The Scar - China Mieville [45]
“They stole it, Johannes,” she said, and silenced him. “That’s how they’ve got it. Every damned volume in Grand Gears Library is stolen. From ships, from the towns they plunder on the coast. From people like me, Johannes. My books that I wrote that have been stolen from me. That’s where they get their books.”
Something cold was settling in Bellis’ gut.
“Tell me,” she began, and stopped. She drank some wine, breathed deep, and started again. “Tell me, Johannes, that is somewhat remarkable, isn’t it? That out of an entire ocean—an entire fucking ocean—that out of that whole empty sea they should pluck the one ship that was carrying their intellectual hero . . .”
And again she saw in his eye that uncomfortable cocktail of apology and elation.
“Yes,” he said carefully. “That’s the thing, Bellis. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
She suddenly knew what he was going to say, a certainty that nauseated and repelled her, but she liked him still, she really did, and she so wanted to be wrong that she did not stand to go; she waited to be corrected, knowing that she would not be.
“It wasn’t coincidence, Bellis,” she heard him saying. “It wasn’t. They have an agent in Salkrikaltor. They receive colonial passenger lists. They knew we were coming. They knew I was coming.”
The paper lanterns swung as the door opened and closed. There was pretty laughter from a nearby table. The smell of stuffed meat cosseted them.
“That was why they took our ship. They came for me,” said Johannes softly, and Bellis closed her eyes, defeated.
“Oh, Johannes,” she said unsteadily.
“Bellis,” he said, alarmed, reaching out, but she cut him off with a curt gesture. What, do you think I’m going to cry? she thought furiously.
“Johannes, let me tell you there is a world of difference between a five-year, a ten-year sentence—and life.” She could not look at him. “It may be that for you, for Meriope, for the Cardomiums, for I don’t know who else, Nova Esperium meant a new life. Not for me.
“Not for me. For me it was an escape, a necessary and a temporary escape. I was born in Chnum, Johannes. Educated in Mafaton. Was proposed to in Brock Marsh. Broke up in Salacus Fields. New Crobuzon is my home; it will always be my home.”
Johannes looked at her with mounting unease.
“I have no interest in the colonies. In Nova fucking Esperium. None. I don’t want to live with a group of venal inadequates, failed spivs, disgraced nuns, bureaucrats too incompetent or weak to make it back home, resentful terrified natives . . . Godspit, Johannes, I’ve no interest in the sea. Freezing, sickening, filthy, repetitive, stinking . . .
“I’ve no interest in this city. I do not want to live in a curio, Johannes. This is a sideshow! This is something to scare the children! ‘The Floating Pirate City’! I don’t want it! I don’t want to live in this great bobbing parasite, like some fucking pondskater sucking its victims dry. This isn’t a city, Johannes; it’s a parochial little village less than a mile wide, and I do not want it.
“I was always going to return to New Crobuzon. I would never wish to see out my days outside it. It’s dirty and cruel and difficult and dangerous—particularly for me, particularly now—but it’s my home. Nowhere else in the world has the culture, the industry, the population, the thaumaturgy, the languages, the art, the books, the politics, the history . . . New Crobuzon,” she said slowly, “is the greatest city in Bas-Lag.”
And coming from her, from someone without any illusions about New Crobuzon’s brutality, or squalor, or repression, the declamation was far more powerful than if it came from any Parliamentarian.
“And you’re telling me,” she said finally, “that I’ve been exiled from my city—for life—because of you?”
Johannes was looking at her, stricken.
“Bellis,” he said slowly, “I don’t know what to say. I can only say that . . . that I’m sorry. This wasn’t my choice. The Lovers knew I was on the passenger list, and . . . That’s not the only reason. They