The Scar - China Mieville [118]
There was a burst of birdsong behind her. She had no idea, nor did she care, what breed it was that sang, but she listened with ignorant pleasure. And then, as if announced by the avian fanfare, Silas walked slowly into view.
She started and began to rise, but he did not slow as he passed close to her.
“Sit,” he said curtly, and stood by the guardrail, leaning out over the edge of the ship. She froze and waited.
He stood, without looking at her, some distance away. They stayed like that for a long time.
“They’ve been watching your rooms,” he said at last. “That’s why I’ve not been coming. That’s why I’ve stayed away.”
“They’re tracking me?” said Bellis, hating how ineffectual she sounded.
“This is my business, Bellis,” Silas said. “I know how it’s done. Interviews can only tell them so much. They need to check up on you. You shouldn’t be surprised.”
“And . . . they’re watching now?”
Silas shrugged fractionally.
“I don’t think so.” He slowly turned. “I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure.” His mouth was hardly moving as he spoke. “They’ve been outside your house for four days. They were with you at least to the outskirts of Shaddler. I think they lost interest there, but I don’t want to risk it.
“If they connect us, if they realize that their translator consorts with Simon Fench . . . then we’re fucked.”
“Silas.” Bellis spoke with cold resignation. “I’m not their translator. I’ve not been asked to go with them. I think they must have someone else—“
“Tomorrow,” he said. “They’re going to ask you tomorrow.”
“Is that right?” Bellis said calmly. Her insides, though, were shuddering, with excitement or foreboding or something. She controlled herself and did not ask him What are you talking about? or How do you know?
“Tomorrow,” he repeated. “Believe me.”
She did. And she felt almost sick suddenly, watching him penetrate layers of intrigue without apparent effort. His tentacles of
influence and information were sunk so deep, he was like some parasite living off information, siphoning it from beneath the city’s skin. Bellis looked at him with wary respect.
“They’ll come for you tomorrow,” he went on. “You’ll be in the landing party. The plan’s as we discussed it. They’re allowing two weeks on the island, so you’ll have a fortnight to get the information to a Dreer Samher vessel. You’ll have everything you need to get them to go to New Crobuzon. I’ll get it to you.”
“Do you really think you can persuade them?” said Bellis. “They don’t often sail north of Shankell—New Crobuzon’s about a thousand miles out of their way.”
“Jabber, Bellis . . .” Silas’ voice remained hushed. “No, I can’t persuade them. I’ll not be there. You have to persuade them.”
Bellis clucked her tongue, irritated with him, but said nothing.
“I’ll bring what you need,” he said. “A letter in Salt and Ragamoll. Seals, advice, papers, and proof. Enough to convince the cactus traders to go north for us. And enough to let the New Crobuzon government know what’s happening. Enough to protect them.”
The park shifted with the waves. The sculptures creaked as they corrected. Neither Bellis nor Silas spoke. For a while there was only the sound of water and birds.
They’ll know we’re alive, thought Bellis. At least, they’ll know he’s alive.
She stopped that thought, quickly. “We can get word to them,” she said decisively.
“You’ll have to find a way,” said Silas. “Do you realize what’s at stake here?”
Don’t treat me like a fucking imbecile, she thought furiously, but he caught her eye for a second and seemed quite unabashed.
“Do you realize,” he repeated, “what you’ll have to do? There’ll be guards, Armadan guards. You’ll have to get past them. You’ll have to get past the anophelii, for