['Everything,' he'd like to tell her: the music of the city and the river and the breeze drawing notes from every instrument in its path. It's beautiful, what he can hear, and probably only Lyra can appreciate it like he can. She might even understand it better than Perseus does. For him, the wind's roaring joy in his ears, both in flight and in freefall, is a part of the song, and she's a little more traditionally musical.

Either way, that's neither a helpful nor pertinent answer. He closes his eyes, blocking out the distraction of his own gold and autumn image, and listens.]

I'm not... sure. [Immediately, though:] Big one at 10 o'clock, a handful of underlings scattered around it. Sounds like rocks falling. Or wrecking machines.

[That, at least, he sounds sure about. Sentinel Perseus frowns, fingers twitching in the air from which he draws his weapons.]

But there's some kinda--distortion behind it, or--if you can cover me for a sec, I'll figure it out. Yeah?