“He’s not too happy about this, is he?” she said. Rudgutter shrugged.

“He’s always known that his role might involve danger. The slake-moths are as much of a threat to his people as to ours.”

Stem-Fulcher nodded.

“How long ago was he taken? The original Rescue, I mean, the human one.”

Rudgutter calculated for a moment.

“Eleven years. He was planning to supersede me. Have you set the squad in motion?” he demanded. Stem-Fulcher sat back and drew lengthily on her clay pipe. Aromatic smoke danced.

“We’re going through two days’ intensive training today and tomorrow . . . you know, aiming backwards with the mirror-guards, that sort of thing. Motley is apparently doing the same. The rumours are that Motley’s troop includes several Remade specifically designed for slake-moth husbandry and capture . . . built-in mirrors, back-pointing arms and the like. We have only one such officer.” She shook her head jealously. “We’re also having several of the scientists who worked on the project work on detecting the moths. They’re at pains to impress on us that this is unreliable, but if they come through they may give us some kind of edge.”

Rudgutter nodded. “Add to that,” he said, “our Weaver, still out there somewhere, still hunting the moths busy tearing up his precious worldweave . . . We’ve got a reasonable collection of troops.”

“But they’re not co-ordinated,” said Stem-Fulcher. “That’s what worries me. And morale in the city is slipping. Obviously very few people know the truth, but everyone knows they can’t sleep at night, for fear of their dreams. We’re plotting a map of the nightmare hotspots, see if we can’t see some pattern, track the moths in some way. There’s been a spate of violent crime over the last week. Nothing big and planned: the sudden attacks, the spur-of-the-moment murders, the brawls. Tempers,” she said slowly, “are fraying. People are paranoid and afraid.”

After the silence had settled for a moment, she spoke again.

“This afternoon you should receive the fruits of some scientific labours,” she said. “I’ve asked our research team to make some helmet that’ll stop the moth-shit seeping into your skull when you sleep. You’ll look absurd in bed, but at least you’ll rest.” She stopped. Rudgutter was blinking rapidly. “How are your eyes?” she asked.

Rudgutter shook his head.

“Going,” he said sadly. “We just can’t solve the problem of rejection. It’s about time for a fresh set.”

Bleary-eyed citizens made their way to work. They were surly and unco-operative.

At the Kelltree docks, the broken strike was not mentioned. The bruises on the vodyanoi stevedores were fading. They heaved spilt cargos from the dirty water as always. They directed ships into tight spaces on the banks. They muttered in secret about the disappearance of the stewards, the strike-leaders.

Their human workmates stared at the defeated xenians with a mixture of emotions.