In the catacombs under the Spike, the limp pair of foundlings were prodded and slapped, shouted at and cajoled. By early morning they had been examined by a militia scientist, who scribbled a preliminary report.

Heads were scratched in perplexity.

The scientist’s report, along with condensed information on all other unusual or serious crimes, was sent up the length of the Spike, stopping at the highest floor but one. The reports were couriered briskly the length of a twisting, windowless corridor, towards the offices of the home secretary. They arrived on time, by half past nine.

At twelve minutes past ten, a speaking tube began to bang peremptorily in the cavernous pod-station that took up the whole floor at the very top of the Spike. The young sergeant on duty was on the other side of the room, fixing a cracked light on the front of a pod that hung, like tens of others, from an intricate cat’s cradle of skyrails which looped and criss-crossed each other below the high ceiling. The tangled rails allowed the pods to be moved around each other, positioned on one or other of the seven radial skyrails that exploded out through the enormous open holes spaced evenly around the outside wall. The tracks took off above the colossal face of New Crobuzon.

From where he stood, the sergeant could see the skyrail enter the militia tower in Sheck a mile to the south-west, and emerge beyond it. He saw a pod leave the tower, way over the shambolic housing, virtually at his own eye-level, and shoot off away from him towards the Tar, which trickled sinuous and untrustworthy to the south.

He looked up as the banging continued, and, realizing which tube demanded attention, he swore and rushed across the room. His furs flapped. Even in summer, it was cold so high above the city, in an open room that functioned as a giant wind tunnel. He pulled the plug from the speaking tube and barked into the brass.

“Yes, Home Secretary?”

The voice that emerged was small and distorted by its journey through the twisting metal.

“Get my pod ready immediately. I’m going to Strack Island.”

The doors to the Lemquist Room, the mayor’s office in Parliament, were huge and bound in bands of ancient iron. There were two militia stationed outside the Lemquist Room at all times, but one of the usual perks of a posting in the corridors of power was denied them: no gossip, no secrets, no sounds of any kind filtered to their ears through the enormous doors.

Behind the metal-girdled entrance, the room itself was immensely tall, panelled in darkwood of such exquisite quality it was almost black. Portraits of previous mayors circled the room, from the ceiling thirty feet above, spiralling slowly down to within six feet of the floor. There was an enormous window that looked out directly at Perdido Street Station and the Spike, and a variety of speaking tubes, calculating engines and telescopic periscopes stashed in niches around the room, in obscure and oddly threatening poses.

Bentham Rudgutter sat behind his desk with an air of utter command. None who had seen him in this room had been able to deny the extraordinary surety of absolute power he exuded. He was the centre of gravity here. He knew it at a deep level, and so did his guests. His great height and muscular corpulence doubtless added to the sense, but there was far more to his presence.

Opposite him sat Montjohn Rescue, his vizier, wrapped as always in a thick scarf and leaning over to point out something on a paper the two men were studying.

“Two days,” said Rescue in a strange, unmodulated voice, quite different from the one he used for oratory.

“And what?” said Rudgutter, stroking his immaculate goatee.

“The strike goes up. Currently, you know, it’s delaying loading and unloading by between fifty and seventy per cent. But we’ve got intelligence that in two days the vodyanoi strikers plan to paralyse the river. They’re going to work overnight, starting at the bottom, working their way up. A little to the east of Barley Bridge. Massive exercise in watercraeft. They’re going to dig a trench of air across the water, the whole depth of the river. They’ll have to shore it up continuously, recraefting the walls constantly so they don’t collapse, but they’ve got enough members to do that in shifts. There’s no ship that can jump that gap, Mayor. They’ll totally cut off New Crobuzon from river trade, in both directions.”

Rudgutter mused and pursed his lips.

“We can’t allow that,” he said reasonably. “What about the human dockers?”

“My second point, Mayor,” continued Rescue. “Worrying. The initial hostility seems to be waning. There’s a growing minority who seem to be ready to throw in their lot with the vodyanoi.”

“Oh, no no no no,” said Rudgutter, shaking his head like a teacher correcting a normally reliable student.

“Quite. Obviously our agents are stronger in the human camp than the xenian, and the mainstream are still antagonistic or undecided about the strike, but there seems to be a caucus, a conspiracy, if you will…secret meetings with strikers and the like.”

Rudgutter spread his enormous fingers and looked closely at the grain of the desk between them.

“Any of your people there?” he asked quietly. Rescue fingered his scarf.

“One with the humans,” he answered. “It is difficult to remain hidden on the vodyanoi, who usually wear no clothes in the water.” Rudgutter nodded.

The two men were silent, pondering.

“We’ve tried working from the inside,” said Rudgutter eventually. “This is far the most serious strike to threaten the city for…over a century. Much as I’m loath to, it seems we may have to make an example…” Rescue nodded solemnly.

One of the speaking tubes on the mayor’s desk thumped. He raised his eyebrows as he unplugged it.

“Davinia?” he answered. His voice was a masterpiece of insinuation. In one word he told his secretary that he was surprised to have her interrupt him against his instructions, but that his trust in her was great, and he was quite sure she had an excellent reason for disobeying, which she had better tell him immediately.

The hollow, echoing voice from the tube barked out tiny little sounds.

“Well!” exclaimed the mayor mildly. “Of course, of course.” He replugged the tube and eyed Rescue. “What timing,” he said. “It’s the home secretary.”

The enormous doors opened briefly and slightly, and the home secretary entered, nodding in greeting.

“Eliza,” said Rudgutter. “Please join us.” He gesticulated at a chair by Rescue’s.

Eliza Stem-Fulcher strode over to the desk. It was impossible to tell her age. Her face was virtually unlined, its strong features suggesting that she was probably somewhere in her thirties. Her hair, though, was white, with only the faintest peppering of dark strands to suggest that it had once been another colour. She wore a dark civilian trouser suit, cleverly chosen in cut and colour to be strongly suggestive of a militia uniform. She drew gently on a long-stemmed white clay pipe, the bowl at least a foot and a half from her mouth. Her tobacco was spiced.

“Mayor. Deputy.” She sat and pulled a folder from under her arm. “Forgive me interrupting unannounced, Mayor Rudgutter, but I thought you should see this immediately. You too, Rescue. I’m glad you’re here. It looks as if we may have…something of a crisis on our hands.”

“We were saying much the same thing, Eliza,” said the mayor. “We’re talking about the dock strike?”

Stem-Fulcher glanced up at him as she drew some papers from the folder.

“No, Mr. Mayor. Something altogether different.” Her voice was resonant and hard.

She threw a crime report onto the desk. Rudgutter put it sideways between himself and Rescue, and both twisted their heads to read it together. After a minute Rudgutter looked up.