Next to the First Speaker’s podium, the councillor for Wurzen was demanding that the regions should not be taxed to pay for setting the city to rights. Slvasta watched him with growing respect – someone who was trying to protect his constituents. ‘I think it takes more than one speech to establish that.’

‘It was the perfect start we wanted.’

‘Besides, who bothers with the gifting from in here? Watching mod-spiders excrete their drosilk is less boring.’

‘Stop being so negative. The pamphlets will be all over this. Uracus, Slvasta, you need to focus.’

‘Yes,’ he sighed. ‘I know.’

*

Varlan was the hub of all four of the continent’s major train lines; the Great North-Western Line, the Southern City Line, the Eastern Trans-Continental Line and the Grand South-Western Line; each ran out of the city in rough alignment with the relevant compass point. For all their prominence, passenger trains only formed fifteen per cent of the traffic; the rest of it was freight trains, unnoticed by the majority of the residents. The trade they generated was phenomenal, bringing in raw material for the factories, then exporting finished goods out to the furthest province. They were the city’s economic arteries, as well as supplying most of the food to markets and homes. Just how essential they were to Varlan’s survival had become obvious to Slvasta when the Josi bridge was damaged. The rail lines were a terrible weakness; anyone who could control the flow of goods in and out of the city could dictate their own terms. Of course, the government knew that as well, which was why any such attempt would be met with a swift and extreme response. What was needed, then, was a blockage which took time to repair – a repair which could be prolonged even further with small strategic strikes.

The cells chosen were from the top layers of the network: people who had been recruited right at the start, those who had proved themselves to be loyal time and again, as well as being totally committed. Weapons caches were finally broken open, and explosives distributed. Nine groups met up for the first time in the late afternoon five days after Varlan’s water supplies were disrupted. Each of them took a cart out of the capital, riding them to railway bridges, not just on the four main lines but on the nearby branch lines that could be used as alternative routes into Varlan.

After darkness, they crept across the supports and arches, placing bundles of explosives precisely in the places they’d been told – locations that Skylady had worked out were the maximum load points. At two o’clock in the morning, fuses were lit. Ten minutes later, explosions crippled seven bridges.

News seeped into the city as the dawn cast a crisp light across the buildings and waterlogged streets. As before, it was markets such as the Wellfield that alerted friends and business colleagues to the absence of trains. Ex-sight began to scan round, perceiving marshalling yards full of the trains that should be heading out. Railway workers were summoned in early, and packed into special trains that headed cautiously along the tracks. Head office staff were called in and swiftly dispatched by horse and cab to further assess the damage. The chief sheriff of every borough was roused; they converged on the Justice Ministry offices, along with senior government officials and Trevene’s lieutenant. By seven o’clock in the morning all of Varlan knew the rail bridges north, east and west of the city had been sabotaged. No natural collapse, no derailment blocking the lines, no water surge washing away supports, no structural failure of ageing structures. They’d been blown up. Giftings from people who’d travelled out and returned were shared across the whole city, confirming the destruction. The only communications left open were the roads, the river and the Southern City Line.

‘I cannot get anyone to respond,’ Bethaneve said in frustration. She was sitting at the kitchen table in Number Sixteen Jaysfield Terrace, fingers pressed against her temple as she sent ’path after ’path into their network. ‘I just don’t understand what’s happened.’

‘The trains from Willesden station are leaving on schedule,’ Slvasta confirmed, as ’paths came slinking through the complex network strung across the city, relaying messages directly from five separate cell members at Willesden, sent there specifically to tell them what the Southern City Line managers were doing and saying. ‘The company’s been ’pathing out general reassurances since six o’clock. Three teams of sheriffs have been sent to guard the closest bridges.’

‘Uracus! They can’t have intercepted all our demolition squads – they just can’t. That makes no sense. Trevene either knows all about us or he doesn’t. He wouldn’t have arrested just two squads and left the rest alone. Where are they?’

‘Maybe running for cover. Or they had some kind of accident. It was a lot of explosives they had piled up on those carts.’

‘I don’t like it.’ For the first time, Bethaneve actually showed uncertainty. ‘We would have heard about it if the carts exploded.’

‘So they didn’t explode. They threw a wheel, or a horse spooked and bolted. Who knows?’

‘I need to know!’

He wanted to tell her to calm down, but that would be a mistake, he knew. She was running on raw nerves now. And terrified. ‘We’ll know soon enough. At least they haven’t been arrested.’

‘How do you know that?’ she shouted.

‘Because we haven’t been arrested.’

‘All right. Sorry.’

‘It’s okay.’ He reached across the table and took her hand. ‘I have to go.’

She nodded, her hair falling down over her face to hide a forlorn expression. ‘Be careful.’

‘I will, but I need to be at the National Council.’

‘Everyone’s in place. They’ll gift your message out uncensored.’

They embraced. He could feel her trembling, and assumed she knew he was equally scared behind the hardest shell he’d ever manifested. His ex-sight perceived Andricea, Coulan and Yannrith waiting for them in Number Sixteen’s entrance hall below. ‘Come on,’ he said gently. ‘Let’s go. I want to know you’re at the safe house before I make the denouncement.’

‘Let’s hope it is safe.’

‘Ha! Now who’s the cynic?’

She smiled and hugged him closer. ‘Please be careful.’

‘You too.’

It took a long moment for them to let go of each other.

At the bottom of the stairs, Coulan and Yannrith looked equally pensive, while Andricea looked positively gleeful.

‘How’s it going?’ Slvasta asked. He and Bethaneve had been so busy with the rail bridges and preparing his National Council appearance they’d left the other half of the operation to Coulan and Javier.

‘Distribution’s been running pretty smoothly,’ Coulan said. ‘The caches were opened at four o’clock this morning, and we’ve armed the majority of grade threes.’

‘What are grade threes?’ Slvasta asked.

‘The comrades we believe can be trusted with weapons,’ Bethaneve said as they went out into the road where two cabs were waiting. ‘After all, we can’t supply every grunt on the street. That would be anarchy, and we want precision.’

‘Right,’ Slvasta frowned. Something she’d said bothered him, and he couldn’t figure out what or why. ‘What about the snipers?’ He hated the idea of that – it was cold murder – but the others had talked him round.

‘They’re all active and ready,’ Yannrith said.

‘Okay, then.’ He looked at Bethaneve as she stood poised beside the cab – wearing a simple burgundy-red dress, her hair held in place with clips, those broad features burning with concern – working hard to memorize the image perfectly. Because if this all went straight to Uracus, it would be the last time . . . He grinned at his own pessimism.

She mistook it for encouragement. ‘See you tonight, my love.’

‘See you tonight.’

Coulan and Andricea climbed into the cab with Bethaneve. Slvasta shut the door, and the horse started off down the street at a fast pace, with Andricea’s mod-bird zipping through the air high above. He and Yannrith got into their cab, fuzzing the interior.