Through the rained-on downs came a spread of runaways from the city. They came and lived in the small towns by which the Iron Council was passing; they repopulated the deserted cow-towns they found, the residues of the old railway rush. The Council might come out of the low hills in an industrious multitude and lay down tracks along the preflattened paths, along the reclaimed main roads. New inhabitants would emerge from what had been the saloon, a church, a bawdyhouse, and stare as over hours (their progress faster daily) the crews put down the sleepers and rails on old horsetracks and passed where stagecoaches and drifters had been.

"Did you hear?" They heard the same stories scores of times. There must have been escapees from the Parliamentarian quarters too, but no one said so: everyone was a Collectivist, on the run from the militia. Sure you’re not some two-bit spiv? Cutter thought cynically. Sure you’re really an organiser like you claim?

"Did you hear?" That the war’s over, that we beat the Tesh, and that when we beat the Tesh the Mayor took control again, and everything was sorted, and the Collective went under?

Yes, we heard. Though it was disputed.

They were entertained in these revenant towns, with sex and New Crobuzon cooking. "What have you come for? Did you not hear? Did you hear? There ain’t no Collective no more. Only dregs, some terrorists in Dog Fenn, a few streets here or there."

"That ain’t what I heard, I heard it was there and still fighting."

"You’re coming to help, to fight for the Collective? I wouldn’t go back. It’s a damn war there."

"I’d go back. Can I come? Can I come with you?"

Some of those who had left to be wanderers in the waste-some of the young-joined the perpetual train, to return to New Crobuzon, only weeks after their escape. "Tell us about the Iron Council!" they insisted, and their new compatriots told all their stories.

There were rumours of new kithless, unique powers. "Did you hear," Cutter heard, "about the golem-man Low?"

"What?" he said, crossing to where the refugee spoke.

"Golem-man Low, he’s got an army of made men. He’s making them of clay in his cellar, ready to take over the city. He’s been seen, outside New Crobuzon, in the rail yards, on the sidings, by the tracks. He’s got plans."

They came closer, and the escaped they met were more and more recent out of the city. "It’s done," one said. "There ain’t no Collective anymore. Wish to gods there was."

That night Cutter looked for Drogon and realised that the whispersmith had gone. He walked the length of the train, sent messages and queries, but there was nothing.