The Scar - China Mieville [174]
“And it was cold—colder than anything we could imagine. The world was enveloped in layers of ice and frost—the very gases, the very aether piled up in bergs and walls, chilled more solid than stone.”
He gave Bellis a faint smile.
“That was the Ghosthead homeland. Imagine what kind of creatures might live, might survive in such a place; how hungry they might be for rest. That’s why they left.”
She said nothing.
“Do you know what I mean,” Doul said, “by the belief in the Broken Country?”
Bellis furrowed her brow, then suddenly nodded. “In New Crobuzon we call it . . .” She thought for the translation. “The Fractured Land Hypothesis. I once had a friend who was a scientist. He was always talking about things like this.”
“The Broken Country, across an impossible sea,” said Doul. “I spent a long time, in youth, studying myths and cosmogony. Fractured Land, Ghosthead Country, the Verses of the Day.
“The Ghosthead came here from the universe’s eastern rim. They passed the rock globes that circulate in the sky—another, more evanescent kind of world than ours on the infinite plateau—and came here, to a land so mild it must have seemed like balm: an endless, gentle midmorning. And its rules were not theirs. Its nature was debatable.
“There are some who say that when they landed, the force of it was enough to unleash the chaos of Torque, up from the vent. That’s fable. But their arrival was violent enough to smash open the world—reality itself. The Fractured Land is real, and was their doing. You break something . . . what’s inside spills out.
“When I left my first home, I spent years studying that breakage. Searching for techniques and instruments to make sense of it, control it. And, when I came here, the Lovers saw things in what I’d learnt that I hadn’t imagined.
“Think of the Ghostheads’ power, their science, their thaumaturgy. Imagine what they could do, what they did do, to our world. You see the scale of the cataclysm of their arrival. Not just physically—ontologically. When they landed, they fractured the world’s rules as well as its surface. Is it a surprise that we whisper the name of the Ghosthead Empire in fear?”
And yet, thought Bellis, reeling with the heretic philosophy, and yet it was we who put paid to the Ghosthead. Through the Contumancy, and then the Sloughing Off. Weak as we are.
“They say you led the Contumancy,” she said.
“I lead nothing,” said Doul sharply, surprising her, “not anymore. I’m a soldier, not a leader. High Cromlech . . . it’s a caste world. You grew up in a mercantile city, so you take it for granted. You can have no idea of the liberation of selling your services, doing what your employer tells you. I am not a leader.”
Uther Doul walked with her through the Grand Easterly’s corridors.
When he stopped at one of the numerous intersections, she thought for a sudden second that he would kiss her, and her eyes widened. But that was not his intention.
He put his finger to his lips. “I want you to learn something,” he whispered, “about the Lovers.”
“What are their names?” Bellis said in tired anger. “I’m sick of the . . . the mystery, and I don’t believe you can’t remember.”
“I can,” said Uther Doul. “Of course I can remember. But what they were once called is not at all the point. They’re the Lovers now. You’d better learn that.”
Doul led her into the lower decks. He took her away from sound, away from the patrols. What is this? thought Bellis, excited and unnerved. They were now in dark, very quiet portions of the ship. There were no windows; they were below the waterline, in a long-deserted place.
Finally Doul ducked below a snarl of pipes and ushered her into a tiny chamber. It was not a room, just a little found space. All the surfaces were dusty, and the paint was peeling.
Doul gently put his finger in front of her lips.
Bellis was aware that meekly following Doul, fraternizing with him, was not sensible behavior from one who had been deeply involved in counter-Garwater