You tell your secret to an uncharacteristically solemn assessor-devil in a room muffled with black velvet and hung with glass mobiles: triangles, circles, crescent moons. He watches the mobiles, not you, as you speak, but he nods when you’re done.
"The season of revolutions," he tells you, "threw down the thrones. But their old occupants still lair in the mists. We’ll root them out. Have you heard of the Brimstone Convention? It doesn’t matter. It won’t matter much longer. We’ll " - his talons convulse - "level them yet."
He rises to shake your hands, and commends you to a saucily smiling deviless. She leads you to the stairs reserved for demons and the ‘delect’. They move, these stairs, descending like the moving steps in Moloch Street.
"Here’s your desk," the deviless purrs as you enter a warm bright room, decorated with pictures of imaginary cities, slick resinous ornaments in bright colours, art in invisible colours. "Here’s your little throne. These machines will bring you noise and sustenance, and whisper to you of the city outside. Just… keep doing what you’re doing, will you? The Bazaar likes it. And we only want it to be happy, don’t we?"