Running along the cobbled streets, I turn into narrow alleyways, heading away from the river and towards the more industrial district. Even from a distance I can make out the plume of dirty yellow smoke that rises constantly from the factory where Jorzy works. As I approach the industrial area, I pass more and more workshops where men are hammering and welding and drilling. These grimy workshops are great, and if I have time I love to linger outside them, fascinated by the tools and machinery, hoping that one of the busy men will show me how the machines work or give me a small job to do. Papa had a job in such a workshop in this district, repairing automobiles for the Travesters. He promised to take me on as his apprentice when I was big enough. Slowing my pace, I can’t help thinking that I’ve been “big enough” now for several years.

There is no time to hang about.

Past the soot-blackened church with its boarded-up windows, past the brewery – orange brick walls rising up, and the sickening smell of hops in the air. A steamtram hisses past, filled with Cerel workers, their blank stares turned inwards. They are the lucky ones, the ones who have clean, easy jobs in offices. Marina wanted a job like that, but to get an office job you have to have a letter of faith from a Travester, and nobody would write that kind of letter for her.

Finally I reach the gates of the factory.

I slow to a walk, panting. Best not to be seen running out here; if you’re a Cerel running, there’s always the risk of being shot – shoot before questions, guilty before proven innocent. So I cautiously approach the metal gates decorated with two rearing bears and the scrollwork overhead that I always find confusing: Work, Life, Liberty. How the hell can liberty be used in the same breath as work? And especially when working for the Travesters, which is mostly the only kind of work left these days in Ursa. Talking of which, a Travester guard steps forwards and I wordlessly hold up the goggles. The man, understanding, nods and stands back to let me pass.

Inside the gates, I pick up speed again, crossing the wide yard at a jog.

The factory rises up before me – cloud-black, filthy, stained by smoke and whatever else – along with the yawning entranceway. I feel small as an insect. I don’t understand how Jorzy can work in this place every day.

I go through the black iron gates that stand open all day, and onto the factory floor itself. Despite the urgency of my mission, I can’t help staring, mouth going slack. Enormous machinery rises to the glass skylights in the vaulted ceiling. Everything is black with grime. A gout of steam belches out of pipes that point at the ceiling like guns.