Perdido Street Station - China Mieville [224]
With the passage of the sun, the air over New Crobuzon slowly thickened. The light was thick and yellow as corn-oil.
Aerostats swam through that solar grease, eddying back and forth across the urban geography in a weird half-random motion.
Isaac and Derkhan stood in the street beyond the dump’s wire. Derkhan carried a bag, Isaac carried two. In the light, they felt vulnerable. They were unused to the city day. They had forgotten how to live in it.
They skulked as insignificantly as they could, and ignored the few passers-by.
“Why the godsdamn did Yag have to piss off like that?” hissed Isaac. Derkhan shrugged.
“He seems restless, all of a sudden,” she said. She thought, then continued slowly. “I know it’s bad timing,” she said, “but I find it . . . quite moving. He’s such a . . . an empty presence most of the time, you know? I mean, I know you get to talk to him in private, you know the . . . the real Yagharek . . . But most of the time he’s a garuda-shaped absence.” She corrected herself harshly. “No. He’s not garuda-shaped, is he? That’s the problem. He’s more of a man-shaped absence. But now . . . well, he seems to be filling up. I’m beginning to sense that he wants to do something or other, and doesn’t want to do something else.”
Isaac nodded slowly.
“I know what you mean,” he said. “There’s definitely something changing in him. I told him not to leave and he just ignored me. He’s definitely becoming more . . . wilful . . . if that’s a good thing.”
Derkhan was staring at him curiously.
She spoke slowly.
“You must be thinking of Lin all the time,” she said.
Isaac looked away. He said nothing for a moment. Then he gave a quick nod.
“Always,” he said abruptly, his face collapsing into the most shocking sadness. “Always. I can’t . . . I haven’t time to mourn. Yet.”
A little way away, the road curved and separated into a small clutch of alleys. From one of these hidden culs-de-sac came a sudden metallic bang. Isaac and Derkhan tensed and flinched backwards against the chainlink fence.
There was a whispering, and Lemuel peered around the corner of the alley.
He caught sight of Isaac and Derkhan, grinned triumphantly. He pushed his hands in a shoving motion, indicating that they should get into the dump. They turned and found their way to the tear in the wire mesh, checked that they were not watched and wriggled through into the wasteground.
They moved quickly away from the street and turned corners in the muck, until they crouched in a space that was hidden from the city. Within two minutes, Lemuel came loping after them.
“Afternoon, all,” he grinned, triumphantly.
“How did you get here?” said Isaac.
Lemuel sniggered. “Sewers. Got to keep out of sight. Not so dangerous with the lot I’m with.” His smile faltered as he took them in. “Where’s Yagharek?” he said.
“He insisted that he had to go somewhere. We told him to stay, but he wasn’t having any of it. He says he’ll find us here tomorrow at six.”
Lemuel swore.
“Why did you let him go? What if they pick him up?”
“Damn, Lem, what in Jabber’s name was I supposed to do?” hissed Isaac. “I can’t sit on him. Maybe it’s some damn religious thing, some bloody Cymek mystical rubbish. Maybe he thinks he’s about to die and he has to say goodbye to his damn ancestors. I told him not to, he said he was going to.”
“Fine, whatever,” muttered Lemuel irritably. He turned to look back behind him. Isaac saw a small group of figures approaching. “These are our employees. I’m paying them, Isaac, and you’re owing me.”
There were three of them. They were immediately and absolutely recognizable as adventurers; rogues who wandered the Ragamoll and the Cymek and Fellid and probably the whole of Bas-Lag. They were hardy and dangerous, lawless, stripped of allegiance or morality, living off their wits, stealing and killing, hiring themselves out to whoever and whatever came. They were inspired by dubious virtues.
A few performed useful services: research, cartography and the like. Most were nothing but tomb raiders. They were scum who died violent deaths,