The next morning they sat around the table, drinking coffee and tea, eating stolidly, wondering what to do. When he checked the post, Isaac was quick to discard the rubbish and return with Lemuel’s note: unstamped, hand-delivered by some minion.

“What does he say?” asked David quickly.

Isaac held the paper so that David and Lin could read over his shoulder. Yagharek hung back.

Have tracked down source of Peculiar Caterpillar in my records. One Josef Cuaduador. Acquisitions clerk for Parliament. Not wanting to waste time, and remembering promise of Fat Fee, have already been to speak to Mr. Cuaduador along with my Large Associate Mr. X. Exerted some little pressure for cooperation. At first Mr. C. thought I was militia. Reassured him otherwise, then ensured his loquacity with X’s friend Flintlock. Seems our Mr. C. liberated caterpillar from official shipment or somesuch. Been regretting it ever since. (I did not even pay him much for it.) No knowledge of purpose or source of grub. No knowledge of fate of others from original group—took only one. One lead only: (Useless? Useful?) Recipient of packet named Dr. Barbell? Barrier? Berber? Barlime? etc. in R&D.

Am keeping track of services rendered, Isaac. Itemized bill to follow.

Lemuel Pigeon.

“Fantastic!” Isaac exploded, on finishing the letter. “A fucking lead . . .”

David looked utterly aghast.

“Parliament?” he said, a strangled gasp. “We’re fucking about with Parliament? Oh dear Jabber, do you have any idea of the scale of shit we’re messed up in? What the fuck d’you mean ‘Fantastic!’ you fucking cretin, Isaac? Oh, marvellous! We just have to ask Parliament for a list of all those in the top secret Research and Development department whose names begin with B, then find them one by one and ask if they know anything about flying things that scare their victims comatose, specifically how to catch them. We’re home free.”

No one spoke. A pall settled slowly on the room.

At its south-westerly corner, Brock Marsh met Petty Coil, a dense knot of chancers, crime and architecture of decayed splendour wedged into a kink in the river.

A little over a hundred years previously, Petty Coil had been an urban hub for the major families. The Mackie-Drendas and the Turgisadys; Dhrachshachet, the vodyanoi financier and founder of the Drach Bank; Sirrah Jeremile Carr, the merchant-farmer: all had their great houses in Petty Coil’s wide streets.