Muub frowned, scratching at one eyecup. “Do you think such a collapse is near?”

“Not yet,” Hork said. “Not unless the Glitches really do smash us wide open. But it’s possible, and growing more so. And only a fool closes his eyes to the possible.”

Muub, wary of what traps might lie under the surface of that remark, turned to stare down through the dusty, illuminated Air of Pall Mall.

Hork growled, “Now I’ve embarrassed you. Come on, Muub, don’t start acting like one of these damn piglet-courtiers. I value your conversation. I didn’t mean to imply my father is such a fool.”

“…But he does not necessarily share your perspective.”

“No. Damn it.” Hork shook his head. “And he won’t give me the power to do anything about it. It’s frustrating.” Hork looked at Muub. “I hear you saw him recently. Where is he?”

Shouldn’t you know? “He’s at his garden, at the Crust. He can’t take the thin Air, of course, so he mostly stays in his car, watching the coolies getting on with their work.”

“So he’s healthy?”

Muub sighed. “Your father is an old man. He’s fragile. But — yes; he is well.”

Hork nodded. “I’m glad.” He glanced at the Physician, seeking his reaction. “I mean it, Muub. I get frustrated with him because I’m not always sure he addresses the key issues. But Hork is still my father. And besides,” he went on pragmatically, “the last thing we need right now is a succession crisis.”

There was a buzz of conversation from around the Gallery.

Hork leaned forward in his cocoon. “What’s going on?”

Muub pointed. “The pipers are moving into position.” There were a hundred of the pipers, dressed in bright, eyecatching clothes, now Waving out of doorways all along Pall Mall and taking up their positions, lining the route of the parade. The closest pipers — four of them, one to each of the Mall’s complex walls — were earnest young men, efficiently stoking the small furnaces they carried on belts around their waists. Fine, tapered tubes led from the furnaces in elaborate whorls to wide, flower-like horns; the horns of polished wood gaped above the head of the pipers like the mouths of shining predators.

“There!” Hork cried, pointing down the avenue, his face illuminated with a mixture of excitement and avarice.

Muub, suppressing a sigh, leaned further forward and squinted down the Mall, trying to pick out the distant specks in the Air that would be the approaching Tribute parade: earnest, overweight citizens bearing vast sheaves of wheat, or grotesquely bloated Air-pigs.

The pipers pushed valves on their furnace-boxes. Within each horn, complex Air patterns swirled, sending pulses of heat along the necks of the horns — pulses which emerged from the horns, by a process which had always seemed magical to the resolutely non-musical Muub, as stirring peals of sound.

Far below, in the Market, the crowd roared.

Toba Mixxax twitched his reins and stared unblinking out of his window. “I’m going to take him straight into the Hospital. The Common Good. It’s a decent place. Hork’s own Physician runs it…”

Cars of all sizes came hurtling past them in a constant, random stream. Pig teams farted clouds of green gas. Speakers blared. Toba yelled back through his own car’s system, but the amplified voices were too distorted for Dura to understand what was being said.

It was, frankly, terrifying. Dura, hovering with Farr behind Toba’s seat and staring out at the chaotic whirl of hurtling wooden boxes, bit the back of her hand to avoid crying out.

But somehow Toba Mixxax was managing not only to avoid collisions but also to drive them forward — slowly, but forward — to the staggering bulk of the City itself.

“Of course it’s not the cheapest. The Common Good, I mean.” Toba laughed hollowly. “But then, frankly, you’re not going to be able to afford even the cheapest. So you may as well not be able to afford the best.”

“Your talk means little, Toba Mixxax,” Dura said. “Perhaps you should concentrate on the cars.”

Toba shook his head. “Just my luck to come into town with three upfluxers on the day of the Grand Tribute. Today of all days. And…”

Dura gave up listening. She tried to ignore the cloud of hurtling cars in the foreground of her vision, to see beyond them to Parz itself.

The South Magnetic Pole itself was spectacular enough — like a huge artifact, an immense sculpting of Magfield and spin lines. Vortex lines followed — almost — the shape of the Magfield, so it was easy to trace the spectacular curvature of the magnetic flux. It was nothing like the gentle, easy, Star-girdling curvature of her home region, far upflux; here, at the furthest downflux, the vortex lines converged from all over the Mantle and plunged into the bulk of the Star around the Pole itself, forming a funnel of Magfield delineated by sparkling, wavering vortex lines.

And, suspended right over the mouth of that immense funnel, as if challenging the Pole’s very right to exist, the City of Parz hung in the Air.

The City was shaped like a slender, upraised arm, with a fist clenched at its top. The “arm” was a spine of wood which thrust upward, out of the Pole’s plunging vortex funnel, and the “fist” was a complex mass of wooden constructions which sprawled across many thousands of mansheights. Four great hoops of some glittering substance — “anchor-bands,” Toba called them, two aligned vertically and two horizontally — surrounded the fist-mass; Dura could see struts and spars attaching the hoops to the mass of the “fist.”

The “fist,” the City itself, was a perforated wooden box, suspended within the hoops. Ports — circular, elliptical and rectangular — punctured the box’s surface, and cars streamed in and out of many of the ports like small creatures feeding off some greater beast. Toward the base of the City the ports were much wider: they gaped like mouths, dark and rather forbidding, evidently intended for bulk deliveries. Into one of these Dura could see tree-stalks being hauled from a great lumber-jacking convoy.

Sparkling streams, hundreds of them, flowed endlessly from the base of the City and into the Air, quite beautiful: they were sewer streams, Toba told her, rivers of waste from Parz’s thousands of inhabitants.

As the car veered around the City — Toba, braying incoherently into his Speaker tube, was evidently looking for a port to enter — Dura caught tantalizing glimpses through the many wide shafts of complex structures, layers of buildings within the bulk of the City itself. A complex set of buildings perched on the crown of the City, grand and elegant even to Dura’s half-baffled eyes. There were even small Crust-trees arcing into the Air from among those upper buildings. When she pointed this out to Toba he grinned and shrugged. “That’s the Committee Palace,” he said. “Expense is little object if you live that far Upside…”

Light filled the City, shining from its many ports and casting beams across the dusty Air surrounding it, so that Parz was surrounded by a rich, complex mesh of green-yellow illumination. The City was immense — almost beyond Dura’s imagination — but it seemed to her bright, Air-filled, full of light and motion. People swarmed around the buildings, and streams of Air-cars laced around the spires of the Palace. Even the “arm” below the City-fist, the Spine (as Toba called it) that grew down toward the Pole, bore tiny cars which clambered constantly up and down ropes threaded along the Spine’s length.

The City grew as they approached — growing so huge, at last, that it more than filled the small window of the car. Dura began to find the whole assemblage overwhelming in detail and complexity. She recalled — with a strange feeling of nostalgia — her feelings of panic on first encountering Toba’s car. She’d soon learned to master her panic then, and had come to feel almost in control of this strange, weak person, Toba Mixxax. But now she was confronted by strangeness on an unimaginably huger scale. Could she ever come to terms with all this — ever again take control over her own destiny, let alone influence events around her?