Perdido Street Station - China Mieville [196]
Her mouth quivered in horror. She emitted a mute little cry for her friend. She passed the letter to Yagharek, shaking, controlling herself.
The garuda took it and perused it carefully. His reaction was invisible. He turned to Lemuel, who was examining Lucky Gazid’s corpse.
“This one’s been dead a while,” he said, and accepted the letter.
His eyes widened as he read.
“Motley?” he breathed. “Lin’s been dealing with Motley?”
“Who is he?” shouted Isaac. “Where is the fucking piece of scum . . . ?”
Lemuel looked up at Isaac, his face open and aghast. Pity glimmered in his eyes as he saw Isaac’s tear-stained, snotty rage.
“Oh Jabber . . . Mr. Motley is the kingpin, Isaac,” he said simply. “He is the man. He runs the eastern city. He runs it. He’s the outlaw boss.”
“I’ll fucking kill the fucker, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him . . .” Isaac raged.
Lemuel watched him uneasily. You won’t, ’Zaac, he thought. You really won’t.
“Lin . . . wouldn’t tell me who she’d been working for,” said Isaac, his voice calming slowly.
“I’m not surprised,” said Lemuel. “Most people haven’t heard of him. Rumours, maybe . . . Nothing more.”
Isaac stood suddenly. He dragged his sleeve across his face, sniffed hard and cleared his nose.
“Right, we have to get her,” he said. “We have to find her. Let’s think. Think. This . . . Motley thinks I’ve been ripping him off, which I haven’t. Now, how can I get him to back down . . . ?”
“ ’Zaac, ’Zaac . . .” Lemuel was frozen. He swallowed and looked away, then walked slowly towards Isaac, holding his hands up wide, begging him to calm down. Derkhan looked at him, and there it was again, that pity: hard and brusque, but undoubtedly there. Lemuel was shaking his head slowly. His eyes were hard, but his mouth worked silently as he groped for words.
“ ’Zaac, I’ve dealt with Motley. I’ve never met the guy, but I know him. I know his work. I know how to deal with him, I know what to expect. I’ve seen this before, this exact kind of scenario . . . Isaac . . .” He swallowed and continued. “Lin’s dead.”
“No, she is not,” shouted Isaac, clenching his hands and flailing them around his head.
But Lemuel caught hold of his wrists, not hard or pugnaciously, but intensely, making him listen and understand. Isaac was still for a moment, his face wary and wrathful.
“She’s dead, Isaac,” said Lemuel softly. “I’m sorry, mate. I really am. I’m sorry, but she’s gone.” He moved back. Isaac stood, stricken, shaking his head. His mouth opened as if he was trying to cry out. Lemuel was shaking his head slowly. He looked away from Isaac and spoke slowly and quietly, as if to himself.
“Why would he keep her alive?” he said. “It just . . . It just doesn’t make sense . . . She’s a . . . an added complication, that’s all. Something . . . something it’s easier to dispense with. He’s done what he needed to do,” he said, louder suddenly, raising his hand to gesticulate at Isaac. “He’s got you coming to him. He’s got revenge and he’s got you doing his bidding. He just wants you there . . . doesn’t matter how he gets it. And if he keeps her alive, there’s a tiny chance that she’d be trouble. But if he . . . dangles her like bait, you’ll come for her no matter what. Don’t matter if she’s alive.” He shook his head in sorrow. “There’s nothing in it for him not to kill her . . . She’s dead, Isaac. She’s dead.” Isaac’s eyes were glazing, and Lemuel spoke quickly. “And I’ll tell you this: the best way of getting your revenge is to keep those moths out of Motley’s hands. He won’t kill ’em, you know. He’ll keep them alive, so’s to get more dreamshit out of them.”
Isaac was stamping around the room now, shouting denials, now in anger, now misery, now rage, now disbelief. He rushed at Lemuel, began to beg with him incoherently, tried to convince him that he must be mistaken. Lemuel could