Perdido Street Station - China Mieville [199]
Please, he prayed to human and then khepri gods, Solenton and Jabber and . . . and the Nurse and the Artist . . . let her have died without pain.
But he knew that she was probably beaten or tortured before she was dispatched, and the knowledge made him mad with grief.
The summer stretched out the daylight as if on a rack. Each moment was drawn out until its anatomy collapsed. Time broke down. The day progressed in an endless sequence of dead moments. Birds and wyrmen lingered in the sky like particles of filth in water. Church bells rang desultory and insincere praise for Palgolak and Solenton. The rivers oozed eastward.
Isaac and Derkhan looked up in the late afternoon when Yagharek returned, his hooded cloak fast bleaching in the scouring light. He did not speak of where he had been, but he brought food, which the three of them shared. Isaac composed himself. He battened down his anguish. He set his jaw.
After unending hours of monotonous daylight glow, the shadows moved across the faces of the mountains beyond. The west-facing sides of buildings were stained a slick rose by the sun before it slid behind the peaks. The valedictory spears of sunlight were lost in the rock duct of Penitent’s Pass. The sky was lit for a long time after the sun had disappeared. It was still darkening when Lemuel returned.
“I’ve communicated our predicament to a few colleagues,” he explained. “I thought it might be a mistake to make hard plans till we’ve seen whatever we’re going to see tonight. Our appointment in Griss Twist. But I can call on a little aid, here and there. I’m using up favours. Apparently, there’s a few serious adventurers in town right now, claiming to have just liberated some major trow haul from the ruins in Tashek Rek Hai. Might be up for a little paid work.”
Derkhan looked up. Her face creased in distaste. She shrugged unhappily.
“I know they’re some of the hardest people in Bas-Lag,” she said slowly. It took some moments for her to turn her mind to the issue. “I don’t trust them, though. Thrill-seekers. They court danger. And they’re quite unscrupulous graverobbers for the most part. Anything for gold and experience. And I suspect if we actually told them what we’re trying to do, even they’;d balk at helping. We don’t know how to fight these moth-things.”
“Fair enough, Blueday,” said Lemuel. “But I tell you, right at the moment I’ll take whatever the fuck I can get. Know what I mean? Let’s see what happens tonight. Then we can decide whether or not to hire the delinquents. What d’you say, ’Zaac?”
Isaac looked up very slowly and his eyes focused. He shrugged.
“They’re scum,” he said quietly. “But if they’ll do the job . . .”
Lemuel nodded. “When do we have to go?” he said.
Derkhan looked at her watch. “It’s nine,” she said. “An hour to go. We should leave half an hour to get there, for safety’s sake.” She turned to look through the window, out at the glowering sky.
Militia pods rushed overhead as skyrails thrummed. Elite units of officers were stationed throughout the city. They carried strange backpacks, full of odd, bulky equipment hidden in leather. They closed the doors on their disgruntled colleagues in the towers and struts, waited in hidden rooms.
There were more dirigibles than usual in the sky. They cried out to each other, booming vibrato greetings. They carried cargoes of officers, checking their massive guns and polishing mirrors.
A little way from Strack Island, further into the Gross Tar, beyond the confluence of the two rivers, was a little stand-alone island. Some called it Little Strack, though it had no real name. It was a lozenge of scrub, wooden stumps and old ropes, used very occasionally for emergency moorings. It was unlit. It was cut off from the city. There were no secret tunnels that connected it to Parliament. No boats were anchored to the mouldering wood.
And yet that night its weed-strewn silence was interrupted.
MontJohn Rescue stood in the centre of a