‘Crud!’ Yannrith grunted.

‘I know. Every day I have to ask myself if this is real.’

‘It doesn’t get any more real, captain. Not today.’

Their cab made good time across the city. It was a cloudless cobalt sky vaulting the capital, with the hot sun glaring down. Slvasta didn’t know if that was auspicious or not. The morning’s river mist began to clear urgently, evaporating out of the wider boulevards and avenues. It exposed the deep puddles and long streams running down the middle of streets, still lingering six days after the pipes had burst and the reservoirs discharged into the city. The water was dank and sluggish now, steaming slightly under the morning sunlight. Whole boroughs were still without fresh water; those living closest to the river took buckets to the quayside and hauled them back home just like people from the Shanties. The northern boroughs had laid on emergency tank carts, rationing each household to two buckets a day. The silt and filth that had been swept along by the tide of water had been deposited in rooms and along roads as the levels fell. Borough council work crews struggled to clear the stinking mess away. Fire carts were helping to drain basements and cellars with their mobile pumps. People were starting to mutter about how it would have been so much easier if they had mod-apes and dwarfs to help. Every engineer employed by the water utilities was working sixteen-hour days as they strove to repair the network and restore supplies.

Two days ago, Captain Philious himself had toured the worst afflicted areas. He even climbed down from his carriage to talk with flooded householders and the owners of ruined businesses, offering sympathy. ‘I know exactly what it’s like: we have no water in the Palace, either.’ Which was a politically astute lie; the Palace had its own freshwater spring. He also promised to punish ‘those responsible’ and get the city and National Council to pass much stricter regulation so this could never happen again.

The atmosphere of misery and resentment pervading Varlan was as thick and toxic as the stench of the sewage layer clogging the streets. And now with news of the rail bridges percolating between the residents, uncertainty had supplanted stoic misery. Several of the large wholesale markets had shut their gates that morning; without trains coming in, they simply had no fresh food to sell. All the food in city warehouses dramatically increased in price and became difficult to obtain. Retailers that did open sold out fast, although most kept their doors closed. Crowds began to gather at the borough markets, their vocal complaints escalating fast at the sight of empty stalls. Sheriffs arrived, to be goaded by strategically positioned cell members. What started as worry and dissatisfaction began to grow into something more ugly.

As the shock of the transport failures sank in, so businesses large and small began to realize the true extent of the problem. A lot of private ’paths began to flash out. Banks found queues materializing outside before they opened. Sheriffs were called to keep order as the queues steadily lengthened. The first customers that rushed in as soon as nervous clerks opened the doors demanded huge cash withdrawals. Banks didn’t keep large amounts of cash at individual branches. On the emergency instructions of the Treasury, managers were told to limit withdrawals to fifty silver shillings per customer. Nice middle-class people got very cross about that. Arrests were made. Branches tried to shut, only to find people forcing the doors open. More requests for sheriffs were hurriedly ’pathed.

By ten o’clock, Varlan’s mighty economy was grinding to a noisy and unprecedented halt. Real fear was beginning to gain momentum. It was everything the revolution wanted. Fear was a state easy to exploit.

‘Did you know about the grading?’ Slvasta asked as the cab arrived at the central government area. Here the avenues were clear and clean, untouched by the flood and disruption – deliberately so, to help encourage resentment.

‘Captain?’ Yannrith said.

‘That we’d graded cell members to find the ones we could trust?’

‘I knew instructions had gone out to help decide who to give the guns to. Bethaneve is right; you can’t just give them to everybody. Why?’

He shook his head. ‘I didn’t know. Or I forgot; Giu knows, there’s been a lot of planning. Coulan chose his palace militia carefully. I helped him and Javier with the bridge teams – we can’t have mistakes with the critical parts of the plan. There are so many details . . .’ Yet he knew that wasn’t what bothered him.

Two kilometres past the palace, Byworth Avenue ended at First Night Square – a huge expanse of cobbles encircled by snow-white riccalon trees, where it was said the passengers of Captain Cornelius set up camp the night they landed on Bienvenido. The circular National Council building stood at the far end, dominating the whole square with its eight blue-stone fresco rings wrapped round the rust-red brick wall. The green copper dome on top shone a hazy lime in the morning sun. Native birds sat perched on the lip, staring down at the large crowd milling round the square. Over two thousand people had already gathered, mostly men, and definitely no children. The instructions which had come buzzing through the cell network as they woke had been very clear about that. No one wanted another Haranne incident.

The grim psychic aura they gave off matched their demeanour. It was stifling, as if the air temperature had risen ten degrees. Cabs delivering National Council members to the morning’s emergency debate were booed and jostled with teekay, making their horses skittish. Badly unnerved representatives hurried into the sanctuary of their grand building, carefully avoiding glancing at the forest of banners with crude slogans and cartoonish images of the Captain.

The horse pulling Slvasta’s cab grew panicky as it trotted round the road at the edge of the square. Slvasta dropped his fuzz, allowing ex-sight to pervade the inside of the cab. It was a perception that was quickly gifted round the square. The cheering began.

He opened the door, and grinned round at the smiling faces, raising his arm. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he ’pathed wide. ‘Thank you for adding weight to my lone voice in this nest of ugly bussalores. I’m here to tell the First Speaker and Citizens’ Dawn that their way, their privilege and arrogance, is coming to an end. They must listen to you, they must act upon your grievances. You have a RIGHT to be heard. They cannot ignore you forever. Today, they will be made to LISTEN.’

A renewed wave of cheering swept over First Night Square like a gale, breaking upon the walls of the National Council building. Slvasta pumped his fist into the air, then hopped down and strode through the main entrance. Yannrith walked alongside him, motioning the Council guards away. They were mostly ceremonial officers, positions awarded to troopers retiring from regiments so they might spend their last decades in fine scarlet and navy-blue tunics, living in neat apartments and being given three full meals a day before accepting Guidance. They certainly had no contingency to repel large angry mobs.

‘Sheriffs are on their way, captain,’ the master at arms told Slvasta as he made his way across the ante-chamber. ‘Don’t worry.’

He nodded briefly, and carried on towards the central amphitheatre.

‘Slvasta,’ Bethaneve private ’pathed. ‘The Meor is mobilizing.’

‘Crud.’ He couldn’t help a worried glance at Yannrith. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. They’re coming out of their barracks. Two ferries have been taken out of public service, and they’re docked on the south bank waiting for them. The crowds must have frightened the First Speaker. There’s a lot of discontent coming to the boil in the city.’

‘It’s supposed to, but . . . Crud, I thought we’d have more time.’