Glovach looked equivocal. ‘Getting hold of them, you mean? He’d be able to, no doubt, even though Urgeyena’s not exactly short of kit. He’s got access to slate, just as you’d expect. I did hear that he had some run-in with Nomen where he wasn’t afraid to wheel out some armoured muscle – shredder-weapons, the lot. He’s dangerous. Anyone with Lascile’s ear is dangerous.’

‘So if you had some material in Urgeyena, illicit material, that you needed to guard well and then get off-world, he’d be the man to do it.’

‘Undoubtedly.’ Glovach handed the slate back. ‘So I’d steer clear, if I were you. Well clear.’

‘It’s remarkable how consistent the advice I’m getting is.’

‘If this has anything to do with your work on the Terashovas, stay even clearer. Mordach loathes Lascile with a passion, and if he could find a way to do it, he’d kill him tomorrow.’

‘What about Udmil?’

‘No idea.’ Glovach thought about it for a moment, then chuckled. ‘You know, I reckon those two might get on, if they ever found themselves on the same side. They’ve got a similar outlook.’

‘Imagine that,’ said Zidarov, sourly. He looked around the chamber. ‘Hells, these people turn my stomach. How do you stand it?’

Glovach looked at them in turn, his eyebrow elegantly raised. ‘Really? They’re not so bad. We couldn’t operate without them.’

‘They’re pumped full of chems, the lot of them. They don’t care where it comes from. As long as they can dial the years back, they don’t care if the serums are dragged out of Throne-knows-where. It’s just… sickening.’

Glovach gave him a warning look. ‘Careful. Keep your voice down, if you want to mouth off. These people don’t smash windows or mug manufactorum workers.’

‘No, they do real damage.’ Zidarov got up. ‘Ignore me. The rain gets to you, after a while. I’ll be fine in a few weeks.’

Glovach stared at him with concern. ‘Get some rest, Agusto. You need it. It’s not all about work, you know.’

And he was right about that, at least.

‘True enough,’ he said. ‘Good thing I’ve got something else in mind.’

He’d promised himself he wouldn’t go back. He’d meant it, at the time, but then Glovach was right – a man needed to escape the grind, just now and again, infuse the drabness of his life with something more invigorating. He knew he’d been lying to himself. Everyone had their little poison – the thing they just kept returning to, knowing the dangers, and this was his.