“Two people in some sort of coma. Odd circumstances. I presume you are showing me more than this?”

Stem-Fulcher handed him another paper. Again, he and Rescue read together. This time, the reaction was almost immediate. Rescue hissed and bit the inside of his cheek, chewing with concentration. At almost the same time, Rudgutter gave a little sigh of comprehension, a tremulous little exhalation.

The home secretary watched them impassively.

“Obviously, our mole in Motley’s offices doesn’t know what’s going on. She’s totally confused. But the snatches of conversation she’s noted down…see this? ‘The moss are out…?’ I think we can all agree that she misheard that, and I think we can all agree on what was really said.”

Rudgutter and Rescue read and reread the report wordlessly.

“I’ve brought the scientific report we commissioned at the very start of the SM project, the feasibility study.” Stem-Fulcher was speaking quickly, without emotion. She dropped the report flat on the desk. “I’ve drawn your attention to a few particularly relevant phrases.”

Rudgutter opened the bound report. Some words and sentences were circled in red. The mayor scanned them quickly extreme danger…in case of escape…no natural predators

…utterly catastrophic…

…breed…

Mayor Rudgutter reached out and unplugged his speaking tube again.

“Davinia,” he said. “Cancel all appointments and meetings for today…no, for the next two days. Apologies wherever necessary. No disturbances unless Perdido Street Station explodes, or something of that magnitude. Understood?”

He replaced the plug and glared at Stem-Fulcher and Rescue.

“What by damn, what in Jabber’s name, what the godshit was Motley playing at? I thought the man was supposed to be a professional…”

Stem-Fulcher nodded.

“This was something that came up when we were arranging the transfer deal,” she said. “We checked his record of activity-much of it against us, it has to be pointed out-and gauged him to be at least as capable as ourselves of ensuring security. He’s no fool.”

“Do we know who’s done this?” asked Rescue. Stem-Fulcher shrugged.

“Could be a rival, Francine or Judix or someone. If so, they’ve bitten off a godsdamned sight more than they can chew…”

“Right.” Rudgutter interrupted her with a peremptory tone. Stem-Fulcher and Rescue turned to him and waited. He clenched his fists together, put his elbows on the table and closed his eyes, concentrating so hard that his face seemed ready to splinter.

“Right,” he repeated, and opened his eyes. “First thing we have to do is verify that we are faced with the situation that we think we’re faced with. That might seem obvious, but we have to be a hundred per cent sure. Second thing is come out with some kind of strategy for containing the situation quickly and quietly.

“Now, for the second objective, we all know we can’t rely on human militia or Remade-or xenians come to that. Same basic psychic type. We’re all food. I’m sure we all remember our initial attack-defence tests…” Rescue and Stem-Fulcher nodded quickly. Rudgutter continued. “Right. Zombies might be a possibility, but this is not Cromlech: we don’t have the facilities to create them in the numbers or quality that we need. So. It seems to me that the first objective can’t satisfactorily be dealt with if we’re relying on our regular intelligence operations. We have to have access to different information. So for two reasons, we have to elicit assistance from agents better able to deal with the situation-different psychic models from our own are vital. Now, it seems to me there are two possible such agents, and that we have little choice but to approach at least one of them.”

He was silent, taking in Stem-Fulcher and Rescue with his eyes, one by one. He waited for dissent. There was none.

“Are we agreed?” he asked quietly.

“We’re talking about the ambassador, aren’t we?” said Stem-Fulcher. “And what else…you don’t mean the Weaver?” Her eyes furrowed in dismay.

“Well, hopefully it won’t come to that,” said Rudgutter reassuringly. “But yes, those are the two…ah…agents I can think of. In that order.”

“Agreed,” said Stem-Fulcher quickly. “As long as it’s in that order. The Weaver…Jabber! Let’s talk to the ambassador.”

“Montjohn?” Rudgutter turned to his deputy.

Rescue nodded slowly, fingering his scarf.

“The ambassador,” he said slowly. “And I hope that will be all we need.”

“As do we all, Deputy Mayor,” said Rudgutter. “As do we all.”

Between the eleventh and fourteenth floors of the Mandragorae Wing of Perdido Street Station, above one of the less popular commercial concourses that specialized in old fabrics and foreign batiks, below a series of long-deserted turrets, was the Diplomatic Zone.

Many of the embassies in New Crobuzon were elsewhere, of course: baroque buildings in Nigh Sump or East Gidd or Flag Hill. But several were there in the station: enough to give those floors their name and let them keep it.

The Mandragorae Wing was almost a self-contained keep. Its corridors described a huge concrete rectangle around a central space, at the bottom of which was an unkempt garden, overgrown with darkwood trees and exotic woodland flowers. Children scampered along the paths and played in this sheltered park while their parents shopped or travelled or worked. The walls rose enormously around them, making the copse seem like moss at the bottom of a well.

From the corridors on the upper floors sprouted sets of interconnected rooms. Many had been ministerial offices at one time. For a short while, each had been the headquarters of some small company or other. Then they had been empty for many years, until the mould and rot had been swept away and ambassadors had moved in. That was a little more than two centuries previously, when a communal understanding had swept the various governments of Rohagi that from now on diplomacy would be greatly preferable to war.

There had been embassies in New Crobuzon far longer. But after the carnage in Suroch put a bloody end to what were called the Pirate Wars or the Slow War or the False War, the number of countries and city-states seeking negotiated resolutions to disputes had multiplied enormously. Emissaries had arrived from across the continent and beyond. The deserted floors of the Mandragorae Wing had been overrun by the newcomers, and by older consulates relocating to tap the new welter of diplomatic business.

Even to leave the lifts or stairs on the floors of the Zone, a gamut of security checks had to be run. The passages were cold and quiet, broken by a few doors and insufficiently lit by desultory gas-jets. Rudgutter and Rescue and Stem-Fulcher walked the deserted corridors of the twelfth floor. They were accompanied by a short, wiry man with thick glasses who scurried along behind them, never keeping up, lugging a large suitcase.

“Eliza, Montjohn,” said Mayor Rudgutter as they walked, “this is Brother Sanchem Vansetty, one of our most able karcists.” Rescue and Stem-Fulcher nodded greetings. Vansetty ignored them.

Not every room in the Diplomatic Zone was occupied. But some of the doors had brass plates proclaiming them the sovereign territory of one country or other-Tesh, or Khadoh, or Gharcheltist-behind which were huge suites extending onto several floors: self-contained houses in the tower. Some of the rooms were thousands of miles from their capitals. Some of them were empty. By Tesh tradition, for example, the ambassador lived as a vagrant in New Crobuzon, communicating by mail for official business. Rudgutter would never meet him. Other embassies were deserted due to lack of funds or interest.