There was no one on the streets, or freakishly few, and those who there were went heads down. Past tarred houses by the Ribs, he kept the bricks of the raised railway to his left, went south, stumbling through Sunter, ready to turn on Rust Bridge to Murkside and from there to Syriac, but he saw the lights of fires and heard drumming, bugles. Nothing should be so loud at these predawn hours.

They grew louder; he felt himself going into shock, shaking hard, the weight of the helmet dragging him. South down High Chypre Hill, a street of florists and trinketeers by whose roofs the trains should come. There was a fork in the lines, where the tributary of the Dexter Line went down to Kelltree and veered east over the river to Dog Fenn. There, something was blocking his way.

Blinking till he teared in exhaustion, Ori saw in the glimmer of fires a rough barrier. He could not make sense of it. Its silhouette in that warm light was like something wild, something geographical in the city. People were moving at its top.

"Stop," someone shouted. Ori kept walking, did not understand that the word could be meant for him.

It was a barricade of paving slabs and rubble, carts, chimneys, old doors, the overturned remnants of stalls. Tons of urban detritus had gone to make a little mountain ridge, a ten-foot-high debris cordon planted with flags. The marbled arm of a statue jutted from its flank.

" Stop, fucker." A shot, a shard of concrete sounded with the ricochet. "Where you going, friend?"

Ori put his hands up high. He approached, waving.

"What’s happened? What’s going on?" he shouted, and there were jeers from the blockage. What is he some fucker from Mafaton back from holiday? "No papers, no kiosks, no criers where you been then, mate?" the sentry shouted. He was a man-shape in black, backlit. "Piss off home."

"This is my home. Syriac. What’s happened? Godsdammit, how long was I between… This is about her, ain’t it? You’ve heard? The Mayor?" And all his excitement was back again. So much that he could hardly speak. I might’ve been days, he thought. What’s happened while I’ve been gone? Did we do it? It happened. It woke them. The inspiration. Gods. "Dammit, chaverim, let me in! Tell me what’s gone on." He forgot cold and tiredness and stood up straight in the licking yellow light of the fires. "It’s all happened… How long ago did she die?"

"Who?"

"The Mayor. " Ori creased his brow. There were more calls, more shouting. She dead? The bitch is gone? Who’s this fool, he’s a madman, I wouldn’t set your store…

"I don’t know what you’re talking about, mate. I think you should go now." He heard the sound of gun-preparation.

"But what…"