Perdido Street Station Part 38

And then it tired and stepped through the twists of matter out of the warehouse.

Into another s.p.a.ce.

I shut my eyes.

I moved in a direction I had never known existed. I felt the scuttling slide of that great mult.i.tude of legs as the dancing mad G.o.d moved along powerful threads of force. It scampered at obscure angles to reality, with all of us bobbing beneath it. My stomach pitched. I felt myself catch and snag on the fabric of the world. My skin p.r.i.c.kled in the alien plane.

For a moment the G.o.d's madness infected me. For a moment, the greed for knowledge forgot its place and demanded to be quenched. For a sliver of time, I opened my eyes.

For a terrible eternal breath I glimpsed the reality through which the dancing mad G.o.d was treading.

My eyes itched and watered, they felt as if they would burst, as if a thousand sandstorms afflicted them. They could not a.s.similate what was before them. My poor eyes struggled to see the unseeable. I beheld nothing but a fraction, the edge of an aspect.

I saw, or thought I saw, or have convinced myself I saw a vastness that dwarfed any desert sky. A yawning gap of Leviathan proportions. I whined and heard others whine around me. Spread across the emptiness, streaming away from us with cavernous perspective in all directions and dimensions, encompa.s.sing lifetimes and hugenesses with each intricate knot of metaphysical substance, was a web.

Its substance was known to me.

The crawling infinity of colours, the chaos of textures that went into each strand of that eternally complex tapestry . . . each one resonated under the step of the dancing mad G.o.d, vibrating and sending little echoes of bravery, or hunger, or architecture, or argument, or cabbage or murder or concrete across the aether. The weft of starlings' motivations connected to the thick, sticky strand of a young thief's laugh. The fibres stretched taut and glued themselves solidly to a third line, its silk made from the angles of seven flying b.u.t.tresses to a cathedral roof. The plait disappeared into the enormity of possible s.p.a.ces.

Every intention, interaction, motivation, every colour, every body, every action and reaction, every piece of physical reality and the thoughts that it engendered, every connection made, every nuanced moment of history and potentiality, every toothache and flagstone, every emotion and birth and banknote, every possible thing ever is woven into that limitless, sprawling web.

It is without beginning or end. It is complex to a degree that humbles the mind. It is a work of such beauty that my soul wept.

It crawled with life. There were others like our bearer, more of the dancing mad G.o.ds, glimpsed across an infinity of webwork.

There were other creatures, too, terrible intricate shapes I will not recall.

The web is not without flaw. In innumerable places the silk is torn and the colours ruined. Here and there the patterns are strained and unstable. As we pa.s.sed these wounds, I felt the dancing mad G.o.d pause and flex its spinneret, repairing and restaining.

A little way off was the tight silk of the Cymek. I swear I caught its oscillations as the worldweb flexed under the weight of time.

Around me was a little localized tangle of metareal gossamer . . . New Crobuzon. And there rending the woven strands in the centre was an ugly tear. It spread out and split the fabric of the city-web, taking the mult.i.tude of colours and bleeding them dry. They were left a drab and lifeless white. A pointless emptiness, a pallid shade a thousand times more soulless even than the eye of some sightless caveborn fish.

As I watched, my pained eyes wide with insight, I saw that the rip was widening.

I was so afraid of the spreading rent. And I was dwarfed by the enormity of it all, of the whole of the web. I shut my eyes tight.

I could not close down my mind. It scrambled, unbidden, to remember what it had seen. But it could not contain it. I was left only with a sense of it all. I remember it now as a description. The weight of its immensity is no longer present in my head.

That is the etiolated memory that captivates me now.

I have danced with the spider. I have cut a caper with the dancing mad G.o.d.

PART FIVE.

Councils

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR.

In the Lemquist Room, Rudgutter, Stem-Fulcher and Rescue held a council of war.

They had been up all night. Rudgutter and Stem-Fulcher were tired and irritable. They sipped huge bowls of strong coffee as they pored over papers.

Rescue was impa.s.sive. He fingered his swaddling scarf.

"Look at this," said Rudgutter, and waved a piece of paper at his subordinates. "This arrived this morning. It was couriered in person. I had the opportunity to discuss its content with the authors. It was not a social call."

Stem-Fulcher leaned over, reaching for the letter. Rudgutter ignored her and began to reread it himself.

"It's from Josiah Penton, Bartol Sedner and and Mashek Ghrashietnichs." Rescue and Stem-Fulcher looked up. He nodded slowly. "The heads of Arrowhead Mines, Sedner's Bank of Commerce and the Paradox Concerns have taken the time to write a letter Mashek Ghrashietnichs." Rescue and Stem-Fulcher looked up. He nodded slowly. "The heads of Arrowhead Mines, Sedner's Bank of Commerce and the Paradox Concerns have taken the time to write a letter together together. So I think we can add a long list of lesser names below theirs, in invisible ink, hm?" He smoothed the letter. "Messrs. Penton, Sedner and Ghrashietnichs are 'most concerned,' 'most concerned,' it says here, at it says here, at 'scurrilous reports' 'scurrilous reports' reaching their ears. They have wind of our crisis." He watched as Stem-Fulcher and Rescue glanced at each other. "It's all rather garbled. They aren't at all sure what's happening, but none of them have been sleeping well. In addition to which, they've got der Grimnebulin's name. They want to know what's being done to counter, ah . . . 'this threat to our great city-state.' " He put the paper down as Stem-Fulcher shrugged and opened her mouth to answer. He cut her off, rubbing his eyes with exasperated exhaustion. reaching their ears. They have wind of our crisis." He watched as Stem-Fulcher and Rescue glanced at each other. "It's all rather garbled. They aren't at all sure what's happening, but none of them have been sleeping well. In addition to which, they've got der Grimnebulin's name. They want to know what's being done to counter, ah . . . 'this threat to our great city-state.' " He put the paper down as Stem-Fulcher shrugged and opened her mouth to answer. He cut her off, rubbing his eyes with exasperated exhaustion.

"You've read Inspector Tormlin's-'Sally's'-report. According to Serachin, who is now recuperating in our care, der Grimnebulin claims to have a working prototype of some kind of crisis engine. We all understand the gravity of that. Well . . . our good businessmen have found that out. And as you can imagine, they are all-particularly Mr. Penton-most desirous of putting a stop to this of putting a stop to this absurd claim absurd claim as quickly as possible. Any preposterous as quickly as possible. Any preposterous fake engines fake engines that Mr. der Grimnebulin might have fabricated to fool the credulous should, we are advised, be summarily destroyed." He sighed and looked up. that Mr. der Grimnebulin might have fabricated to fool the credulous should, we are advised, be summarily destroyed." He sighed and looked up.

"They make some mention of the generous funds they have provided the government and the Fat Sun party over the years. We have been given our orders orders, ladies and gentlemen. They are not at all happy about the slake-moths, and would like such dangerous animals contained forthwith. But not surprisingly, they are having a conniption conniption about the possibility of crisis energy. Now, we searched the warehouse very thoroughly last night, and there is absolutely no sign of any such apparatus. We have to consider the possibility that der Grimnebulin is mistaken or lying. But in case he's not, we must also bear in mind that he may have taken his engine and his notes with him last night. With," he sighed heavily, "the Weaver." about the possibility of crisis energy. Now, we searched the warehouse very thoroughly last night, and there is absolutely no sign of any such apparatus. We have to consider the possibility that der Grimnebulin is mistaken or lying. But in case he's not, we must also bear in mind that he may have taken his engine and his notes with him last night. With," he sighed heavily, "the Weaver."

Stem-Fulcher spoke carefully. "Do we understand yet," she ventured, "what happened?"

Rudgutter shrugged brusquely.

"We presented the evidence of the militia who saw the Weaver and heard what it said to Kapnellior. I've been trying to contact the thing, and I've had one curt, incomprehensible reply . . . It was scribbled in soot on my mirror. All we can say for sure is that it thought it improved the pattern of the worldweb to abduct der Grimnebulin and his friends from under our noses. We don't know where it's gone or why. Whether it's left them alive. Anything really. Although Kapnellior's quite confident it's still hunting the moths."

"What about the ears?" asked Stem-Fulcher.

"I have no idea no idea!" shouted Rudgutter. "It made the web prettier! Obviously! So now we have twenty terrified, one-eared militia in the infirmary!" He calmed a little. "I have been thinking. It's my belief that part of our problem is that we started with plans that were too grand. We'll keep trying to locate the Weaver, but in the meantime we're going to have to rely on less ambitious methods of moth-hunting. We are going to put together a unit of all our guards, militia, and scientists who have had any dealings with the creatures. We're putting together a specialist squad. And we are going to do it in conjunction with Motley." Stem-Fulcher and Rescue looked at him and nodded.

"It's necessary. We're pooling our resources. He has trained men, as do we. We have set procedures in motion. He will have his units, and we will have ours, but they will operate in tandem. Motley and his men have an unconditional amnesty on all criminal activity while we conduct this operation.

"Rescue . . ." said Rudgutter quietly. "We need your particular skills. Quietly, of course. How many of your . . . kin do you think you can mobilize within a day? Knowing the nature of the operation . . . It is not without its dangers."

MontJohn Rescue fingered his scarf again. He made a peculiar noise under his breath. "Ten or so," he said.

"You'll receive training, of course. You've worn a mirror-guard before, I think?" Rescue nodded. "Good. Because the sentience model of your kind is . . . broadly similar to a human's, is it not? Your mind is as tempting tempting to the moths as mine. Whatever your host?" to the moths as mine. Whatever your host?"

Rescue nodded again.

"We dream, Mr. Mayor," he said in his flattened voice. "We can be prey."

"I understand that. Your-and your kin's-bravery will not go unnoticed. We will provide whatever we can to ensure your safety." Rescue nodded without visible emotion. He stood slowly.

"Time being of such importance, I'll make a start now on spreading the word." He bowed. "You will have my squad by sundown tomorrow," he said. He turned and left the room.

Stem-Fulcher turned to Rudgutter with pursed lips.

"He's not too happy about this, is he?" she said. Rudgutter shrugged.

"He's always known that his role might involve danger. The slake-moths are as much of a threat to his people as to ours."

Stem-Fulcher nodded.

"How long ago was he taken? The original Rescue, I mean, the human one."

Rudgutter calculated for a moment.

"Eleven years. He was planning to supersede me. Have you set the squad in motion?" he demanded. Stem-Fulcher sat back and drew lengthily on her clay pipe. Aromatic smoke danced.

"We're going through two days' intensive training today and tomorrow . . . you know, aiming backwards with the mirror-guards, that sort of thing. Motley is apparently doing the same. The rumours are that Motley's troop includes several Remade specifically designed specifically designed for slake-moth husbandry and capture . . . built-in mirrors, back-pointing arms and the like. We have only one such officer." She shook her head jealously. "We're also having several of the scientists who worked on the project work on detecting the moths. They're at pains to impress on us that this is unreliable, but if they come through they may give us some kind of edge." for slake-moth husbandry and capture . . . built-in mirrors, back-pointing arms and the like. We have only one such officer." She shook her head jealously. "We're also having several of the scientists who worked on the project work on detecting the moths. They're at pains to impress on us that this is unreliable, but if they come through they may give us some kind of edge."

Rudgutter nodded. "Add to that," he said, "our Weaver, still out there somewhere, still hunting the moths busy tearing up his precious worldweave . . . We've got a reasonable collection of troops."

"But they're not co-ordinated," said Stem-Fulcher. "That's what worries me. And morale in the city is slipping. Obviously very few people know the truth, but everyone knows they can't sleep at night, for fear of their dreams. We're plotting a map of the nightmare hotspots, see if we can't see some pattern, track the moths in some way. There's been a spate of violent crime over the last week. Nothing big and planned: the sudden attacks, the spur-of-the-moment murders, the brawls. Tempers," she said slowly, "are fraying. People are paranoid and afraid."

After the silence had settled for a moment, she spoke again.

"This afternoon you should receive the fruits of some scientific labours," she said. "I've asked our research team to make some helmet that'll stop the moth-s.h.i.t seeping into your skull when you sleep. You'll look absurd in bed, but at least you'll rest." She stopped. Rudgutter was blinking rapidly. "How are your eyes?" she asked.

Rudgutter shook his head.

"Going," he said sadly. "We just can't solve the problem of rejection. It's about time for a fresh set."

Bleary-eyed citizens made their way to work. They were surly and unco-operative.

At the Kelltree docks, the broken strike was not mentioned. The bruises on the vodyanoi stevedores were fading. They heaved spilt cargos from the dirty water as always. They directed ships into tight s.p.a.ces on the banks. They muttered in secret about the disappearance of the stewards, the strike-leaders.

Their human workmates stared at the defeated xenians with a mixture of emotions.

The fat aerostats patrolled the skies over the city with restless, clumsy menace.

Arguments broke out with bizarre ease. Fights were common. The nocturnal misery reached out and took victims from the waking world.

In the Bleckly Refinery in Gross Coil, an exhausted crane operator hallucinated one of the torments that had ripped up his sleep the previous night. He shuddered just long enough to send the controls spasming. The ma.s.sive steam-powered machine disgorged its load of molten iron a second too early. It spewed in a white-hot torrent over the lip of the waiting container and spattered the crew like a siege engine. They screamed and were consumed by the merciless cascade.

At the top of the great deserted concrete obelisks of Spatters the city garuda lit huge fires at night. They banged gongs and saucepans and shouted, screaming obscene songs and raucous cries. Charlie the big man told them that would keep the evil spirits from visiting their towers. The flying monsters. The daemons that had come to town to suck the brains out of the living.

The raucous cafe gatherings in Salacus Fields were subdued.

The nightmares pushed some artists into frenzies of creation. An exhibition was being planned: Dispatches from a Troubled City Dispatches from a Troubled City. It was to be a showcase of art and sculpture and soundwork inspired by the mora.s.s of foul dreams in which the city wallowed.

There was a fear in the air, a nervousness at invoking certain names. Lin and Isaac, the disappeared. To speak them would be to admit that something might be wrong, that they might not just be busy, that their enforced, silent absence from regular haunts was sinister.

The nightmares were splitting the membrane of sleep. They were spilling into the everyday, haunting the sunlit realm, drying conversations in the throat and stealing friends away.

Isaac awoke in the throes of memory. He was recalling the extraordinary escape of the previous night. His eyes flickered, but remained closed.

Isaac's breath caught.

Tentatively, he remembered. Impossible images a.s.sailed him. Silk strands a lifetime thick. Living things crawling insidiously across interlocking wires. Behind a beautiful palimpsest of coloured gossamer, a vast, timeless, infinite ma.s.s of absence . . .

In terror, he opened his eyes.

The web was gone.

Isaac looked around him slowly. He was in a brick cavern, cool and wet, dripping in the dark.

"You awake, Isaac?" said Derkhan's voice.

Isaac struggled up onto his elbows. He groaned. His body hurt him in a variety of ways. He felt battered and torn. Derkhan sat a little way away from him on a ledge of brick. She smiled absolutely mirthlessly at him. It was a terrifying rictus.

"Derkhan?" he murmured. His eyes widened slowly. "What are you wearing?"

In the half-light emitted by a smoke-seeping oil-lamp, Isaac could see that Derkhan was dressed in a puffy dressing gown of bright pink material. It was decorated with garish needlework flowers. Derkhan shook her head.

"I don't d.a.m.n well know, Isaac," she said bitterly. "All I know is I was knocked out by the officer with the stingbox and then I woke up here in the sewers, dressed in this. And that's not all . . ." Her voice trembled for a brief moment. She pulled her hair back from the side of her head. He hissed at the raw, seeping clot of blood that caked the side of her face. "My . . . d.a.m.ned ear ear's gone." She let her hair fall back into place with an unsteady hand. "Lemuel's been saying it was a . . . a Weaver Weaver that brought us here. You haven't seen your own outfit yet, anyway." that brought us here. You haven't seen your own outfit yet, anyway."

Isaac rubbed his head and sat up completely. He struggled to clear his mind of fog.

"What?" he said. " he said. "Where are we? The sewers . . . ? Where's Lemuel? Yagharek? And . . ." are we? The sewers . . . ? Where's Lemuel? Yagharek? And . . ." Lublamai, Lublamai, he heard inside his mind, but he remembered Vermishank's words. He remembered with cold horror that Lublamai was irrevocably lost. he heard inside his mind, but he remembered Vermishank's words. He remembered with cold horror that Lublamai was irrevocably lost.

His voice dissipated.

He heard himself, and realized that he was rambling hysterically. He stopped and breathed deeply, forced himself to calm down.

He looked around him, took in the situation.

He and Derkhan sat in a two-foot-wide alcove embedded into the wall of a windowless little brick chamber. It was about ten feet square-its far side only just visible in the faint light-with a ceiling no more than five feet above him. In each of the room's four walls was a cylindrical tunnel, about four feet round.

The bottom of the room was completely submerged in filthy water. It was impossible to tell how deep below it the floor was. The liquid looked to be emerging from at least two of the tunnels, and slowly ebbing out of the others.

The walls were slick with organic slime and mould. The air stank richly of rot and s.h.i.t.

Isaac looked down at himself and his face creased in confusion. He was dressed in an immaculate suit and tie, a dark, well-tailored piece that any Parliamentarian would be proud of. Isaac had never seen it before. Beside him, roughened and dirty, was his carpet bag.