In the evenings, Oscar left the palace, keen to avoid Lydia and Mironaelk, or anyone wanting to discuss his attitude. Bisarah’s tall architecture reminded him of home, and he’d taken to nightly strolls through its extent. Not only did it allow escaping Lydia and her irritating palatial entourage, but him afforded the sort of Anonymity in Populous that the term had been originally invented for. It was wonderful to wander busy streets without talking to anyone, and with no chance of bumping into someone he’d prefer being nowhere near. He enjoyed being part of something without actually having to be.

He’d wander along Rue d’ Bisarah, the only named street in the place, for hours. He’d been surprised to learn that, despite the myriad of roads criss-crossing the city, they were not individually named, but were instead considered to be part of the same one. Every intersection, causeway, alley and lane were extensions of, and subsequently called, Rue d’Bisarah. When originally informed of this, the stare he’d given Flumpt had left the dog concerned something violent might follow, which left him assuring Oscar that such nomenclature wasn’t unusual, and that, rather than be irritated, Oscar should think himself lucky that they ended up in Bisarah and not SchmnAaAAl, which didn’t bother naming its streets at all, considering the confusion over the capital and lowercase As, the sequence of which had not been agreed on in any official capacity. Flumpt also pointed out that although another city, Bnna Uhhghten Eracncssd, did have different names allocated for different streets, it was only because spelling Rue d’Bnna Uhhghten Eracncssd was so difficult that an assortment of random permutations had been distributed in the hope that at least one correct iteration existed, somewhere.

Nights in Bisarah was pleasant and mild, and reminded him of Ruen, which might also have been due to the antiquity of the place upon harbour. Although Asquith could be described similarly, it was built in dark stone and had a climate far less clement. Like Ruen, Bisarah felt bright, having been built from white sandstone blocks. Unlike Ruen, however, it had never suffered grievance, nor seen conflict or loss, which had allowed it to bloom, unhindered.

There were no diabolocal Ruling Councils here.

He glanced at passing animals, still amazed that selfishness had not arisen. Although it was understandable that living in a place so beautiful would invariably leave everyone in a good mood, the same could have been said of Ruen, though he would never have suspected the extent of subterfuge that brewed beneath its beautiful façade.

It seemed absurd that similar ideologies had not arisen here.

He looked up at beautiful buildings, wondering to what extent they might have.

Their shiny flanks glittered silver with flickers of amber.

Many of the fires that the beast had started were still burning across the city because residents had been reluctant to extinguish them, not least because, in the right light, they created a rather pleasant ambience. It seemed a pity to douse what were, in effect, very large candles, and everyone likes candles. Moreover, burning infrastructure was quickly adopted as novel street-lighting. This did wonders for nearby restaurants, as the smoke was excellent at reducing mosquito leves, which meant a significant increase in alfresco patronage, while adding the sort of ambience that war zones had been invented for. And considering Bisarah had never experienced anything of the sort, war zones were considered very much a foreign thing and terribly avant-garde.

He stopped to watch some animals involved in the delicate predicament of stoking a fire without making things worse. Many fires had improvised brigades in attendance, formed by volunteers who slopped buckets of water on the flames while others fed it with bits of broken housing. Those whose residences were at the centre of blazes were privileged to be in charge of each fire, and tasked with offering those dousing and feeding the thing with encouragement and curries, the latter surprisingly quick to procure from burning kitchens.

Although ridiculous, such enthusiasm was not without rationale.

A week earlier, The Daily Spoon had run an article on one of the early fire enthusiasts; a cat whose house had been a raging inferno for three days. Having been confined to an upstairs bedroom after the landing had collapsed, he’d been surprised at the benefits of domestic incineration. Not only had it aired the place by destroying most of the ceiling, but had peeled its wallpaper, which was so long overdue for replacement that it no longer resembled anything of the sort. Moreover, being confined to bed for three days had done wonders for his bunions by melting some of the larger ones. As a consequence, allowing the inferno to continue unimpeded in the hope that further benefits might arise seemed most sensible, despite some obvious downsides. When neighbours had initially rallied in a desperate effort to put the thing out, he’d thrown bits of burning bedroom at them until they’d relented and formed instead a sort of confused dousing-feeding rota that resulted in the eventual collapse of a supporting wall. Thanks to the article, the trend soon caught on, with other blazes across the city encouraged to continue in perpetum. Oscar and Lydia had stared in disbelief as Flumpt read the article to them over breakfast; a look that only worsened when he quoted one animal insisting that another reason the fires were not put out was because they had obviously been started for a reason, and he didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, culturally, by interfering with the things.

As a result, all three were left wondering to what extent helping these animals out was in anyone’s best interests.

The fire was well-attended.

On one side, a chain of animals flicked ladles of water at it while another fanned it with spoons. Above them, leaning from a charcoaled remnant of window was an charcoaled dog waving singed flags in an ever increasing futility of directional semaphore.

It certainly afforded the place an air of community.

On the street’s other side, a restaurant bustled with patronage, all of whom glowed in flickering golden amber while watching the antics and consuming meals of food with the sort of wanton abandon more commonly attributed to cabaret.

There was something rather wonderful about the utterly misplaced delight of both brigade and patrons, and Oscar had to admit that it result ed not only in a sense of triumph amidst adversity, but a comradery he’d rarely encounter back home, other than the united uproar over Asquith’s recent parking restrictions. These animals only knew how to make the most of a bad situation, which added to the futility of Lydia and Mironaelk’s determination to help them deal with the worst one imaginable: even if the Ar’dath-Irr burnt this world to a crisp, they’d probably just sit around its smouldering remains and sing songs about their blisters while roasting scalded pumpkins over bubbling magma.

His evening strolls along Rue d’Bisarah reinforced his determination not to be involved. These animals were fine as they were. If the Ar’dath-Irr destroyed the place they’d probably see it as opportunity for the greatest fete in history, despite having nowhere left to hold it.

He turned to watch the restaurant patrons again, amazed to think that if he went over and punched one of them in the face, he’d probably be invited to a party.

Bisarah was a place of such peculiar contrasts, not only with residents’ resilience amidst adversity, but in its appearance. When he’s first seen Bisarah with Flumpt and Lydia from hilltop, it had an extraordinary aura of light and crystal and haze. When strolling through it at night, however, the city was dark and bronzed.

Beneath sun, it shone like soapstone, while beneath stars, it glistened like wet marble. Street lights and blazing infernos leant its towering edifices flickering facets of glint and glow. Although Asquith was renowned for its tall buildings, he’d never seen a place with edifices that towered like these. They were, according to Flumpt, testament to Bisarah’s history of conviviality. In the absence of conflict, everything is able to grow, unhindered. Pruning, however, existed for a reason, and it seemed the Ar’dath-Irr was an avid gardener in that respect.

There were sudden cheers from both patrons and brigade when smouldering rafters collapsed, which left the charcoaled dog pivoting dangerously until one of the flags was used to pry a piece of singed wall into a makeshift floor amidst a shower of rising sparks. This resulted in a rousing chorus of Please Pour Some Petrol On My Burning House from everyone, including the charcoaled dog; a song composed a week earlier by one of Bisarah’s leading acapella singers, and which had become a sot of unofficial anthem of the current political climate.

He continued onwards.

There was a restaurant ahead that he’d dined in the night before. Not only were its meals of food excellent, but it didn’t contain Lydia, Mironaelk or Flumpt. It was, however, popular, and despite what had befallen Bisarah over recent weeks, there was no indication that such trauma staunched anyone’s enthusiasm for eating out and generally having a good time.

Two more corners and a second inferno later, and he reached a restaurant no less popular than the one he stopped outside previously. He peered through its little windows at animals jostling for more space to wield their cutlery.

He pushed through its door.

“Good evening, Mister Dooven,” said a neatly manicured dog sporting a menu and apron, both of which were splattered with bits of meal. “I’m delighted to see you again. Would you like your regular table?”

“I wasn’t aware that I had a regular table.”

“What about the one you were seated at last night?”

“Was that my regular table?”

“It will be if you sit at it again.”