The Scar - China Mieville [163]
She was one of the last to leave the room. As she reached the door, Bellis looked up at Uther Doul, who was blocking it, and realized that he was not looking at her at all. He was gazing across the room, his eyes and mouth as still as glass, meeting the eyes of the Brucolac.
The Lovers had gone. All the other representatives had gone. Only Uther Doul and the vampir were left, and between them Bellis.
She was desperate to leave, but Doul’s feet were planted as if he were about to fight. She could not push past him, and she was afraid to speak. The Brucolac stood with his unkempt hair wild and his moist lips parted, that ghastly snake tongue fluttering in the air. Bellis was trapped, motionless, between them. They ignored her completely.
“Still content, Uther?” the Brucolac said. His voice never rose above an unpleasant whisper.
Uther Doul did not respond. The Brucolac coldly mummed laughter.
“Don’t think this is ended, Uther,” he said. “We both knew the outcome of this charade. This is not where things are decided.”
“Deadman Brucolac,” said Doul, “your concerns about this project have been noted. Noted, and disregarded. Now if you will excuse me, I have to escort Krüach Aum and his translator to their quarters.” Doul did not take his eyes from the vampir’s pale face.
“Did you notice, Uther,” said the Brucolac urbanely, “that the other little squabblers have finally realized that something is up?” He walked slowly toward Uther Doul. Bellis was frozen. She wanted very badly to leave this room now. For years she had wrapped herself in layers of focus and cold control. There were few emotions she could not master in herself.
It appalled her to realize that the Brucolac was terrifying her. It was as if his voice modulated exactly with her fear.
The room was dark, the gaslights out and the few candles guttering. She could see nothing but his tall figure, moving as easy as a dancer (as easy as Uther Doul), approaching.
Doul was silent. He did not move.
“You heard Vordakine ask what was to happen next. I told you she was the best of them. They’re finally working it out, Uther,” the Brucolac whispered. “When will you tell them, Uther? When do they get to hear the plan?
“Do you really think,” he continued with sudden still ferocity, “that you could face me? Do you think you can defeat me? Do you think your project can continue without my consent? Do you know . . . what I am?”
He spoke rapidly then in a language of coughing swallows, as if the dialect itself resented every sound it allowed to escape.
The speech of High Cromlech.
Whatever he said, it opened Uther Doul’s eyes wide for several moments. Then he, too, advanced.
“Oh yes, Brucolac,” Doul said. His voice was as hard and edged as flint. He gazed over Bellis as if she were not there, straight at the vampir. “I know exactly what you are. I, more than anyone, know exactly what you are.”
The men stood a few paces apart, unmoving, with Bellis between them like a reluctant referee.
“I give you the courtesy of the gentry’s title, Deadman,” hissed Doul. “But you’re no more gentry than me. You’re ab-dead, not thanati. You forget yourself, Brucolac. You forget there’s another place where your kind are given leave to live openly. Where your refugees flee. You forget that where the dead rule and protect the quick, there’s nothing to fear from you. You forget that there are vampir in High Cromlech.” He pointed at the Brucolac.
“They live beyond the quick ghetto. In hovels. In the shantytown.” He smiled. “And every night, after the sun’s descended, they can crawl safely out from their shacks and shuffle into the town. Stick figures in rags, leaning against the walls. Exhausted and starving, hands outstretched. Begging.” His voice was soft and vicious. “Begging for the quick to take pity on them. And every so often one of us will acquiesce, and out of pity and contempt, embarrassed by our