Perdido Street Station - China Mieville [128]
Rudgutter smiled back and shook his head.
“You know my views on that, ambassador,” he replied levelly. “I’ll not be drawn, I’m afraid. You can’t provoke me into existential fear, you know.” He gave a polite little laugh, to which the ambassador responded in kind. As did his horrendous echo. “My soul, if such exists, is my own. It is not yours to punish or covet. The universe is a much more capricious place than that . . . I asked you before, what do you suppose happens to dæmons when you die? As we both know you can.”
The ambassador bowed his head in polite demur.
“You’re such a modernist, Mayor Rudgutter,” he said. “I won’t argue with you. Please remember my offer stands.”
Rudgutter waved his hands impatiently. He was composed. He did not flinch at the pitiable screams which shadowed the ambassador’s words. And he did not allow himself to experience any disquiet when, as he stared at the ambassador, the image of the man in the chair flickered for a tiny sliver of a second, to be replaced by . . . something else.
He had experienced this before. Whenever Rudgutter blinked, for that infinitesimal moment, he saw the room and its occupant in very different forms. Through his eyelids, Rudgutter saw the inside of a slatted cage; iron bars moving like snakes; arcs of unthinkable force, a jagged, rippling maelstrom of heat. Where the ambassador sat, Rudgutter caught glimpses of a monstrous form. A hyaena’s head stared at him, tongue lolling. Breasts with gnashing teeth. Hooves and claws.
The stale air in the room would not allow him to keep his eyes open: he had to blink. He ignored the brief visions. He treated the ambassador with wary respect. Such was also the dæmon’s attitude to him.
“Ambassador, I’m here for two reasons. One is to extend to your master, Its Diabolic Majesty, the Czar of Hell, the respectful greetings of New Crobuzon’s citizens. In their ignorance.” The ambassador nodded graciously in response. “The other is to ask your advice.”
“It is always our great pleasure to aid our neighbours, Mayor Rudgutter. Especially those such as yourself, with whom Its Majesty has such good relations.” The ambassador rubbed its chin absently, waiting.
“Twenty minutes, Mayor,” hissed Vansetty into Rudgutter’s ear.
Rudgutter pressed his hands together as if in prayer, and looked at the ambassador thoughtfully. He felt little gusts of force.
“You see, ambassador, we have something of a problem. We have reason to believe that there has been a . . . an escape, shall we say. Something that we are very concerned to recapture. We’d like to ask your help, if we may.”
“What are we talking about, Mayor Rudgutter? True Answers?” asked the ambassador. “Usual terms?”
“True Answers . . . and perhaps more. We’ll see.”
“Payment now, or later?”
“Ambassador,” said Rudgutter politely. “Your memory momentarily falters. I am in credit two questions.”
The ambassador stared at him a moment and laughed.
“So you are, Mayor Rudgutter. My deepest apologies. Proceed.”
“Are there any unusual rules of the moment, ambassador?” asked Rudgutter pointedly. The dæmon shook his head (great hyaena tongue briefly slavering from side to side) and smiled.
“It is Melluary, Mayor Rudgutter,” it explained simply. “Usual rules in Melluary. Seven words, inverted.”
Rudgutter nodded. He composed himself, concentrating hard. Got to get the damn words right. Bloody infantile bloody game, he thought fleetingly. Then he spoke quickly and levelly, gazing calmly into the ambassador’s eyes.
“Correct escaped what’s of assessment our is?”
“Yes,” replied the dæmon instantly.
Rudgutter turned briefly, gazed meaningfully at Stem-Fulcher and Rescue. They were nodding, their faces set and grim.
The mayor turned back to the dæmon ambassador. They stared at each other without speaking for a moment.
“Fifteen minutes,” hissed Vansetty.
“Some of my more . . . fusty colleagues would look very askance at me allowing you to count ‘what’s’ as one word, you