Ori was not even outraged. He was used to the arrogance of the Runagates. He looked at her with cool annoyance, and, yes, a residue of respect, a due she had inherited from Curdin.

"While you’re playing prophets, Jack," he said, "keep your eyes open. When I move… you’ll know. We have plans."

"They say Iron Council’s coming back."

Her face had taken on such joy.

"It’s coming back."

All the things Ori could think to say were obvious. He did not want to insult her, so he tried to think of something else to say, but could not.

"It’s a fairy tale," he said.

"It ain’t."

"A fable. There’s no Iron Council."

"They want you to think that. If there’s no Iron Council, then we ain’t never took power. But if there is, and there is, we did it before, we can do it again."

"Good Jabber, listen to yourself…"

"You telling me you never seen the helios? What do you think that was? You think they built the bloody train by marching alongside each other, women, whores, at the front? Children riding the damn cab hood?"

"Something happened, of course it did, but they were put down. It was a strike is all. They’re long dead-"

She was laughing. "You don’t know, you don’t know. They wanted them dead, and they want them dead again, but they’re coming back. Someone from the Caucus set out for them. We got a message. Why’d they be going, if not to tell them to return?

"Haven’t you seen the graffiti?" she said. "All over. Along with all them coils and spirals you’re wearing. IC You. Iron Council, You. It’s coming back, and even just knowing that’s a godsdamned inspiration."

"People want them, they’ll find them, they’ll believe in them, Jack…"

"What you don’t know," she said, and didn’t even look angry anymore, "is that we’re moving. If you could hear the Caucus." She sipped her drink. She looked at him, some kind of challenge. She’s sitting on the damn Caucus. The cabal of insurrectionists, the truce of the factions and the unaligned.

"There are those in Parliament trying to cosy up, you know. They can’t admit it, but there are factories where we decide if people go to work or not. They want to negotiate. Parliament ain’t the only decider in New Crobuzon anymore. There’s two powers now."

The knit-worker stretched her hand across the table.

"Madeleina," she said deliberately. "Di Farja."

He shook her hand, moved by her trust. "Ori," he said, as if she didn’t know.