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responsible for that war. But he will never end it.’
    ‘How can you be so sure of that? And if Araeon himself will not end the war then Marcellus could.’
    She frowned at him. ‘Marcellus is loyal. He would never act against his emperor.’
    He did not pursue it, conscious that their words were beyond treasonous. But it was good to have a conversation again, to think about something other than where his next food was coming from, or how badly his skin itched from the lice bites, or how he could exist for one more day without falling into madness and throwing himself into the river of death.
    Eventually she said, ‘When my daughter was small I told her the story of the gulon and the mouse. Do you know it?’
    ‘Of course. A child’s tale.’
    ‘The gulon and the mouse go on a long journey together. When they reach a far city the mouse says to the gulon, “Let me sit on your shoulder so I can see this city and not be trampled underfoot by its people.” So the gulon picks him up and puts him on his shoulder. But then the people of the city think the mouse is the master and the gulon only the servant, and they point at them and laugh. The gulon is angry and plucks the mouse from his shoulder and puts him down and the mouse is immediately squashed under someone’s heavy foot. And the gulon has lost his best friend for the sake of his pride.
    ‘And do you know what my seven-year-old daughter asked me when she heard this story?’
    ‘Tell me.’
    ‘She asked, “What is a far city?” When I told her it was another city a long way away she was baffled, for she believed this City was the whole world.’
    ‘Your daughter was not alone. Many people believe this. You have to see the City from outside to fully understand. Few people do, except its soldiers.’
    ‘Yet everyone knows we are at war.’
    He shrugged. ‘The enemy, the Blues, have been demonized,necessarily. People cannot fight a war, suffer its deprivations for so long, if they believe the enemy are human beings just like them. They think they are subhuman, incapable of building cities.’ She shook her head but did not reply, and at last he asked, ‘How old is your daughter now?’
    But she did not answer him, merely stared at the glass in her hand.
    He said, ‘We saw a gulon in the Halls, not long before the storm broke.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘At what they call the Eating Gate. Do you know of it?’
    ‘Certainly. It is an important cog in the underground machine. It is a long time since a gulon has been seen that deep in the Halls. It is a symbol of the City to some. They consider it a good omen to see one.’
    He snorted. ‘Someone should tell that to the gulon. It was an omen of death and despair for many Dwellers this day.’
    He thought of their doomed hunting party crossing the high weir, and his mind moved on to the corpse they had found. Biscuit crumbs lay thick on the table in front of him and he gathered them together, then spread them into a smooth layer. He drew a sign in the crumbs. ‘Do you know this mark?’ he asked the woman.
    She looked at him curiously. ‘An S? What of it?’
    ‘A backwards S. I saw it on the shoulder of a corpse earlier.’
    ‘A soldier? Tattoos are common among the soldiery.’
    ‘Yes. He was covered in pictures. Like a child’s story book.’ She smiled, and Bartellus added, ‘It was not a tattoo, but a brand, burned deeply into the skin.’
    ‘Foreign slaves are sometimes branded.’
    ‘But there are few slaves left in the City now. And they are mostly young women from the east. This was a man, pale and middle-aged. Well fed.’
    ‘Floating corpses always look well fed,’ she replied. ‘Is it important?’
    ‘Probably not. A part of my mind thinks it is. My memory is not what it was. But I have seen it somewhere before.’ He added, ‘Even his scalp was tattooed.’
    ‘With pictures?’
    ‘No. They were small marks. Hundreds of them. They looked foreign. Perhaps you are right. I could make nothing of