The Scar - China Mieville [276]
Bellis watched as those whom Tanner had told then told others, and they told more, until it was quickly impossible to track the story. It moved under its own momentum. Very soon, most of those who told a garbled story of Hedrigall’s escape from the Scar could not have said how they knew it.
The Lovers had told a great deal of the truth about the Scar, as they understood it, in a popular form. There were few people in Armada who did not know that possibilities spilled from it, that that was the source of its power. Several had seen Uther Doul’s sword switched on: they knew what probability mining did. And here, so deep in the Hidden Ocean, so close to the Scar itself, with its seepage, with probabilities welling up from it like plasma, it was not hard to believe that Hedrigall—this Hedrigall, raving in the lower decks of the steamer—was telling the truth.
And while their own Hedrigall might be thousands of miles away, fled weeks ago, adrift above the ocean or crashed or surviving as a hermit on some foreign land or drowned in the sea, the Armadans accepted that the one they had picked up was a nigh-man. A refugee from a terrible Bas-Lag in which Armada had been lost.
“Two days ago,” Bellis heard one woman say with a dreadful awe. “All of us, we’ve been dead for two days.”
It was a warning. No one could possibly miss that.
While the sun crossed toward the lowest quarter of the sky, the story spread its fingers, passing into all the ridings. Its presence clogged up the atmosphere.
Hedrigall was hidden, and the Lovers made a stupid mistake by staying below, trying to work out plans. Over their heads, Tanner vented and ran from ship to ship, spreading word.
On the Grand Easterly, Bellis waited, remembering Hedrigall’s story—remembering it so that it filled her head, and she saw all the dreadful collapse again. She did not try to evaluate what he had said. It was a story, an awesome story, awesomely told. That was all that was important.
She watched the Armadans come and go around her, debating and conferring darkly. There were plans, she could see that; there was movement. Something was coming to a close.
Time moved quickly. The sun was low. All over Garwater, workshops were closing, their workers amassing, converging on the Grand Easterly.
At six o’clock the Lovers emerged. Some sense of what was happening had filtered down to them, some inchoate awareness that their riding and their city were in crisis.
They came out into the light, followed by Uther Doul, wearing hard and nervous expressions. Bellis saw them blink with shock at the ranks of their citizens who faced them. Scores lined up like a ragged army: hotchi and cactacae among the humans, even the Garwater llorgiss.
Above them, twitching as his nerves died in the light, was the Brucolac. And at their head, standing a little forward, his chin pushed out, facing the Lovers, was Tanner Sack.
The Lovers looked out at their men and women, and Bellis was certain that she saw them flinch. She glanced at them and then ignored them, staring past them at their mercenary. Uther Doul did not meet her eyes.
“We have spoken to Hedrigall,” the Lover began, her voice not showing any anxiety.
Shockingly, Tanner Sack interrupted her.
“Spare us,” he said. All around him, people glanced at each other, held by the force of his voice.
The Lovers stared at him, their eyes widening very slightly, their faces inscrutable.
“Enough lies,” Tanner said. “We know the truth. We know where Hedrigall—this maybe-Hedrigall, the one you’ve locked away, hiding him from us—we know where he’s been. Where he’s from.”
He moved forward, and the mass moved up behind him, shuffling, determined.
“Jaddock,” Tanner shouted, “Corscall, Guddrunn, you lot, go find Hedrigall. He’s down there somewhere. Bring him out here.” A group of cactacae stepped forward nervously toward the Lovers and Uther Doul, and the door behind them.
“Stop!” shouted the Lover. The cactacae halted and looked to Tanner. He moved forward, and the