"Right," said Lydia, standing back with exhaustion, "I suppose you look more or less presentable. There are a lot of important dignitaries in there, so you need to look the part."

"The part of what?"

"An expert, of course. Remember, you're a Velvet Paw of Asquith and have lots of experience in this sort of thing. What's more, you're the only one who can explain who and what the Ar'dath-Irr is. "

Again, he said nothing. Having officially resigned during the last book, none of what he'd offer should come as surprise. "How are my ears?"

"Quite vertical."

"They're upright?"

When she nodded, he had a quick feel to be certain.

"Are you ready?" Her paw was on the door.

"I am," he said, "though I'm wondering whether you are."

Her smile withered. "What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing." He indicated the door. "Let's get on with it."

She refused, however. "What do you mean, Oscar? You're not having second thoughts again?" Her tone had a distinct edge of desperation.

"No, not second thoughts. Still very much my original ones."

Her eyes scissored across his. "This is about the skewered poet, yes?"

"Yes, certainly, though not in the way you're expecting."

She relinquished the door and grabbed his collar with sudden desperation. "Wait a minute—you are going to help with this, aren't you? You're not having second thoughts about helping?"

"Oh, I'll help, all right," he said, unhooking her paws. "I'll do the absolute best that I can."

"Because we need you, Oscar. We've been over this so many times: we need your expertise. You know what the Ar'dath-Irr is more than any of us. You must play your part in this. I might have a talent for extreme violence, and Mironaelk for strategy—and Flumpt for explosives—but you're a Velvet Paw of Asquith!"

He looked at her with a kindness only possible when no longer concerned about consequence: there are none when the world is on the brink. "I prefer the Velvet Poet of Bisarah."

"Oscar—"

Refusing to discuss it further, he pushed through the door. He'd already said enough to her, but had much to say to the Echelon.

There was a rolling thunder of murmur arose as a vast sea of animals turned. He swallowed. If he was to become a famous poet—if only for a fortnight—then public speaking was inevitable. Lydia was right: what is a recital if not public speaking?

He felt rather like the D'dôdô-Sette, despite the absence of applause. Unlike his previous visit, this time the auditorium's vast, domed ceiling was not supported by columns of midday sun. Instead, a rose and gold of evening bathed everything in more of the luminous terracotta that had become a theme throughout the trilogy. Air still smelt of dust and aged wood, and the animals' rolling murmur soon dissipated into expectant waiting.

Circular seating spiralling down to the auditorium's stage was pregnant with animals in robes and sashes. Some held flags and banners, though neither did much in the absence of breeze. That it looked even more like an enormous theatre than last time only encouraged his determination not to be involved militarily. He wondered how this theatre's grandeur compared with other venues across Bisarah, and whether he could get a discount on hiring, before realising there would be no need, considering any payment would be in hugs. Presumably he wouldn't need to charge for tickets, either, which would mean no empty seats. He felt a shiver of excitement at imagining success akin to the D'dôdô-Sette's.

He began a descent to the stage, uncomfortable beneath their gaze, despite knowing they considered him particularly talented, thanks to the accolades of Mironaelk, Letherin and the Boeviss. The Daily Spoon had already run several articles on him, and while Lydia's beauty had dominated the front page over the days since the beast crash-landed, it was he who'd been featured in editorials, especially after an early interview with Flumpt resulted in the inadvertent incineration of the newspaper's staffroom. When questions arose as to who had been flying the prototype balloon and whether they should know better, Oscar had advised that, strictly speaking, it had been an animal known as the Ar'dath-Irr, and that yes, he most certainly should. Flumpt, however, had stated for the record that if it wasn't for their heroics in Kilerete's balloon, Bisarah would have lost far more than its palace's wing. Before any journalists could ask what he meant, Flumpt brought out some buns that inevitably exploded. Following everyone's discharge from hospital, Oscar had been left to answer for him, since Flumpt was refused further admittance. When asked again about heroics, he reminded those journalists whose ears still worked that the sun had gone out and that it had been difficult to see anything. Although this had been met with communal understanding, it didn't explain how a prototype balloon could set fire to everything it sailed across, until Oscar reminded them of Flumpt's involvement, which was met with even more. Mironaelk had commended his explanation, describing Oscar as quite the diplomat, and when The Daily Spoon shared said editorials with neighbouring publications such as The Cutlery Drawer and Ladle Monthly, not only had Oscar, Lydia and Flumpt become overnight sensations, but so had the Ar'dath-Irr, though for very different reasons.

Despite everyone now being aware that something extremely serious was threatening the world, of which Oscar apparently knew a great deal, it was also thought that the size of the curry required to counter it was inconceivable. As a result, the Palace of Bisarah had organised a meeting of the Echelon, an enormous conglomerate of animals from all over the place to determine what to do about it. However, despite the Echelon's understanding of his pivotal role in countering recent horrors, Oscar intended addressing them as a poet rather than a mercenary, because that's what he was.

The Boeviss noticed his arrival also.

"Mister Dooven," the dog said, indicating him with a robed paw. "We are relieved at your return. I was rather concerned that some more horrid things had happened again that needed more of your remarkable expertise."

"No," said Oscar. "I just went for a quick pooh."

The paw withered. "Indeed? I trust it went well?"

"It's certainly elsewhere, if that's what you mean."

It wasn't, and the paw fell.

The auditorium was enormous so the exchange was shouted, which unnecessarily highlighted its faecal theme. Oscar didn't mind, however, as the first rule of theatre is to get an audience's attention, with the second being not boring them to death.

"We were just discussing, Mister Dooven, the direness that threatens to ruin us all."

"Well, that's rather unnecessary, considering I flushed."

"I'm sorry?"

"I flushed. After my pooh."

"No, I mean we were talking about the inconceivable horror that has befallen our land."

"I know. I had to do some scraping, admittedly, but most of it peeled off in the end. I think it's all the pumpkin."

"Pumpkin?"

"Yes. I'm not used to it, you see. Especially in curries. A decent hot-fin would sort my tummy out. Even a bad one. I have a distinct feeling that its lumps would work as a sort of intestinal broom."

Still descending aisles, he pondered incorporating this style of entrance into his recital, considering the astonished sea of stares it had elicited, and he wondered whether anything similar had ever been done by the D'dôdô-Sette. He'd need to get his lines right, however, as one wrong step would have him cartwheel in a sprawl of paws and profanity down to centre-right with none of the finesse he'd aspire to. Considering the awed stares of those he passed, he suspected that even if he personally painted their snouts with said faeces, he'd probably get a standing ovation before even reaching the stage.

They'd probably be considered autographs.

Here, he could do no wrong.

Here, he was already a theatrical avant-garde genius.

Concerned, Mironaelk stood and joined the Boeviss, whose confusion threatened to infect the first three rows and cause a nasty rash on the fourth.

"Oscar," she said, "perhaps you would be good enough to offer you contribution to proceedings?"

"But I've already flushed."

"Oscar—"

"I can't go again, just like that, Mironaelk. And even if I could, I'd require a bucket at the very least, and a mop, as bits of it were quite squirty. I suppose if we got enough mugs we could then share it around, but I honestly fail to see what the benefit would be, unless anyone here is a doctor." He stopped to address the audience. "Is anyone here a doctor?"

The third rule was audience participation.

Nearby, a paw rose hesitantly, but then retracted when its owner realised the extent to which she was out of her depth, clinically. He glanced back at Lydia, who had covered her face with paws and was shaking all three in a slow synchronisation.

As he neared the stage, Mironaelk's disappointment became increasingly apparent, though was countered by the Boeviss' utter bewilderment. On the thrones behind them, Letherin and his mother sat, and Kilerete too, while the Returned Poet stood to one side along with Flumpt.

It was quite the gathering.

There was a distinct rumble in his wake, as the audience's mutters of awe and confusion grew, both of which he intended exploiting. He climbed onto the stage and strode across it. Ignoring Mironaelk's concern, he smiled at the Boeviss, who returned it with one of relief, as smiles were rather more familiar in this world.

He took the lectern and looked at the audience. It towered up and away, as though an avalanche of dignitaries was imminent. Their number made him feel like an internationally celebrated bard of even greater standing than the D'dôdô-Sette, and he wondered what the reformed cat would make of such unearned triumph.

Although encouraging editorials did much for confidence, having ears helped far more, and he fiddled with both to ensure were upright and pointing forward.

He glanced at Mironaelk, whose concerns had become encouraging nods that he begin. He looked at the Returned Poet too, whose attention remained elsewhere, perhaps still ruminating over the discovery of his flayed colleague. Oscar felt for him, the dog's despair having crusted into a cloak of dark, sintering magma that sectioned him from the world. Flumpt, however, offered encouraging nods also and a small wave.

At the top of the auditorium, Lydia stood. She didn't wave, though, still concerned about what might follow. He would give a lecture on the Ar'dath-Irr, certainly, but not one she or her colleagues might anticipate.

He tried channelling the D'dôdô-Sette. Despite it having been three books ago, post-traumatic stress tends to linger.