China Mieville - The Scar

Bellis was standing between wheel ruts in front of a warehouse, and she ducked out of the way of the beast tugging a wagon toward her, some crossbred pygmy horse, onto a swaying bridge leading to a quieter part of town. Poised between two vessels, Bellis looked across the water. She could see the stubby bulk of a chariot ship, the curves of a cog, a fat paddleboat. And beyond them there were more. Each vessel embedded in a web of bridges, suspended by gently belling walkways.

There was a constant traffic of people on them. Bellis felt alone.

The Sculpture Garden took up the front of a two-hundred-foot corvette. Its guns were long gone; its cowls and masts had been crushed.

A little plaza of cafes and pubs passed seamlessly into the garden, like a beach into the sea. Bellis felt her footing change as she passed from the wood and gravel paths to the garden’s soft earth.

It was only a fraction the size of Croom Park, a patch of young trees and well-tended grass interspersed with decades’ worth of sculpture in various styles and materials. There were curlicued wrought-iron benches under the trees and the artwork. And at the edge of the park, over a little low railing, was the sea.

Bellis’ breath caught on seeing it. She could not help herself.

Men and women sat at tables covered with liqueurs and teas, or walked the garden. They looked bright and garish in the sun. Watching them wander calmly and sip their drinks, Bellis almost shook her head to remember that these were pirates: grizzled, scarred, armed, living off plunder. They were all of them pirates.

She looked up at her favored sculptures as she passed them: The Threatening Rossignol; Doll and Teeth .

Bellis sat and looked past The Proposal , a slab of featureless jade like a tombstone, over the wooden wall, out to sea-at the steamers and tugboats doggedly dragging the city. She could see two gunboats, an armed airship above them, prowling protectively at the edge of Armada’s waters.

A pirate brig was sailing north, around the edge of the city and away. She watched it set out on its month-long, or two- or three- or four-month hunting voyage. According to the will of its captain? According to some grand scheme handed down by the ridings’ rulers?

At the other edge of the sea, miles off, Bellis caught sight of a steamer heading in toward the city. Clearly an Armadan ship, or perhaps some favored trader. Had it not been, it would not have got so close. It might have come from a thousand miles away, she thought. When it had set sail, Armada might have been in another sea. And yet when its job was done-its thieving, its robbery-it sailed unerringly for home. That was one of Armada’s enduring mysteries.

There was a burst of birdsong behind her. She had no idea, nor did she care, what breed it was that sang, but she listened with ignorant pleasure. And then, as if announced by the avian fanfare, Silas walked slowly into view.

She started and began to rise, but he did not slow as he passed close to her.

“Sit,” he said curtly, and stood by the guardrail, leaning out over the edge of the ship. She froze and waited.

He stood, without looking at her, some distance away. They stayed like that for a long time.

“They’ve been watching your rooms,” he said at last. “That’s why I’ve not been coming. That’s why I’ve stayed away.”

“They’re tracking me?” said Bellis, hating how ineffectual she sounded.

“This is my business, Bellis,” Silas said. “I know how it’s done. Interviews can only tell them so much. They need to check up on you. You shouldn’t be surprised.”

“And… they’re watching now ?”

Silas shrugged fractionally.

“I don’t think so.” He slowly turned. “I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure.” His mouth was hardly moving as he spoke. “They’ve been outside your house for four days. They were with you at least to the outskirts of Shaddler. I think they lost interest there, but I don’t want to risk it.

“If they connect us, if they realize that their translator consorts with Simon Fench… then we’re fucked.”

“Silas.” Bellis spoke with cold resignation. “I’m not their translator. I’ve not been asked to go with them. I think they must have someone else-”

“Tomorrow,” he said. “They’re going to ask you tomorrow.”

“Is that right?” Bellis said calmly. Her insides, though, were shuddering, with excitement or foreboding or something. She controlled herself and did not ask him What are you talking about? or How do you know?

“Tomorrow,” he repeated. “Believe me.”

She did. And she felt almost sick suddenly, watching him penetrate layers of intrigue without apparent effort. His tentacles of influence and information were sunk so deep, he was like some parasite living off information, siphoning it from beneath the city’s skin. Bellis looked at him with wary respect.

“They’ll come for you tomorrow,” he went on. “You’ll be in the landing party. The plan’s as we discussed it. They’re allowing two weeks on the island, so you’ll have a fortnight to get the information to a Dreer Samher vessel. You’ll have everything you need to get them to go to New Crobuzon. I’ll get it to you.”

“Do you really think you can persuade them?” said Bellis. “They don’t often sail north of Shankell-New Crobuzon’s about a thousand miles out of their way.”

“Jabber, Bellis…” Silas’ voice remained hushed. “No, I can’t persuade them. I’ll not be there. You have to persuade them.”

Bellis clucked her tongue, irritated with him, but said nothing.

“I’ll bring what you need,” he said. “A letter in Salt and Ragamoll. Seals, advice, papers, and proof. Enough to convince the cactus traders to go north for us. And enough to let the New Crobuzon government know what’s happening. Enough to protect them.”

The park shifted with the waves. The sculptures creaked as they corrected. Neither Bellis nor Silas spoke. For a while there was only the sound of water and birds.

They’ll know we’re alive, thought Bellis. At least, they’ll know he’s alive.

She stopped that thought, quickly. “We can get word to them,” she said decisively.

“You’ll have to find a way,” said Silas. “Do you realize what’s at stake here?”

Don’t treat me like a fucking imbecile , she thought furiously, but he caught her eye for a second and seemed quite unabashed.

“Do you realize,” he repeated, “what you’ll have to do? There’ll be guards, Armadan guards. You’ll have to get past them. You’ll have to get past the anophelii, for Jabber’s sake. Can you do this?”

“I will make it happen,” said Bellis coldly, and he nodded slowly. He started to speak again, and for the briefest moment seemed unsure of what to say. “I’ll not… have a chance to see you,” he said slowly. “I’d better stay away.”

“Of course,” said Bellis. “We can’t risk anything now.”

His face betrayed an unhappiness, something unfulfilled. Bellis pursed her lips.

“I’m sorry for that, and for…” he said. He shrugged and looked away from her. “When you return, and it’s all done, perhaps then we can…” His voice petered out.

Bellis felt a flicker of slight surprise at his sadness. She felt nothing. She was not even disappointed. They had sought and found something in each other, and they had business together (an absurdly understated formulation for their project), but that was all. She bore him no ill feelings. She even felt a residue of affection and gratitude to him, like a film of grease. But no more than that. She was surprised by his faltering tone, his regret and apology and hints of deeper feelings.