Bellis heard a rhythmic, pounding sound in the crowd.

At first it was a murmur, a repeated murmur that beat below the susurrus of the spectators like a heartbeat. But it gathered strength, and became louder and more insistent, and people began to look around and to smile, and to join their voices to it with increasing excitement.

"Yes…"said Silas, stretching out the word with a hard delight. "Finally. This is what I wanted to see."

At first Bellis heard the sound like it was drums, spoken drums. Then suddenly as an exclamation- Oh, Oh, Oh -repeated in perfect time, accompanied by banging arms and kicking feet.

It was only when the frenzy spread to her own boat that she realized it was a word.

" Doul." It came from all around her. " Doul, Doul, Doul."

A name.

"What are they saying?" she hissed to Silas.

"They’re calling for someone," he said, his eyes scanning the surrounds. "They want a display. They’re demanding a fight from Uther Doul."

He gave her a quick, cold smile.

"You’ll recognize him," he said. "You’ll know him when you see him."

And then the percussion of the name broke down into cheers and applause, an ecstatic wave of it that grew and grew as one of the little dirigibles tethered to the rigging cast off and drew slowly closer to the stage. Its crest was a steamer against a red moon, the sigil of Garwater. The gondola below it was polished wood.

"It’s the Lovers’ carriage," Silas said. "They’re giving up their lieutenant for a moment, another ‘spontaneous’ display. I knew he couldn’t resist."

Sixty feet above the arena, a rope spilled down from the airborne craft. The shrieks from the spectators were extraordinary. With great speed and skill, a man leaped from the vessel and slipped, hand over hand, to the blood-spattered fighting ground.

He stood, shoeless and bare-chested, wearing only a pair of leather britches. With his arms relaxed by his sides he rotated slowly to take in the crowd (frenzied now that he had touched down to fight). And as he turned his face swept slowly over Bellis’, and she gripped the rail in front of her, her breath catching momentarily, recognizing the crop-haired man, the man in grey, the murderer who had taken Terpsichoria.

By some goading, a clutch of men were blandished into fighting him.

Doul-the sad-faced butcher of Captain Myzovic-did not move, did not stretch or bounce or pull his muscles this way or that. He merely stood waiting.

Four opponents stood ill at ease on the edge of the arena. They were buoyed on the audience’s enthusiasm, shouts and raging washing over them as they shifted and murmured tactics to each other.

Doul’s face was set absolutely blank. When his rivals fanned out opposite him, he dropped slowly into stampfighting stance, his arms slightly raised, his knees bent, looking quite relaxed.