Iron Council - China Mieville [199]
“Most are gone. Some ride tomorrow. These men are nomads, Cutter. Give them your thanks, any coin you can share, that’s all they want.”
“We knew the militia was coming,” Rahul said. “We rode hard.”
“You came out of nowhere.”
“We came out of the trails. Drogon knows them. We came fast. I ain’t never known horses like these men’s. Where’s the monk? Talking of secret trails. Qurabin. Oh no . . . Gods. And Ori? Did he . . . Ori? Gods, gods. And . . .”
“Elsie.”
“Oh gods. No. Oh gods.”
“I didn’t think you could do it,” Cutter said to the Councillors. “I admit that. I was wrong. I’m happy. But it ain’t enough. I told you why Judah ain’t here . . . he’s working on something. In the Collective. But it’s too fucking late. It’s too late. He’s trying to do what he can.
“Listen to me.
“The Collective’s fallen. Shut your mouth, no, listen . . . The Collective was a . . . a dream, but it’s over. It failed. If it ain’t dead by now it’ll be dead in days. You understand? Days.
“By the time the Council comes close to the city . . . the Collective’ll be dead. New Crobuzon’ll be under martial rule. And what then? Killed Stem-Fulcher, it didn’t make a spit of difference: the system won’t be beat—don’t look at me like that, I don’t like it any more’n you. And when you come rolling up saying Hello, we’re the inspiration, on cue, you know what’ll happen. You know what’ll be waiting.
“Every militiaman and -woman in New Crobuzon. Every fucking war engine, every karcist, every thaumaturge, every construct, every spy and turncoat. They’ll kill you in view of the city, and then the hope that you are—you still are—dies when you die.
“Listen. I’ll give you Judah’s message again.
“You have to turn. The Iron Council has to turn. Or leave the train. You come on to New Crobuzon, it’s suicide. You’ll die. They’ll destroy you. And that can’t be. That ain’t acceptable. Iron Council has to turn.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“They’ll destroy you,” he said. “Do you want to die?” he said. “You owe yourself to the world, we need you.”
Of course they would not be persuaded. They continued, pushed through the buckled land leaving the scabs of fight behind them. Cutter showed horror that they would not do as he said, but he had expected nothing else. He made his case and the Iron Councillors answered him in various ways.
Some gave the kind of idiot triumphalism that enraged him. “We beat New Crobuzon before, we’ll do it again!” they might say. Cutter would stare uncomprehending because he saw that they knew what they said was untrue, that it would not be that way. They knew.
Others were more thought-through. They gave him pause.
“What would we be?” Thick Shanks said. The cactus-man etched a cicatrix into the skin of his inner arm, cutting a snake shape with an animal’s tooth. “What would you have us be, bandits? We lived free in a republic we made. You want me to give that up, be a bloody wilderness hobo? I’d rather die fighting, Cutter.”
“We have a responsibility,” Ann-Hari said. Cutter never felt eased in her presence. The fervour in her unnerved him—it made him tired and uncertain of himself, as though she might win him over against his own will. He knew he was jealous—no one had had such an effect on Judah Low as Ann-Hari.
“We’re a dream,” she said. “The dream of the commons. Everything came to this, everything came here. We got to here. This is what we are. History’s pushing us.”
What does that mean? he thought. What are you saying?
“It’s time for us to push through. Whatever happens. We have to come back now, you see?” That was all she would say.
The whispersmith’s friends, his fellow cavalry, disappeared on their horses Remade and whole, becoming dustclouds as they headed east, south. Drogon stayed. Cutter was not sure why.
“What do you want this lot to do? You been in the city . . . you know we’ll be killed if we go.”
“They’ll be killed maybe.” Drogon shrugged. “They know what’s happening. Who’m I to stop them? They can’t stop now. You set yourself on a rail and it comes to be what you do. They have to keep going.”
This ain’t about