‘Just Slvasta, now. I resigned from my regiment some time ago now.’

‘Of course. But I am glad it’s you who’s here.’

‘You told a colleague you might be able to help Democratic Unity.’

Russell smiled gently. ‘We both know that’s not true, but I understand your caution. So, yes, I know a man who can greatly assist your cause.’

‘In what way?’

‘The way every politician craves. He would like to donate. The kind of donation that will ultimately guarantee your success.’

‘I see,’ Slvasta said. ‘And what is it this benefactor wants in return? Democratic Unity is not rich.’

‘I have no idea what his price is.’

‘Then what— ?’

‘This meeting is simply to assess your level of integrity.’

Slvasta’s face hardened to match his shell. ‘Oh, really?’

‘He would like to meet you. That way you can have the opportunity to appraise him. He hopes, that way a deal can be agreed.’

*

So, a week later, here he was on the express, travelling to an unknown destination to see someone who may or may not have guns for sale. It was about as unlikely as you could get. Not to mention potentially lethal. If this was a set-up by the Captain’s police, he wouldn’t be coming back.

Though, if it was a set-up, he had to admit it was flawless. Everyone at the station had seen him get on the train by his own free will, no coercion involved. He wasn’t yet Democratic Unity’s publicly acknowledged leader, not a true public figure. So who would ever ask what happened to good old Captain Slvasta if he didn’t come back? And if you were stupid enough to persist in asking, you’d most likely experience a similar journey. All he wondered about now was if the Captain’s police were really that good.

It was half past ten at night when the express finally drew in to the main station at Dios. There were eight platforms sheltering under four long arched roofs whose glass was blackened by soot from the big engines. Russell brushed against him on the platform, and Slvasta was left holding a new ticket. A local train for Erond at the end of a branch line, two hundred and fifty miles east. It departed in twelve minutes from platform seven.

Slvasta hurried over to platform seven, where the slightly smaller engine was puffing away enthusiastically. Behind him the express let out a sharp whistle blast as it rolled out of the station on its way south. As far as he could tell, he and Russell were the only passengers from the express to board the Erond train. Once again, they sat in the same carriage but not next to each other.

Erond was the end of the line – a simple station with two platforms but no grand overhead roof. A considerable quantity of cold rain washed across Slvasta as he stepped out at two thirty in the morning. He hurried for the cover of the wooden canopy that arched out of the main ticket office like a stumpy wing. A lone platform agent inspector stood by the gate, stamping his feet against the chill as he examined the tickets of the disembarking passengers. Outside, sparse oil lamps on wall brackets emitted a weak yellow glow, revealing a bleak street of terraced houses and small shops. A couple of listless mod-monkeys moved along slowly, clearing rubbish from the gutters. Slvasta stared at them almost in shock; he hadn’t seen a team of mods performing civic work for weeks now. No one here had heard of the anti-mod campaign that thrived in the capital. Erond was a market town, but not especially wealthy. Here people needed all the help they could get. He suspected that it would be a lot harder to wean them off mods, even though the countryside population ought to be natural Democratic Unity voters.

If we overthrow the Captain and the National Council, how many of the counties will recognize a new government? he wondered. But they can’t afford to ignore us. Defending Bienvenido from Faller eggs has to be a joint venture, with everyone cooperating.

Russell walked past. ‘Follow me,’ he ’pathed.

The street led into the town’s waterfront district, which had been colonized by warehouses and large commercial buildings. Walking along the gloomy streets between the high uncompromising brick walls, trying not to lose his mysterious guide, Slvasta hadn’t felt so isolated and lonely since the day he arrived in Varlan, full of resentment and completely alone. At least, back then, he knew where he was going; here there could be anything waiting for him in the bleak warren of lanes and alleys. He wasn’t sure if he was frightened or excited by that.

When he arrived at the docks, the cold rain had wormed its way under his jacket, turning his skin numb. Slipways alternated with wharfs, almost half of which had cargo boats birthed for the night, dark and silent except for one.

Russell had stopped at the gangplank of the only boat that had its running lamps lit, a longbarge that was fully laden judging by how low it was in the water. Slvasta could hear the engine chugging quietly below decks; a tall iron stack puffed out thin streamers of smoke.

Then he sensed someone emerging from an alley between two warehouses behind him and turned to see a dark figure in a rain hat standing in the meagre glimmer of a street lamp. Slvasta was sure he hadn’t been on the train. Russell gave the watcher a silent wave of acknowledgement. ‘We haven’t been followed. You can come on board.’

‘More travelling?’ Slvasta asked with a groan.

‘If you want to meet him, yes. Not much further.’

Slvasta shrugged; he’d come this far. He stepped onto the gangplank, impressed by the way Russell’s boss had arranged the trip and watched for any signs of pursuit. Clearly, the network of cells they’d painstakingly built up in Varlan wasn’t the only subversive organization on Bienvenido. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing, or not.

*

Slvasta didn’t know how long he slept. When he woke it was raining again, the big drops drumming loudly on the taut canvas tarpaulins covering the longbarge’s holds. His cot was in a tiny alcove in the cabin, barely more than a shelf, a curtain closing it off. He pulled it aside and swung out. A weak grey daylight shone through small portholes just below the roof. His clothes were stretched across a stool in front of the galley’s small iron stove. The heat from the coals glowing in the grate had dried them out overnight, and he put them on, allowing his ex-sight to sweep the longbarge.

Their cargo was grain of some sort, big nut-like kernels filling each of the five holds. Behind the cabin, two mod-monkeys worked in the engine compartment, methodically shovelling a mix of coal and wood into the furnace while long brass pistons pumped away on either side of them. The compartment’s upper hatch was closed against the rain, and the only light came from the flames. Neither of the mod-monkeys appeared bothered by their harsh environment.

Slvasta went up the narrow stairs at the end of the cabin, which took him to the tiny wheelhouse. The bargemaster was at the wheel. Slvasta had met him last night when he came aboard – a tall fellow with greying hair and thick mutton-chop sideburns, a black Dutch cap seemingly part of his head. He nodded at Slvasta but said nothing.

‘Morning,’ Russell said. He was standing beside the bargemaster, staring through the narrow windows. Dark clouds hung low in the sky, scudding along quickly in the strong wind. Meadows and forests on both sides of the broad river were glistening under the deluge.

‘Where are we?’ Slvasta asked.

‘Coming up on Brewsterville,’ Russell answered him. Which, of course, told Slvasta nothing.

‘Am I allowed to know where we’re going?’ he asked with a heavy irony.

Russell grinned broadly. ‘Adeone. It’s a town at the western end of the Algory mountains. Nice place.’

‘I’m sure it is.’

*

There were plenty of towns along the river, all of them with docks and warehouses. In this part of the world, the river was an important trade route, used by a great many boats; he saw coal barges, grain barges, ordinary cargo boats, some private yachts, even trains of log rafts being steered carefully downstream.