Perdido Street Station - China Mieville [167]
The sculpture loomed darkly at the far end of the room. After she had looked around, idiotically, as if Motley could be hiding unseen in the bare space, she had walked over to examine the piece. She had supposed, a little uneasily, that Motley would join her soon.
She had stroked the khepri-spit figure. It was half finished. Motley’s various legs had been rendered in curling shapes and hyperreal colours. It terminated about three feet from the floor in drooping, liquid undulations. It looked as if a life-size candle in Motley’s shape had been half burned.
Lin had waited. An hour had passed. She had tried to lift the trapdoor and open the door to the passageway, but both were locked. She had stamped on the one and thumped the other, loudly and repetitively, but there was no response.
There’s some mistake, she had told herself. Motley’s busy, he’ll be along shortly, he’s just tied up, but it was totally unconvincing. Motley was consummate. As a businessman, a thug, a philosopher and a performer.
This delay was no accident. This was deliberate.
Lin did not know why, but Motley wanted her to sit, and sweat, alone.
She sat for hours until her nervousness became fear became boredom became patience, and she drew designs in the dust and opened her case to count her colourberries, again and again. Night came, and still she was left.
Her patience became fear again.
Why is he doing this? she thought. What does he want? This was quite different from Motley’s usual playing, his teases, his dangerous loquacity. This was far more ominous.
And finally, at last, hours after her arrival, she heard a noise.
Motley was in the room, flanked by his cactacae lieutenant and a pair of hulking gladiator Remade. Lin did not know how they had entered. She had been alone seconds before.
She stood and waited. Her hands were clutching.
“Ms. Lin. Thank you for coming,” said Motley from a tumorous cluster of mouths.
She waited.
“Ms. Lin,” he continued. “I had the most interesting conversation with one Lucky Gazid the day before yesterday. I suspect you haven’t seen Mr. Gazid for a while. He’s been working for me incognito. Anyway, as you doubtless know, there’s something of a citywide drought of dreamshit at the moment. Burglary is up. As is mugging. People are desperate. Prices have gone quite mad. There simply isn’t any new dreamshit being released into the city. What all this means is that Mr. Gazid, for whom dreamshit is the current drug of choice, is in rather a state. He can’t afford the merchandise any more, even with an employee’s discount.
“So anyway, the other day I heard him swearing—he was in withdrawal and cursing anyone who’d come near, but this was a bit different. D’you know what he shouted as he gnawed himself? Fascinating. It was something along the lines of ‘I should never have given that ‘shit to Isaac!’ “
The cactacae beside Mr. Motley unclasped his massive hands and rubbed his callused green fingers together. He reached up to his uncovered chest, and with a terrible deliberation, he pricked his finger on one of his own spikes, testing its point. His face was impassive.
“Isn’t that interesting, Ms. Lin?” continued Motley with a sickly jauntiness. He began to pace crabwise towards her on his innumerable legs.
What is this? What is this? thought Lin as he approached. There was nowhere for her to hide.
“Now, Ms. Lin. Some very valuable items have been stolen from me. A clutch of little factories, if you like. Hence the lack of dreamshit. And d’you know? I have to admit I’ve been stymied as to who might have done it. Really. I’ve had nothing to go on.” He paused and a tide of icy smiles crossed his multiple features. “Until I heard Gazid. Then it all . . . made . . . sense.” He spat each word.
At some silent signal his cactus vizier strode towards Lin, who cringed and tried to break away, but was too late, as he reached out with his enormous meaty fists and gripped her arms tightly, immobilizing her.
Lin’s headlegs spasmed and she emitted a piercing chymical screech at the pain.