China Mieville - Railsea

“I could hear this lot whispering.” She twirled her hand to indicate the stallholders: not salvors, but local agents, the merchants. “Talking trash about them. & trash is my business.” She smiled. “They bought a load of stuff from me.” She clicked her fingers. “Talking of which, I really must get on.”

She lifted up a little box of alt-salvage things. Thumb-sized, each shaped unlike any of the others, each a green-glass shard, each hairy with wires. & each slid side to side as if alive on the tabletop & spread behind it a snailtrail of what looked like black ink, that disappeared after a few seconds.

“Smearing Widgets,” she said. “I’d give you one,” she said, “except that I’m not going to.”

“I need to find those children,” Sham said, staring acquisitively at the offterran refuse.

“I can help you. They bought too much to carry, arranged for delivery.”

“To where?” Sham’s voice came quick. “Their house?”

“It was in Subzi. You know where that is?” She drew a map in the air with her fingers. “North of the old city.”

“Do you remember the street? The house number?”

“No. But don’t worry about that. Just ask for the arch. It’ll do you. It’s been a pleasure chatting.” She held out her hand. “Sirocco. Travisande Sirocco.”

“Sham ap Soorap.” He started at the expression his name provoked. “What?”

“Nothing. Only—I think perhaps someone mentioned you, Soorap.” She cocked her head again. “Chap about your age, on the lookout for certain things. The Medes , is it? Isn’t that your train?”

“Yes,” Sham said. “How did you know?”

“It’s my job to pick through things thrown out there, & that might include things said. The Medes . Made an unexpected stop in Bollons.” Sham’s gasp was awfully eloquent. “Ah, it’s not so much of a thing,” Sirocco said. “I can tell you the same sort of snippets of likely wholly boring such stuff about plenty of recent arrivals.” She smiled.

“If you say so,” he muttered.

“Still wishing things had gone another way?” She inclined her head. “I’d stick with your crew if I were you.” She did not say it unkindly.

“Well … thank you.”

“I think your friends are waiting for you.” Sirocco nodded at the still-watching gang.

“They ain’t my friends,” Sham said.

“Hm.” The woman frowned a little. “Watch yourself, then, won’t you?”

He would. Sham was already ready.

There were occasions he’d been accused of being a bit dozy, had Sham ap Soorap, but not this time. He hefted the bag of books onto his shoulder, thanked Sirocco again, left the building. & it really did not come as a huge surprise to him, when he emerged into the afternoon light of Manihiki, that the ganglet bundled out of the hall after him & rushed him, grabbing for his bag, his money, came with their fists swinging.

A FIGHT, THEN.

What kind?

Fights are much taxonomised. They have been subject over centuries to a complex, exhaustive categoric imperative. Humans like nothing more than to pigeonhole the events & phenomena that punctuate their lives.

Some bemoan this fact: “Why does everything have to be put into boxes?” they say. & fair enough, up to a point. But this vigorous drive to divide, subdivide & label has been rather maligned. Such conceptual shuffling is inevitable, & a reasonable defence against what would otherwise face us as thoroughgoing chaos. The germane issue is not whether, but how , to divide.

Certain types of events are particularly carefully delineated. Such as fights.

What ran towards Sham, announcing its presence with throaty jeers, was incipient fightness, carried in the vectors of eight or nine aggressive young men & women. But what kind of fight?

Let fight equal x . Was this, then a play x ? An x to the death? An x for honour? A drunken x ?

Sham focused. Hands & boots were incoming. One of those hands, in fact, was grasping for his bag, & in doing so answering that question.

What this was was a mugging .

TWO BIG LADS COMING FOR HIM. SHAM DUCKED—HE moved quick for a heavy young man. He was ringed, his attackers shouting, & here they came again & now he was kicking, & he could be proud of that one, but there were too many of them & something hit his face & wow hurt & he tried to pull hair but someone hit his eye & he was all rocked for a second—

Something interrupted. A sound high-pitched & not even distantly human. Enraged vespertilian lungs! Oh , Sham thought, you beauty . From his undesired vantage point, flat on his back, hands up to block a blow, what he saw framed in backlit clouds with wings spread & wingskin taut, descending like a small furry avenging ghost, was Daybe.

& there came another voice. A boy. “Oy, bastard!” Behind the tallest & heaviest of the muggers was the young man Sham had seen watching his own watchers. Here he came, shoving hard & hands up. A gust of blows from the newcomer & a skirr of bony-&-leathery wings from Daybe. The boy’s attacks were, to Sham’s bruised eyes, more enthusiastic than effective, but the muggers scurried out of his way. & they were genuinely terrified by Daybe, small but so demoniac in chattery-toothed appearance.

It was a mad gush rush. Sham was struggling shaky to his feet, the attackers were suddenly scarpering away fast, the boy who’d come to his aid was yelling imprecations as they went, & Daybe—brave & splendid mouse-sized bodyguard, Stone-faced gods of Streggeye bless & keep it—still chased them as if it would catch them & eat them, as if they were flies.

“You alright?” His rescuer turned & helped Sham brush himself down. “You’re bleeding a bit.”

“Yeah,” said Sham. Dabbed at his face with his finger & checked the flow. Not too bad. “Thanks. Yeah. Thanks a lot.”

The boy shook his head. “Sure you’re okay?”

Was Sham sure he was okay? What scraps of doctorliness he had bobbed to the top of his brain. He was mildly surprised to find them there at all. Teeth? All present, only slightly bloodied. Nose? Not loosened, though sore. Face abraded, but that was all.

“Yeah. Thank you.”

The boy shrugged. “Bullies,” he said. “They’re all cowards.”

“People do say that,” Sham said. “I think there must be a few brave bullies out there & everyone’s going to be in a bit of a shock when they meet them.” He checked his pockets. Still had his coin. “How did you know they were going to attack me?”

“Oh.” The boy waved vaguely & grinned. “Well.” He laughed a bit sheepishly. “I’ve done enough ambushing in my time to know when I can see someone else about to have a go.”

“So why’d you stop them?”

“Because eight against one ain’t fair!” The boy blushed & looked away a moment. “I’m Robalson. Where’s your bat gone?”

“Oh, it’s always off. It’ll be back.”

“We should go,” Robalson said. “The navy’ll be here soon.”

“Isn’t that good?” Sham said.

“No!” Robalson began to tug at him. “They ain’t going to help. & you don’t want to get mixed up with that sort of so-&-so.”

Sham went with him a way, confused, then abruptly raised his hands & squeezed shut his eyes. “They got my bag,” he said. “My captain’s stuff. I’m bloody for it.”

He looked vaguely about him. He wanted the bag back, he wanted to punish those muggers, he wanted to track down the children of the wreck, but, lungs full of dust & defeat, he felt suddenly quite deflated. Come on! he tried to think. He tried to think himself into energy. It didn’t go well. “I better go,” he muttered.