Perdido Street Station - China Mieville [192]
“You know my credit’s good,” Isaac said suddenly. “You know that. Now, I’m not going to pretend I’ve got a massive bank account, I’ve got a bit, there’s a few guineas left, all of it yours . . . but help me, Lemuel, and I’m yours. I’ll work for you. I’ll be your man. I’ll be your fucking pet. Any jobs you want done, I do them. Any money I make, it’s yours. I’ll sign my fucking life to you, Lemuel. Just help us now.”
There was no sound except the dripping of ordure. Behind Isaac, Derkhan hovered. Her face was a study of contempt and disgust. We don’t need him, it said. But still, she waited to hear what he would say. Yagharek stood back. He listened to the argument dispassionately. He was bound to Isaac. He could go nowhere and do nothing without him.
Lemuel sighed.
“I am going to be keeping a running total, you realize? I’m talking about serious debt, you know? D’you have any idea of the daily rate for this sort of thing? The danger money?”
“Doesn’t matter,” breathed Isaac brusquely. He hid his relief. “Just keep me posted. Tell me what I’m accruing. I’ll be good for it.” Lemuel nodded briefly. Derkhan exhaled, very quietly and slowly.
They stood like exhausted combatants. Each waited for the other to move.
“So what now?” said Lemuel. His voice was surly.
“We go to Griss Twist tomorrow night,” said Isaac. “The construct promised help. We can’t risk not going. I’ll meet you both there.”
“Where are you going?” said Derkhan in surprise.
“I have to find Lin,” said Isaac. “They’ll be coming for her.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
It was almost midnight. Skullday was becoming Shunday. The moon was one night off full.
Outside Lin’s tower, in Aspic Hole itself, the few passers-by were irritable and nervous. Market day had passed, and its bonhomie with it. The square was haunted by the skeletons of stalls, thin wooden frames stripped of canvas. The rubbish from the market was piled in rotting heaps, waiting for the dustcrews to transport it to the dumps. The bloated moon bleached Aspic Hole like some corrosive liquid. It looked ominous, shabby and mean.
Isaac climbed the stairs of the tower warily. He had had no way of getting a message to Lin and he had not seen her for days. He had washed as best he could in water filched from a pump in Flyside, but he still stank.
He had sat in the sewers for hours the previous day. Lemuel had not allowed them to leave for a long time, decreeing that it was too dangerous during the light.
“We have to stick together,” he demanded, “until we know what we’re doing. And we are not the most unobtrusive bunch.” So the four of them had sat in a room awash in faecal water, eating and trying not to vomit, bickering and failing to make plans. They had argued vehemently about whether or not Isaac should see Lin on his own. He was absolute in his insistence that he be unaccompanied. Derkhan and Lemuel denounced his stupidity, and even Yagharek’s silence had seemed briefly accusatory. But Isaac was quite adamant.
Eventually, when the temperature fell and they had all forgotten the stink, they had moved. It had been a long, arduous journey through New Crobuzon’s vaulted conduits. Lemuel had led, flintlocks ready. Isaac, Derkhan and Yagharek had to carry the construct, which could not move in the liquid filth. It was heavy and slippery, and it had been dropped and banged and damaged, as had they, falling into the muck and swearing, slamming hands and fingers against the concrete walls. Isaac would not let them leave it.
They had moved carefully. They were intruders in the sewer’s hidden and hermetic ecosystem. They had been keen to avoid the natives. Eventually they had emerged behind Saltpetre Station, blinking and dripping in the waning light.
They had bedded down in a little deserted hut beside the railway in Griss Fell. It was an audacious hideout. Just before the Sud Line crossed the Tar by Cockscomb Bridge,