Bellis described to him a dark, mountainous island she had seen in the north, in the small hours of the previous night.

"That was North Morin," he said. "Cancir’s probably off to the northwest right now. We’ll be docking at Dancing Bird Island after dark."

The ship’s position and progress were matters of constant conversation among the other passengers, and Tearfly looked at Bellis curiously, bewildered by her ignorance. She did not care. What was important to her was where she was fleeing from, not where she was, or where she was going.

Dancing Bird Island appeared just as the sun went down. Its volcanic rock was brick-red, and hunched into little peaks like shoulder bones. Qé Banssa clambered up the slopes of the bay. It was poor, an ugly little fishing port. The thought of setting foot in another resentful town imprisoned by maritime economics depressed Bellis.

The sailors without shore leave were sullen as their comrades and passengers disappeared down the gangplank. There were no other New Crobuzon ships at dock: nowhere for Bellis to deliver her letter. She wondered why they were stopping at this negligible port.

Apart from an arduous research trip to the Wormseye Scrub years previously, this was the furthest Bellis had ever been from New Crobuzon. She watched the small crowd at the dockside. They looked old and eager. Over the wind she heard a smattering of dialects. Most of the shouts were in Salt, the sailors’ argot, a found language riveted together from the thousand vernaculars of the Basilisk Channel, Ragamoll, and Perrickish, the tongues of the Pirate and Jheshull Islands.

Bellis saw Captain Myzovic climb the steep streets toward New Crobuzon’s crenellated embassy.

"Why are you staying on board?" said Johannes.

"I don’t feel any great need for greasy food or trinkets," she said. "These islands depress me."

Johannes smiled slowly, as if her attitude delighted him. He shrugged and looked up at the sky. "It’s going to rain," he said, as if she had returned his question, "and I have work to do aboard."

"Why are we stopping here anyway?" said Bellis.

"I suspect it’s government business," said Johannes carefully. "This is the last serious outpost. Beyond this the New Crobuzon sphere of influence becomes far more… attenuated. There are probably all manner of things to be attended to, out here.

"Luckily," he said after a silence, "it’s none of our business."

They watched the still-darkening ocean.

"Have you seen any of the prisoners?" Johannes asked suddenly.

Bellis looked at him in surprise. "No. Have you?" She felt defensive. The fact of the ship’s sentient cargo discomfited her.

When it had come, Bellis’ realization that she had to leave New Crobuzon had been urgent and frightening. She had made her plans in low panic. She needed to get as far away as she could, and quickly. Cobsea and Myrshock seemed too close, and she had thought feverishly of Shankell and Yoraketche, and Neovadan and Tesh. But they were all too far or too dangerous, or too alien, or too hard to reach or too frightening. There was nothing in any of them that could become her home. And Bellis had realized aghast that it was too hard for her to let go, that she was clinging to New Crobuzon, to what defined her.