The Scar - China Mieville [179]
In New Crobuzon, what was not regulated was illicit. In Armada, things were different. It was, after all, a pirate city. What did not directly threaten the city did not concern its authorities. Bellis’ message, like other secrets, did not have to strive to be covert, as it might back home to avoid the militia. Instead, it sped through this wrangling city with ease and speed, leaving a little trail for those who knew how to look.
“You wanted me.”
Silas was standing by Bellis’ bed. She had not yet undressed. She was sitting with her knees up, reading a book by gaslight. A moment before, she had been alone.
More thaumaturgy, Silas? she thought.
It was the evening of the tenth Scabdi of Hawkbill, the last day of the quarto—a festival. The streets were loud; people were drunk, shouting and laughing. The ships and streets were draped with colored bunting. The air was full of fireworks and confetti (and still the work went on below the water).
“I do,” she said.
“You want to be careful. You don’t want to advertise yourself as dealing with dissidents.”
Bellis laughed. “Jabber and fuck, Silas. You should see the list of your—or Mr. Fench’s—supposed friends. They include bigger fish than me, by far. Is it true you drink with Hedrigall?” He did not reply. “So I don’t think anyone’s going to care about me.”
They eyed each other quietly. How many times have we done this? Bellis thought hopelessly. Communed secretively—over tea, in my room, at night, to discuss what we do and don’t know . . . ?
“They’re planning something,” she said, and her own conspiratorial tone almost reduced her to bitter laughter. “The avanc’s not the end of it. Aum’s learning Salt in double-quick time, and they’ve taken him off to some new secret project. Even some of the scientists involved are feeling cut out. There’s a core—Tintinnabulum, the Lovers, Aum—and this time Uther Doul’s part of it. They’re planning something.”
Silas nodded. It was obvious that he already knew.
“So?” Bellis demanded. “What is it?”
“I don’t know,” he said, and she could not tell if she believed him.
“If we can work out what they’ve planned,” she said, “we might still be able to . . . to get out of here.”
“Sincerely,” he said slowly, “I can’t work out what their plan is. If I find out, I’ll tell you. Of course.”
They studied each other.
“I gather Uther Doul’s courting you,” he continued. He was not trying to be unpleasant, but his smirk was irritating.
“I don’t know what he’s doing,” Bellis said curtly. “Sometimes I think that’s exactly it—he’s courting me—but if so, by gods he’s out of practice. Sometimes I think he has other motives, but I can’t make sense of them.”
Again silence. Outside, a cat began to wail.
“Tell me, Silas,” Bellis said. “This is your world. Is there any kind of serious opposition to their project? Serious, I mean? And if there is, could we use it to get out of here? Can it help us?”
What exactly might I have in mind? she wondered. We’ve sent a message to our home port. We’ve saved it, for Jabber’s sake. There’s nothing else to be done. There are no factions to win over. There’s no one we might persuade to take us home.
Whatever Silas claimed about trying to escape, the way he submerged into Armada’s hinterland, ducked out of sight, became Simon Fench, suspended himself in a web of deals and rumors and favors and threats—these were survival tactics. Silas was adjusting.
There was nothing for Bellis to do. No schemes she could engage in, no secret plans.
She still dreamed of that river between New Crobuzon and Iron Bay.
No, she thought fiercely, uncompromisingly. Whatever the truth, whatever the case, however hopeless the cause—I do not give up on escape.
It had taken her quite some effort to reach this coldly burning pitch of anger, of desire for escape, and to relinquish it now would