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“Fine, look,” he eventually said, “I’ll clean them out tonight—I promise. And I’ll work flat fucking out . . . I know! I’ll work hard on the loud ones first. I’ll try and get rid of them within . . . two weeks?” he finished lamely. David and Lublamai expostulated, but he interrupted their jeers and catcalls. “I’ll pay a little extra rent for the next month! How’s that?”

The rude noises died down instantly. The two men stared at him calculatedly. They were scientific comrades, the Brock Marsh bad boys, friends; but their existence was precarious, and there was limited room for sentimentality where money was concerned. Knowing that, Isaac tried to forestall any temptation they might have to seek alternative space. He, after all, couldn’t afford the rent here alone.

“What are we talking?” asked David.

Isaac pondered.

“Two extra guineas?”

David and Lublamai looked at each other. It was generous.

“And,” said Isaac casually, “while we’re on the subject, I’d appreciate a hand. I don’t know how to manage some of these . . . uh . . . scientific subjects. Didn’t you do some ornithological theory once, David?”

“No,” said David tartly. “I was an assistant to someone who did. I was bored shitless. And stop being so transparent, ’Zaac. I’m not going to resent your pestilential pets any less if you involve me in your projects . . .” He laughed with a trace of genuine humour. “Have you been taking Introductory Empathic Theory, or something?”

But despite his scorn, David was ascending the stairs, with Lublamai behind him.

He paused at the top and took in all the jabbering captives.

“Devil’s Tail, Isaac!” he whispered, grinning. “How much has this lot set you back?”

“Haven’t entirely settled with Lemuel yet,” said Isaac dryly. “But my new boss should see me all right.”

Lublamai had joined David on the top step. He gesticulated at a collection of variegated cages in the far corner of the walkway.

“What’s over there?”

“That’s where I keep the exotica,” said Isaac. “Aspises, lasifly . . .”

“You’ve got a lasifly?” exclaimed Lublamai. Isaac nodded and grinned.

“Don’t have the heart to do any experiments with the beautiful thing,” he said.

“Can I see it?”

“ ’Course, Lub. It’s over there behind the cage with the batkin in it.”

As Lublamai trooped over between the tightly packed cases, David looked briskly about him.

“So where’s your ornithological problem, then?” he asked and rubbed his hands.

“On the desk.” Isaac indicated the miserable, trussed pigeon. “How do I make that thing stop wriggling. I wanted it to at first, to see the musculature, but now I want to move the wings myself.”

David stared levelly at him as if at a halfwit.

“Kill it.”

Isaac shrugged hugely.

“I tried. It wouldn’t die.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake . . .” David laughed exasperatedly, and strode over to the desk. He wrung the pigeon’s neck.

Isaac winced ostentatiously and held up his massive hands.

“They’re just not subtle enough for that sort of work. My hands are too clumsy, my sensibilities too damned delicate,” he declared airily.

“Right,” agreed David sceptically. “What are you working on?”

Isaac was instantly enthusiastic.

“Well . . .” He strode over to the desk. “I’ve had fuck-all luck with the garuda in the city. I heard rumours about a couple living in St. Jabber’s Mound and Syriac, and I sent word that I was willing to pay good moolah for a couple of hours’ time and some heliotypes. I’ve had absolutely nil response. I’ve whacked a couple of posters up in the university as well, asking for any garuda student ready and willing to drop by here, but my sources tell me there’s been no intake this year.”

“ ’Garuda aren’t . . . adept at abstract thought.’ “ David imitated the sneering tone of the speaker from the sinister Three Quills party, which had held a disastrous rally in Brock Marsh the previous year. Isaac and David and Derkhan had gone along to disrupt proceedings, hurling abuse and rotten oranges at the man on stage to the delight of the xenian demonstration outside. Isaac barked in