The Scar - China Mieville [173]
When probably a minute had passed, and Uther Doul had said nothing, Bellis spoke.
“I was . . . very interested to hear the story of your youth,” she said. “I admit that I hadn’t previously been sure of High Cromlech’s existence—until I met you. However, apart from the whispers about the land of the dead and defeating the Ghosthead Empire, I’ve lost your trail of rumors.” She was not practiced at the kind of hard humor for which she was trying, but he moved his eyebrows to signify a pretense at amusement. “I’d be very pleased if you wanted to tell me more about what happened after you left High Cromlech. I doubt I’ve ever met anyone so traveled. Have you ever . . . ?” She paused, suddenly anxious, and he replied to her.
“No. I’ve never visited New Crobuzon,” he said. He seemed to be fretting, in his poised, silent way.
“You aren’t sure you believe what I told you about my sword, are you?” he said suddenly. “I don’t blame you. It isn’t nearly old enough, you were thinking. What do you know about the Ghosthead Empire, Miss Coldwine?”
“Little,” she admitted.
“Of course, though, you know that they were in no way human—or khepri, vodyanoi, strider, or what have you. These were not xenian in the sense we usually mean it. Whatever prints and descriptions you may have seen are fallacious. The question What did they look like? has no straightforward answer. This weapon—“ He indicated his belt. “—is so obviously shaped for human hands, you might have thought my claims about its provenance a lie.”
Bellis had had no thoughts at all about the shape of the Possible Sword, as Uther Doul must have known.
“You’re not seeing the sword,” he went on softly. “Only one aspect of it. It’s contextual—as was so very much for the Ghosthead. I take it you’ve read some of their Imperial Canon? Even as translations of translations of translations, even with all the additions and omissions and commentary that implies, there are some extraordinary things there. Especially the Covertiana.” He sipped his wine.
“Some purport to be passages from the earliest days of the arrival of the Ghosthead in Bas-Lag, before the Empire began.” He blinked at Bellis. “Certainly,” he said as if she had disputed him. “Arrival. The Ghosthead were not native to this world.”
Bellis knew the myths.
“There is one passage . . . ,” Doul mused (and Bellis realized with consternation how his wonderful voice was lulling her). “ ‘The Verses of the Day.’ Perhaps you know them? ‘Redoubtable, tail flicking, swimming over a plain of worlds, past orbs, lights in the night’s blindness.’
“That describes the Ghostheads’ journey from . . . their place to Bas-Lag. In the belly of a metal fish swimming through a dark sea of stars. But what’s most interesting is the description of their home, where they came from. It has been confused with hell.”
Uther Doul sat on his crib, and did not speak for some time.
Is this why I’m here? thought Bellis suddenly. Is this what he wants to tell me? He was like a boy, wanting her there but quite uncertain what to do.
“It describes the morning coming with ‘ferrous cataracts and a wall of fire,’ ” he said eventually. “The entire eastern sky was ablaze with light and heat enough to blind anyone looking up even from the bottom of a sea, to ignite the air, burn the mountains, liquefy metal. Far, far hotter than the heart of any foundry. Morning broke, and the world burned.
“Within minutes the wall of heat had risen and curved above them, directly overhead, blotting out the sky and burning every atom of gas in the air. And then, as the minutes went on, the fire shrank, until its edges became visible, and it was a disc. And the heat began to ebb away a little, though the oceans were still molten iron.
“The fire in the sky receded, moving west, as the day passed. By midmorning, the disc had shrunk further, and it was the sun, nearly at the far horizon. By noon it was much smaller, and the land was very cold.
“The sun shrank and traveled west in a long, drawn-out dusk, and the Ghosthead homeworld became icier