Even to leave the lifts or stairs on the floors of the Zone, a gamut of security checks had to be run. The passages were cold and quiet, broken by a few doors and insufficiently lit by desultory gasjets. Rudgutter and Rescue and Stem-Fulcher walked the deserted corridors of the twelfth floor. They were accompanied by a short, wiry man with thick glasses who scurried along behind them, never keeping up, lugging a large suitcase.
“Eliza, MontJohn,” said Mayor Rudgutter as they walked, “this is Brother Sanchem Vansetty, one of our most able karcists.” Rescue and Stem-Fulcher nodded greetings. Vansetty ignored them.
Not every room in the Diplomatic Zone was occupied. But some of the doors had brass plates proclaiming them the sovereign territory of one country or other—Tesh, or Khadoh, or Gharcheltist—behind which were huge suites extending onto several floors: self-contained houses in the tower. Some of the rooms were thousands of miles from their capitals. Some of them were empty. By Tesh tradition, for example, the ambassador lived as a vagrant in New Crobuzon, communicating by mail for official business. Rudgutter would never meet him. Other embassies were deserted due to lack of funds or interest.
But much of the business conducted here was immensely important. The suites containing the embassies of Myrshock and Vadaunk had been extended some years ago, due to the expansion of paperwork and office space that commercial relations necessitated. The extra rooms jutted like ugly tumours from the interior walls of the eleventh floor, bulging precariously over the garden.
The mayor and his companions walked past a door marked The Cray Commonwealth of Salkrikaltor. The corridor shook with the pound and whirr of huge, hidden machinery. Those were the enormous steam-pumps that worked for hours every day, sucking fresh brine fifteen miles from Iron Bay for the cray ambassador and sluicing his used, dirty water into the river.
The passageway was confusing. It seemed to go on too long when looked at from one angle, and to be all but stubby from another. Here and there short tributaries branched from it, leading to other, smaller embassies or store cupboards or boarded-up windows. At the end of the main corridor, beyond the cray embassy, Rudgutter led the way down one of these little passages. It extended a short way, twisting, its ceiling lowering dramatically as some stairs above descended across its path, and terminated in a small unmarked door.
Rudgutter looked behind him, ensuring that his companions and he were not watched. Only a short distance of passageway was visible, and they were quite alone.
Vansetty was pulling chalk and pastels of various colours from his pockets. He pulled what looked like a watch from his fob pocket and opened it. Its face was divided into innumerable complicated sections. It had seven hands of various lengths.
“Got to take account of the variables, Mayor,” Vansetty murmured, studying the thing’s intricate working. He seemed to be talking more to himself than to Rudgutter or anyone else. “Outlook for today’s pretty grotty . . . High-pressure front moving in the æther. Could push powerstorms anywhere from the abyss through null-space up. Fucking poxy outlook on the borderlands as well. Hmmm . . .” Vansetty scrawled some calculations on the back of a notebook. “Right,” he snapped, and looked up at the three ministers.
He began to scribble intricate, stylized markings on thick pieces of paper, tearing out each one as it was finished and handing it to Stem-Fulcher, Rudgutter, Rescue, and finally one for himself.
“Whack those over your hearts,” he said cursorily, stuffing his into his shirt. “Symbol facing out.”
He opened his battered suitcase and brought out a set of bulky ceramic diodes. He stood at the centre of the group and handed one to each of his companions—“Left hand and don’t drop it . . .”—then wound copper wire around them tightly and attached it to a handheld clockwork motor he pulled from his case. He took readings from his peculiar gauge, adjusted dials and nodules on the motor.
“Righto, everyone, brace yourselves,” he said, and flipped the switch that released the clockwork engine.
Little arcs of energy sputtered into multicoloured existence along the wires and between the grubby diodes. The four of them were enclosed in a little triangle of current. All their hair stood visibly on end. Rudgutter swore under his breath.
“Got about half an hour before that runs out,” said Vansetty quickly. “Best be quick, eh?”
Rudgutter reached out with his right hand and opened the door. The four of them shuffled forward, maintaining their positions relative to each other, keeping the triangle in place around them. Stem-Fulcher pushed the door closed again behind them.
They were in an absolutely dark room. They could see only by the faint ambient glow of the lines of power, until Vansetty hung the clockwork motor around his neck on a strap and lit a candle. In its inadequate light they saw that the room was perhaps twelve feet by ten, dusty and absolutely empty apart from an old desk and chair by the far wall, a gently humming boiler by the door. There were no windows, no shelves, nothing else at all. The air was very close.
From his bag Vansetty extracted an unusual hand-held machine. Its twists of wire and metal, its knots of multicoloured glass were intricate and lovingly crafted. Its use was quite opaque. Vansetty leaned briefly out of the circle and plugged an input valve into the boiler beside the door. He pulled a lever on the top of the little machine, which began to hum and blink with lights.
“ ’Course, in your old days, before I came into the profession, you had to use a live offering,” he explained as he unwound a tight coil of wire from the underside of the machine. “But we’re not savages, are we? Science is a wonderful thing. This little darling—” he patted the machine proudly “—is an amplifier. Increases the output from that engine by a factor of two hundred, two hundred and ten, and transforms it into an ætherial energy form. Bleed that through the wires so . . .” Vansetty slung the uncoiled wire into the far corner of the tiny room, behind the desk. “And there you go! The victimless sacrifice!”
He grinned with triumph, then turned his attention to the dials and knobs of the little engine, and began to twist and prod them with intense attention. “No more learning stupid languages, neither,” he muttered quietly. “Invocation’s automatic now and all. We’re not actually going anywhere, you understand?” He spoke louder, suddenly. “We ain’t abyssonauts, and we ain’t playing with nearly enough power to do an actual transplantropic leap. All we’re doing is peering through a little window, letting the Hellkin come to us. But the dimensionality of this room is going to be just a damn touch unstable for a while, so stick within the protection and don’t muck about. Got it?”
Vansetty’s fingers skittered over the box. For two or three minutes, nothing happened. There was nothing but the heat and pounding from the boiler, the drumming and whining of the little machine in Vansetty’s hands. Beneath it all, Rudgutter’s foot tapped impatiently.
And then the little room began to grow perceptibly warmer.
There was a deep, subsonic tremor. An insinuation of russet light and oily smoke. Sound became muted and then suddenly sharp.
There was a disorientating moment of tugging, and a red marbling of light flickered onto every surface, moving constantly as if through bloody water.
Something fluttered. Rudgutter looked up, his eyes smarting in air that seemed suddenly clotted and very dry.
A heavy man in an immaculate dark suit had appeared behind the desk.
He leaned forward slowly, his elbows resting on the papers that suddenly littered the desk. He waited.
Vansetty peered over Rescue’s shoulder and jerked his thumb at the apparition.
“His Infernal Excellency,” he declared, “the ambassador of Hell.”
“Mayor Rudgutter,” the dæmon said, in a pleasant, low voice. “How nice to see you again. I was just doing some paperwork.” The humans looked up with a flicker of unease.
The ambassador had an echo: half a second after he spoke his words were repeated in the appalling shriek of one undergoing torture. The screamed words w
ere not loud. They were audible just beyond the walls of the room, as if they had soared up through miles of unearthly heat from some trench in Hell’s floor.
“What can I do for you?” he continued (What can I do for you? came the soulless howl of misery). “Still trying to find out if you’ll be joining us when you pass on?” The ambassador smiled slightly.
Rudgutter smiled back and shook his head.
“You know my views on that, ambassador,” he replied levelly. “I’ll not be drawn, I’m afraid. You can’t provoke me into existential fear, you know.” He gave a polite little laugh, to which the ambassador responded in kind. As did his horrendous echo. “My soul, if such exists, is my own. It is not yours to punish or covet. The universe is a much more capricious place than that . . . I asked you before, what do you suppose happens to dæmons when you die? As we both know you can.”
The ambassador bowed his head in polite demur.
“You’re such a modernist, Mayor Rudgutter,” he said. “I won’t argue with you. Please remember my offer stands.”
Rudgutter waved his hands impatiently. He was composed. He did not flinch at the pitiable screams which shadowed the ambassador’s words. And he did not allow himself to experience any disquiet when, as he stared at the ambassador, the image of the man in the chair flickered for a tiny sliver of a second, to be replaced by . . . something else.
He had experienced this before. Whenever Rudgutter blinked, for that infinitesimal moment, he saw the room and its occupant in very different forms. Through his eyelids, Rudgutter saw the inside of a slatted cage; iron bars moving like snakes; arcs of unthinkable force, a jagged, rippling maelstrom of heat. Where the ambassador sat, Rudgutter caught glimpses of a monstrous form. A hyaena’s head stared at him, tongue lolling. Breasts with gnashing teeth. Hooves and claws.
The stale air in the room would not allow him to keep his eyes open: he had to blink. He ignored the brief visions. He treated the ambassador with wary respect. Such was also the dæmon’s attitude to him.
“Ambassador, I’m here for two reasons. One is to extend to your master, Its Diabolic Majesty, the Czar of Hell, the respectful greetings of New Crobuzon’s citizens. In their ignorance.” The ambassador nodded graciously in response. “The other is to ask your advice.”
“It is always our great pleasure to aid our neighbours, Mayor Rudgutter. Especially those such as yourself, with whom Its Majesty has such good relations.” The ambassador rubbed its chin absently, waiting.
“Twenty minutes, Mayor,” hissed Vansetty into Rudgutter’s ear.
Rudgutter pressed his hands together as if in prayer, and looked at the ambassador thoughtfully. He felt little gusts of force.
“You see, ambassador, we have something of a problem. We have reason to believe that there has been a . . . an escape, shall we say. Something that we are very concerned to recapture. We’d like to ask your help, if we may.”
“What are we talking about, Mayor Rudgutter? True Answers?” asked the ambassador. “Usual terms?”
“True Answers . . . and perhaps more. We’ll see.”
“Payment now, or later?”
“Ambassador,” said Rudgutter politely. “Your memory momentarily falters. I am in credit two questions.”
The ambassador stared at him a moment and laughed.
“So you are, Mayor Rudgutter. My deepest apologies. Proceed.”
“Are there any unusual rules of the moment, ambassador?” asked Rudgutter pointedly. The dæmon shook his head (great hyaena tongue briefly slavering from side to side) and smiled.
“It is Melluary, Mayor Rudgutter,” it explained simply. “Usual rules in Melluary. Seven words, inverted.”
Rudgutter nodded. He composed himself, concentrating hard. Got to get the damn words right. Bloody infantile bloody game, he thought fleetingly. Then he spoke quickly and levelly, gazing calmly into the ambassador’s eyes.
“Correct escaped what’s of assessment our is?”
“Yes,” replied the dæmon instantly.
Rudgutter turned briefly, gazed meaningfully at Stem-Fulcher and Rescue. They were nodding, their faces set and grim.
The mayor turned back to the dæmon ambassador. They stared at each other without speaking for a moment.
“Fifteen minutes,” hissed Vansetty.
“Some of my more . . . fusty colleagues would look very askance at me allowing you to count ‘what’s’ as one word, you know,” said the ambassador. “But I’m a liberal.” He smiled. “Do you wish to ask your final question?”
“I don’t think so, ambassador. I’ll save that for another time. I have a proposition.”
“Go on, Mayor Rudgutter.”
“Well, you know the manner of thing that has escaped, and you can understand our concern to remedy the situation as quickly as possible.” The ambassador nodded. “You can also understand that it will be difficult for us to proceed, and that time is of the essence . . . I propose that we hire some of your . . . ah . . . troops, to help us round up our escapees.”
“No,” said the ambassador simply. Rudgutter blinked.
“We haven’t even discussed terms yet, ambassador. I assure you I can make a very generous offer . . .”
“I’m afraid it is out of the question. None of my kind are available.” The ambassador stared impassively at Rudgutter.
The mayor thought for a moment. If the ambassador was bargaining, he was doing so in a way he had never done before. Rudgutter forgot himself, closed his eyes to think, snapping them immediately open as he saw that monstrous vista, caught a glimmer of the ambassador’s other form. He tried again.
“I could even go up to . . . let’s say . . .”
“Mayor Rudgutter, you don’t understand,” said the ambassador. Its voice was impassive, but it seemed agitated. “I don’t care how many units of merchandise you can offer, or in what condition. We are not available for this job. It is not suitable.”
There was a long silence. Rudgutter gazed with incredulity at the dæmon opposite him. It was beginning to dawn on him what was happening. In the bleeding rays of light, he saw the ambassador open a drawer and bring out a sheaf of papers.
“If you are finished, Mayor Rudgutter,” he continued smoothly, “I have work to do.”
Rudgutter waited until the miserable, pitiless resonance of work to do to do to do had died down outside. The echo made his stomach pitch.
“Oh, yes, yes, ambassador,” he said. “So sorry to have kept you. We’ll speak again soon, I hope.”
The ambassador inclined its head in a polite nod, then drew out a pen from its inner pocket and began to mark the papers. Behind Rudgutter, Vansetty twiddled at nobs and depressed various buttons, and the wooden floor began to tremble as if in some ætherquake. A hum built up around the cramped humans, wobbling in their little energy field. The foul air vibrated up and down their bodies.
The ambassador bulged and split and disappeared in an instant, like a heliotype in a fire. The moiling carmine light bubbled and evaporated, as if it seeped out through a thousand cracks in the dusty office walls. The darkness of the room closed in around them like a trap. Vansetty’s tiny candle guttered and went out.
Checking that they were unobserved, Vansetty, Rudgutter, Stem-Fulcher and Rescue stumbled from the room. The air felt deliciously chill. They spent a minute wiping sweat from their faces, rearranging the clothes that had been buffeted by winds from other planes.
Rudgutter was shaking his head in rueful astonishment.
His ministers composed themselves and turned to him.
“I’ve met with the ambassador perhaps a dozen times over the past ten years,” said Rudgutter, “and I’ve never seen it behave like that. Damn that air!” he added, rubbing his eyes.
The four walked back along the little corridor, turned onto the main passageway and began to retrace their steps towards the lift.
“Behave like what?” asked Stem-Fulcher. “I’ve only ever dealt with it once before. Not used to it.”
“There are two things to be said: one dæmonological, one practical and immediate.” Rudgutter spoke in a level, exact tone, demanding the attention of his ministers. Vansetty was wandering quickly ahead, his job done. “The first might give a certain insight into the Hellkin psyche, behaviour, whatnot. You both heard the echo, I presume? I thought he did that to intimidate me, for a while. Well, bear in mind the immense distance that sound had to travel. I know,” he said quickly, holding up his hands, “that it’s not literally sound, nor literally distance, but they are extraplanar analogues and most analogous rules hold in some more or less mutated way. So bear in mind how far it had to travel, from the base of the Pit to that chamber. The fact is, it takes a little while to get there . . . That ‘echo,’ I believe, was actually spoken first. The . . . eloquent words we heard from the ambassador’s mouth . . . those were the real echoes. Those were the twisted reflections.”
Stem-Fulcher and Rescue were silent. They thought of the screams, the tortured, maniacal tone they had heard outside, the idiot ruined gibbering that seemed to make a mockery of the ambassador’s devilish refinement . . .
They reflected that that might be the more genuine voice.
“I’m wondering if we were wrong to think of them having a different psychic model. Maybe they’re comprehensible. Maybe they think like us. And the second thing, bearing in mind that possibility, and bearing in mind what the ‘echo’ might tell us about the dæmoniac state of mind, is that at the end there, when I was trying to cut a deal, the ambassador was scared . . . That’s why he wouldn’t come to our aid. That’s why we’re on our own. Because the dæmons are afraid of what we’re hunting.”
Perdido Street Station Page 29