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outside and looked up at the tiled exterior of the tower, to see that the tapping had been made by a family of dust-birds nesting where the rightmost extrusion met the main body. With irritated gestures their chisel beaks pecked at the tiles, in one place exposing the polythene superstructure. Tutting to himself, Dwllis searched the blue sward below the nest and retrieved three tiles, each a square of white and brown plastic with the texture of canvas. He pocketed these, glared up at the birds, then returned to the hall.
    Inside, door shut, he paused. ‘Etwe? Etwe?’ he called in his cultured baritone voice. ‘Etwe, those damnable birds are pecking off the tiles again. Three of them this time.’
    No reply. The Cowhorn Tower was silent. Twenty yards above him, where the bulk of the tower swelled out into an array of galleries served by a central staircase, Etwe should be building a memory interface.
    ‘Etwe? Are you there?’
    There came the sound of a door opening, and then, leaning over the wrought iron rail that ensured safety on the lower levels, he saw Etwe, a slim, striking beauty dressed in mauve silks. Free flowing blonde hair tumbled around her pale face as her grey eyes gazed upon him.
    He blew her a kiss. ‘Look,’ he said, exhibiting the tiles. ‘It’s those birds again. I’m tempted to requisition a team of Triader lackeys with a ladder, I am. Get them to put the tiles back and get rid of the pests.’
    ‘You do that,’ Etwe said.
    ‘Damnable birds.’
    There came a clunk from the entrance, and the thrum of the city penetrated the tower’s soundproofing. Somebody had opened the front door. Dwllis turned, and was astonished to see before him a gnostician carrying a knobbly gourd.
    It was a young male gnostician, fiery purple of skin with a fine coating of ginger hair. His chin tentacles were limp, like drooping whiskers, and his eyes were hooded, the round mouth above both these features clamped shut. His body hair had been shaved into a herringbone pattern. Gnosticians, apparently following bizarre mating rituals, shaved patterns on to themselves with remarkable precision. Dwllis knew that under the loose, grey shawl that the creature wore the pattern would continue. This one also wore wicker sandals and a floppy hat that, when he looked closely, seemed to be present for no other reason than to conceal a number of recently healed scars.
    The gnostician approached with the characteristic loping gait of its kind. Knowing that some were intelligent enough to follow simple signs, Dwllis signalled to a cup of water, then made drinking motions. ‘Good morning, my fellow. Drink, drink?’
    Dumb, the gnostician glanced between man and cup before offering up the gourd. Dwllis accepted it, then heard a rattling sound. Something inside. It was a pencil of silicon punctured by twenty metal insert points: an antique memory. This was the first time a gnostician had brought him one. It must be a magpie creature, copying the actions of human beings.
    He smiled and said, ‘I shall call you Crimson Boney, on account of your colour, and being so thin.’
    The hairs on Crimson Boney erected and he dipped his head. Diffidently, he glanced around the hall in which they stood. When Etwe began to descend the staircase he backed away, but he did not leave when she approached. The gnostician remained before them, alternately bowing and bobbing his head.
    Dwllis turned to Etwe. ‘This charming gnostician has brought me an antique memory.’
    Etwe took the device. ‘Standard silicon, probably found in the Old Quarter. I could manufacture an interface for that.’
    Dwllis nodded. ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’ He returned his gaze to the creature. ‘What are you doing here, mmm? I’ve not seen one of your kind in here before.’
    ‘Do you think this is an intelligent one?’ Etwe asked.
    ‘Possibly. Go and carry on with your work.’ Dwllis took the hot hand of the gnostician and led it gently into his study, where he