“Stand still.” A whispered command. Cutter stood tall so fast his spine cracked. His limbs were rigid. “Hold,” Drogon said.

Jabber… Cutter had forgotten what it was to be so ordered. He shook, tried to curl his fingers.

“I am Weather Wrightby and I am here to tell you thank you. For this thing you’ve done. Do you know? Do you know what it is you’ve done? You crossed the world. You crossed the world, something that’s needed doing as long as I’ve lived, and that you did.

“More than once I tried, you know. With my men. We did what we could. Cut through the mountains, through creeping hills. Smokestone. All the landscapes. You know them. We tried, we died, we turned back. Eaten, killed. Taken by cold. Again and again, I tried. And then I was too old to try.

“All this”-he swept his arm up-“all this metal trail from New Crobuzon to the swamps, the split, to Cobsea, to Myrshock, it was something. But it wasn’t what I worked for. Not really. Not my dream. You know that.

“No: that other thought, of iron stretched from sea to sea, that was mine. The continent cut open. From New Crobuzon west. That was mine. That’s history. That’s what I been fighting for, wanting. You know it, don’t you, all of you? You know that.

“I won’t pretend you didn’t rile me. You did, of course you did, you riled me when you took my train. But then I saw what you were doing… Holy work. Much more than you’d been charged with. And while it weren’t the easiest for me to see, I’d not stand in the way of that.” Weather Wrightby shone; his eyes were passionate and wet. “I had to come see you. I had to tell you this. What you’ve done, what you did. I salute you.”

Cutter shook like an animal in a trap, debased by the susurrator’s techniques. He strived, moving and hearing again “Be still” deep in his ear. It seemed to resonate in the bone itself. Gods, fucking, damn. The air was utterly still. There was the snap of metal from below. It was cold.

“And then you were gone, off in the west and who knew where? It was over, but I knew I’d hear of you again and then, yes.” Weather Wrightby smiled. “Even fallen and failed, I’ve my networks, I’ve my plans. I’ve my friends in Parliament who want me to succeed. I hear things. So when they found you-when one of their scouts or merchanteers went up through that sea, and heard of the train-town and sent word and sent scouts and found you-when that happened, I heard it. And when they sent their men to bring your heads, under cover of the war, I heard that too.

“What could I do? What could I do but come to you? You know the route. You know the way through the continent. Do you know? What that is? That’s holy knowledge. I’d not let them bury that. You went as fast as you can, there’s places I’d deviate, go souther near the Torque, but however it’s finessed its your way. I needed to know.

“So I got word to your best defender in the city, one there when your Council was born. You think it isn’t known?” He shook his head with gentle amusement. “Who’s an idea where the Council might have gone? Of course we know. Known for a long time who their man is in the city. I’ve paid one of his friends, a long time, to keep a link to him. I got him word so he’d come find you. We knew he could. And we could come and help. To find the Council, to help it back. My whispersmith.”

Drogon was an employee. He was security, an agent, for the TRT. Cutter’s blood went from his stomach.

“He’s somewhere near, you know, they say. Your defender, Low. He’s been seen. He’s like a lost thing now the Collective’s near gone. He’s been seen around the lines. Waiting for your end. We’ve what we needed.

“We came to help, and learn the way. We learnt it all. Drogon, my man. A good man. We’d not have them interrupt you. We had to stop them. So close, so nearly home. I couldn’t let them interrupt you so near the city. We had to see you back again.”

That’s why Drogon came back. This mad bastard here, Wrightby’s fucking mission. And those other cavalry, TRT all? Good gods. He needed us to come through. He had to know we’d made it all the way. Had to see our route. He fought the city. He killed the damn militia so he could see us get back.

“And now, you’re here. Shhh, still now.”

“Still,” said Drogon, and Cutter’s slow struggling ended.

“Now you’re here. You’ll be on the rails tomorrow. And back to the city. You see, you’ve done what was needed. I’ve the route across the continent. By the cacotopic stain. The way you made out of your bodies and your need. We thank you for it.”

Drogon, without sneer or show, inclined his head.

“You can be sure we’ll use it. I’ll build the iron way. This continent will be made again, Remade, it’ll be made beautiful.” Cutter stared at the visionary of money and iron. He stared and could not speak, could not move, could not tell Weather Wrightby he was mad. Now Wrightby could cross the continent, after so long trying and failing. He would plough a train-thin strip and siphon money to the west and suck it back again. He would change the world and New Crobuzon.

Can he? It’s a long way. A damn long way.

But he knows the way now.

“Here’s how it will be. They’re waiting for you. The Collective’s dead. You know that, yes? And the militia knows you’re coming. They’re waiting. They know where you’ll arrive. To the sidings, the terminus we built. There’ll be plenty of them.”

There would be battalions. There would be whole brigades. Lined in rows, with their guns, with a patience of mass murder. They were waiting for their quarry to come, enter the fire and iron, the hotspit thaumaturgic carnage, at their own pace. No light golem, no moss-magic, no braveheart resistance of the fReemade and their kin, no cactus savagery, no shaman channelling, would defeat that massing.

“You’ll die. I’m here to tell you that.” He said it not like a warning, but as part of a conversation. He’ll not intercede again. This fucker helped for some religious craziness, some mercantile madness. Even against the government. But now we’re back he’s done with that. We’re home, we’ve done what’s needed, he has the way. He can do what he’s always wanted. It’s in Drogon’s head, the bastard, in the tracks we left.

“I want you to know you are magnificent. Such a brave thing, so strong. Like nothing I’d imagined. Well done, well done. You can end now.

“I tell you why I tell you this.

“It wouldn’t be seemly for you not to know. You should know what you’ve become. When you turn those last curves, and see the trainyard, and the militia.”

Cutter shook. Drogon watched him.

“Or you could go.”

Cutter’s heart beat faster as if it were only with the saying of it that Wrightby made it possible. As if he were giving him permission to escape. “You could go. Drogon wanted you to have that choice. That’s why I’m here.”

Drogon? Did you? Cutter had the strength, just, to move his eyes and look at his erstwhile companion. The ranch-hand hatted killer did not look up. Such attenuated camaraderie. What was this? Some last chance, granted to Cutter. I always had a chance, he thought, though he felt as if Drogon had given him a present.

“You’ve ridden history across the Rohagi steppes. You’ve made the TRT a truth though its name was always a lie before. It did-it crossed a continent. You can go now.

“Or. Or you could help us. You could help us cross back again. Once more. Leave the tracks behind us this time.” Wrightby looked at him and Drogon did not. “Drogon’s told me your facility, how you’ve learnt to travel, to grade, to scout. And you were always your own man. We know that. You could help us.”

Gods, Jabber, Jabber and shit, godspit, godshit, you ain’t saying that. You ain’t. The true of it. A revelation. So. Even through Drogon’s disabling hex, Cutter sneered.