“Ha . . .” he said faintly, eventually. “You’d have thought that was easier, wouldn’t you? It is, in theory, but it’s even harder in practice. I’ve done some of this with birds and . . . well, with winged things. First off, Isaac, in theory it’s perfectly possible. In theory, there is almost nothing which can’t be done with Remaking. It’s all just a question of wiring things up right, a bit of flesh-moulding. But flight’s horribly hard because you’re dealing with all sorts of variables that have to be exactly right. See, Isaac, you can Remake a dog, sew a leg back on, or mould it on with a clayflesh hex, and the animal’ll limp along happily. Won’t be pretty, but it’ll walk. Can’t do that with wings. Wings have to be perfect or they won’t do the trick. It’s harder to teach muscles that think they know how to fly to do the same trick differently than it is to teach muscles that haven’t any idea in the first place. Your bird or what have you, its shoulders get all confused by this wing which is just a tad the wrong shape, or the wrong size, or based on different aerodynamics, and it ends up being totally stymied, even assuming you’ve reconnected everything up right.

“So the answer, I suppose I’m saying, Isaac, is that yes it can be done. This wyrman, or whatever, can be Remade to fly again. But it isn’t likely. It’s too damn hard. There’s no bio-thaumaturge, no Remaker, who could promise a result. Either you’re going to have to find Calligine, get him to do it,” hissed Vermishank in conclusion, “or I wouldn’t risk it.”

Isaac finished scribbling notes and flipped his notebook closed.

“Thanks, Vermishank. I was sort of . . . hoping you’d say that. That’s your professional opinion, eh? Well, I’ll just have to pursue my other line of enquiry, of which you wouldn’t approve at all . . .” His eyes bulged like a naughty boy’s.

Vermishank nodded very slightly and a sickly little smile grew and died on his mouth like a fungus.

“Ha,” he said faintly.

“Right, well, thanks for your time . . . Appreciate it . . .” Isaac flustered as he stood to go. “Sorry to be so fleeting . . .”

“Not at all. Any other opinions needed?”

“Well . . .” Isaac paused with his arm half into his jacket. “Well. Have you heard of something called dreamshit?”

Vermishank raised an eyebrow. He leaned back in his chair and chewed his thumb, looking at Isaac with half-closed eyes.

“This is a university, Isaac. Do you think a new and exciting illicit substance would sweep the city and none of our students would be tempted? Of course I’ve heard of it. We had our first expulsion for selling the drug less than half a year ago. Very bright young psychonomer, of predictably avant-garde theoretical persuasion.