Perdido Street Station

by China Miéville

  “It just does whatever it has to to . . . to make the web prettier,” he said unhappily. He caught sight of Derkhan’s ragged wound, and looked away again. “You can’t understand it, it doesn’t think like us at all.” As he spoke, something occurred to Isaac. “Maybe . . . maybe that’s why Rudgutter’s been dealing with it,” he said. “If it doesn’t think like us, maybe it’s immune to the moths . . . Maybe it’s like a . . . a hunting dog . . .”

  He’s lost control of it, he thought, remembering the mayor’s shouts from outside. It’s not doing what he wants.

  He turned his attention back down to the letter in The Digest.

  “This bit about tapestry-work . . .” Isaac mused, chewing his lips. “That’s the worldweb, isn’t it? So I think it’s saying it likes what we were . . . um . . . doing in the world. How we were ‘weaving.’ I think that’s why it got us out. And this later section . . .” His expression became more and more fearful as he read.

  “Oh gods,” he breathed. “It’s like what happened to Barbile . . .” Derkhan’s mouth was set. She nodded reluctantly. “What was it she said? ‘It’s tasted me . . .’ The grub I had, I must’ve been tantalizing it with my mind all the time . . . It’s tasted me already . . . It must be hunting me . . .”

  Derkhan stared at him.

  “You won’t get it off your tail, Isaac,” she said quietly. “We’ll have to kill it.”

  She had said we. He looked up at her gratefully.

  “Before we formulate any plans,” she said, “there’s another thing. A mystery. Something I want explained.” She gestured at the other alcove across the dark room. Isaac peered curiously into the filthy obscurity. He could just make out a lumpy, motionless shape.

  He knew what it was instantly. He remembered its extraordinary intervention in the warehouse. His breath sped up.

  “It wouldn’t speak or write to anyone else,” Derkhan said. “When we realized it was here with us, we tried to talk to it, we wanted to know what it had done, but it completely ignored us. I think it’s been waiting for you.”

  Isaac slid over to the lip of the ledge.

  “It’s shallow,” Derkhan said behind him. He slipped off into the cool watery muck of the sewers. It came up to his knees. He pushed through it unthinkingly, ignoring the thick stench he raised as it sluiced through his legs. He waded through the noisome excremental stew towards the other little shelf.

  As he drew closer, the dull inhabitant of that unlit space whirred slightly and pushed its battered body as near upright as it could. It was crammed into the little space.

  Isaac sat next to it, shook his fouled shoes as clean as he could. He turned to it with an intent, hungry expression.

  “So,” he said. “Tell me what you know. Tell me why you warned me. Tell me what’s going on.”

  The cleaning construct hissed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Under a damp hollow of bricks by Trauka Station, Yagharek waited.

  He gnawed a hunk of bread and meat that he had begged wordlessly from a butcher. He had not been unmasked. He had simply thrust his tremulous hand out from under his cloak and the food had been given to him. His head had remained hidden. He had shuffled away, his feet cramped and hidden by rags. His gait was of an old, tired man.

  It was much easier to hide as a human than as an unwounded garuda.

  He waited in the darkness where Lemuel had left him. From the shadows which hid him, he could watch the comings and goings at the church of the clock gods. It was an ugly little building, the façade of which was still painted with the advertising slogans of the furniture shop it had once been. Above the door was an intricate brass timepiece, each hour intertwined with the symbols of its associate god.

  Yagharek knew the religion. It was strong among the humans of Shankell. He had visited its temples when his band had come to the city to trade, in the years before his crime.

  The clock struck one, and Yagharek heard the ululating hymn to Sanshad, the sun god, come belting through the broken windows. It was sung with more gusto than in Shankell but considerably less finesse. It was less than three decades since the religion had crossed the Meagre Sea with any success. Obviously its subtleties had been lost in the water between Shankell and Myrshock.

  Before he was conscious of it, his hunter’s ears had realized that one of the sets of footsteps approaching his hideaway was familiar. He finished his food quickly and waited.

  Lemuel appeared framed in the entrance of the little cave. Passers-by came and went in the light spaces above his shoulders.

  “Yag,” he whispered, gazing sightlessly into the grubby hole. The garuda shuffled forward into the light. Lemuel was carrying two bags stuffed with clothes and food. “Come on,” he whispered. “We should get back.”

  They retraced their steps through the winding streets of Murkside. It was Skullday, a shopping day, and elsewhere in the city the crowds would be thick. But in Murkside the shops were mean and poor. Those locals for whom Skullday was a day off would make their way to Griss Fell or the Aspic Hole market. Lemuel and Yagharek were not watched by many.

  Yagharek sped up, hobbling on bound feet with a weird, crippled gait to keep up with Lemuel. They made their way south-east, staying in the shadow of the raised railway lines, moving towards Syriac.

  This is how I came to the city, thought Yagharek, tracking the great iron pathways of the trains.

  They passed under the brick arches, retracing their way into a little enclosed space overlooked on three sides by featureless brick. Storm drains channelled down the walls, along concrete ruts and into a man-sized grille in the centre of the yard.

  On the fourth side, the south-facing side, the courtyard looked out onto a drab alley. The land fell away before it. Syriac sat in a depression in the underlying clay. Yagharek looked out over a tumbledown roofscape of twisted roofs and mouldering slate, curlicues of brick and forgotten, warped weathervanes.

  Lemuel glanced around to ensure their privacy, then tugged the grille free. Fingers of fell-gas curled out and tugged at them. The heat made the stink rich. Lemuel gave his bags to Yagharek and pulled a primed pistol from his belt. Yagharek looked at him from under the hood.

  Lemuel turned with a hard smile and said: “I’ve been pulling in favours. Got us kitted out.” He waggled the gun to illustrate his point. He checked it, hefted it expertly. He pulled the oil-lamp from a bag, lit it and lifted it with his left hand.

  “Stay behind me,” he said. “Keep your ears open. Move quietly. Watch your back.”

  With that, Lemuel and Yagharek descended into the dirt and the dark.

  There was an indeterminable time wading through the warm, rank darkness. The sounds of scuttling and swimming were all around them. Once they heard vicious laughter from a tunnel parallel to theirs. Twice Lemuel swung round, aiming the torch and his pistol at a patch of filth still rippling from where some unseen thing had been. He did not have to shoot. They were unmolested.

  “You know how lucky we were?” said Lemuel conversationally. His voice bobbed slowly back to Yagharek on the foetid air. “I don’t know if it was deliberate, where the Weaver left us, but we’re in one of the safest places in the New Crobuzon sewers.” His voice stiffened now and then with effort or disgust. “Murkside’s such a backwater, you don’t have much food down here, you’ve got no thaumaturgic residues, there aren’t any massive old chambers to support a whole brood . . . It’s not very busy.”

  He was silent for a moment, then continued.

  “Brock Marsh sewers, for example. All the unstable runoff from all those labs and experiments, accumulating over the years . . . makes for a very unpredictable population of vermin. Rats the size of pigs, speaking in tongues. Blind pygmy crocodiles, whose great-great-great-grandparents escaped from the zoo. Crossbreeds of all sorts.

  “Over in Gross Coil and Skulkford the city’s sitting on layers of older buildings. For hundreds of years they sunk into the mire, and they’d just build new ones on top of them.
The pavement’s only been solid there for a hundred and fifty years. Over there, the sewers feed into old basements and bedrooms. The tunnels like this one lead into submerged streets. You can still see the road-names. Rotten houses under a brick sky. Straight up. The shit flows along channels and then through windows and doors.

  “That’s where the undergangs live. They used to be human, or their parents did, but they’ve spent too long down here. They aren’t a pretty sight.”

  He hawked and spat noisily into the slow ooze.

  “Still. Rather the undergangs than the ghuls. Or the trow.” He laughed, but it was without any humour. Yagharek could not tell if Lemuel was mocking him.

  Lemuel lapsed into silence. For some minutes, there was no sound except the slosh of their legs through the thick effluvia. Then Yagharek heard voices. He stiffened and gripped Lemuel’s shirt, but a moment later he heard them clearly, and they were Isaac’s and Derkhan’s.

  The excremental water seemed to carry light with it, from around a corner.

  Bent-backed and swearing with effort, Yagharek and Lemuel wound through the twisting brick junctions and turned into the little room under Murkside’s heart.

  Isaac and Derkhan were yelling at each other. Isaac saw Yagharek and Lemuel over Derkhan’s shoulder. He raised his arms to them.

  “Dammit, there you are!” He strode past Derkhan towards them. Yagharek held out a bag of food at him. Isaac ignored it. “Lem, Yag,” he said urgently. “We have to move fast.”

  “Now hold on . . .” began Lemuel, but Isaac ignored him.

  “Listen, dammit,” Isaac shouted. “The construct’s talked to me!”

  Lemuel’s mouth stayed open, but he was silent. No one spoke for a moment.

  “All right?” said Isaac. “It’s intelligent, dammit, it’s sentient . . . something’s happened in its head. The rumours about CI are true! Some virus, some programme glitch . . . And although it won’t come out and say it, I think it’s hinted that that damned repairman may have given it a helping hand along the way. And the upshot is the damn thing can think. It’s seen everything! It was there when the slake-moth took Lublamai. It . . .”

  “Hold on!” shouted Lemuel. “It spoke to you?”

  “No! It had to scrape messages in the mould over there: it was damn slow. That’s what it uses its litter-spike for. It was the construct that told me David had turned traitor! It tried to get us out of the warehouse before the militia arrived!”

  “Why?”

  Isaac’s urgency waned.

  “I don’t know. It can’t explain itself. It’s not . . . very articulate.” Lemuel looked up, over Isaac’s head. The construct sat motionless in the red-black flickering of the oil-lamp. “But listen . . . I think one of the reasons it wanted us free is because we’re against the slake-moths. I don’t know why, but it . . . it’s violently against them. It wants them dead. And it’s offering us help . . .”

  Lemuel barked with unpleasant, incredulous laughter.

  “Marvellous!” he wondered, derisorily. “You’ve got a vacuum cleaner on your side . . .”

  “No, you fucking arse,” yelled Isaac. “Don’t you understand? It’s not alone . . .”

  The word alone echoed back and forth around the mephitic brick burrows. Lemuel and Isaac stared at each other. Yagharek drew back a little.

  “It’s not alone,” Isaac repeated softly. Behind him, Derkhan nodded in mute accord. “It’s given us directions. It can read and write—that’s how it realized David sold us out, it found his discarded instructions—but it’s not a sophisticated thinker. But it promises that if we go to Griss Twist tomorrow night, we’ll meet something that can explain everything. And that can help us.”

  This time, it was us that filled the silence with its reverberating presence. Lemuel shook his head slowly, his face set and cruel.

  “Damn, Isaac,” he said quietly. “ ‘We’? ‘Us’? Who the fuck are you talking to? This is nothing to do with me . . .” Derkhan sneered in disgust and turned away. Isaac opened his mouth, dismayed. Lemuel interrupted him. “Look, man. I was in this for the money. I’m a businessman. You paid well. You got my services. You even got a little bit of time free, with Vermishank. I did that for Mr. X. And I’ve got a soft spot for you, ’Zaac. You’ve been straight with me. That’s why I came back down here. Brought a bit of grub, and I’ll show you out of here. But now Vermishank’s dead and your credit’s run dry. I don’t know what you’ve got planned, but I’m off. Why in fuck should I go chasing these damn things? Leave it to the militia. There’s nothing for me here . . . Why would I hang around?”

  “Leave it to who . . . ?” hissed Derkhan with contempt, but Isaac spoke over her.

  “So,” he said slowly. “What now? Hmmm? You think you can go back? Lem, old son, whatever else you might damn well be, you ain’t a stupid man. You think you weren’t seen? You think they don’t know who you are? Godsdamn, man . . . you’re wanted.”

  Lemuel glared at him.

  “Well, thanks for your concern ’Zaac,” he said, his face twisting. “Tell you what, though—” his voice turned hard “—you may be out of your depth. I, however, have spent my professional life evading the law. Don’t you worry about me, mate. I’ll be cushty.” He did not sound sure.

  I’m not telling him anything he doesn’t know, thought Isaac. He just doesn’t want to think about it right now. Isaac shook his head contemptuously.

  “Dammit, man, you aren’t thinking straight. There’s a whole godsdamn universe of difference between being a go-between and being a militia-murdering criminal . . . Don’t you get it? They don’t know what you know or don’t know . . . unfortunately for you, old son, you’re implicated. You have to stick with us. You have to see this through. They’re after you, right? And right now, you’re running from them. Better to stay in front, even if you’re running, than fucking well turn round and let them catch up.”

  Lemuel stood still in the silence, glowering at Isaac. He said nothing, but neither did he leave.

  Isaac took a step towards him.

  “Look,” Isaac said. “The other thing is . . . we . . . I . . . need you.” Behind him Derkhan sniffed sulkily and Isaac shot her an irritated glance. “Godspit, Lem . . . you’re our best chance. You know everyone, you’ve got a finger in all the right pies . . .” Isaac raised his hands helplessly. “I can’t see a way out of this. One of those . . . things is after me, the militia can’t help us, they don’t know how to catch the damn things, and anyway, I don’t know if you’re keeping track but those fuckers are hunting us too . . . I can’t see a way, even assuming we get the slake-moths, where I don’t end up dead.” The words chilled him as he spoke them. He talked rapidly, pushed the thoughts away. “But if I keep at it, maybe I can figure one out. And the same goes for you. And without you, Derkhan and me are dead for sure.” Lemuel’s eyes were hard. Isaac felt a chill. Never forget who you’re dealing with, he thought. You and he are not friends . . . don’t forget that.

  “You know my credit’s good,” Isaac said suddenly. “You know that. Now, I’m not going to pretend I’ve got a massive bank account, I’ve got a bit, there’s a few guineas left, all of it yours . . . but help me, Lemuel, and I’m yours. I’ll work for you. I’ll be your man. I’ll be your fucking pet. Any jobs you want done, I do them. Any money I make, it’s yours. I’ll sign my fucking life to you, Lemuel. Just help us now.”

  There was no sound except the dripping of ordure. Behind Isaac, Derkhan hovered. Her face was a study of contempt and disgust. We don’t need him, it said. But still, she waited to hear what he would say. Yagharek stood back. He listened to the argument dispassionately. He was bound to Isaac. He could go nowhere and do nothing without him.

  Lemuel sighed.

  “I am going to be keeping a running total, you realize? I’m talking about serious debt, you know? D’you have any idea of the daily rate for this sort of thing? The danger money?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” breathed Isaac brusquely. He hid
his relief. “Just keep me posted. Tell me what I’m accruing. I’ll be good for it.” Lemuel nodded briefly. Derkhan exhaled, very quietly and slowly.

  They stood like exhausted combatants. Each waited for the other to move.

  “So what now?” said Lemuel. His voice was surly.

  “We go to Griss Twist tomorrow night,” said Isaac. “The construct promised help. We can’t risk not going. I’ll meet you both there.”

  “Where are you going?” said Derkhan in surprise.

  “I have to find Lin,” said Isaac. “They’ll be coming for her.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  It was almost midnight. Skullday was becoming Shunday. The moon was one night off full.

  Outside Lin’s tower, in Aspic Hole itself, the few passers-by were irritable and nervous. Market day had passed, and its bonhomie with it. The square was haunted by the skeletons of stalls, thin wooden frames stripped of canvas. The rubbish from the market was piled in rotting heaps, waiting for the dustcrews to transport it to the dumps. The bloated moon bleached Aspic Hole like some corrosive liquid. It looked ominous, shabby and mean.

  Isaac climbed the stairs of the tower warily. He had had no way of getting a message to Lin and he had not seen her for days. He had washed as best he could in water filched from a pump in Flyside, but he still stank.

  He had sat in the sewers for hours the previous day. Lemuel had not allowed them to leave for a long time, decreeing that it was too dangerous during the light.

  “We have to stick together,” he demanded, “until we know what we’re doing. And we are not the most unobtrusive bunch.” So the four of them had sat in a room awash in faecal water, eating and trying not to vomit, bickering and failing to make plans. They had argued vehemently about whether or not Isaac should see Lin on his own. He was absolute in his insistence that he be unaccompanied. Derkhan and Lemuel denounced his stupidity, and even Yagharek’s silence had seemed briefly accusatory. But Isaac was quite adamant.