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not to choke or snap, but to support the neck and spine. The young men and women are stripped naked and fitted with the nooses and lowered into the void. Their arms and legs are left unbound. And then, from the clotted darkness of the main stem, comes a gabbling, flapping sound, and the beasts rise up. Their bodies are reminiscent of a fly's but have the bulk of an eagle's, and indeed their flights recall a fly's haphazard orbiting of a garbage heap. Their wings are leathery, long-vained; their faces variously resemble painted masks, desiccated apes, frogs, spiders, every sort of vile monstrosity. Their mouths are all alike, set with needle teeth and fringed with delicate organelles like the tendrils of a jellyfish. As with any great evil, study of them will yield a mass of contradictory fact and legend. The folk of the plain and forest will tell you that they are the final transformation of the Yoalo slain in battle, and this is their Valhalla: to inhabit the roots and crevices of Moselantja and feed upon the unfit. Of course since the higher ranks of the Yoalo model their energy masks upon the faces of the beasts, this is no doubt a misapprehension.

'There are watchers upon the battlements of Ghazes, old men and women who stare at the failed recruits through spyglasses. As the beasts clutch and rend their prey, these watchers note every twitch and flinch of the dying, and if their reactions prove too undisciplined, black marks are assigned to the cadres from which they had been expelled. Many of the recruits are native-born to Moselantja, and these are watched with special interest. Should any of them cry out or attempt to defend themselves or use meditative techniques to avoid pain, then his or her parents are asked to appear the next day at Ghazes for similar testing. And should they betray the disciplines, then their relatives and battle-friends are sought out and tested until the area of contagion is obliterated. Occasionally a seam of such weakness will be exposed, one which runs throughout the turrets, and entire cadres will be overthrown. Such is the process of revolution in Moselantja...'

As he read, Jocundra tried to force her mind away from the unpleasant details, but she could not help picturing the hanged bodies in stark relief against the purple sun, rivulets of blood streaming from their necks as the beasts idly fed, embracing their victims with sticky insect legs. When he had finished, she was unable to hide her displeasure.

'You don't like it,' he said.

She made a noncommittal noise.

'Well,' he said, blowing on his fingers as if preparing to crack a safe. 'I know what you do like.'

She laughed as he reached for her.

A knock on the door, and Mr Brisbeau stuck in his head. 'Company,' he said. He was hung over, red-eyed from last night's bottle; he scowled, noticing their involvement, and banged the door shut.

Hard slants of rain started drumming against the roof as they dressed. In the front room a broad-beamed man was gazing out the window. Dark green palmetto fronds lashed up behind him, blurred by the downpour. He turned, and Jocundra gasped. It was Papa Salvatino, a smile of Christian fellowship wreathing his features. He wore a white suit of raw silk with cutaway pockets, and the outfit looked as appropriate on him as a lace collar on a mongrel.

'Brother Harrison!' he said with sanctimonious delight and held out his hand. 'When I heard you was the wonder-worker down on Bayou Teche, I had to come and offer my apologies.'

'Cut the crap,' said Donnell. 'You've got a message for me.'

It took a few seconds for Papa to regain his poise, a time during which his face twisted into a mean, jaundiced knot. 'Yes,' he said. "Deed I do.' He assessed Donnell coolly. 'My employer, Miss Otille Rigaud... maybe you heard of her?'

Mr Brisbeau spat. Jocundra remembered stories from her childhood about someone named Rigaud, but not Otille. Claudine, Claudette. Something like that.

'She's a wealthy woman, is Miss Otille,' Papa went on. 'A creature of diverse passions, and her rulin' passion at present is the occult. She's mighty intrigued with you, brother.'

'How wealthy?' asked Donnell, pouring a cup of coffee.

'Rich or not, them Rigauds they's lower than worms in a pile of shit,' said Mr Brisbeau, enraged. 'And me I ain't havin' their help in my kitchen!'

Papa Salvatino beamed, chided him with a waggle of a finger. 'Now, brother, you been cockin'