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military and technological superiority back into Varsnian hands? That was why they had destroyed my life, my world, why they had tried to break me and very nearly succeeded. All for the glory of Varsnia.
    Kichlan touched my elbow, ran his hand down my arm and pried my worrying fingers loose. “Time to go.” Just as gently, he placed Lad’s palm in my own.
    The Strikers glided around a corner. Breakbell was fast approaching. “Yes, we’d better hurry.”
    “One day at a time.” Kichlan patted his brother’s back. “Be good for Tanyana, won’t you.”
    “Will, bro.” Lad squeezed me for emphasis. I tried not to wince. “You be good too.”
    I turned my face to hide a smile, as Kichlan’s jaw slacked open.
    “Let’s go.” I tugged Lad along. “Duskbell, right here?” I asked his brother over my shoulder.
    Kichlan jammed fists into his pockets, hunched against the early-morning chill, and watched us leave.
    I couldn’t think about him like that, looking so lonely, so lost. I needed to concentrate on Lad.
    “Wish we didn’t have to do this, Tan.” Lad pressed his body against mine. It made it difficult to walk in a straight line, but at least he was warm. “Don’t like it.”
    “Me too. Me too.”
    With Lad attached to me, I headed back to the seventh Effluent. I noticed more rebuilding along the way. Effluents were generally poorer areas, and the buildings here reflected that. None of the graceful towers found in the wealthier Keepersrills – woven from steel and great shards of light-catching crystal – mostly squat apartments built with cheap blocks of rough stone and lathered with colourless cement. We passed a small factory struggling to produce furniture with most of their roof and half of one wall missing. The entire structure looked terribly unstable, given that we were unable to see the sturdy mesh of bright lights that was no doubt holding it up. Lad slowed, fascinated by the chair legs floating above several six point circles as they were carved by apparently invisible hands.
    Thirty-Four Ironlattice lived up to its name. A tall, thin building with long, narrow windows, all wrapped in wrought iron topped with nasty-looking spikes. I baulked at it. Not only because it looked uninviting and almost impossible to get into, but because the old architect in me – never dead, despite Grandeur’s best attempts – cried out for a merciful demolition at the very sight.
    Lad quailed. “Doesn’t look nice,” he squeaked.
    I craned my neck back to try and find the toplevel. All I found was more iron, and more spikes. “Help me look for a way inside.”
    Why did a building need so many windows, and why bother with them if you were just going to bar them all up? Together, Lad and I paced the thin strip of street, looking for something other than a ridiculously secure window that might be a way inside.
    “Ah, I tried that,” came a voice from my lower left. “I don’t think it’s possible.”
    I looked down. The scarred collector sat hunched against the dark wall of a neighbouring building. I had missed him. With his knees drawn up and his head lowered and his entire outfit the same kind of mud-brown as the cheap bricks, he was nearly impossible to see.
    “Hello,” Lad said, peering around me with evident curiosity. “Why are you sitting down there?”
    The new collector laughed. He unfolded himself, grasped the rough brickwork behind him and dragged himself upright. “Seemed better than standing.” He brushed his dirty-coloured coat, and held out a hand. “Aleksey,” he said, with a wide smile that only emphasised his scar.
    Lad released me long enough to grab his hand and give it a far-too-vigorous shake, before reattaching himself to my arm. “I’m Lad,” he said, as Aleksey blinked, probably confused and not a little sore. “And my br–” Lad hesitated, and looked down to his toes. “My bro’s not here.”
    Ah well, there went any attempt at pretence. But if this Aleksey was