Incongruously, at last, one early evening, with gunshots far off south-a noise New Crobuzon had grown used to, which no longer called the militia down from their dirigibles, was only part of the nightsound now-visitors began arriving. Cooks and maids and footmen left, given the night off. Not knowing their master’s job, not knowing who it was who came to him. Fops and uptown dandies arrived, dressed for a sedate party. A cactus-man in smart clothes.

Probably the staff think he’s an orgiast, Ori thought. They think their master’s up to shenanigans, peccadilloes or drugs. The guests were militia. Clypean. Preparing for the mayor’s arrival.

Ulliam put on a helmet. He strapped it tight and sighed. It jutted mirrors before his eyes. "Never, ever thought I’d put this on again," he said.

"I’m not clear," Enoch kept saying to Ori. "I’m not clear how it is I leave."

"You heard him, ‘Noch, through the scullery window, over into the gardens, away." You’ll never leave.

"Yeah, yeah, I, I know. It’s just… I’m sure that’s right."

You’ll never leave.

"You’ll know when it’s time to go, Ori," Baron had said, and Ori waited. He leaned against the cracked plaster, put his head on the thin ribs of board. Step step secure aim aim shoot.

"You understand what you’ve to do, Ori?" Baron had said. "What’s asked?"

Why this… this honour ? Ori wondered. Why was he placed at the mission’s heart? He was-after Baron-the best shot; and he did not expect to live, yet had not run. Perhaps that had decided Toro. None of us will live, he thought. I’d still do this a thousand damn times. He felt himself anchor.

"You know where I’ve got to be, and you know where Shoulder’s got to be. We need someone at the top, Ori."

Ori’s on point, he thought. Ori, take point.

He felt a weight of city below him, as if New Crobuzon were shackled to him as he dangled. He closed his eyes. He imagined he felt things burrowing in the house walls, through his skin. He looked over what he had done, over years. A churchbell sounded. A wyrman shouted from the sky. In Dog Fenn his friends kept fighting.

He heard Old Shoulder come and go below. Ori did not take his head from the wall. He heard trunk-legs, the surprisingly gentle touchdown of the cactacae’s elephantine pads. Some time later reality pricked; there was a rending. He did not look round. "Evening boss," he said. Toro had come.

Between two and three o’clock in the morning, with the sky squid-ink dark, clouds occluding the stars and half-moon, they began.

Toro tremored and said, "The house-hex flickered."