Un Lun Dun - China Mieville [82]
“Hold on,” Deeba said, and clicked her fingers. “Mr. Speaker? I’ve heard of him. Doesn’t he have working telephones?”
“I think so,” said the book. “He’s interested in everything to do with talking. But so what?”
“I can use it to buy some time. I can call home. Talk to my family,” Deeba said. “To stop them forgetting.”
Hemi looked at the book and then at her.
“It would be pretty risky,” Hemi said.
“Why? Is this Mr. Speaker on the Smog’s side?” she said.
“No,” said the book. “But he’s on no one’s side.”
“Don’t tangle with Mr. Speaker,” said Hemi.
“If we go through his yard it’ll be quicker and I’ll get to use his phone.”
“It’ll only be quicker if he doesn’t…do something to you,” said the book.
“You know,” said Deeba, “for someone who doesn’t want to be here and thinks we should go back to the bridge, you care a lot about this.”
“I…I…” the book spluttered. Hemi tried to hide a smile.
“Come on, then,” Deeba said. “We haven’t got time to waste. You’re not the ones who are going to get forgot in a few days’ time if you don’t phone home. We’re going to go straight through this Mr. Speaker’s place, and I’m going to call my family on the way. You said yourself nine days wasn’t very long. But if I communicate with them, the countdown starts again. And if we have any trouble, I’ll just have to amuse him, won’t I? After all, I’m the funny sidekick.”
57
The Quiet Talklands
There were several maps of the abcity in the book, but Deeba couldn’t make much sense of them. Their scale seemed to change from one section to the next, and the angles of their projections, and their orientations. Deeba simply followed the book’s directions.
They hiked through the streets, avoiding crowds and the pedaled vehicles of UnLondon. They crept into empty and emptish buildings when suspicious balloons or helicopter-style things with blades like huge flat corkscrews flew overhead, in case they were Propheseer spy vehicles. Deeba eyed the unbrellas in the hands of many of the people they passed.
“No one knows who we are yet,” Hemi said. “When the Propheseers get word out we’ll be in more trouble.”
When Deeba mentioned that she was hungry, Hemi disappeared and reappeared almost instantly with food from a street vendor.
“Figured we should stay out of sight,” he said as they ate. “So that was half-ghost shopping.”
As they walked, she told him about London—he didn’t ask, but she wanted to talk about it. She told him about her family, and it made her miss them, but feel good too, even though it was a sad kind of good. She tried to learn more about his life in Wraithtown, and he grunted monosyllabic answers.
By late afternoon they reached the river, and crossed by the BatSee Bridge. Deeba was captivated by the sight of the utterly straight river Smeath running like a ruler through the abcity. She felt exposed on the bridge, under the big sky, but Deeba couldn’t help stopping in the center for a moment and staring along the river, to where the two iron crocodile snouts formed Towering Bridge.
The enormous half-submerged heads stared at each other, blinking occasionally, each wearing a crown as tall as a tower, connected by a walkway at the top. As Deeba watched, the two huge mouths opened slowly, showing enormous riveted fangs, and closed again.
Hemi pulled Deeba on, past brown towers on the other side of the river. They were a little like London’s Parliament if it had been made by giant termites.
“This is it,” said the book as they stepped onto the north side of the river. “This is Mr. Speaker’s Talklands.”
“Why’s it so quiet?” said Deeba.
The streets were not empty, but the few people they passed were walking quickly, and looking down. No one was speaking.
“Shhhh,” the book said. It spoke in little bursts of whisper when no one was near. “Mr. Speaker. Laws. No unapproved talkage.”
“No way.”
“Shhh. Could get us arrested. He has…special servants. Could be anywhere. Shouldn’t antagonize