Part of you understands without recourse to words, even if your higher mind asks questions in a format which renders an answer impossible." He looked… - China Miéville

It’s the first principle, isn’t it? Whoever’s arguing fiercest for violence is the cop.

Word got around. It does that. A city like London was always going to be a paradox, it’s so very riddled with the opposite, so Swiss-cheesed with moral holes. All those alternative pathways to the official ones and to those that made Londoners proud: there’d be quite contrary tendencies.
There, there was no state worth shit, no sanctions but self-help, no homeostasis but that of violence. The specialist police dipped in, and were tolerated as a sect or offhandedly killed like the cack-handed anthropologists. “Oh, here we go, FSRC again,” wink wink stab stab.
Even absent a sovereign, things in London chugged on effectively. Might made right, and that was no moral precept but a statement of simple fact. It really was law, this law enforced by bouncers, bruisers and bounty hunters, venal suburban shoguns. Absolutely Fanny Adams to do with justice. Have your opinions about that, by all means—London had its social bandits—but that was fact.

Destiny's bunk," said the book. "That's why this lot aren't the Propheseers anymore." "From here on in," said Mortar, "we're the Order of Suggesters.