Iron Council - China Mieville [203]
There were guards around the sprawling train-town now for fear of militia and of the bandits. Mostly the brigands that came, fReemade and whole, came to join the Council. They arrived daily, wondering if they had to audition, show their worth. The Councillors welcomed them, though some fretted about spies. There was too much chaos in those last days to worry. Cutter saw newcomers everywhere, with their tentative enthusiasm. Once with a start he thought he saw a man attached backward on a horse’s neck.
Walking back through the cold at night, through a startled gust of rock pigeons, Cutter heard a voice. Deep in his ear.
“Come up here. I’ve something to tell you. Quiet. Please. Quietly.”
“Drogon?” Nothing but the idiot fluting of the birds. “Drogon?” Only small stones skittering.
It was not a command but a request. The susurrator could have made him come, but had only asked.
Drogon was waiting in the dark hills overlooking the train.
“I thought you’d gone,” Cutter said. “Where’d you go?”
Drogon stood with an old white-haired man. He held a gun, though it was not aimed.
“This one?” the old man said, and Drogon nodded.
“Who’s this?” said Cutter. The old man held his arms behind his back. He wore an old-fashioned waistcoat. He was eighty or more, stood tall, looked at Cutter sternly, kindly.
“Who is this Drogon? Who the fuck are you?”
“Now, lad . . .”
“Quiet,” said Drogon peremptorily in Cutter’s ear. The old man was speaking.
“I’m here to tell you what’s happening. This is holy work and I would not have you not know. I’ll tell you the truth, son: I had and have no interest in you.” He spoke with a singing cadence. “I was here to see the train. I’ve been wanting to see the train a long time, and I come by darkness. But your friend”—he indicated Drogon—“insisted we speak. Said you might want to hear this.”
He inclined his head. Cutter looked at the gun in Drogon’s hand.
“So here is what it is. I am Wrightby.”
“Yes, I see you know me, you know who I am. I confess gratification, yes. I do.” Cutter breathed hard. Godsfuckingdamn. Could it possibly be true? He eyed Drogon’s gun.
“Stand still.” A whispered command. Cutter stood tall so fast his spine cracked. His limbs were rigid. “Hold,” Drogon said.
Jabber . . . Cutter had forgotten what it was to be so ordered. He shook, tried to curl his fingers.
“I am Weather Wrightby and I am here to tell you thank you. For this thing you’ve done. Do you know? Do you know what it is you’ve done? You crossed the world. You crossed the world, something that’s needed doing as long as I’ve lived, and that you did.
“More than once I tried, you know. With my men. We did what we could. Cut through the mountains, through creeping hills. Smokestone. All the landscapes. You know them. We tried, we died, we turned back. Eaten, killed. Taken by cold. Again and again, I tried. And then I was too old to try.
“All this”—he swept his arm up—“all this metal trail from New Crobuzon to the swamps, the split, to Cobsea, to Myrshock, it was something. But it wasn’t what I worked for. Not really. Not my dream. You know that.
“No: that other thought, of iron stretched from sea to sea, that was mine. The continent cut open. From New Crobuzon west. That was mine. That’s history. That’s what I been fighting for, wanting. You know it, don’t you, all of you? You know that.
“I won’t pretend you didn’t rile me. You did, of course you did, you riled me when you took my train. But then I saw what you were doing . . . Holy work. Much more than you’d been charged with. And while it weren’t the easiest for me to see, I’d not stand in the way of that.” Weather Wrightby shone; his eyes were passionate and wet. “I had to come see you. I had to tell you this. What you’ve done, what you did. I salute you.”
Cutter