The Scar - China Mieville [119]
“I will make it happen,” said Bellis coldly, and he nodded slowly. He started to speak again, and for the briefest moment seemed unsure of what to say. “I’ll not . . . have a chance to see you,” he said slowly. “I’d better stay away.”
“Of course,” said Bellis. “We can’t risk anything now.”
His face betrayed an unhappiness, something unfulfilled. Bellis pursed her lips.
“I’m sorry for that, and for . . .” he said. He shrugged and looked away from her. “When you return, and it’s all done, perhaps then we can . . .” His voice petered out.
Bellis felt a flicker of slight surprise at his sadness. She felt nothing. She was not even disappointed. They had sought and found something in each other, and they had business together (an absurdly understated formulation for their project), but that was all. She bore him no ill feelings. She even felt a residue of affection and gratitude to him, like a film of grease. But no more than that. She was surprised by his faltering tone, his regret and apology and hints of deeper feelings.
Bellis discovered, with unfolding interest, that she was not quite convinced by him. She did not believe his insinuations. She could not tell whether he believed them himself, but she knew, suddenly, that she did not.
She found that calming. She sat still, after he was gone, with her hands folded, her pale face immobile and lapped by the wind.
They came and told her that her language skills were requested, that she was to travel on a scientific expedition.
On the Grand Easterly, in one of the low clusters of rooms a scant story or two above the deck, Bellis looked out over the surrounding ships of Garwater and at the Grand Easterly’s bowsprit above them. The ship’s funnels were clean; its masts jutted two, three hundred feet into the sky, as bare as dead trees, their shafts embedded below in striae of dining rooms and mezzanines.
Stretched out across the deck, like a broken fossil, were laid the innards of a huge airship. Curves of metal like barrel straps or ribs; propellers and their engines; massive detumescent gasbags. They stretched for hundreds of feet along the side of the Grand Easterly, skirting the bases of the masts. Gangs of engineers riveted them in place, constructing the enormous thing in segments. The noises and the glow from hot metal reached Bellis through the windows.
The Lovers arrived, and the briefing sessions began.
At night Bellis found herself affected by insomnia. She stopped trying to sleep and tentatively began to write her letter again.
She felt as if everything was occurring at one remove from her. Each day she was escorted to the Grand Easterly. Perhaps thirty-five men and women gathered daily in that room. They were of various races. Some were Remade. One or two, Bellis was sure, came from the Terpsichoria. She recognized Shekel’s companion Tanner Sack, and saw that he recognized her.
Quite suddenly it had become hot. The city had passed, at its groaning rate, into a new stretch of the world’s sea. The air was dry, and it was as warm every day as the rarest moment of a New Crobuzon summer. Bellis did not relish it. She would stare into a new, hard sky and feel herself waning in its influence. She sweated, and smoked less, and wore thinner clothes.
People walked stripped to the waist, and the sky was full of arcing summer birds. The water around the city was clear, and big schools of colorful fish were close to the surface. The byways of Garwater began to smell.
The briefings were given by Hedrigall and others like him—press-ganged cactacae, once pirate-traders from Dreer Samher. Hedrigall was a brilliant orator, his fabler training making his descriptions and explanations sound like wildly exciting stories. It was a dangerous trait.
He told Bellis and her new companions about the island of the anophelii. And, hearing the stories, Bellis began to wonder if she had taken on a task she could not complete.
Tintinnabulum came sometimes to the meetings. Always one or both of the Lovers was present. And sometimes, to Bellis’ unease,