“I am so sorry,” said Hans Schulman. “I am very clumsy, ja?”

There was beer everywhere. It was all over the table in the guardroom, and all over the Jail Master General’s trousers. Hans had come in on some errand, and managed to knock the man’s pint mug over in the process.

“Imbecile,” the Jail Master shouted, his enormous jowls wobbling in irritation as he began to wipe himself down.

“Let me help you,” said Hans, grabbing up a cloth and furiously mopping the table, sending a candlestick crashing.

“Just leave it, will you?” said the Jail Master. “You’re making it worse.”

“Please forgive me,” said Hans, his eyes dropping to the man’s sodden trousers. “I’m sure that no one will think you have – what are the words? – wet yourself?”

“You’re on a charge, chummy,” snarled the Jail Master. “You’re gonna get twenty lashes for that.”

Hans had known that a punishment would be coming but it was a small price to pay. The Jail Master shuffled away to find some dry clothes…and left the keys in the guardroom unattended.

The rumours said that the key Hans was looking for was marked with crossed bones. No one locked in that cell had ever been released alive. Hans took it from its hook on the wall, slipped it into his pocket and walked away as quickly as he dared. There would be no coming back from this moment. He was a Watcher spy inside the Legion and he had just committed a crime punishable by death. When the key was discovered to be missing – and that would happen – then the Jail Master would be in no doubt as to who the culprit was.

Hans was a dead man walking.

And yet if this key did what he believed it might, then the risk was worth it. If Hans was able to release this prisoner, then the war against the Legion was closer to being won.

The city was slipping over the edge into chaos. The Legion were drunk with power. Mr. Sweet himself was growing more dangerous by the hour. Earlier that day, Hans had witnessed five red-headed lads being dragged before him. None of them bore the slightest resemblance to Ben, save their hair colour, but Sweet’s paranoia was so extreme that he executed them regardless.

Revolution Day was less than forty-eight hours away. It couldn’t come too soon.

Hans had been undercover in the Legion for a long time and it had become second nature for him to eavesdrop on the villains that he lived alongside. Even so, he had almost gasped out loud when he’d overheard Sweet give away the one piece of information the Watchers needed.

Now, if Hans could get the Queen to safety, that would surely be the turning point of this war.

Using a lantern, Hans navigated his way through the Under. Water was running down the walls and the air was full of the scent of decay. Huge green and black patches of mould spread through the corridors like a disease. Here and there, clumps of sickly white mushrooms had sprouted up, eager to release their spores. And the deeper Hans descended, the worse it got. He covered his mouth and nose with his neck-scarf, but the rotting smell still made him gag.

Alone in the flooded chambers, Hans began to feel his mind playing tricks. He was not afraid of the rats that seemed to have been breeding in their hundreds, but he was troubled by the dark. He felt a stirring in the shadows, a sense that he was being followed, hunted even. Of course, when he turned round there was nothing – it was only his imagination – and yet his skin crawled with fear.

Eventually Hans reached a spiral staircase, water cascading down the steps around his feet. He moved down to the deepest depths of the Under, the lowest level, where the secrets and the horrors were kept. At the bottom of the stairs, Hans paused. The water level was almost at his waist here. He flashed his lantern down the corridor and found the dungeon doors. What could he hope to find on the other side of those bars?

Holding his lamp high, Hans waded cautiously along. He arrived at the first door and peered through the barred window. A skeleton grinned back at him, still manacled to the wall, waiting for help that never came. The next two cells were empty and Hans felt his hopes trickling away. Twice, he spun round, sensing another presence in the darkness. Twice his lantern found nothing.

“Help!” called a small, frail voice. “Is somebody there? Will you help me, please?”

It sounded like an old woman. Hans pushed his way through the water, hoping against hope that it was her. He saw a small, pink hand reaching out through the next set of bars.

“My Queen,” breathed Hans.

Victoria no longer looked like a queen though. Her thin hair was plastered to her scalp, her skin was taut on her cheeks, her dress was in rags. But her eyes still glinted with strength.

Hans inserted the long key into the lock. It was stiff and he had to put both hands to it. He strained, but the key still refused to turn.

“Hurry,” Victoria urged. “You must free my friend too.”

Hans paused and put his face to the barred window of the neighbouring cell. He couldn’t be sure at first, but he thought that he could make out a figure standing silently in the middle of the dungeon, fixed to the spot by lengths of chain. A tall figure with a strong, elegant face; dignified even though there were raw stumps on his shoulders where mighty wings had once grown.

“You!” Hans declared.

Queen Victoria gave a shrill scream and Hans was confused. Then a heavy hand landed on his shoulder from behind and he understood all too well.

Hans turned and his lamp illuminated a silver raven-skull mask beneath a crown of coins.

“Yes,” said Mr. Sweet. “It’s me.”