‘—more information,’ she said in exasperation. ‘Yes, I know.’

‘Everything costs more and takes longer. You need to get used to that.’

*

They walked along the railings that isolated the Captain’s Palace from the rest of the city. At the front, where the grand façade looked down Walton Boulevard, was the big open cobbled square where people could watch the Palace Guards and the Marines strut their ceremonial stuff twice a week. But, as you walked round, the rails gave way to a high stone wall, blocking the palace gardens from casual view. It was topped by firepine – a prickly scarlet and orange bush that resembled a cascade of foam, with a venom in its thorns that was both excruciating and lethal to humans. The stone was also thick enough to prevent most ex-sight perceiving what was going on inside. Mod-birds belonging to the Palace Guard avian squad flew ceaseless patrols overhead, preventing anyone else’s mod-bird from getting close and providing curious citizens with a glimpse of the hanky-panky that the Captain’s family was rumoured to get up to amid the lovely topiary paths, ornate ponds and shady glades.

Mayborne Avenue was the road which circled the perimeter directly outside the wall: a wide thoroughfare planted with ever-blue procilla trees, with elegant stone townhouses on the other side; by law only two storeys high so they couldn’t see over the wall. The avenue was deliberately designed to draw attention to anyone who lingered.

It was drizzling lightly when Nigel and Kysandra started to walk along the pavement on the houses’ side. Originally they’d been built by aristocratic families and wealthy merchants desperate to court favour with the Captain. But the two-storey law prohibited any truly grandiose house from being constructed on the avenue, so time had seen many converted into grace-and-favour apartments for the palace courtiers; several, it was said, were now residences reserved for the Captain’s various mistresses, while the remainder became prestigious addresses for company offices, legal firms, banks and charitable societies under the Captain’s generous patronage.

They stopped outside one whose yellow dressed stone was aged to grey, its surface pocked with innumerable cracks and patches. The brass sign beside the front door read: Varlan University Bibliographical Preservation Society. Nigel’s teekay rang the bell.

A receptionist showed them to a first-floor waiting room, her shell not quite strong enough to contain her condescension. Their appointment was so routine, so predictable. Nouveau riche provincials seeking a contact – any contact – within the palace court. Making a sizeable donation to one of the charitable societies of which the Captain was patron was the start of the long road to acceptability by Varlan society.

After making them wait for a quarter of an hour, the receptionist showed them up to a second-floor office. It was a square room with high walls covered by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The only break was a tall sash window looking out over Mayborne Avenue. A broad applewood desk sat in front of it, almost black from age. Coulan rose from his chair and gave Kysandra a big hug and a kiss.

‘You look great,’ she told him. Which he did, his hair cut shorter and gelled in a conservative style. White shirt and dark fuchsia tie, charcoal-grey suit jacket hanging on the back of his chair. ‘A proper city worker.’

‘Really? So you mean I look bored, poor and miserable?’

‘Not that bad.’

‘I missed you,’ he said.

‘Nice,’ Nigel grunted as he sat down. ‘We brought a lot of files for you to access. But mainly we’ve made progress on the Fallers; turns out they’re a nasty type of nano, built for planetary conquest.’

‘Fascinating. Well, on my side, I’ve built up a decent network of contacts in Varlan, some actives.’

‘Actives?’ Kysandra asked.

‘Dominated,’ Coulan said. ‘I need to be able to rely on key people, not just hope they’ll do as I ask.’

‘Oh.’ She looked down, studying the floorboards.

‘Once I got her detoxed, I placed Bethaneve in the Tax Office,’ Coulan continued. ‘Several others report back to her, so the inspectors won’t be bothering you.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ Nigel said. ‘What else?’

‘A couple of Citizens’ Dawn politicians in the National Council were eager for campaign contributions; there’s always plenty of internal party bitchfighting going on for secure seats. Technically we’re living in a democracy, though in reality this is a one-party state; the Citizens’ Dawn party is the only one that counts. There are some opposition parties, but they’re a rag-tag bunch with a few borough seats that nobody really bothers about, not even the voters. I’m developing contacts in the radical movement, such as it is, but I have to proceed with caution there; they’re all as paranoid as they are committed, but I think I’ve found a way in.’

‘Sex?’ Nigel guessed.

‘Always: the eternal human weak spot. The other reason for my restraint in that direction is that, surprisingly, the Captain’s police are actually quite effective. They monitor all opposition for anyone able to mount a real challenge, or even just garner some popular support. If you want to get on in politics here, you join Citizens’ Dawn and spend the next century fighting your way up a very treacherous ladder. Outside politics, I’ve acquired assets in the banks, and even some in the regiments. Pamphlet editors are always eager to trade gossip, which ties in neatly with the ten sheriffs who will private ’path information to me for a price. And I’m working on identifying possibles in the Captain’s police, but they’re going to have to be turned by domination. I can’t trust anything else; the whole damn lot of them are fanatical about maintaining things the way they are.’

‘Sounds like progress,’ Nigel said.

‘Thank you. Oh, and you’ll never guess who’s just shown up in town.’

‘You’re right, I won’t guess.’

‘Captain Slvasta.’

Nigel’s grin was positively dirty. ‘Captain, eh?’

‘Yeah. They promoted him and booted him over to the Joint Regimental Council where all that bright-burning youthful enthusiasm will be snuffed out by bureaucratic procedure.’

‘Poor boy. Can we use him?’

‘He’s on my watch list.’

‘Okay. What about the palace?’ Nigel nodded at the wall on the other side of Mayborne Avenue.

‘Real progress there.’

Kysandra’s u-shadow reported that Coulan was sending over a file. It was a recording from an artificial bussalore that Skylady had synthesized. Coulan had taken a week just getting the slippery little drone into the palace gardens, sitting in his Preservation Society office as the ersatz-rodent nosed along the wall, examining cracks. Eventually it found a deep one and slithered inside, then began clawing at the mortar joints, taking days to tunnel through and break out into the gardens.

‘It is true what they say about the Captain’s family,’ Coulan said solemnly. ‘It took me three days to navigate across the garden. There’s a lot of degenerate nocturnal behaviour going on in there, let me tell you.’

‘We should record it,’ Nigel said. ‘Nothing wrecks a reputation worse than a scandal. It can always be gifted to the city when we need it.’

‘I’ll send in another bussalore drone tonight.’

The file continued to play, showing Kysandra the interior of the palace. Even though she’d seen the façade, she wasn’t quite prepared for the opulence of the rooms within. But Coulan didn’t keep it above ground for long. The vast building squatted above an expansive labyrinth of cellars and vaults and tunnels. She found herself in a brick vault with the drone’s little enhanced-sensitivity retinas looking up at the far wall. It was a convex curve made from metal that had darkened with age and gathered a dusting of powdery pine-green algae. There was a door in the middle, a big circular affair with an odd collar of torn metal and what looked like shredded rubber, whose stands hung limply.