Two weeks later, the apprentices of Brokenshire assemble on the green for their graduation day. The whole town is abuzz with excitement and anticipation. A brass band plays, leading a winding procession through the streets before settling in a pagoda in the park. Every tavern is packed with young men and women buying round after round of congratulatory or consolatory drinks. Most other businesses have given their employees the week off work, unless they are selling the kinds of things that could be bought from stalls in the customer-filled town square. The young scribes wear their best uniforms and, when they are called forward, stand in rows, their pens in their front pockets for inspection by Master Burgundy. He looks tired, even compared to usual, although his apprentices imagine that he had probably been pulling late nights, trying to finalise every single detail of the ceremony, as well as grading over a thousand exam papers. Mildred herself has deigned to step outside and oversee the ceremony, her tail curled around the entire span of a hill. Her presence is causing the normally pedantic Master of Ceremonies for the University to become even more obsessed over every fine detail. He runs from the University Hall to the green and back, straightening banners, checking the food for the banquet wasn't being burned, pulling apprentices into the right groups and herding them all into straight lines. They rehearse their ceremony ten times and more but it still didn't feel like enough. It is the biggest day of their lives, and no time in the world can prepare them for finally becoming fully grown men and women.

After the ceremony, they wander through the town square, talking of plans to spend all night in the tavern. As they scans the stalls, buying sausages and roast chestnuts and chocolate crepes, many of them spot one trader in particular who is attracting more attention than the others. Unlike most of the merchants, who are local and sell the students what they already know from experience will attract their eyes, these traders display a range of curiosities from far-off lands, spices and strange statues and clothes of exotic design. Despite the fact that nobody in Brokenshire had ever heard of them before, the crest of the University hangs proudly above their stall, meaning that they have met with the Chancellor's approval. Such an honour is one that the local traders fight viciously over, yet these newcomers have somehow earned the right upon their very arrival. The students remark on this and wonder if they have performed some kind of great deed in service of the town. Maybe they donated a lot of money towards the restoration of the town hall clock after its mysterious malfunction. Maybe, guesses one particularly promising apprentice, they saved the Chancellor from a bear.

Meanwhile, Scribe sits on the wall and shares his dinner with Waterloo. He is happy just to watch the hubbub of everyday life in the town. Nothing has changed about Brokenshire. This fact alone is enough for him.

"Massebot, stop being so miserable!" yells Perfidy, smacking her assistant across the head, "You're putting the customers off! And don't keep staring at the money box like that, you're making us look greedy!"

"I saw someone try and steal it!"

"He was trying to ask you for his change, you moron! Look, those people have left because of you!"

"They weren't coming anywhere near our stall!"

"People decide which stall to go to as soon as they can see them, you know!"

"Hi, Perfidy! Hi, Massebot!" says Scribe cheerfully.

"Oh, thank goodness you're here! Quick, buy something!" mutters Massebot. Perfidy back-hands him again.

"Did everything go well for you today, Scribe?" she asks.

"Oh, yes, thank you!" he said, "I didn't know you two were in town!"

"We only got here a couple of days ago. Look, we have a permanent trading license with Brokenshire! You really do have a good economy for such a small town, don't you? We're selling congratulatory gifts, by the way. This is an Owl Charm from Corona. Its a symbol of intelligence and academic prowess. Its made of real jade!"

"Um, thanks, but I'm not a student and I didn't bring much money out with me today…"

"But you finally handed in your exam today, didn't you? We'll give you a discount for being a good customer! Write him a discount voucher, Massebot."

"No, really, its okay. I don't actually want one…" he said.

"What about a present for Tracy? I know she's not into the traditional presents, but I've got some hand carved spoons from Dagonis. She likes wooden spoons, doesn't she?" enthuses Perfidy.

"We met Paladin Forstenzer, by the way," adds Massebot, "He uncovered a demon cult or something. And he rescued that white cat from a tree again. It was in the Newspaper."

"I said I would find out about getting Brokenshire a Newspaper, didn't I?" Scribe scratches his head, "I clean forgot."

"Oh, the Guild have properly patented their invention now!" she tells him, "If you like, I can pass the message on when I return, that the Library are interested in their work. I'm sure they'd be able to come to an arrangement."

"Interested in ripping you off, she means," mutters Massebot.

"Of course. That's what I meant. Coming to an arrangement," she corrects him, "How are things on your end?"

"Strictly confidential," he tells her.

"I heard a rumour that there's another girl in your life," Perfidy prompts, "Is that also confidential? You are popular with the girls, you know. That scary Tactician lady still talks about you. I heard Hildegard mention your name as well."

Scribe blushes and tries to cha, "Talking of Casandora, do you mind if I hitch a lift with you when you pack up?"

"We weren't talking about Casandora, we were talking about girls! What makes you think we're even going to Casandora? We're intercontinental flying businesspersons now!"

"Then Brokenshire should be only a very quick stop for you – its only on the same continent!"

"Glad to see you haven't changed," says Perfidy, "You never did pay me back that doctor's fee, yet you're asking me for more favours and you even give me cheek in front of customers."

"We haven't got any customers," Massebot points out.

"Hey, whose side are you on?" she glares at him, "To tell you the truth, though, we were going back to Casandora tomorrow, so you're in luck."

"Thank you. I have a couple more things to do, so I'll see you at the ship tomorrow."

"I re-painted it. You'll like its new look," promises Massebot, "I added some flying sharks chasing the flying mermaid."

"Looking forward to seeing it," says Scribe, before darting through the crowd. He runs past the fountain, into which a drunk student has fallen, and down a narrow side street. The creaky old wooden sign with the picture of a messily painted bright red book proclaims that the shop owner is Lawrence. Another sign hung on the door tells him that it is closed but the light is on and he spots a shopkeeper straightening one of the shelves. He pushes the door open and peers around the corner into the dark, dusty recesses of the bookshop. The shelves are as crooked and badly labelled as he remembers but some of the book titles he catches sight of made him feel like a small child in a boiled sweet factory. Rare books and first editions are piled on top of each other precariously on chairs with wobbly legs. He shakes his head at the chaos of it all and calls out a greeting.

"Well, hello there, son. I haven't seen you in a while. You should come round more often!" calls out the shopkeeper.

"I handed my exam in today, father. I was at the ceremony. You missed it."

"I do apologise. The Scribes have been in at every hour of the day, buying this book and that to prepare for the ceremony, and I've been up all night finishing off the accounts for it all!"

"Nice to know your business is doing well. Shouldn't you dust the shelves at some point?"

"Ah, no need. Nobody has that kind of free time, and the customers don't notice in this lighting! Bright lights are bad for books, you know!"

"So is dust…" he mutters but his father doesn't reply.

"How's your mother? Did you go and visit her too?"

"I'm going there later."

"Oh, you should definitely visit her. She'll miss you. Tell her I said hello."

"I will do," he muttered, placing the books on the table.

"Well done for graduating, by the way! I bet you did much better than me on your exams. I've never been good at trying hard. My ambitions aren't that high."

"I know, father, you just want to be left to your books. You should take better care of them, though."

"Are you going to work at the Library, then?"

"No, father, I'm going to follow in my great grandfather's footsteps."

"Huh? See, didn't I tell you? Ambitious," he pauses as he struggles to position a large book on a high shelf, "Your great grandfather was a brilliant man, you know."

"What was he like? Did you know him personally?"

"Well, he was just an old man when I was just a small boy. He had a loud voice. Good cook, he was, good with a wok," he frowns, "But he Ascended when I was very young."

"How did you know he had Ascended?"

"Well, he used to visit the whole family in dreams, to tell us how he was getting on. He looked so splendid in his green robes and big tall hat!" he laughs, "But then he said he had been promoted, and he wasn't allowed to talk to people in the mortal world any more, in case he became too emotionally involved. And that was that. We never saw him again. I suppose we had it better than most people, though. Usually, when your relatives die, you don't get to see them at all."

"I suppose so," says Scribe, "Um… did he tell you anything about his work? What department he was in? Anything like that?"

"Oh, no, he wasn't allowed to talk about it!"

"How did you know he was a Celestial?"

"What d'you mean, Scribe? He was a Bureaucrat who ran the world! What else could he have been? Use your head, child!"

"Sorry," says Scribe, "I should leave. I've got other errands to run."

"I'm sorry I yelled at you, son! I'm proud of you, I really am!"

"Its okay, father."

"Say hello to Grandfather if you do meet him!"

"I will," he muttered. Then walked out again, happy to return to the sunlight, and carried on running down the road.

It occurs to him that he should probably tell them about Imogen. About the girl with whom he now shared a bond closer than any marriage vows. He looked down at his pen with its bright golden-brown feather and thought, no, it isn't something I can put into words. Not any words that another person could understand. Anyway, Father would only start complaining about the age gap. Lord Amidar had told him it was okay because time spent in a timeline that never existed didn't really count, so that was good enough for the two of them.

He wonders how his friends in Brokenshire are doing.

As he walks up to the Temple of Spatula, he is taken by surprised when a heavily armoured woman thunders up to him carrying a kitten in each hand. The kittens seem quite unperturbed.

"SCRIBE! Scribe, guess what! Waterloo and Trafalgar had kittens!" she practically thrusts one of the tiny balls of black and white fluff into his arms, "Tracy says that there is no possible way that an innocent and pure shrine cat such as Waterloo could… you know… so it must be a MIRACLE! An immaculate conception! So they're going to be declared Holy Kittens and I get to be a Witness!"

"Well, you are a Paladin of Spatula now," says Scribe, petting the kitten and smiling when it paws playfully at his face, "Just think, this is probably the most important event in Spatulate history for about fifty years!"

"Do you mock my faith? I shall smite thee, heretic!" she brandishes the kitten at him.

"Is Tracy around?" asks Scribe.

"She's in the back with Paladin-General Forstenzer," says Hildegard, placing the kitten back on her shoulder-plate, where it curls up in the sun, "She'll be happy to see you. She's been praying for you! I… think that means she's your friend, right? There are good things to pray to Spatula for, aren't there?"

"You should know, you're the Paladin!" he sighs, "I think it depends on how carefully you word your prayer."

Anyway, he thinks, I want to see her whether she's happy to see me or not. Especially if she's angry with me. Most of my memories are of her being angry with me. I don't want her to ever be any different to how I remember her.

"The Dragon of Heaven and the Dragon of Earth," Lord Broken told him, "Are the symbols of the Celestial and Infernal Offices respectively. They represent its timeless, cyclical nature, its authority over all planes of existence and its duty to preserve order above all things. The way that the dragons intertwine symbolises the relationship between the two Offices; apart, but together. Overlapping, but with their own separate duties. Often in conflict, but always ultimately working towards the same goals."

"So, is it based on a real Dragon of Heaven and Earth, or are they just a metaphor?" asked Scribe.

"Some of the oldest Celestials and Infernals say that they remember the First Founding of the Order, and they say that the Dragons themselves personally directed them in their duties," replied his Master, "Although it is unlikely that anyone alive today really remembers that far back. The First Founding was at the time of the very creation of the Universe!"

"We aren't immortal?" he asked.

"Nothing's immortal. Ageing isn't just waiting to get older, you know, we all do things that wear us slowly down. Everyone and everything wears out eventually, and they'll be replaced by something new. Some of us are very old, because we're very simple beings, when it comes down to it. We don't have the same freedom and choices that pull people's souls apart. But we can't last forever."

"I wasn't there at the First Founding, but I was there after everything got built, and when the Laws of Nature were being decided," added Lord Amidar, "Now that was an exciting time!"

"Did you see the Dragons?"

"No, no, I was nobody important at the time. They'd never bother appearing in front of me!"

"But you must know more about them than anyone else here!"

"All I really know is that they outrank me, and they live on the moon."

"The Moon, eh?" said Lord Broken, looking up at the sky. Mostly they saw the cogs and wheels of the machinery that controlled the world, slowly turning. It was much the same view as the Infernal Plane, except that you could see the top, not the bottom, and there were less sharp, grinding things and there was no furnace, although you still didn't want to fall into the machinery. You could dimly see the Moon from between two cogs. Scribe hadn't realised you could see it from here.

"Its much larger here than back home," he commented.

"That's because we're closer to it," said Amidar.

"Time to put out the lanterns," interrupted Lord Broken.

"I'll do that!" said Scribe, "Give me the key to the shed!"

Lord Broken laughed and gave the key to his apprentice, who ran off to the shed where the lanterns were kept and began pulling them out. He lit each one and ran with it across the Broken City, climbing up onto the lower cogs and jumping from gear to gear, finding the handles and hooks where they could hang a lantern and placing the looped cord over it. Soon, everywhere would be lit, and the clockwork dolls could begin their night shift. They didn't tire, but they couldn't see in the dark. They weren't perfect, and each one had some small defect that lent a strange kind of creativity to their work. Quite often, Lord Broken's orders weren't taken entirely how he meant them to, but the cogs were always well polished and the world kept turning.