Un Lun Dun - China Mieville [88]
“So you know where the forest-in-a-house is?” Deeba said.
“I do,” the book said. “It’s written in me. And I’ve no reason to think that’s wrong. But we’re stopping off somewhere else first.”
Deeba could not help being self-conscious at the head of such a peculiar group, but no one they passed paid them any particular attention. People were too busy keeping an eye on the skies for Smog attack, their unbrellas at the ready.
“Why?” Deeba said. “We should hurry.”
“How much money do you have?” the book said.
Deeba sifted through the few out-of-date pounds, dollars, a little pack of marks and francs and pesetas from before Europe got the euro, and many dog-eared rupees. As she gathered it, Hemi hesitated, then pulled out the notes she’d given him and added them to her pile.
“You can owe me that,” he said. “If it’ll help to have a bit extra now. Pay me back later, alright?”
“Right, cheers,” she said, carefully not looking at him. “That’s what we’ve got. Why?”
“Perfect,” the book said. “Because where we’re going, we’ll need some help. We’re going to hire someone.”
“When we get into the forest-in-a-house,” it said, “we’re looking for a bird. A particular bird. Its name’s Parakeetus Claviger. We need something it has.”
“The featherkey,” said Deeba.
“Exactly. And it’s going to be nigh-on impossible to get it. The chapter in me about the Shwazzy getting hold of the featherkey makes a point of telling lots of stories about how many people’ve failed because they can’t find Claviger, or understand it, and so on.”
“And hiring someone’ll help?”
“Just wait,” the book said. “It’ll be indispensable.”
It led them to an area of old wooden buildings, interspersed with the reconstituted junk of moil tech.
“So who is this bloke?” said Deeba.
“There’s no shortage of hireable bravos in UnLondon,” the book said. “And I was wondering who we should approach, when I remembered one in particular. He doesn’t live far. His name’s Yorick Cavea. He has all sorts of the usual qualities necessary for endeavors like this: once he fought off an entire horde of giraffes armed only with a corset-stay, believe it or not.” The book let that sink in. “He also fancies himself a bit of an explorer, which combined with the money’s why we’ll probably be able to entice him. Let me do the talking. Here we are.” They stood by a front door.
“Have we got time for this?” Deeba said to Hemi. “Do we need him?”
“Yeah, and are we going to have to go up against giraffes?” said Hemi.
“How’s this Cavea going to help with Claviger?” Deeba said. Then the door opened, and she said, “Ah.”
Yorick Cavea was a tall man. He wore a silk dressing gown and held a glass of whiskey or something. But on his human shoulders, Cavea’s head was an old-fashioned bell-shaped birdcage. Inside it was a mirror, a cuttlefish bone, and a small pretty bird gripping a little swing.
The bird chirped.
“Ah, Yorick,” the book said. “Nice to see you again too.” Cavea shook Deeba’s hand, Hemi’s, and Cauldron’s with its human arm. The bird whistled.
“Always straight to the point, eh, Yorick?” the book said. “Well, this young lady has an offer she’d like to make you. Deeba?”
Deeba fanned out a chunk of her money. The bird stared at it. “Tweet,” it said, and Cavea’s man-hands steepled together.
“Well of course,” the book said. “I wouldn’t expect you to be swayed merely by something so vulgar as money. But there’s more at stake. You wouldn’t expect me to go into detail here—one never knows who’s listening. But suffice to say…it’s going to be quite the expedition.”
Cavea pondered. The bird twittered.
“Dangerous, certainly,” the book said. “And suited to your unique capabilities.”
Another whistle.
“Yes, of course we’ll wait.”
Yorick Cavea disappeared for a minute in his house, emerging in an old-fashioned khaki safari suit and swinging an unbrella.
“Wait,” said Deeba. “You can’t bring that.”
The bird sang a few questioning notes.
“Sorry old chap, rules of this particular engagement,” the book said. Cavea stood still for a moment. In the cage-head, the little bird sang on its swing.