Perdido Street Station - China Mieville [320]
“Godsdamnit,” she said quietly. “I know it’s only a few months, but he . . . he’s your friend. Isn’t he? We can’t just . . . can we just leave him . . . ?” She looked at him and her face creased. “Is it . . . what is it? Is it so terrible? Is it bad enough that it . . . that it cancels everything else out? Is it so terrible?” Isaac closed his eyes.
“No . . . yes. It’s not that simple. I’ll explain when we go.
“I’m not going to help him. That’s the bottom line. I can’t, I fucking can’t, Dee, I fucking can’t. And I can’t see him, I don’t want to see him. So there’s nothing here, so we can go.
“We really must go.”
Derkhan argued, but briefly and without conviction. She was gathering her tiny bag of clothes, her little notebook, even while she said she was not sure. She was caught up in Isaac’s wake.
She scrawled a tiny addendum to the back of Isaac’s note, without opening it. Good luck, she scribbled. We will meet again. Sorry to disappear so suddenly. You know how to get out of the city. You know what to do. She paused for quite a long time, unsure of how to say goodbye, and then wrote Derkhan. She replaced the letter.
She wrapped her scarf about her, let her new black hair slide like oil over her shoulders. It rubbed against the scab left by her ruined ear. She looked out of the window, to where the sky grew thick with evening, then turned and put her arm gently around Lin, helped her walk in her erratic fashion.
Slowly, the three of them descended.
“There’s a bunch of guys over in Smog Bend,” Derkhan said. “Bargemen. They can take us south without any questions.”
“Fuck, no!” hissed Isaac. He looked up from below his hood with wide eyes.
They stood at the end of the street, where the cart had acted as goal for the children hours before. The warm evening air was full of smells. There were loud disagreements and hysterical laughter from a parallel avenue. Grocers and housewives and steelwrights and minor criminals chatted on corners. The lights were emerging with the sputter of a hundred different fuels and currents. Flames in various colours sprang up behind frosted glass.
“Fuck no,” Isaac said again. “Not inland . . . Let’s go out . . . Let’s go to Kelltree. Let’s go to the docks.”
So they walked together slowly south and west. They skirted between Saltbur and Mog Hill, shuffling through the busy streets, an unlikely trio. A tall and bulky beggar with a hidden face, a striking crow-haired woman and a hooded cripple walking in unsteady spasming gait, half-supported and half-pulled by her companions.
Every steaming construct that walked past made them duck their heads uncomfortably away. Isaac and Derkhan kept their eyes down, talking quickly under their breath. They glanced up nervously as they passed below skyrails, as if the militia streaking above them could sniff them out from all that way above. They avoided catching the eyes of the men and women who lounged aggressively on street corners.
They felt as if they held their breath. An agonizing journey. They were tremulous with adrenalin.
They looked around them as they walked, taking in everything they could as if their eyes were cameras. Isaac snatched glimpses of opera posters curling ragged off walls, twists of barbed wire and concrete embedded with broken glass, the arches of the Kelltree rail-link that branched from the Dexter Line, hovering over Sunter and Bonetown.
He looked up at the Ribs that loomed colossal to his right, and he tried to remember their angles, exactly.
With every step they pulled themselves free of the city. They could feel its gravity receding. They felt light-headed. As if they might cry.
Unseen, just below the clouds, a shadow drifted lazily after them. It turned and spiralled as their course became clear. It swept giddily in a moment of lonely