The Scar - China Mieville [226]
This is what everyone’s been chasing.
This magus fin.
Bellis did not know what had changed. Doul seemed to have forgiven her. His vicious demeanor had altered. He had come here to show her what they had found, to talk to her as he had done be-fore. She was nervous: she felt all uncertain of him.
“What will you do with it?” she said.
Uther Doul was rewrapping the figurine in a wet cloth. He shook his head.
“We’ve no time to examine this properly, not yet. Not now. There are too many other things to be done; too much is unfolding. We’ve been . . . distracted. This comes at a bad time.” He spoke without inflection, but she sensed that there was more than that, as he hesitated.
“And anyway, it’s done things to Fennec. It’s changed him.
“Even he doesn’t understand what, or if he does he’s saying nothing. No one knows what forces the grindylow can tap. We can’t reverse what’s happened to Fennec, and we don’t know what the full effects are. No one’s willing to become this statue’s new lover.
“So we’ll store it, somewhere safe, till we finish our project, till we reach our objective and have time and scholars to study this thing. We’ll keep all that’s happened quiet, but in case anyone did discover what Fennec brought on board, I think we’ll keep it somewhere no one would think, or dare, to look for it. Somewhere everyone knows there’s already a charmed treasure or two, and where they know the risks of trespass are just . . . too severe.”
As he said that, Doul stroked the grip of the Possible Sword for an unthinking instant. Bellis noticed it and knew where the magus fin would be hidden.
“And where,” she said slowly, “is Fennec?”
Doul stared at her. “Taken care of,” he said, and nodded briefly toward the corridor outside. “Held.”
There was a silence that stretched out.
“What are you doing here?” said Bellis eventually, quietly. “How long have you believed me?” She studied him, her confusion exhausting her. Since I stepped onto this fucking city, she thought with sudden clarity, I’ve been on the edge of my nerves, every moment. I’m tired.
“I always believed you,” he said, his voice expressionless. “I never thought you summoned New Crobuzon deliberately, though I know—I’ve always known—you have no love for this place. When you came to me before, I was expecting to hear something else.
“Listening to Fennec, hearing him talk, trying to stay silent, trying to implicate you, admitting the truth . . . He’s saying different things with every minute. But the truth is obvious: you were stupid,” Doul said without emotion. “You believed him. Thought you were . . . what? What did he tell you again? Saving your city. You weren’t out to destroy us; you were trying to save your homeland so that one day you could return to it, still whole and saved. You weren’t trying to destroy us; you were just stupid.”
Bellis’ face was set. She was burning.
Doul watched her. “You were caught up in it, weren’t you?” he said. “In the idea of . . . connecting with your home. The fact of doing something. That was enough, wasn’t it? You . . . saving your city.”
Doul spoke in a soft monotone, and Bellis looked down at her hands.
“I bet,” he continued, “that if you ever did think about what you’d been told . . . I bet you felt uneasy.”
He said it almost kindly. The maggot of doubt was alive again, grubbing through Bellis’ head.
“There was nothing of him,” said Doul, “in the Wordhoard.
“His berth down in the hold, it was clean and dry. His walls were covered with notes, pinned everywhere. Diagrams telling him who’s whose man or woman, and who runs what, and who owes whom. It was damned impressive. He’d learnt everything he needed. He had . . . spliced himself into the city’s politics. Always keeping himself hidden. Different rendezvous for different informants, and different names—Simon Fench and Silas Fennec were only two of many.
“But nothing of him. He’s like an empty doll. Those notes everywhere, like posters, and a little hand printing press, and ink and grease. His clothes in a trunk, his notebook in his bag—that