Un Lun Dun - China Mieville [89]
Cavea threw the unbrella back in the house and closed the door, complaining in vociferous avian tones.
“Don’t worry,” the book said. “We’ll keep watch for Smog. Half up front. That’s only fair.”
Deeba tucked a wad of the cash into Cavea’s inside pocket. They followed the book’s directions into the UnLondon afternoon, through different landscapes of the abcity, at last into a warren of narrow streets.
Deeba tried to make conversation with Cavea, but while it was obvious that the bird in the cage could understand her polite questions, she didn’t understand any of its whistled answers. Mr. Cavea took the book under his arm. The bird plumped its plumage and warbled.
At some points the streets were crowded: at other times they were the only people they could see, and Cavea’s lovely singsong was all they could hear, apart perhaps from the tiniest whisper of houses. Hemi and Deeba walked side by side.
“What you looking for?” said Deeba. Hemi was examining chalk- and scratch-marks on some of the houses they passed.
“Just seeing who’s who and what’s what round here,” Hemi murmured.
“What you on about?”
“There are signs only a few of us know how to read,” he said. “For stashes, caches, emptish houses, that sort of thing.”
“Signs for who? Ghosts?”
“No, for…” He scratched his chin. “Alternative shoppers.”
“Thieves?!”
“Right then,” the book interrupted.
They were by an anonymous brick terrace. The houses were three stories high, in conventional red brick with black slate roofs. Shoppers milled where the road met others, and people leaned at several of the front doors, chatting to neighbors. If it weren’t for the eccentric look of some of the inhabitants, it could almost have passed for a residential street in London. Almost.
“We’re here,” said the book.
“We never are,” murmured Hemi.
One house was bursting with leaves. They pressed up against the glass of every window from the inside, blocking off any view within. They squeezed out from below the panes, and through the gaps at the top and bottom of the front door. A little plume of ivy poked from the chimney.
The caged bird on top of Mr. Cavea’s body began singing fervently, the book interjecting.
“Come come,” the book said. “I’m not denying it’s dangerous. That’s ridiculous. There were no false pretenses. Well then there’s no problem—just walk away. Of course. But then there’s no payment. And you won’t be part of the expedition that gets deep into the forest.” Mr. Cavea hesitated, the bird fluttering in agitation.
“No one’s asking you to do anything much,” the book said. “Honestly? All we want you to do is engage someone in conversation. Aha. That’s right, you’ve got it.”
The bird stared at the money, its head cocked on one side.
“You’re not heading in, are you?” The speaker was an elderly man, sitting on the doorstep opposite. He was dressed in a skirt of animal tails. He scratched his beard and sipped a hot drink and shook his head wisely.
“I’d not,” he said. “See them there?” He pointed at a rope stub emerging from behind the front door. “That was where the last lot of explorers set off. That’s where they set up a base camp, they did, but never saw ’em again. Heard rumors though. Heard noises at night. It’s a rum place, the forest, full of noises. No one knows its paths. I’ve lived here near on fifty years, and I’ve never been in nor never would. No, if I was you—”
Cavea squawked an interruption.
“I agree,” muttered the book. Mr. Cavea’s human body yanked open the front door. “He says he’d go in even if we weren’t paying him anything. Just to get away from that bloke.”
Deeba followed them. The utterlings and Hemi went with her. The old man opposite was left watching openmouthed as they hurried into the dark interior of the house, and into the forest.
62
Into the Trees
Deeba stepped into a realm of rustling hush, and warmth, and green light. The door closed behind her. She gaped.
“Oh my gosh,” she said.
To either side were walls in bright wallpaper, and some way ahead she