“Now, obviously, that’s a joke. You can bet your arse the Glasshouse wouldn’t mean shit without New Crobuzon. Masses of the cactacae troop out every day, go to work, surly buggers that they are, then take the shekels back to Riverskin. New Crobuzon owns the Glasshouse. And I don’t think for one minute the militia can’t go in any godsdamn time they choose. But Parliament and the city governors go through with this charade. You don’t just walk into the Glasshouse, Yag, and if you do get in . . . damned if I’d know what to expect in there.

“I mean, you do hear rumours. Some people have been inside, of course. And there are stories of what the militia have seen through the dome from above in their airships. But most of us—me included—have no real idea what goes on in there, or how to get in.”

“But we could get in,” said Derkhan. “Maybe Pigeon’ll crawl back, sniffing for your gold. Eh? And if he does, I bet he could get us in. You can’t tell me there’s no crime in the Glasshouse. I just don’t believe it.” She looked fierce. Her eyes were glinting with purpose. “Council,” she said, and turned towards the naked man. “Do you have any . . . of you . . . in the Glasshouse?”

The avatar shook his head.

“The cactus people do not use many constructs. None of me have been inside. That is why I cannot be exact about where the slake-moths are. Except that they sleep within that dome.”

As the avatar spoke, Isaac was hit by a sudden revelation.

He was mulling over the problem, thinking for ways into the Glasshouse, when he realized with astonishment that he could simply walk away from this. Lemuel’s exasperated advice came back to him: leave it to the professionals.

He had waved the suggestion off in irritation, but now he realized that he could choose to do exactly that. There were a thousand ways to tip off the militia without delivering himself to them: the state made informing easy. He knew now where the slake-moths were: he could tell the government, with all its might, its hunters and scientists, its massive resources. He could let them know where the slake-moths nested, and he could run. And the militia could hunt them for him, and they could recapture the monstrous things. The moth which had hunted him was gone: he had no special reason to be afraid.

The possibility struck him hard.

But it was never, even for a fraction of a second, a temptation.