“You are not under arrest,” the Captain said. “You are suspected of having broken lawful edicts of this city, but you are not under arrest. The Lord Mayor would speak with you.”

“He’s telling the truth,” said Vass.

Rownie glared at her. “I gave you a message for Graba.”

Vass nodded. “And it would be so much worse for you if she were here instead,” she told him. Her voice was cold. Her face was cold. Both were glass-smooth and offered nothing to hold on to.

She went back inside the railcar. The Captain of the Guard pushed Rownie through the doorway after her, and shut the door behind them all.

Gold lanterns burned inside. Red cloth covered the floor, the windows, and the far wall in hanging curtains. A long dining table took up most of the space, and a sumptuous meal of roast goose and fresh fruit took up most of the table. Rownie could smell the crispy goose skin. He had never in his life eaten goose, but at that moment he very much wanted to try it.

Chefs had refletched the bird and posed it upright. Its wings stretched out to their full span across the table. Both the wings and neck had been filled with tiny filaments of gearwork. The wings flapped slowly back and forth. The beak opened and sang a little tune. It was pretty. It did not sound much like a goose.

The Lord Mayor of Zombay cut chest meat from this seemingly live bird, and took a bite.

Rownie stared. The Mayor smiled at him from behind his trim beard and his chins. He only looked a little bit like his statue. He was not a very wide man, but he did have a few extra chins.

Vass sat down beside the Lord Mayor as though she had every right to be there, or anywhere else that she might choose.

“Welcome, young sir,” said the Mayor. He wore many rings. They knocked together when he moved his hands—and his hands were always moving. “I would like to offer you employment in my own private troupe of actors.”

As he spoke, the railcar shuddered and moved. Rownie felt it slide over rails and down into the tunnel, down under the River, down in a long, straight line toward Northside. The cooked goose flapped its wings and sang another song.

Rownie thought about the Mayor’s words. He tried to make them make any kind of sense. “Your own what?”