I can’t help but smile, a little. Folk are so afraid of yellowrot, they never spare a thought for what might be beneath the bandages.

‘You too, huh?’ From the edge of the crowd, an elderly man nods at me. His flesh is bubbled with swellings, some of them crusted, the bandages stained a tell-tale bright yellow.

I nod back, and in silence we watch the soldiers about the Iron Slug.

‘Look at that goddam thing,’ the man mutters.

‘Know who it’s for?’ I ask.

‘Talk round camp is one of them war brats.’ He lips at the bandage above his mouth. ‘Gone mad, they say. That’s why they sent the Slug.’

The Accord sent this wagon for the General, I’m certain, and this time, they are taking no chances. Is she aboard, even now? The dim, flickering departure board shows a noon train, but there’s no sign of one. Either way, it’s probable that we do not have long…

I hurry to the saloon. It’s busy, humid with breath and steam from the kitchens, and reeks of disinfectant vapour and sweet, stale liquor. At a table by the window, one of the grubhawkers is displaying a tray of glitter worms to two women, poking at them to make them extrude the glimmering, seductive ooze that some people like to paint their faces with. Shards of plastic crunch under my boots as I make my way towards the bar.

A group of Peacekeepers have laid claim to most of the space, their weathered faces flushed with drink, their knuckles scarred and scabbed. Were they some of the crew who killed Pec Esterházy? Clenching my hand in the pocket of my jacket, I jerk my chin to the bartend.

‘Mezcal,’ I mutter quietly, but still, the Peacekeepers turn to look at me, their lips curling in distaste.

The bartend too looks uncertain, licking her lips and glancing at the crowd. Finally, she thrusts a tumbler in my direction, careful to avoid my bandaged hand. ‘Drink it outside,’ she barks. ‘And throw the cup away.’

At that moment, the door crashes open. Two figures stand silhouetted against the blinding dust. Falco and Pegeen. The chatter in the place momentarily dips.

‘Is that?’ I hear one of the Peacekeepers murmur.

‘Malady Goddam Falco,’ the other confirms. ‘What the hell’s she doing out here?’

Ostentatiously, she elbows past me.

‘Got any peaches?’ she asks the bartend.

The woman gives a nervous smile. ‘Lemme go check.’

Glancing into the scratched aluminium mirror behind the bar, I catch Peg’s gaze and jerk my head, before making my way outside.

There, I almost run into a shabby figure, with a pipe in their mouth.

‘Silas!’

For a second, he stares in confusion, before his eyes widen. ‘Ten!’ He grabs me in a hug. ‘My god, we had almost given up.’