Un Lun Dun - China Mieville [65]
Obaday thinned his lips.
“If you say so, Deeba,” he said. “You are of the Shwazzy’s party, after all. If you say so. Come and have a cup of tea. And…” There was a long pause. “And your guest, too.”
They sat in the sumptuous fabric-lined back room, now shot through with hundreds of holes through which the UnSun shone. The stink of the Smog’s missiles filled the air.
“You’ve chosen a pretty terrible time to come and visit us,” Obaday said. “Did you see what happened?” Deeba nodded. “Well then. You see the war’s hit…rather a complicated stage.”
“That’s what I’m here about,” Deeba started to say, but Obaday continued.
“Thank God for the unbrellas, that’s all I can say.” He tapped the one at his belt. Its fabric was torn on one section of webbing. “That little split—that’s what makes it an unbrella—doesn’t stop it protecting me. If it weren’t for Unstible’s formula—and if it weren’t for Brokkenbroll’s orders, too—none of us could face the Smog. Shame so many of us still can’t—there aren’t enough unbrellas yet. I tell you, though, they have the Smog rattled.”
“I think there’s a reason the Smog’s attacking more,” Deeba said.
“Yes, Unstible was talking about it the other day. I read it on the walls. He explained that the Smog’s getting worried. Because it can see we’ve got a new strategy.”
“Yes,” Deeba said. “But about that. About Unstible…”
“So really,” Obaday continued, “it’s actually a good sign that it’s being more aggressive. It means we can be pleased with our progress. That’s what Unstible said.”
“Obaday, will you listen?” Deeba snapped. “I’m trying to tell you something. The reason the war’s getting worse isn’t ’cause the Smog’s worried, but ’cause Unstible’s not on your side.”
She showed him the piece of paper with its official Wraithtown stamp.
“What is this…?” he said.
“Look. Unstible died. The Smog killed him. Whoever that is giving orders and making up potions, it’s not Unstible.”
“This…this doesn’t mean anything,” Fing said uncertainly. “It might not be real.”
“Obaday,” Deeba said. “Don’t be stupid. Look at it.” The paper flared with ghostliness as she spoke: around its edges a leaf even became visible, a momentary haunting by the wood that had been made into the paper. “Why d’you think I’m here? I sort of realized something weird was going on. Now I got proof, I need to show that lot at the bridge.”
“Well…” Obaday glanced at Hemi. “I’m sure your friend here wouldn’t do anything deliberately, but you can’t trust the Wraiths. Some people even say they’re in league with the Smog.”
Hemi jumped to his feet. “I knew it,” he said. “I told you, Deeba.”
“I’m not saying you, and I’m not saying I believe it,” said Obaday. “If Deeba says you’re alright, then…you’re probably alright. But maybe, I don’t know, someone in the office wants to undermine Unstible, or something.”
“I saw it in the database,” said Deeba. “On the computer.”
“Well…” Obaday turned the paper over and examined it. “I’m sure there’s an explanation. Maybe this is another Unstible. What do you think’s going on, then? It doesn’t make any sense. Unstible’s helping. He’s obviously on our side.”
Before Deeba could answer, there was a shout. “Obaday Fing!” one of his assistants yelled through the Smog-tattered cloth. “Quickly. Something’s coming.”
“What?” he said, leaping to his feet and swinging his unbrella. “Is the Smog back?”
“No. It’s a bus.”
47
The Other Abnaut
The bus came in low over the roofs, swinging in its harness below a balloon.
The market traders stopped their reconstruction and gawped. No bus was scheduled to stop at the market.
There was more than one balloon-tethered bus in UnLondon, but the symbol on its front was unmistakable. It was the Scrollscrawl. Leaning out from the platform, Deeba could see the tiny waving figure of Conductor Jones. She waved back excitedly.
“Ahoy,” he shouted as the bus came to a stop a few meters above. He dropped the basket on the rope. “Deeba, I can’t believe you’re back, girl! You actually