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He was chubby and muscular, squeezed into painter’s dungarees, complete with streaks of paint. Deeba looked back, and he met her eyes for a moment, then looked back at Zanna, very thoughtfully.
    He disappeared into the crowd, moving fast.
    “What?” said Zanna, pulling Deeba to come.
    “Nothing,” said Deeba. “I just feel like someone’s watching us.”
    Watching you,
she thought, and looked at her friend.

9
    Location Location
    “I should’ve realized,” Obaday said, “that you’re arrivals, when I saw you talking to that ghost-boy. He hangs around, stealing, looking for strangers, but so far we’ve managed to get rid of him before he does anything terrible. You don’t want to make it into
his
phone book!”
    “What?” said Zanna.
    “In Wraithtown,” said Obaday. “They keep a list of all the dead. On both sides of the Odd!”
    “Our phones don’t work,” Deeba said. “They’re bust.”
    “You have phones? What in the abcity for? It’s too hard to train the insects. As far as I know there are about three working phones in UnLondon, each with a very carefully maintained hive, and all of them in Mr. Speaker’s Talklands.
    “No wonder you’re confused. When did you get here? You must have been briefed? No? Not briefed? Hmmmm…” He frowned. “Maybe the Prophs are planning on explaining details later.”
    “What Prophs?” Deeba said.
    “And here we are!” said Obaday Fing, waving at his stall.

    Obaday’s assistants looked up from their stitching. One or two had a few needles and pins wedged into their heads, in among plaits and ponytails. At the rear of the stall sat a figure writing at a huge sheet of paper. Where its head should be was a big glass jar full of black ink, into which it dipped its pen.
    “Simon Atramenti,” Obaday said. The inkwell-headed person waved with stained fingers and returned to its writing. “For clients who insist on bespoke copy.”
    The stall looked as if it was only about six feet deep, but when Obaday swept aside a curtain at the back there was a much larger tent-room beyond.
    It was silk-lined. There was a table and chairs, a cabinet and a stove, hammocks hanging from the ceiling. Plump pillows were everywhere.
    “Just my little office, just my little office,” Obaday said, sweeping off dust.
    “This is amazing,” said Zanna. “You’d never know this was here.”
    “How come there’s space?” said Deeba.
    “I beg your pardon?” Obaday said. “Oh, well, I stitched it myself. After all my years I’d be embarrassed if I hadn’t learnt to stitch a few wrinkles in space.” He looked expectant. He waited.
    Eventually Zanna said: “Um…That’s brilliant.” Obaday smiled, satisfied.
    “No, it’s nothing,” he said, waving his hands. “Really you embarrass me.”
    He picked things up and put them down, packing and unpacking a bag, talking all the time, a stream of odd phrases and non sequiturs so incomprehensible that they quickly stopped hearing it, except as a sort of amiable buzzing.
    “We have to go home,” Zanna said, interrupting Obaday’s spiel.
    Obaday frowned, not unkindly.
    “Home…? But you have things to do, Shwazzy.”
    “Please don’t call me that. I’m Zanna. And we really do have to go.”
    “We have to get
back,
” said Deeba. The little milk carton whined air at her miserable voice.
    “If you say so…But I’m afraid I’ve no idea how to get you back to, to what’s it called, to Lonn Donn.”
    Zanna and Deeba stared at each other. Seeing their faces, Obaday continued quickly. “But, but, but don’t worry,” he said. “The Propheseers’ll know what to do. We have to get you to them. They’ll help you back after…well, after you’ve done what’s needed.”
    “Propheseers?” said Zanna. “Let’s go, then.”
    “Of course—we’re just waiting for Skool with the necessary information. Traveling across UnLondon—well, it’s quite a thing to take on.” He disappeared behind a screen and flung his