“Alas,” heard Isaac and Derkhan as they left the tent, “the weather in your city is too inclement for my kind. I have caught chill and temporarily cannot fly. But tarry and I will tell you of the views from the cloudless Cymek skies . . .”

The cloth closed behind them. The speech was obscured.

Isaac watched as Derkhan scribbled in her notepad.

“What are you going to turn in?” he asked.

“ ‘Remade Forced by Magister’s Torture into Living as Zoo Exhibit.’ I won’t say which one,” she answered without looking up from her writing. Isaac nodded.

“Come on,” he murmured. “I’ll get that candyfloss.”

“I’m fucking depressed now,” said Isaac heavily. He bit at the sickly-sweet bundle he carried. Wisps of sugar fibres stuck to his stubble.

“Yes, but are you depressed because of what’d been done to that man, or because you didn’t get to meet a garuda?” asked Derkhan.

They had left the freakshow. They munched earnestly as they walked past the garish body of the fair. Isaac pondered. He was a little taken aback.

“Well, I suppose . . . probably because I didn’t meet a garuda . . . But,” he added defensively, “I wouldn’t be half so depressed if it’d just been a scam, someone in a costume, something like that. It’s the . . . fucking indignity of it that really sticks in the craw . . .”

Derkhan nodded thoughtfully.

“We could look around, you know,” she said. “There’s bound to be a garuda or two here somewhere. Some of the city-bred must be here.” She looked up, uselessly. With all the coloured lights, she could hardly even see the stars.

“Not now,” said Isaac. “I’m not in the mood. I’ve lost my momentum.” There was a long, companionable silence before he spoke again.

“Will you really write something about this place in Runagate Rampant?”

Derkhan shrugged, looked around briefly to make sure no one was listening.

“It’s a difficult job, dealing with the Remade,” she said. “There’s so much contempt, prejudice against them. Divide, rule. Trying to link up, so people don’t . . . judge them as monsters . . . it’s really hard. And it’s not like people don’t know they’ve got fucking horrendous lives, for the most part . . . it’s that there’s a lot of people who kind of vaguely think they deserve it, even if they pity them, or think it’s Gods-given, or rubbish like that. Oh, Godspit,” she said suddenly, and shook her head.

“What?”