Perdido Street Station - China Mieville [32]
Lemuel’s existence was precarious. He was unscrupulous and brutal—vicious when necessary. If the going ever got dangerous, he would leave anyone with him in a trail of his dust. Everyone knew that. Lemuel never hid it. There was a certain honesty about him. He never pretended that you could trust him.
“Lemuel, you young science fiend, you . . .” Isaac said. “I’m conducting a little research. Now, I need to get hold of some specimens. I’m talking anything that flies. And that is where you come in. See, a man in my position can’t be trogging around New Crobuzon looking for fucking wrens . . . a man in my position should be able to put the word out and have winged things fall into his lap.”
“Put an ad in the newspapers, Isaac old chum. Why’re you talking to me?”
“Because I’m talking plenty plenty, and I don’t want to know where it comes from. And I’m talking variety. I want to see as many different little flying things as I can, and some of them ain’t easy to come by. Example . . . if I wanted to get hold of, say, an aspis . . . I could pay some buccaneer of a ship’s captain top dollar for a mange-ridden half-dead specimen of same . . . or I can pay you to arrange for one of your honourable associates to liberate some poor stifled little aspis from some fucking gilded cage up in East Gidd or Rim. Capiche?”
“Isaac old son . . . I begin to understand you.”
“Of course you do, Lemuel. You’re a businessman. I’m looking for rare flying things. I want things I’ve never seen before. I want inventive flying things. I will not be paying top whack for a basket full of blackbirds—although please don’t take that to mean that blackbirds aren’t wanted. Blackbirds are welcome, along with thrushes, jackdaws and what have you. Pigeons, Lemuel, your very own namesake. But what’s even more welcome are, say, dragonfly-snakes.”
“Rare,” said Lemuel, looking intently at his pint.
“Very rare,” agreed Isaac. “Which is why serious amounts of dosh would change hands for a good specimen. You get the idea, Lemuel? I want birds, insects, bats . . . also eggs, also cocoons, also grubs, anything which is going to turn into a flying thing. That could be even more useful, actually. Anything which looks set to be up to dog-sized. Nothing too much bigger, and nothing dangerous. Impressive as it would be to catch a drud or a wind-rhino, I don’t want it.”
“Who would, Isaac?” agreed Lemuel.
Isaac stuffed a five-guinea note into Lemuel’s top pocket. The two men raised their glasses and drank together.
That had been yesterday evening. Isaac sat back and imagined his request worming its way through New Crobuzon’s criminal alleys.
Isaac had used Lemuel’s services before, when he had needed a rare or forbidden compound, or a manuscript of which there were only a few copies in New Crobuzon, or information on the synthesis of illegal substances. It appealed to Isaac’s sense of humour to think of the hardest elements of the city’s underworld earnestly scrabbling for birds and butterflies in between their gangfights and drugs deals.
It was Shunday the next day, Isaac realized. It had been several days since he had seen Lin. She didn’t even know about his commission. They had a date, he remembered. They were meeting for dinner. He could put his research aside for a little while and tell his lover everything that had happened. It was something he enjoyed, emptying his mind of all its accumulated odds and ends, and offering them to Lin.
Lublamai and David had gone, Isaac realized. He was alone.
He undulated like a walrus, scattering papers and prints all over the boards. He turned his gasjet off and peered up out of the dark warehouse. Through his dirty window he could see the great cold circle of the moon and the slow pirouettes of her two daughters, satellites of ancient, barren rock glowing like fat fireflies as they spun around their mother.