, wait here for me,” Maggs shot over her shoulder as she trotted after Murray.

Maggs didn’t even stop to see whether Oscar was obeying her, so he followed her anyway, and, he noticed, Cuddy followed him.

They trotted down several identical corridors until they came to a corner where the corridors stopped. The walls here were covered with slats of a dun coloured material that Oscar could only assume were some kind of blind or curtain. At the corner, yet another identical office. Inside sat a tall, thin man, whose yellowing skin was drawn tightly over his skull and whose long, bony fingers were white where they gripped his knees. His face, however, was tipped forward and thrown into shadow so that Oscar could barely make out his features.

Murray and Maggs didn’t pause but walked straight in and Oscar and Cuddy followed them.

And found himself in the courtyard of a castle. All around them was activity, servants scurrying here and there, cavalry detachments jingling out through an archway, soldiers patrolling the battlements. In front of them was a stone stairway leading up to a pair of huge, ornately carved double doors. Murray started up the stairs and Oscar followed without thinking, bumping into Maggs as he did so. She didn’t even look surprised to see him, but instead just snorted a little in disgust and then smiled, as if she was glad he was there after all. No one seemed to be bothered that Cuddy was bringing up the rear.

When they got to the top of the stairs, Oscar noticed that each door had in its centre a carving of Hopkins’ face. They were met at the door by a herald in a bottle green velvet coat and extraordinary facial hair, carrying a long black staff with a complicated silver tip to it.

“I have returned to speak with His Majesty,” said Murray, raising an eyebrow at Maggs as he spoke.

“His immensity is expecting you,” said the herald and ushered them through the door.

Beyond the doors was an enormous hallway whose walls disappeared into shadow above them and whose tiled floor rang under their feet. Halfway down they turned and climbed a carpeted staircase, this one lined with portraits of Hopkins. At the top was another hallway, this one made lumpy and treacherous by the vast number of fine rugs all laid one on top of the other under foot. As the herald led them up a succession of staircases, long and short, spiral and straight, and down a never ending series of hallways, luxurious and thick with decoration, austere and bare, Murray talked to them in a whisper, filling them with Hopkins’ story.

“He’s got a whole castle in here, a whole country - for all I know, it could be a whole world,” Murray was breathless.

“And he rules it all?” Maggs had guessed what was coming next.

“Oh yes, the whole thing,” Murray sounded amazed, “The absolute and undisputed ruler. It’s quite incredible - when I came before they were having a ceremony in the courtyard, all pomp and circumstance, you know. According to one of the servants they have it everyday: it’s a coronation - he gets crowned King every morning. A megalomaniac,” Murray barked a short laugh, “Still we shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose,” he went on, “If you believe half the stories about him: conjuring with Darklings, challenging The Three Wise Lords, he was probably half way crazy before they even put him in here.”

“Some might have called him crazy,” said Cuddy, “Others might have called it greatness.”

“Greatness?” Maggs sounded unconvinced.

“At least he stood up to them,” insisted Cuddy, “He didn’t just do as he was told, like everyone else.”

“Until Skelton got him, that is,” interrupted Murray.

“Then lets hope Skelton doesn’t get any of us, either,” said Maggs.

They had come to another, smaller, pair of double doors, again with Hopkins’ face carved into them. The herald threw them open and ushered them in. On the other side was a huge library, with shelves that stretched up to the distant ceiling, filled with books of all shapes and sizes. Only the opposite wall didn’t have any books on it and that was because it was, instead, nothing but windows. Standing silhouetted against the windows, so that Oscar could see nothing but a black shape in the glare of the sunlight, was a figure who could only have been Hopkins.

“Maggs, Maggs, is that you…? Have you come?”

“Hopkins… um… I’m not sure…” Maggs began.

“Maggs, I have something…” Hopkins stopped suddenly, his dry, thin voice floating away into nothing, “…I had something… something I had… The King, Maggs, I had to…”

Murray was looking about him at the books on the shelves.

“The Uses of Alchemy…” he whispered, half to himself, half to Oscar, “My Family and Other Monsters… How to Win Fiends and Influence People…Blimey,” Murray sounded amazed, “There are books here I’ve never even heard of…”

“Master Hopkins,” said Cuddy, “Do you have something to say to us?”

“I… No!” Hopkins’ voice suddenly changed, becoming harsher, “What would I have to do with you?”

“You asked for me,” Maggs was bewildered, “I thought you…”

“Listen,” interrupted Murray, “This is our moment, Hopkins, we’re finally doing it, we’re rising up against Skelton and the Wise Lords, we’re freeing the prisoners, we’re taking over…”

“Congratulations,” Hopkins sounded unimpressed, “I offer you best wishes on your venture, but I have a revolution of my own to see to…”

“A revolution of your own?”

“Oh yes,” Hopkins was trying to sound light-hearted but there was an edge of hysteria to his voice, “I have to go and organise a revolution. Against myself. Isn’t it marvellous? Every morning a coronation, every evening a revolution. You must go now - leave me to my kingdom…” His voice suddenly became serious, “…to my library. Go!”

Hopkins turned on his heel and stalked away into the bright glare of the sun.

“Hopkins…” Maggs called out to him, but the herald had reappeared and was now ushering them back across the room - not towards the door but towards a set of shelves.

“Good luck, and good evening…” Hopkins’ voice came floating back across the library as the herald opened the bookshelves and pushed them through, back out into the strip light hum of the White Tower.

Cuddy was shaking his head. “I don’t understand it, I just don’t.”

“I do,” Maggs was grim, “It’s sent him mad and that’s all there is to it.”

“Just what I said,” agreed Murray.

“Ah, there you are…” it was Thursby, “You better see this: They’ve arrived.”

Thursby led them over to the windows and lifted the curtain to one side. Oscar peered past. They were looking down on a junction where two wide roads met, only you couldn’t see the junction any more: all the roads now just disappeared into a thick fog that completely obscured the crossroads. Through it Oscar could vaguely make out the glow of streetlamps and car headlights and the muffled sound of horns being furiously blown. The fog was spreading, too, creeping up the roads and up the side of the buildings, even up the side of the White Tower itself. Greeny grey tendrils of smoke coiled up from it, reaching to them.

There was a black movement on the roof of a theatre opposite but when Oscar looked at it he realised that what he had thought was a raven was nothing of the kind. It was shiny and black and had wings, but that was where the similarity ended. This thing was some kind of reptile, whose scales had a green iridescence, like a beetle. It had a long, strong tail with a barb at the end, which it had wound round a gargoyle. It gripped the edge of the building with two wicked claws and flapped its leathery wings. Then it turned at looked at them, its head narrow and pointed, like a dog’s, but covered in curling barbels and curving horns, its teeth sharp and yellow, its eyes like fire.

“Wyverns…” breathed Cuddy.

A figure climbed up onto the roof by the Wyvern and laid a hand on its head. The figure was wearing the uniform of a Knight Watchman.

Something moved on a roof opposite. Another Knight Watchman, another Wyvern.

“Oh yes, they’re here, all right,” said Thursby - he sounded pleased about the whole thing. “Come on, we better get ready.”

Thursby turned and started walking back towards the lifts. The rest of them followed.

“Why’s it so foggy down there?” Oscar asked Maggs.

“The fog will hide what happens from the people below - the Knights Watchmen still think they can keep us all a secret - from each other, from the Wild Ride, from the world…”

As they approached the lifts Harrison came running up towards them.

“One of the lifts is coming up!” He was shouting, “Someone’s coming!”

“Stay calm,” Thursby was firm, “We’re an army now - there’s nothing we can’t deal with, together.”

Oscar could feel the unfamiliar shape of the Knight Errant fob digging into his leg as he ran. Ridley had given up her keychain so that it could be clipped on and now it hung down from his belt loop into his trouser pocket. They were running through dark, rainy streets in the orange glow of streetlamps and with each step Oscar could feel the fob twisting and turning.

Three more Magi had joined them as they were leaving Maggs’ old study, and Oscar could see that all of them were carrying the Errant fob on them, too - this then, was the company he had joined, desperate, passionate and embarked on a mission of impossible danger, but all of them, all of them including him, Magi, casters of spells and masters of spirits.

It was all so extraordinary, so exciting that Oscar could barely the resist the temptation to shout it out at every Christmas shopper they passed. But there was no time, no chance. He was picked up and swept along by the Magi, galvanised by their excitement as they weaved through the crowds and dodged the traffic. Excitement and something else, excitement and fear…

“What is the White Tower?” He panted at Maggs, “Is it like a castle? A dungeon? Cuddy said it was terrible.”

“Oh it is, but not how you’re thinking - the terrible thing about the White Tower is that no matter how afraid you are to go there, once you’re there you’ll never want to leave.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“It’s hard to explain - but I’m afraid you’re probably going to find out for yourself tonight, one way or another.”

They came out of an alleyway round the back of a theatre and stopped. There, ahead of them on the other side of a busy junction, was not a grim castle or an ancient, crumbling prison, but a huge, pale tower block, stretching up into the rain. There were lights on here or there but towards the top the windows were black and endless, divided into dark squares of night by a network of grey concrete. Shoppers and traffic milled here and there around its feet, but there was something immense and distant and lonely about the tower itself that seemed to isolate it completely from the life all about. Maggs’ hand found Oscar’s.

“The White Tower,” she said, and her voice trembled as she spoke.

The security guard in the lobby looked like any other security guard in any building in London, except that, Oscar noticed, he had the same silver emblems on his shoulder flashes as the men in Hammages had worn on their uniforms. He was no ordinary night watchman, then.

“Inspection delegation,” said Cuddy and Ridley flashed her Watchmen fob as they passed and trouped into the lifts. The guard barely stirred.

“Floor thirteen,” said Cuddy. Oscar looked at the panel of buttons for the floors. There was no button thirteen; it went straight from floor twelve to floor fourteen.

“Press buttons one and three at the same time,” said Cuddy, “Normal people think that floor thirteen was just left out for superstitious reasons. They don’t know it’s really there.”

Thursby pressed the buttons and the lift started up.

“Be warned,” said Cuddy in a low voice, “And be ready, its not… nice…”

The doors opened to a dead silence.

Beyond was a completely empty corridor. It was neutral, bland, the sort of corridor that you might find in any large office building. Gray carpet and off white walls and above, the glare of fluorescent strip lighting. The corridor stretched away into the distance ahead of them. At intervals, Oscar could see, there were junctions where other corridors ran off to the left and right.

All the way down the corridor there were doorways. There were no actual doors, just an opening with a chain slung across and a notice reading ‘Keep Out’. As they all filed quietly out of the lifts, no one daring to speak, Oscar could see that each doorway opened into a tiny, undecorated, windowless office. Each office was completely bare but for a single red plastic chair and on each chair sat a person.

The people were all different - young, old, well dressed, shabby, men and women, but each had the same look on their faces. Sitting there, hands folded in their laps, staring straight ahead, glassy eyed, as if not actually seeing anything. And there, at the back of their eyes, was just the glimmering of an expression, just a hint of an awful quiet desperation and terror.

“Stars and Night…” whispered Thursby.

“I told you,” said Cuddy.

“Its awful,” whispered Maggs.

“Then it’s a good thing we’re here, isn’t it?” Thursby ushered everyone out of the lift, “It’ll take two people for each prisoner, you’ll have to carry them out, right?”

“And you’ll have to be quick,” added Cuddy, “You mustn’t let the Tower capture you, too…”

The group split quietly up into pairs. The whole place had a chilling, dead feel. Sound was dulled, no one wanted to speak too much or too loudly, everything was too quiet.

“I don’t understand,” Oscar sidled up next to Maggs, “Are those the prisoners? Why don’t they just walk out of the rooms?”

“Because they can’t,” said Maggs, quietly, “That’s the thing about the White Tower - it makes you your own jailer: you imprison yourself. Once you’re put into one of the rooms, you fall under the influence of the spirits of the Tower and they show you, well, things, visions - they seem real to the prisoners, though - it might be anything, your heart’s desire or your most terrible nightmare, but it will be the one thing you can’t tear yourself away from. Anyone of them could stand up and walk out of those rooms right now, but they can’t quite bring themselves to do it. And you know what the truly awful thing is? They know it. Every one of them knows that all it would take is the tiniest bit of will power and they would be free, but they can’t quite do it and so there they stay, locked up for the rest of their lives by themselves.”

Cuddy appeared at one of the doors and beckoned to them. Maggs put her hand on Oscar’s shoulder to hold him back, but Cuddy beckoned again.

“It’s alright, it’s not an awful one,” he said in a low voice, “It’s not frightening - not in that way anyway, but I think everyone should see at least one. You have to know.”

Oscar stepped away from Maggs towards the door and, after a moment, she followed him.

Inside the room Cuddy and Murray were standing next to a pale man sitting on the chair in the centre.

“His name is Harrison,” whispered Cuddy, “He wrote a book the Lord Protector disapproved of…”

As Cuddy was speaking Oscar became aware that his voice was fluttering, like a radio with poor reception. In fact the whole room was flickering and juddering - it was like there were two rooms superimposed over the top of each other, one the little white office, the other a boy’s bedroom in an ordinary house, covered with posters, with toys scattered under foot. First one room would be there, then another, jumping in and out and then the rooms blurred and, all of a sudden, they were standing in the bedroom.

The pale man was sitting on the edge of the bed, reading a comic on his lap. A voice came from somewhere downstairs:

“Jonathan! Tea!”

The man looked up and saw them.

“It’s always tea,” he said, “Sunday afternoon tea. It’s my favourite. I can’t stand it any more. I always loved my mother’s Sunday afternoon tea, but I hate it now. Tell the Lord Protector that I’m sorry, that I didn’t mean it.” The man was crying now, “I just want to go, but I can’t. It’s teatime. My mother died years ago. I think it was years ago. It’s always Sunday in here. It’s always teatime. I want to leave, but I’m afraid I’ll miss tea time.”

“Jonathan! Your tea’s ready!”

“I’ve got to go, its time for tea,” Jonathan stood up.

“Grab him!” shouted Cuddy and he and Murray leapt on the man, each grabbing an arm, and started pulling him away from the door, towards the wardrobe.

“No! Let me go, I have to go down to tea! My tea’s ready!” Jonathan was shouting, drumming his heels on the carpet. They were trying to drag him towards the wardrobe but he dug his heels him, pulling them to a stop.

“Come on, man!” Cuddy was desperate.

Maggs grabbed hold of Oscar. “Come on,” she said, “If we stay here any longer we’ll get caught up in it too.”

“Wait,” Oscar wriggled free and ran to Harrison, “Listen;” he said urgently, “I’ve got a game.”

Harrison stopped shouting and turned to him, “Are you my friend?” he asked, eagerly.

“Yes,” said Oscar, “Listen, lets hide in the wardrobe, and then, when your mother comes to get us, we’ll jump out at her - that’s a good game, isn’t it?”

“It’s a great game - it’ll be great!” Harrison was suddenly enthusiastic. He shrugged off the startled Cuddy and Murray and hustled Oscar to the wardrobe. The others crowded in behind him and he wrenched it open and hurried in, right through to the corridor beyond.

For a moment Oscar was bewildered, not quite sure where he was, then Harrison collapsed on the carpet beside him, sobbing.

“I’m out, I’m out!” he was laughing and crying at the same time, great tears rolling down his cheeks. He grabbed hold of Oscar’s legs, which made it difficult to stand up, “Oh, thank you, thank you, I can’t believe I’m finally free!”

They had all been so intent on Maggs’ story that they hadn’t heard the door open and they all jumped at the interruption. The figure who had spoken from the doorway was an extraordinary scarecrow of a man, with wild curly black hair and a too small suit that he stuck out of at strange angles. His glasses were held together with sticking plaster, but the eyes behind them were bright and amused.

“Thursby!” Maggs was evidently delighted with the newcomer. Ridley nodded to him and he smiled back at her.

“Marion,” he said, which Oscar could only assume to be Ridley’s first name, “This was lurking outside - is it anything to do with you, or is it a Darkling spy?” Thursby held out his hand and presented them with the little black cat, who stared at them solemnly.

“Hardly a Darkling,” said Maggs, “In fact, quite the reverse. This little cat not only saved us from the Wish Hounds but from the Darklings that attacked Hammages.”

“Then the rumours are true?” said another voice, “There really were Darklings in Hammages?”

The person standing behind Thursby in the doorway couldn’t have been more different. This was a neat and tidy little person, with a carefully parted lick of fair hair and a precisely pressed suit, with clever dark eyes and a polite half smile directed at everyone and no-one.

“And yet you’re the ones the Watchmen are scouring London for, I take it?” Thursby was smiling but there was a seriously tone to his voice, “What have you and your little friend been up to, Maggs?”

“Ah, this is Oscar, Clive,” Maggs waved Oscar forward, “Oscar, this is Clive Thursby: Oscar saved my life.”

“Cuddy, Murray,” Thursby gestured at the neat person and at the third bringing up the rear, a large, raw individual with a shock of bright red hair and eyebrows to match, “Pleased to meet you, especially if you saved Maggs’ life.”

“Oh, he did,” interrupted Ridley, “I saw it all, the spirit - the cat, you know - came to his aid voluntarily, saw off the Darklings.”

“Voluntarily?” Cuddy was very surprised - although it did little to disturb his neatness - and Thursby and Maggs exchanged significant glances.

“The terrible work the King hath wrought shall by the King’s own hand be brought to naught,” muttered Maggs.

“And your reward for this heroism? Persecution from the Watchmen,” Thursby seemed extraordinarily satisfied by this.

“But I didn’t do anything wrong,” protested Oscar, “At least, I don’t think I did…”

“You didn’t!” roared Thursby, “That’s precisely the point! Isn’t this just typical of what the Knights Watchmen have become? These aren’t our guardians, these are our jailers!” Thursby had suddenly leapt into action, jerking round the room and waving his lanky arms wildly, but no one seemed surprised by this: this was evidently an impassioned speech that he gave often and they were quite used to it.

“They can’t protect us any more, that’s evident from today, and so what do they do? They persecute those least able to stand up to them. Well, perhaps someone else ought to.”

“Oh, and what are you going to do, Clive?” Cuddy was scornful, “Write a stiff letter to the Lord Protector?”

“Skelton’s gone away,” said Ridley, “He left yesterday - on the trail of the Wild Ride, apparently.”

“Who’s Skelton?” whispered Oscar to Maggs.

“The Lord Protector,” she replied, which explained absolutely nothing, “The commander of the Knights Watchmen, the most powerful of the Three Wise Lords of the Magi.” Oscar only understood a little of what she was saying, but the way she said it explained more - he could hear the fear and awe in her voice and it told him all he wanted to know bout this Lord Skelton.

“How do you know that?” Murray glowered at Ridley from under his eyebrows, “Skelton keeps his movements secret.”

“Oh yes,” Thursby was grinning at him, “Only the Watchmen know - you haven’t met Marion yet, have you, Murray?” Thursby swept out a hand in introduction, “Marion Ridley, Knight Watchman.”

“In training,” Ridley interjected but Murray still leapt backwards, a knobbly finger jabbing out at her.

“Thursby! Are you insane? Letting one of them in here? She knows too much, she’ll have to be dealt with!” he put considerable relish into this last phrase and Oscar could see that he rather liked the idea of ‘dealing with’ someone.

“I think that would be rather unfair,” continued Thursby, calmly, “Considering that it was me who suggested that she take Skelton up on his offer.”

“You?” Maggs was gazing at Ridley in confusion, “But why?”

“Surely you should know that,” said Ridley, who didn’t seem in the least bit worried about Murray, “Who but a Watchman could have helped you escape from the Watchmen? Who could be more useful to a rebellion than a member of the secret police? I think it was an inspired idea of Clive’s.”

“So do I,” said Thursby, smugly, “With someone inside the Knights Watchmen, we will know everything they know, everything they’re planning, we will have the upper hand.”

“Then this is our chance,” Murray was excited, his eyebrows dancing up and down.

“Oh yes, because without Skelton, there’s only a hundred Knights Watchmen left in London,” Cuddy scoffed, his precise voice clipped and sour, “This is ridiculous - all we ever do is skulk around in here, muttering useless threats to each other…”

“If we all stand together…” continued Murray.

“We can all go to the White Tower together,” finished Cuddy.

“Ah, the White Tower again,” Thursby smiled, “Cuddy’s duties take him there sometimes,” he explained to Oscar, “and its all he can think about - its exactly what they want, of course, they want us to be thinking of it all time: we’re already prisoners of it, dammit!”

“But it’s horrible, Clive, it really is: you haven’t seen it: so many of them, just sitting there, marooned in themselves…” Cuddy’s voice grew faint, “Everyone who’s ever tried to stand up to the Watchmen, all with the life stamped out of them… so many of them…” his voice tailed away.

“So the White Tower is some kind of prison?” Oscar had figured that much out, “Full of enemies of the Watchmen?”

Thursby suddenly turned his bright stare fully at Oscar, a manic expression springing to life in his eyes.

“Oh, I like this boy, Maggs, I like him very much,” Thursby placed a hand on Oscar’s shoulder, “Yes, Oscar, all the enemies of the Knights Watchmen… a whole army of them, all in one place, all begging to be freed.”

There was a brief silence and then Murray, the light dawning in his face, gave a wordless shout and started capering around the room. Cuddy was aghast.

“Clive, what are you suggesting?”

“What do you think he’s suggesting?” crowed Murray, “Tearing down the White Tower, destroying everything it stands for!”

“But you can’t…” Cuddy seemed speechless with fear.

“Of course I can! What could be better: a whole army of Magi just sitting there, just yearning for their revenge against the Knights Watchmen - its perfect - and we could do it, too - you’ve told me yourself a hundred times that they don’t bother with guards…”

“We’d have to get in there, first - I have to be accompanied by a Watchman when I go.”

“And you will be,” Ridley stepped forward, “I’ve been there myself, with Skelton - they’ll know me.”

“It’s madness,” insisted Cuddy.

“It’s brilliant,” Maggs pulled herself up from her chair and clapped Thursby on the back.

“It’s Oscar we have to thank,” said Thursby, “Oscar, could you go to that drawer your were rifling through earlier and fetch me the little tin box inside - Maggs, this concerns you, too - I’m afraid we’ve rather been keeping you in the dark about this, for the same reason that we haven’t told you about his place before: I didn’t want to make any more trouble for you…”

Thursby took the box, which had apparently once contained something called Gold Flake, from Oscar and opened it. Inside, Oscar could see, were lots of tiny metal shapes, like six sided coins, all with designs stamped on them and a hole punched in one tip.

“…but if we’re going to do what we’re going to do…” Thursby lifted one of the metal shapes out and held it up to Oscar, “This, Oscar, is what we call a fob - all the Magi have one, usually several - here on my key chain, there on Maggs’ bracelet, there on Ridley’s watch chain…”

Oscar looked round and suddenly realised that everyone had some of these bits of metal hanging from a chain or a band somewhere on them - many of them were different shapes and types of metal - some of them even seemed to be little figures or models - some of the Magi, like Maggs, had many of them (although hers all looked quite old), some of them, like Murray, only had a few. The fob in Thursby’s hand had stamped on it the figure of a knight, holding aloft a lance with a banner floating from it.

“Your fobs tell other Magi about you, who you trained under, what your specialities are, what organisations you belong to… This, this is the fob of a secret society, a banned organisation - if you wear it, it will be an open admission that you defy the Knights Watchmen, that you are a rebel, but it will also make you one of us, one of the Knights Errant…”

“But…” Oscar had just noticed something that he didn’t understand, “Maggs has already got one of those.”

“What?” Maggs started and grabbed at her bracelet, rattling through the shapes that hung off of it.

“There,” Oscar singled one out, “That’s the same shape, isn’t it? It’s the same one.”

“Good God,” Maggs stared at it, astonished, “I’d never - I barely look at them any more, I don’t remember what any of them mean, I… How could I…? How could this have got there?”

“Because you, Maggs,” said Thursby, “Are a Knight Errant, already - you have been for years, you were one of the founder members, back before the Darklings, before you lost your magic.”

“But how? Why? Why did no one tell me?”

“Because of what happened to you - because the Knights Errant were banned and everyone wanted to forget about them - well, the Knights Watchmen did, at least. You see, Oscar,” Thursby turned back to him, holding out the metal shape, “The Magi have always kept themselves secret, but the Knights Errant believed that the whole world should have magic, that the Magi should use their power for the good of everyone, so that’s what they set out to do…”

“It’s a sort of play on words, you see,” interrupted Ridley, “In legend a Knight Errant is a Knight who goes about, doing good, rescuing princesses and killing dragons, all that sort of thing, but to be ‘errant’ also means to be wrong - which is what we are, according to the laws of the Magi - all wrong.”

“And proud of it,” said Murray.

“And that’s we’re setting out to do, you see,” continued Thursby, “We’re going to break all the rules, and break all the rulers, and make magic free again: will you join us, Oscar: are you one of us?”

Oscar stared at the shape in Thursby’s hand, and then at all the faces in the room, all staring at him, waiting for his decision. And there, at his feet, was the little black cat, who slowly closed her eyes and dipped her head in something like a nod. Oscar reached out and took the fob.

“Count me in,” he said.