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not expect you to.’ Tanglanah’s eyes took on a sinister, yet fervent expression. ‘But if ever you experience this place, Subadwan, then you will as sure as black is black believe that my offer has nothing to do with my Archive.’
    Subadwan sat back. ‘That’s all?’
    Tanglanah nodded. ‘Think on this first discussion. It is a private matter, concerning neither your Archive nor mine. I will call you. Or you can call me at my Archive, although you will not want to identify yourself.’
    ‘Gaya love me, certainly not.’ Subadwan hesitated. She was intrigued, but... ‘You might as well know now that I’m not interested.’
    With easy movements Tanglanah stood, then walked to the door of the red room. ‘Give me a few minutes to leave, please.’
    Subadwan assented with a vague gesture, and then the Lord Archivist, wrapped tight in her robe, was gone. After five minutes Subadwan left the room, returned the locking fishtail to Merquetaine, and departed the courtyard.
    The pall covering Cray had lifted somewhat, letting through a weak solar glow, while the moon was also visible. Subadwan paused to study it, knowing that at this moment the telescopes and monoculars of the Archive of Selene would be trained upon its faint shape, looking for signs of change on its surface. Subadwan, who considered Selene’s memoirs vulgar, walked on.

CHAPTER 4
    Sitting at his desk, Dwllis, Keeper of the Cowhorn Tower, surveyed the fifty or so fragments of metal and plastic before him. They ranged in size from one no bigger than his thumbnail to a monster as large as his fist. These were antique memories, their collection and investigation being the task that took up most of his time, though why they were appearing remained a mystery to him and to the authorities he served. They could be found like cankers on street walls, as if they were being exuded by the city itself. He kept to himself the theory that they were the echo of an earlier city.
    He stood up and began to walk around his room, hands clasped at his belly. He was a tubby man of medium height, balding at the brow with brown fuzzlocks too long down his back. A pair of pale blue eyes were dominated by thick eyebrows, and there were dark rings underneath them. His mouth was small. With large flat feet, but extravagant jacket and kirtle, he looked like a fop trying to impress but not quite succeeding.
    So he considered his position in Cray. Without him, the information carried by the antique memories would stay buried in the labyrinthine worlds of abstract data present in Cray’s networks, data so profuse that the libraries of Noct stood by it as a speck of dust before a cliff. But he, a historian at heart, could not complain of their existence. Without him, the reification of Cray’s memories would go unexamined, unnoticed even. Yet in the mass of ancient administrative minutes and undated weather reports he was sure he had found something important. How could he convince the authorities of this?
    Perhaps he should use the tradition surrounding the Keeper of the Cowhorn Tower, an ancient position, with himself the eighteenth incumbent. Alternatively, he could point to the fact that some Crayans brought him antique memories and thereby stress his relevance to the city. Or he could just carry on being ignored.
    He glanced at the thousands of disks, blocks and pyramids lying dust-covered on the shelves of his study. The collection was the work of centuries. He and previous Keepers had tried to explore the historical knowledge contained in these lumps of memory. Surely that must be worth something? It upset him that his position as guardian of Cray’s history was ridiculed, and although he dimly perceived the low status of academic research in a city threatened with destruction, he nonetheless thought people should value tradition.
    At length, unsettled by his inability to raise his spirits, he departed his study. From the hall of the Cowhorn Tower he heard a tapping. He stepped