"What are you doing here?" said Bellis eventually, quietly. "How long have you believed me?" She studied him, her confusion exhausting her. Since I stepped onto this fucking city, she thought with sudden clarity, I’ve been on the edge of my nerves, every moment. I’m tired.

"I always believed you," he said, his voice expressionless. "I never thought you summoned New Crobuzon deliberately, though I know-I’ve always known-you have no love for this place. When you came to me before, I was expecting to hear something else.

"Listening to Fennec, hearing him talk, trying to stay silent, trying to implicate you, admitting the truth… He’s saying different things with every minute. But the truth is obvious: you were stupid," Doul said without emotion. "You believed him. Thought you were… what? What did he tell you again? Saving your city. You weren’t out to destroy us; you were trying to save your homeland so that one day you could return to it, still whole and saved. You weren’t trying to destroy us; you were just stupid."

Bellis’ face was set. She was burning.

Doul watched her. "You were caught up in it, weren’t you?" he said. "In the idea of… connecting with your home. The fact of doing something. That was enough, wasn’t it? You… saving your city."

Doul spoke in a soft monotone, and Bellis looked down at her hands.

"I bet," he continued, "that if you ever did think about what you’d been told… I bet you felt uneasy."

He said it almost kindly. The maggot of doubt was alive again, grubbing through Bellis’ head.

"There was nothing of him," said Doul, "in the Wordhoard.

"His berth down in the hold, it was clean and dry. His walls were covered with notes, pinned everywhere. Diagrams telling him who’s whose man or woman, and who runs what, and who owes whom. It was damned impressive. He’d learnt everything he needed. He had… spliced himself into the city’s politics. Always keeping himself hidden. Different rendezvous for different informants, and different names-Simon Fench and Silas Fennec were only two of many.

"But nothing of him. He’s like an empty doll. Those notes everywhere, like posters, and a little hand printing press, and ink and grease. His clothes in a trunk, his notebook in his bag-that’s all there was of him. It was pathetic." Doul met Bellis’ eyes. "You could examine that room for hours, and you’d still have no idea what Silas Fennec was like.

"He’s nothing but an empty skin stuffed with schemes."

But he’s been quieted now, thought Bellis, and we continue northward. The Lovers win. Their troubles are over, is that right, Uther? She stared at him and tried to reestablish between them something she had lost.

"What were you writing?" said Doul, shocking her, "when I came in?" He indicated her pocket, where she had stuffed her letter.