Perdido Street Station - China Mieville [130]
Stem-Fulcher and Rescue were silent. They thought of the screams, the tortured, maniacal tone they had heard outside, the idiot ruined gibbering that seemed to make a mockery of the ambassador’s devilish refinement . . .
They reflected that that might be the more genuine voice.
“I’m wondering if we were wrong to think of them having a different psychic model. Maybe they’re comprehensible. Maybe they think like us. And the second thing, bearing in mind that possibility, and bearing in mind what the ‘echo’ might tell us about the dæmoniac state of mind, is that at the end there, when I was trying to cut a deal, the ambassador was scared . . . That’s why he wouldn’t come to our aid. That’s why we’re on our own. Because the dæmons are afraid of what we’re hunting.”
Rudgutter stopped and turned to his aides. The three gazed at each other. Stem-Fulcher’s face twisted for a fragment of a second, and was then composed. Rescue was as impassive as a statue, but he plucked fitfully at his scarf. Rudgutter nodded as they pondered.
There was a minute of silence.
“So . . .” Rudgutter said briskly, clasping his hands. “The Weaver it is.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
That night, in the swollen dark hours after a brief spew of rain had hosed the city down with dirty water, the door to Isaac’s warehouse was pushed open. The street was empty. There were minutes of stillness. Night-birds and bats were all that moved. Gaslight guttered.
The construct rolled jerkily out into the deep night. Its valves and pistons were swathed in rags and snatches of blankets, muffling the distinctive sound of its passage. It moved forward quickly, turning inexactly and trundling as fast as its ageing treads would move.
It tremored through the backstreets, passed snoring drunks still sodden and insensate. The sallow gasjets reflected secretively in its battered metal hide.
The construct made its swift, precarious way under the skyrails. Inconstant streaks of cirrus hid the lurking airships. The construct bore down like a diviner on the Tar, the river caught in an intricate whiplash shape on the timeless rocks beneath the city.
And hours after it had disappeared over Sheer Bridge into the southern city, when the dark sky became stained by dawn, the construct came reeling back to Brock Marsh. Its timing was fortuitous. It re-entered and locked the door only a little while before Isaac returned from his frantic night-long search for David, and Lin, and Yagharek and Lemuel Pigeon, and anyone who could help him.
Lublamai was lying on a couch that Isaac had rigged up on a couple of chairs. When Isaac came into the warehouse he came straight over to his still friend, whispered to him hopelessly, but there was no change. Lublamai did not sleep or wake. He gazed.
It was not long before David came hurrying back to the laboratory. He had trawled his way to one of his usual haunts to be greeted by a hurried and garbled version of one of the innumerable messages Isaac had left for him throughout New Crobuzon.
He sat as silently as Isaac, gazing at his mindless friend.
“I can’t believe I let you do it,” he said numbly.
“Oh Jabber and fuck, David, d’you think I’m not going over and over it . . . I let the damn thing out . . .”
“We all should’ve known better,” snapped David.
There was a long silence between them.
“Did you get a doctor?” said David.
“First thing I did. Phorgit, from across the road, I’ve dealt with him before. I cleaned up Lub a bit, wiped some of that crap off his face . . . Phorgit