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the food come from?”
    â€œOh, we take it from the humans,” said Angalo airily. “They’re rather stupid, you know.”
    â€œAnd they don’t mind?”
    â€œThey think it’s rats,” sniggered Angalo. “We take up rat doodahs with us. At least, the Food Hall families do,” he corrected himself. “Sometimes they let other people go up with them. Then the humans just think it’s rats.”
    Masklin’s brow wrinkled.
    â€œDoodahs?” he said.
    â€œYou know,” said Angalo. “Droppings.”
    Masklin nodded. “They fall for that, do they?” he said doubtfully.
    â€œThey’re very stupid, I told you.” The boy walked around Masklin. “You must come and see my father,” he said. “Of course, it’s a foregone conclusion that you’ll join the Haberdasheri.”
    Masklin looked at the tribe. They had spread out among the food stalls. Torrit had a lump of cheese as big as his head, Granny Morkie was investigating a banana as if it might explode, and even Grimma wasn’t paying him any attention.
    Masklin felt lost. What he was good at, he knew, was tracking a rat across several fields, bringing it down with a single spear throw, and dragging it home. He’d felt really good about that. People had said things like “Well done.”
    He had a feeling that you didn’t have to track a banana.
    â€œYour father?” he said.
    â€œThe Duke de Haberdasheri,” said Angalo proudly. “Defender of the Mezzanine and Autocrat of the Staff Canteen.”
    â€œHe’s three people?” said Masklin, puzzled.
    â€œThose are his titles. Some of them. He’s nearly the most powerful nome in the Store. Do you have things like fathers Outside?”
    Funny thing, Masklin thought. He’s a rude little twerp except when he talks about the Outside; then he’s like an eager little boy.
    â€œI had one once,” he said. He didn’t want to dwell on the subject.
    â€œI bet you had lots of adventures!”
    Masklin thought about some of the things that had happened to him—or, more accurately, had nearly happened to him—recently.
    â€œYes,” he said.
    â€œI bet it was tremendous fun!”
    Fun, Masklin thought. It wasn’t a familiar word. Perhaps it referred to running through muddy ditches with hungry teeth chasing you. “Do you hunt?” he asked.
    â€œRats, sometimes. In the boiler-room. Of course, we have to keep them down.” He scratched Bobo behind an ear.
    â€œDo you eat them?”
    Angalo looked horrified. “Eat rat ?”
    Masklin stared around at the piles of food. “No, I suppose not,” he said. “You know, I never realized there were so many nomes in the world. How many live here?”
    Angalo told him.
    â€œTwo what?” said Masklin.
    Angalo repeated it.
    â€œYou don’t look very impressed,” he said, when Masklin’s expression didn’t change.
    Masklin looked hard at the end of his spear. It was a piece of flint he’d found in a field one day, and he’d spent ages teasing a bit of twine out of the hay bale in order to tie it onto a stick. Right now it seemed about the one familiar thing in a bewildering world.
    â€œI don’t know,” he said. “What is a thousand?”
    Duke Cido de Haberdasheri, who was also Lord Protector of the Up Escalator, Defender of the Mezzanine, and Knight of the Counter, turned the Thing over in his hands, very slowly. Then he tossed it aside.
    â€œVery amusing,” he said.
    The nomes stood in a confused group in the Duke’s palace, which was currently under the floorboards in the Soft Furnishings Department. The Duke was still in armor, and not very amused.
    â€œSo,” he said, “you’re from Outside, are you? Do you really expect me to believe you?”
    â€œFather, I—” Angalo began.
    â€œBe quiet! You know the words of