They stood and stared at Isaac. He was sitting on the bed, holding a pair of insectile wings and a piece of paper. He looked up at them and his murmuring subsided. He was crying without a sound. He opened his mouth and Derkhan moved over to him, grasped his hands. He sobbed and hid his eyes, his face twisted with rage. Without a sound she took the letter and read it.

Her mouth quivered in horror. She emitted a mute little cry for her friend. She passed the letter to Yagharek, shaking, controlling herself.

The garuda took it and perused it carefully. His reaction was invisible. He turned to Lemuel, who was examining Lucky Gazid’s corpse.

“This one’s been dead a while,” he said, and accepted the letter.

His eyes widened as he read.

“Motley?” he breathed. “Lin’s been dealing with Motley?”

“Who is he?” shouted Isaac. “Where is the fucking piece of scum . . . ?”

Lemuel looked up at Isaac, his face open and aghast. Pity glimmered in his eyes as he saw Isaac’s tear-stained, snotty rage.

“Oh Jabber . . . Mr. Motley is the kingpin, Isaac,” he said simply. “He is the man. He runs the eastern city. He runs it. He’s the outlaw boss.”

“I’ll fucking kill the fucker, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him . . .” Isaac raged.

Lemuel watched him uneasily. You won’t, ’Zaac, he thought. You really won’t.

“Lin . . . wouldn’t tell me who she’d been working for,” said Isaac, his voice calming slowly.

“I’m not surprised,” said Lemuel. “Most people haven’t heard of him. Rumours, maybe . . . Nothing more.”

Isaac stood suddenly. He dragged his sleeve across his face, sniffed hard and cleared his nose.

“Right, we have to get her,” he said. “We have to find her. Let’s think. Think. This . . . Motley thinks I’ve been ripping him off, which I haven’t. Now, how can I get him to back down . . . ?”

“ ’Zaac, ’Zaac . . .” Lemuel was frozen. He swallowed and looked away, then walked slowly towards Isaac, holding his hands up wide, begging him to calm down. Derkhan looked at him, and there it was again, that pity: hard and brusque, but undoubtedly there. Lemuel was shaking his head slowly. His eyes were hard, but his mouth worked silently as he groped for words.

“ ’Zaac, I’ve dealt with Motley. I’ve never met the guy, but I know him. I know his work. I know how to deal with him, I know what to expect. I’ve seen this before, this exact kind of scenario . . . Isaac . . .” He swallowed and continued. “Lin’s dead.”

“No, she is not,” shouted Isaac, clenching his hands and flailing them around his head.

But Lemuel caught hold of his wrists, not hard or pugnaciously, but intensely, making him listen and understand. Isaac was still for a moment, his face wary and wrathful.