"But it don’t make any sense, Doul, sir," one woman on the Grand Easterly argued. "It’s almost four thousand miles from New Crobuzon. Why’d they come so far? And how come the nauscopists didn’t see anything? They would’ve noticed yesterday. And anyway, how’re the Crobuzoners supposed to have found us-?"

Doul interrupted her, shouting loud enough to shock everyone in earshot into silence.

" We do not ask how," he bellowed. " We do not ask why. Time enough after the killing. For now we have only time to fight, like fucking dogs, like sharks in frenzy. We fight or the city dies."

Doul stilled all argument. People set their faces and prepared for war. And in every head the question How have they done this? was remembered, and put aside for later.

The city’s five warships steered westward a handful of miles, presenting themselves like a curving wall between Armada and the approaching force.

Around and between them steamed Armada’s smaller ironclads, squat vessels swathed in grey gunmetal, windowless, bristling with stubby cannons. They were joined by those of the city’s pirate vessels that had been in dock. Their crews set their teeth and tried not to contemplate their suicidal bravery-they were armed and armored to defeat merchant vessels, not naval gunners. Few of them, they realized, would come home.

There was no division between the ridings. Crews loyal to every ruler tacked and stoked and armed themselves, side by side.

The lookouts in the Arrogance sent down more messages as they saw the Crobuzoner ships more clearly. Uther Doul read them out to the Lovers.

"They must be here for their fucking rig," he said quietly, so that only the two of them could hear. "Whatever it’s about, they outgun us. We’ve got more vessels, but half of ours are just wooden freebooters. They’ve seven warships, and many more scouts than us. They must have sent nearly half their fleet."

Tanner Sack and the menfish of Bask; Bastard John; cray; the shadowy submersibles. Armada’s underwater troops waited, suspended, the great chains moving slowly away from them. Armada was moving on, the avanc now slowed to a crawl so that the troops could regain the city, after the fight.

Nearby, a small group of cray huddled in tight communion on one of their submerged rafts. Witch-conveners, summoning their beasts.

When Tanner had faced the dinichthys, he had hurled himself unthinkingly into the water. He had not had time then to contemplate his fear. But it was almost another hour before the warships from his old home would arrive to destroy his new one. The purpose and intelligence that directed their propellers was much more terrifying than the imbecilic malice in the bonefish’s eyes.