The Scar - China Mieville [20]
It was not long before matters of state were discussed, information that must come from the upper echelons of New Crobuzon’s parliament: details about when and if ambassadors would be replaced, about possible trade treaties with other powers, and how such arrangements would impact on relations with Salkrikaltor.
Bellis found it easy to close her ears to what she said, to pass such information straight through herself. Not out of patriotism or fealty to New Crobuzon’s government—of which she felt none—but out of boredom. The secret discussions were incomprehensible, the little snippets of information that Bellis spoke underwhelming and tedious. She thought instead of the tons of water above them, intrigued that she felt no panic.
She worked automatically for some time, forgetting what she said almost immediately it was out of her mouth.
Until suddenly she heard the captain’s voice change, and she discovered that she was listening.
“I have one further question, Your Excellency,” said Captain Myzovic, sipping his drink. Bellis coughed and barked the Salkrikaltor sounds. “In Qé Banssa, I was ordered to check a bizarre rumor passed on by the New Crobuzon representative. It was so preposterous I was certain there had been a misunderstanding. Nevertheless, I detoured around the Fins—which is why we are late for this meeting.
“During our diversion I discovered to my . . . dismay and concern that the rumors were true. I bring this up because it concerns our good friendship with Salkrikaltor.” The captain’s voice was hardening. “It is to do with our concerns in Salkrikaltor waters. At the southern edge of the Fins, as the councilors know, are the . . . vitally important investments for which we pay generous mooring rights. I am speaking, of course, of our platforms, our rigs.”
Bellis had never heard the word rigs used so, and she spoke it smoothly in Ragamoll. The crays seemed to understand. She kept her translation automatic and smooth, but Bellis listened in fascination to every word the captain spoke.
“We passed them after midnight. First one, then another. All was as it should be, both for the Manikin and Trashstar rigs. But, councilors . . .” He sat forward, put down his glass, and stared at them predatorily. “I have a very important question. Where is the other one?”
The cray officials stared at the captain. With slow, comic simultaneity, they looked at each other, then back at Captain Myzovic.
“We confess . . . to confusion, Captain.” The translator spoke softly for his leaders, his voice unchanging, but for the briefest second Bellis caught his eye. Something passed between them, some shared astonishment, some camaraderie.
What are we party to, brother? Bellis thought. She was tense, and craved a cigarillo.
“We have no knowledge of what you speak,” her opposite number continued. “We are not concerned with the platforms, so long as mooring rental is paid. What has happened, Captain?”
“What has happened,” said Captain Myzovic, his voice tight, “is that the Sorghum, our deep-sea rig, our mobile platform, is gone.” He waited for Bellis to catch up with him, and then waited some more, stretching the silence. “Along, I might add, with her retinue of five ironclads, her officers, staff, scientists, and geo-empath.
“The first word that the Sorghum was no longer at its mooring point reached Dancing Bird Island three weeks ago. The crews of the other rigs were asking why they had not been told of the Sorghum’s orders to relocate. No such order had been given.” The captain put down his glass and stared at the two cray. “The Sorghum was to remain in situ for another six months at least. It should be where we left it. Council Leader, Councilor—what has happened to our rig?”
When Skarakatchi spoke, the translator mimicked his soft tones. “We know nothing.”
Captain Myzovic knotted his hands. “This happened barely a hundred miles away, in Salkrikaltor waters, in a region your navy and hunters regularly patrol, and you know nothing?” His tone was controlled