“How’s that old thing?” she asked.

“Too bloody noisy to use during the day. I have to wait till the others have gone, but then the press is hardly silent itself, so that makes no difference. And it ain’t half a relief not to have to spin that damn wheel over and over and over all fucking night, once a fortnight. I just chuck a bit of coal in his innards, point him at it, and have a snooze.”

“How’s the new issue?”

Benjamin nodded slowly and pointed at a bound pile beside his chair.

“Not too bad. Going to print off a few more. We’re running a little thing about your Remade in the freakshow.”

Derkhan waved her hand.

“It’s not a big story.”

“No, but it’s…y’know…toothy…We’re leading on the election. ‘Fuck the Lottery,’ in slightly less strident terms.” He grinned.

“I know it’s pretty much the same as last issue, but that’s the time of year.”

“You weren’t a lucky winner in the lotto this year, were you?” asked Derkhan. “Your number come up?”

“Nah. Only once in me life, years ago. Ran out to the ballot clasping me prize voucher proudly and voted Finally We Can See. Youthful enthusiasm.” Ben sniggered. “You don’t qualify automatically, do you?”

“Devil’s Tail, Benjamin, I don’t have that kind of money! I’d give a damn sight more to RR if I did. No, and I didn’t win this year, either.”

Benjamin split the string on the pile of papers. He shoved a handful at Derkhan. She picked up the top copy and glanced at the front. Each copy was a single large sheet of paper folded in half and half again. The font on the front page was about the same size as that used in the Beacon or the Quarrel or any other of New Crobuzon’s legal press. However, inside the folds of Runagate Rampant stories and slogans and exhortations jostled with each other in a thicket of tiny print. It was ugly but efficient.

Derkhan pulled out three shekels and pushed them across to Benjamin. He took them with a murmur of thanks and put them in a tin at the front of his desk.

“When are the others coming?” asked Derkhan.

“I’m meeting a couple in the pub in an hour or so, then the rest this evening and tomorrow.” In the oscillating, violent, disingenuous and repressive political atmosphere of New Crobuzon, it was a necessary defence that except in a few cases, the writers for Runagate Rampant did not meet. That way the chances of infiltration by the militia was minimized. Benjamin was the editor, the only person on the constantly shifting staff whom everyone knew, and who knew everyone.

Derkhan noticed a pile of roughly printed sheets on the floor by her seat. Runagate Rampant’s fellow seditionist papers. Halfway between comrades and rivals.

“Anything good?” she asked, and indicated the stack. Benjamin shrugged.

“The Shout’s rubbish this week. Decent lead in Forge about Rudgutter’s dealings with the shipping companies. I’ll get someone to chase it, actually. Apart from that it’s slim pickings.”

“What do you want me to get onto?”

“Well…” Benjamin flicked through papers, consulted his notes. “If you can just keep your ear to the ground about the dock strike…Canvass opinion, try and get a few positive responses, a few quotes, you know. And how about five hundred words on the history of the Suffrage Lottery?”

Derkhan nodded.

“What else’ve we got coming up?” she asked.

Benjamin pursed his lips.

“There’s some rumour about Rudgutter having some illness, dubious cures: that’s something I’d like to chase, but you can tell it’s been filtered by Jabber knows how many mouths. Still, keep an ear open. There’s something else as well…very tentative at this stage, but interesting. I’m talking to someone who claims they’re talking to someone who wants to blow the whistle on links between Parliament and mob crime.”

Derkhan nodded slowly and appreciatively.

“Sounds very tasty. What are we talking? Drugs? Prostitutes?”

“Shit, sure as eggs Rudgutter’s got fingers in every fucking pie you can think of. They all have. Churn out the commodity, grab the profit, get the militia to tidy up your customers afterwards, get a new crop of Remade or slave-miners for the Arrowhead pits, keep the jails full…nice as you like. I don’t know what this grass has in mind particularly, and they’re fucking nervous, apparently, ready to do a bunk. But you know me, Dee. Softly softly.” He winked at her. “I won’t let this one get away.”

“Keep me posted, won’t you?” Derkhan said. Benjamin nodded.

Derkhan bundled her collection of papers into a bag, hiding them under assorted detritus. She stood.

“Right. I have my orders. That three shekels, by the way, includes fourteen copies of Double-R sold.”

“Good stuff,” said Benjamin, and found a particular notebook among the many on his desk to record the fact. He stood and gestured Derkhan through the doorway and the wardrobe. She waited in his tiny bedroom as he shut off the lights in the press.

“Is Grimwhatsisname still buying?” he asked through the hole. “That scientist geezer?”

“Yes. He’s quite good.”

“I heard a funny rumour about him the other day,” said Benjamin, emerging through the wardrobe, wiping his oily hands on a rag. “Is he the same one who’s after birds?”

“Oh, yes, he’s doing some experiment or other. You been listening to criminals, Benjamin?” Derkhan grinned. “He’s collecting wings. I think he makes it a point of principle never to buy things officially when he can go through illicit channels.”

Benjamin shook his head appreciatively.

“Well, the cove’s good at it. He knows how to get word out.”

As he spoke, he was leaning into the wardrobe and tugging the wooden rear back into position. He fastened it and turned to Derkhan.

“Righto,” he said. “We’d best get into character.”

Derkhan nodded curtly, and ruffled her white wig somewhat. She undid her intricate shoelaces. Benjamin untucked his shirt. He held his breath and swung his arms from side to side, until he went deep red. He exhaled in a sudden burst, and breathed hard. He squinted at Derkhan.

“Come on,” he said imploringly. “Cut me some slack. What of me reputation? You could at least look tired…”

She grinned at him and, sighing, rubbed her face and eyes.

“Oooh, Mr. B,” she squeaked absurdly. “You’re the best I ever had!”

“More like it…” he muttered, and winked.

They unlocked the door and stepped out into the corridor. Their preparations had been unnecessary. They were alone.

Far below, the sound of meat-grinders could be heard.

Chapter Thirteen

When Lin woke with Isaac’s head next to hers, she stared at it for a long time. She let her antennae flutter in the wind from his breath. It had, she thought, been much too long since she had enjoyed the sight of him like this.

She rolled slightly to her side and stroked him. He muttered and his mouth set. His lips pursed and popped open as he breathed. She ran her hands over his bulk.

She was pleased with herself, pleased and proud at what she had effected last night. She had been miserable and lonely, and she had taken a risk, angering Isaac by coming unbidden to his side of town. But she had managed to make the evening work.

Lin had not intended to play on Isaac’s sympathy, but his anger had turned so quickly to concern at her demeanour. She had realized with a vague satisfaction that she was visibly exhausted and low, that she did not have to convince him of her need for mollycoddling. He was even recognizing emotions in the movement of her headbody.

There was one positive side to Isaac’s attempts not to be seen as her lover. When they walked the streets together, without touching, at a gentle pace, it mimicked the shyness of young humans courting.