The Scar - China Mieville [98]
Doul smiled. “Are you so arrogant?” he said lightly. “Are you that sure of yourself, that you can turn any conversation, any miscommunication, round?”
“Remember the razor golems?” said the Brucolac suddenly, and Uther Doul fell silent. “The steamwind plain?” the Brucolac continued. “Remember that place? The things we saw? This city owes us, Uther. We were the ones who saved it, whether they’ll admit it, whether they know it or not. Where were the damn Lovers then? That was you . . . and me.”
The call of gulls. The sound of wind between the boats, the creaking of the haunted quarter.
“I learnt things then, Uther.” The Brucolac spoke quietly. “I learnt how to read you. I know you.”
“Godsdammit!” Uther Doul faced him. “How dare you play old soldiers with me? I am not on your side, Brucolac! I do not agree with you! Can you understand that? We have history, it’s true, and Khyriad knows I’ll not willingly turn on you, Deadman, but . . . that is all. I’m a lieutenant, and you were never my captain. I came here tonight as you asked, out of courtesy to you. Nothing more.”
The Brucolac held his hand to his mouth and eyed Doul. His long tongue flickered over his fingers. When he lowered his hand, he looked sad.
“The Scar does not exist,” he said. There was silence.
“The Scar does not exist,” he repeated, “and if by some chance the astrolonomers are wrong, and it does, then we’ll not find it. And if by some fucking miracle we do find it, then you know—you, Uther, of all people know—that it’ll mean our deaths.”
He pointed briefly at the sword scabbarded on Doul’s left side. He moved his finger, indicating his companion’s right sleeve, ridged with branching wires like veins.
“You know that, Uther,” the Brucolac said. “You know the forces that would spill from something like that. You know we couldn’t possibly face them. You know that better than anyone, whatever those fools think they’ve learnt from you. It would mean the end of us all.”
Uther Doul looked down at his sword.
“Not our deaths,” he said, and smiled unexpectedly and beautifully. “Nothing so straightforward.”
The Brucolac shook his head.
“You’re the bravest man I’ve known, Doul, in more ways than I can count.” His tone was wistful, regretful. “Which is why it bewilders me to face this side of you. This base, pusillanimous, cowardly, recreant, craven aspect.” Doul did not move or react, and the Brucolac did not sound as if he was taunting. “Have you convinced yourself that the bravest thing is to do your duty, come what may, Uther?”
He shook his head, his gaze incredulous. “Are you a masochist, Uther Doul? Is that it? Does it make you hard to debase yourself like this? Do you find yourself erect when those cut-up cunts give you orders you know to be idiocy? Do you come, do you touch yourself when you obey them regardless? Well good godspit, your cock must be raw from tugging by now, because these are the most lunatic orders you have ever tried to obey, and you know that.
“And I will not allow you to carry them out.”
Doul watched, motionless, as the Brucolac turned his back and strode away.
The vampir wrapped shadow around himself as he walked, vanishing quickly into a fog of glamour, his footsteps muting as he disappeared. There was a rustling sound in the air, and way above the deck the old rigging thrummed briefly as something brushed it and was gone.
Doul followed the noises up through the air with his eyes. Only when everything around him was still did he turn back to the sea and the haunted quarter, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
Chapter Sixteen
With atlases and explorers’ monographs, Bellis and Silas drew maps of Gnurr Kett and the Cymek and Iron Bay. They tried to trace a route home.
The anophelii island was unmarked, but interpreting the stories of the cactacae merchants, they worked it out to be some scores of miles from the southern tip of Gnurr Kett, a thousand miles or so from the island’s civilized northern shores. And from that northern edge it was