The audiences liked that much more. Now Jack Half-a-Prayer was back as he had been in graffiti for decades-champion. The story became a grand and vaguely instructional tragedy of hopes noble-but-doomed, and though Jack and his nameless companion were now the heroes, the city’s censors allowed it, to the surprise of many. In some productions the newcomer took Jack’s life then ended his own, in others was shot dead as he fired. The death scenes of both men had become more and more protracted. The truth, as Ori understood it-that though Jack had been left dead and lolling in his harness the pock-faced man had disappeared, his fate uncertain-was not mentioned.

Up the little stairs ran the scarred-man puppet, his weapons outstretched, scooping up the overseer’s dropped whip (a complicated arrangement of pins and threads facilitating the movement), as tradition said he had done. But what was this? "What is this?" the narrator shouted. Ori smiled-he had seen the script. He was clenching his fists.

"Why pick up the whip?" the narrator said. Having been caught in the rude charm of the Nuevist production, the Quillers were definitely standing now, shouting again shame, shame. "Iber gotter gun," said the scarred-man puppet directly to the audience over their rising cries. "Iber gotter knifey. Whybe gonner pick anubber?"

"I’ve an idea, pock-boy," said the narrator.

"Ibey idear already too, see?" the puppet said back. "One an dese, " holding out the gun and the whip, "tain’t fer me, see?" An elegant little mechanism spun the pistol in his wooden hand so that suddenly he held it out butt-first, a gift for his tethered friend, and he took his knife to Jack Half-a-Prayer’s bonds.

A heavy glass trailed beer as it arced over the crowd to burst wetly. Treason! came the calls, but there were others now, people standing and shouting yes, yes, tell it like it is! Dogged, only dancing over the skittering glass, the Flexible Puppet Theatre continued with their new version of the classic, where the two little figures were not doomed or cursed with visions too pure to sustain or beaten by a world that did not deserve them, but were still fighting, still trying to win.

They were inaudible over the shouting. Food pelted the stage. A disturbance, and the master of ceremonies came on, his suit rumpled. He was hurried, almost pushed on by a thin young man-a clerk from the Office of Censorship who listened backstage through all registered performances. His job had abruptly stopped being routine.

"Enough, you have to stop," shouted the MC and tried to pull the puppets away. "I’ve been informed, this performance is over. " He was shocked out of his pompous patter. Thrown scraps hit him, so he cowered even more than he already was. The supporters of the Flexibles were few but loud, and they were demanding the show continue, but seeing Fallybeggar’s man lose control the young censor himself stepped up and spoke to the audience.

"This performance is cancelled. This troupe is guilty of Rudeness to New Crobuzon in the Second Degree, and is hereby disbanded pending an enquiry." Fuck you, shame, get off, show must go on. What rudeness? What rudeness? The young censor was quite unintimidated, and was damned if he’d put this dissidence into words. "The militia have been called, and on their arrival, all still here will be deemed complicit with the performance. Please leave the premises immediately." The mood was too mean for dispersal.