The Scar - China Mieville [256]
“Let’s have some rationality . . . We don’t need the fucking beast. We don’t need to haul arse across the world—we never have. The point’s not that some fucker centuries ago built those chains; the point is that they were left empty. And if we survive this lunacy, as long as we’re tethered to the bastard avanc these two will take us on another fucking voyage, and another, until we all die.
“That’s not our logic, Doul; that’s not how Armada works. That’s not why we came here. I will not let them end this.”
“Brucolac,” Doul said, “you do not make this choice.”
Slowly, the vampir’s eyes widened, and hard lines broke his face.
“Gods . . . You know I’m right, Uther, don’t you? I can fucking see it on you. So what are you doing?” he hissed. “What do you have planned?”
“Deadman,” Doul spoke softly. “You will stand down.”
“You think so, Liveman Doul?” the Brucolac whispered. His voice was coarse with swallowed rage. Long strings of slaver stretched down from his extended teeth. The bones in his hands cracked as he closed his fists. “You think so? You’re a fine soldier, Liveman Doul. I’ve seen you fight. I’ve fought beside you . . . But I’m more than three centuries old, Doul. You take on a couple of my cadre, and you think you can face me? I killed my way to this city before you were born. I won my riding in war and fire. I’ve butchered things no liveman has even seen.
“I am the Brucolac, and your sword won’t save you. You think you can face me?”
The corridors of the Grand Easterly were absolutely empty. Bellis wound through the passageways, down stairways toward the jailhouse, her footsteps coming back to her in echo.
Even the hallway where Fennec was imprisoned was deserted, its guards summoned to defend Garwater like all the others. That was the bargain, Bellis understood suddenly. That was the deal. These empty corridors were what the Brucolac had delivered to the intruders.
Only the two thaumaturges outside Fennec’s cell had been left, and they were dead. Blood was still slicking across the floor as Bellis approached the corpses. The man had been attempting some hex, and little arcs of energy spat and dissipated like static from his fingers, which spasmed as his nerves died. The woman was next to him, splayed and opened.
Bellis was clumsy with fear, which welled up like vomit in her. She hovered outside the cell, standing in the blood, her hand poised to open the door, held back by terror. She battled with herself, utterly unsure of what to do.
Just throw it in there, a part of her said. Just leave it by the door, just run, just get out. And at that second there was a scream from inside the room, a dreadful panicked noise all full of terror. Bellis echoed it, crying out in horror, and she threw open the door and stepped in.
“It’s here!” she screamed, ripping the cloth from the hideous statue and holding it like an offering. “Stop! I’ve got it here. Stop! Take it; you can take it and go!”
At the far side of the room, separated from her by the bars, Silas Fennec was crawling backward, screaming again, driving himself into a corner of his cell. He did not even look at her. He was scrabbling like a child, gazing in a stupefaction of terror at what had come for him.
With a horrible slowness, turning her head through thick air, Bellis followed his line of vision, and with a spasm of cold shock that made her stumble, she saw the grindylow.
There were three. They were staring at her.
They jutted prognathous jaws, their bulging teeth frozen in meaningless grimaces, massive eyes absolutely dark and unblinking. Their arms and chests were humanoid, tightly ridged with muscles and stretched