Perdido Street Station - China Mieville [180]
Rudgutter nodded slowly as the sense of the words emerged. “It started from here,” he agreed. “This is the centre. This is the source. Unfortunately . . .” He spoke very carefully. “Unfortunately, this is a somewhat inopportune moment. Might I prevail on you to investigate this—which is indeed the birthplace of the problem—in a little while?”
Stem-Fulcher was watching him. Her face was fraught. She listened intently to his responses.
For a strange moment, all the sounds around them ceased. The shots and yells from the warehouse momentarily died. There were no creaks or clanks from the militia’s arms. Stem-Fulcher’s mouth was open, as she hovered ready to speak, but she said nothing. The Weaver was silent.
Then there was a whispering sound inside Rudgutter’s skull. He gasped in consternation, then opened his mouth in outright dismay. He did not know how he knew, but he was listening to the uncanny sound of the Weaver picking its way across various dimensions towards the warehouse.
The officers bore down on Lemuel with a remorseless precision. They tramped across Vermishank’s corpse. They held their shields triumphantly before them.
Above, Isaac and Yagharek had run out of chymicals. Isaac was bellowing, hurling chairs and slats of wood and rubbish at the militia. They deflected them with ease.
Derkhan was as motionless as Lublamai, who lay still on a cot in the corner of Isaac’s living space.
Lemuel let out a desperate yell of rage and swung his powderhorn at his attackers, spraying them with acrid gunpowder. He fumbled for his tinderbox, but they were on him, truncheons swinging. The officer with the stingbox approached, twirling his blades.
The air in the centre of the warehouse vibrated uncannily.
Two militiamen were approaching this unstable patch, and they paused in puzzlement. Isaac and Yagharek each carried one end of an enormous bench, ready to hurl it at the officers below. Each caught sight of the phenomenon. They stopped moving and watched.
Like some eldritch flower, a patch of organic darkness bloomed from nothing in the centre of the room. It expanded into physical reality with the animal ease of a stretching cat. It opened itself, and it stood to fill the room, a colossal segmented thing, a massive spider-presence that hummed with power and sucked the light out of the air.
The Weaver.
Yagharek and Isaac dropped the bench simultaneously.
The militia stopped pummelling Lemuel and turned, alerted by the changing nature of the æther.
Everyone stopped and stared, utterly aghast.
The Weaver had manifested standing directly over two trembling officers. They let out little cries of terror. One dropped his sword as his fingers numbed. The other, more bravely but no less ineffectually, raised a pistol in his violently shaking hand.
The Weaver looked down at the two men. It raised its pair of human hands. As they cringed, it brought one hand down on each of their heads, patting them like dogs.
It raised its hand and pointed up at the walkway, where Isaac and Yagharek stood dumbfounded and afraid. Its unearthly singsong voice resonated in the suddenly quiet room.
. . . OVER AND UP IN THE LITTLE PASSAGE IT WAS IT WAS BORN THE CRINGING THUMB THE TWISTED RUNT THAT FREED ITS SIBLINGS IT CRACKED THE SEAL ON ITS SWADDLING AND BURST OUT I SMELL THE REMNANTS OF ITS BREAKFAST STILL LOLLING OH I LIKE THIS I ENJOY THIS WEB THE WEFT IS INTRICATE AND FINE THOUGH TORN WHO HERE CAN SPIN WITH SUCH ROBUST AND NAIVE EXPERTISE . . .
The Weaver’s head moved with alien smoothness from one to the other side. It took in the room in its multiple and glinting eyes. Still no humans moved.
From outside came Rudgutter’s voice. It was tense. Angry.
“Weaver!” he shouted. “I have a gift and a message for you!” There was a moment of silence, and then a pair of pearl-handled scissors came skittering through the door