Perdido Street Station Part 12

Around New Crobuzon the posters are appearing demanding your vote your vote-should you be lucky enough to have one! Rudgutter's Fat Sun huffs and puffs, Finally We Can See spout weasel-words, the Diverse Tendency lies to the oppressed xenians, and the human dust of the Three Quills spread their poison. With this sorry crew as the "choice," Runagate Rampant Runagate Rampant calls on all "winners" of the vote to spoil their ballots! Build a party from below and denounce the Suffrage Lottery as a cynical ploy. We say: calls on all "winners" of the vote to spoil their ballots! Build a party from below and denounce the Suffrage Lottery as a cynical ploy. We say: votes for all and vote for change! votes for all and vote for change!

The vodyanoi stevedores of Kelltree are discussing strike action after vicious attacks on wages by the dock authorities. Disgracefully, the Guild of Human Dockers has denounced their actions. We say: towards an all-race union against the bosses! towards an all-race union against the bosses!

Derkhan looked up from reading as a couple entered the carriage. Casually and surrept.i.tiously, she folded her copy of Runagate Rampant Runagate Rampant and slipped it into her bag. and slipped it into her bag.

She sat at the very front end of the train, facing backwards, so she could see the few people in her carriage without appearing to spy on them. The two young people who had just entered swayed as the train left Sedim Junction and sat quickly. They were dressed simply but well, which marked them out from the majority of those travelling to Dog Fenn. Derkhan pegged them as Veruline missionaries, students from the university up the road in Ludmead, descending piously and sanctimoniously into the depths of Dog Fenn to improve the souls of the poor. She sneered at them mentally as she took out a little mirror.

Glancing up again to ensure she was not observed, Derkhan looked critically at her face. She adjusted her white wig minutely, and pressed at her rubber scar to make sure it was solid. She was dressed carefully. Dirty and torn clothes, no hint of money to attract unwanted attention in the Fenn, but not so fouled as to attract the opprobrious wrath of travellers in The Crow, where she had started her journey.

Her notebook was on her lap. She was taking some time during her journey to make preparatory notes on the s.h.i.+ntacost Prize. The first round was taking place sometime at the end of the month, and she had in mind a piece for the Beacon Beacon about what did and did not get through the early stages. She intended to make it funny, but with a serious point about the politics of the judging panel. about what did and did not get through the early stages. She intended to make it funny, but with a serious point about the politics of the judging panel.

She stared at her lackl.u.s.tre beginning and sighed. Now, Now, she decided, she decided, is not the time is not the time.

Derkhan stared out of the window to her left, across the city. On this branch of the Dexter Line, between Ludmead and the industrial zone of New Crobuzon's south-east, the trains pa.s.sed at about the midpoint of the city's tussle with the sky. The ma.s.s of roofs was pierced by militia towers in Brock Marsh and Strack Island, and far away in Flyside and Sheck. Sud Line trains pa.s.sed south beyond the Gross Tar.

The bleached Ribs came and went beside the tracks, towering over the carriage. Smoke and grime built up in the air until the train seemed to ride on a smog tide. The sounds of industry increased. The train flew through clutches of vast, spa.r.s.e chimneys like blasted trees as the train pa.s.sed through Sunter. Echomire was a savage industrial zone a little way to the east. Somewhere below and a little to the south, Somewhere below and a little to the south, realized Derkhan, realized Derkhan, a vodyanoi picket is probably ma.s.sing. Good luck, brothers. a vodyanoi picket is probably ma.s.sing. Good luck, brothers.

Gravity pulled her to the west as the train turned. It broke off from the Kelltree Line and veered away to the east, gearing up to leap the river.

The masts of tall s.h.i.+ps in Kelltree swung into view as the train turned. They teetered and swayed gently in the water. Derkhan glimpsed the furled sails, the ma.s.sive paddles and yawning smokestacks, the excited, tightly reined seawyrms of trading s.h.i.+ps from Myrshock and Shankell and Gnurr Kett. The water boiled with submersibles carved from great nautili sh.e.l.ls. Derkhan turned her head to stare as the train arced.

She could see the Gross Tar over the roofs to the south, wide and relentless and bristling with vessels. Antique ordinances stopped the large s.h.i.+ps, the foreign s.h.i.+ps, half a mile downriver of the confluence of Canker and Tar. They collected beyond Strack Island, in the docklands. For a mile and a half or more, the north bank of the Gross Tar thronged with cranes loading and unloading constantly, bobbing like ma.s.sive feeding birds. Swarms of barges and tugs took the transferred cargos upriver to Smog Bend and Gross Coil and the mean slum-industries of Creekside; they hauled crates along New Crobuzon's ca.n.a.ls, linking minor franchises and failing workshops, finding their way through the maze like laboratory rats.

The clay of Kelltree and Echomire was gouged by fat square docks and reservoirs, huge culs-de-sac of water that jutted into the city, linked by deep channels to the river, thronging with s.h.i.+ps.

There had once been an attempt to replicate the Kelltree docks in Badside. Derkhan had seen what remained. Three ma.s.sive stinking troughs of malarial slime, their surfaces broken with half-sunk wrecks and twisted girders.

The rattle and boom of the tracks beneath the iron wheels changed suddenly as the steaming engine hauled its charges onto the great girders of Barley Bridge. It veered a little from side to side, slowing on the unkempt tracks as it rose as if with distaste over Dog Fenn.

A few grey blocks rose from the streets like weeds in a cesspool, their concrete seeping and rotten. Many were unfinished, with splayed iron supports fanning out from the ghosts of roofs, rusting, bleeding with the rain and the damp, staining the skin of the buildings. Wyrmen swirled like carrion crows over these monoliths, squatting on the upper floors and fouling their neighbours' roofs with dung. The outlines of Dog Fenn's slum landscape bloated and burst and changed every time Derkhan saw them. Tunnels were dug into the undercity that stretched in a network of ruins and sewers and catacombs below New Crobuzon. Ladders left against a wall one day were hammered into place the next, reinforced after that, and within a week had become the stairwells to a new storey, thrown precariously between two drooping roofs. Wherever she looked, Derkhan could see people lying or running or fighting on the roofscape.

She stood wearily as the smell of the Fenn seeped into the slowing carriage.

As usual, there was no one to take her ticket at the station exit. Had it not been for the profound consequences of discovery, however small the possibility, Derkhan would never have bothered buying one. She flung it down on the counter and descended.

The doors of Dog Fenn Station were always open. They had rusted into position, and ivy had anch.o.r.ed them against the walls. Derkhan stepped out into the squalls and stench of Silverback Street. Barrows were thrown against walls slick with fungus and rotting paste. All manner of wares-some of surprisingly high quality-were available here. Derkhan turned and walked deeper into the slum. She was surrounded with a constant hubbub of shouts, advertising that sounded more like riotous a.s.sembly. For the most part, it was food that was announced.

"Onions! Who'll buy my fine on onions?"

"Whelks! Stick to whelks!"

"Broth to warm yer!"

Other goods and services were plainly available on every streetcorner.

Wh.o.r.es congregated in wretched, raucous gangs. Filthy petticoats and tawdry flounces of stolen silk, faces smeared white and scarlet over bruises and broken veins. They laughed with mouths full of broken teeth and sniffed tiny stains of shazbah cut with soot and rat-poison. Some were children who played with little paper dolls and wooden quoits when no one watched them, pouted lasciviously and tongued the air whenever a man walked by.

The Dog Fenn streetwalkers were the lowest of a despised breed. For decadent, inventive, obsessive, fetis.h.i.+zed corruption and perversion of the flesh, the connoisseur looked elsewhere, in the red-light zone between The Crow and Spit Hearth. In Dog Fenn, the quickest, simplest, cheapest relief was available. The clients here were as poor and dirty and diseased as the tarts.

At the entrances to clubs already ejecting comatose drunks, industrial Remade worked as bouncers. They teetered aggressively on hooves and treads and ma.s.sive feet, flexing metal claws. Their faces were brutalized, defensive. Their eyes would lock at the taunts from a pa.s.ser-by. They took gobs of spit in the face, unwilling to risk their jobs. Their fear was understandable: to Derkhan's left a cavernous s.p.a.ce opened in an arch below the railway. From the darkness came the reek of s.h.i.+t and oil, the mechanical clank and human groans of Remade dying in a starving, drunken, stinking huddle.

A few ancient, tottering constructs staggered through the streets, clumsily ducking the rocks and mud thrown by ragged street-children. Graffiti covered every wall. Rude poems and obscene drawings jostled with slogans from Runagate Rampant Runagate Rampant and anxious prayers: and anxious prayers: Half-a-Prayer's coming!

Against the Lottery!

Tar and Canker spread like legs / City wonders where her Lover went / Cos now she's being Ravished blind / by the p.r.i.c.k that is the Government!

The walls of churches were not spared. The Veruline monks stood in a nervous group and wiped at the scrawled p.o.r.nography that had appeared on their chapel.

There were xenians in the crowds. Some were being hara.s.sed, notably the few khepri. Others laughed and joked and swore with their neighbours. On one corner a cactus was arguing fiercely with a vodyanoi, and the mainly human crowd was catcalling equally for both sides.

Children hissed and called for stivers from Derkhan as she walked past. She ignored them, did not pull her bag closer to herself and identify herself as a victim. She stomped aggressively into the heart of Dog Fenn.

The walls around her suddenly sealed over her head as she pa.s.sed under rickety bridges and ersatz rooms thrown up as if by aggregated filth. The air in their shadow dripped and creaked ominously. A whoop sounded from behind her, and Derkhan felt a rush of air on her neck as a wyrman dived aerobatically through the short tunnel and took off again into the sky, cackling madly. She stumbled as he pa.s.sed and fell against a wall, adding her voice to the chorus of abuse that travelled in the wyrman's wake.

The architecture she pa.s.sed seemed governed by rules quite distinct from those in the rest of the city. There was no functional sense here. Dog Fenn seemed born of struggles in which the inhabitants were unimportant. The nodes and cells of brick and wood and palsied concrete had gone rogue, spreading like malignant tumours.

Derkhan turned into a mildewed brick cul-de-sac and looked around her. A Remade horse stood by the far end, its hind legs enormous piston-driven hammers. Behind it, a covered cart was backed nearly to the wall. Any one of the dead-eyed figures loitering around could be militia informers. It was a risk she would have to take.

She walked around to the back of the cart. Six pigs had been loaded out of the cart into a makes.h.i.+ft pen open on the side nearest the wall. Two men were chasing the pigs comically around the little s.p.a.ce. The pigs squealed and screeched like babies as they ran. The pen led onto a semicircular opening about four feet high set into the wall at ground level. Derkhan peered through this s.p.a.ce into a foetid hole ten feet below, barely lit with gasjets that flickered unreliably. The burrow boomed and hissed and gleamed red in the gaslight. Figures came and went below her, bent double under dripping burdens like souls in some lurid h.e.l.l.

A doorless opening to her left led Derkhan down steep stairs towards the sunken slaughterhouse.

The spring warmth was magnified here as if by infernal energy. Derkhan sweated and picked her way through swinging carca.s.ses and slicks of congealing blood. At the back of the room a raised belt dragged heavy meathooks along the ceiling in a remorseless circuit, disappearing into the darker bowels of the charnel-house.

Even the glints of light from knives seemed filtered through ruddy gloom. Derkhan held a posset to her nose and mouth and tried not to gag at the rancid, heavy stench of blood and warm meat.

At the far end of the room, she saw three men congregated below the open arc she had seen from the street. In this dark and stinking place, the Dog Fenn light and air that spilt through from above was like bleach.

At some unspoken signal, the three slaughtermen stood back. The pig-men in the alley above had got hold of one of the animals, and in the midst of a rising wave of curses and grunts and terrified sounds, they hurled her enormous weight through the opening. The pig screamed as she pitched into the darkness. She was rigid with terror as she hurtled towards the waiting knives.

There was a sick-making crack and snap as the sow's stiff little legs shattered on flagstones slimy with blood and s.h.i.+t. She collapsed on legs bleeding from bone-shards, thras.h.i.+ng and screeching, unable to run or fight. The three men moved forward with practised precision. One leaned on the pig's rump in case she jackknifed, another pulled back her head by those lolling ears. The third man split the skin of her throat with his knife.

Her cries ebbed quickly with the gouts and wash of blood. The men hauled her huge, twitching body onto a waiting table by which a rusted saw leaned. One man saw Derkhan. He nudged another.

"Ay ay, Ben, you dark horse, you rogue! It's your fancy tart!" he shouted good-naturedly, loud enough for Derkhan to hear. The man he spoke to turned and waved at her.

"Five minutes," he yelled. She nodded. Her posset was clamped to her mouth as she swallowed back bile and spew.

Again and again the ma.s.sive, terrified pigs dropped from the alley in a flailing organic mess, legs folded in unnatural angles against their guts, again and again they were cut open and bled dry on ancient wooden stands. Tongues and flaps of ragged skin dangled, dripping. The channels cut in the abattoir floor burst their banks as a swamp of dirty blood lapped against buckets of giblets and bleached, boiled cows' heads.

Eventually, the last pig had fallen. The exhausted men swayed where they stood. They were awash with gore, and steaming. There was a brief conference and raucous laughter, and the one called Ben turned away from his fellows and approached Derkhan. Behind him, the two remaining men split the first carca.s.s and swept innards into a huge trough.

"Dee," said Flex quietly, "I'll not kiss you h.e.l.lo." He gestured briefly at his saturated clothes, his b.l.o.o.d.y face.

"I'm obliged," she replied. "Can we get out of here?"

They ducked under the jerkily progressing meathooks and picked their way towards the dark exit. They took stairs up towards ground level. The light became less livid as the blue-grey tint of the sky filtered through dirty skylights in the narrow corridor's ceiling, a long way above.

Benjamin and Derkhan turned into a windowless room filled with a tub, a pump and several buckets. Some tough robes hung behind the door. Derkhan watched quietly as he stripped off his fouled clothes and threw them in a pail with water and powdered soap. He scratched himself and stretched luxuriously, then pumped water vigorously into the tub. His naked body was streaked with oily blood as if he was newborn. He shook some of the soap under the sputtering pump, swirled the cold water to make suds.

"Your mates are very understanding about you just up and taking a f.u.c.k-break, aren't they?" said Derkhan mildly. "What have you told them? Did I steal your heart, you mine, or are we in a purely business arrangement?"

Benjamin sn.i.g.g.e.red. He spoke with a strong Dog Fenn accent, in distinction to Derkhan's uptown tones.

"Well, I've been working an extra s.h.i.+ft, ain't I? I'm already working over my time. I told them you'd be along. Far as they're concerned you're just a tart who's taken to me, and I to you. That wig, afore I forget, is a marvel." He grinned lopsidedly. "Suits you, Dee. You look a smasher."

He stood in the tub, slowly lowered himself into it, gooseb.u.mps peppering him. He left a thick sc.u.m of blood on the surface of the water. Gore and grime lifted slowly from his skin and billowed lazily towards the surface. He closed his eyes a minute.

"I won't be long, Dee, I promise," he whispered.

"Take your time," she replied.

His head slid below the bubbles, leaving thin fronds of hair to coil on the surface and be sucked slowly under. He held his breath a moment, then began to scrub his submerged body vigorously, coming up and sucking air, then ducking below again.

Derkhan filled a bucket with water and stood behind the bath. As he broke the surface she poured it slowly over his head, rinsing him free of b.l.o.o.d.y soap stains.

"Oooh, lovely," he muttered. "More, I beg you."

She obliged him.

Eventually he stepped out of the bath, which looked like the site of violent murder. He tipped the slimy residue into a sluice hammered into the floor. They heard it slosh through the walls.

Benjamin stepped into a rough robe. He wagged his head at Derkhan.

"Shall we get down to business, love?" He winked at her.

"Just tell me what services you require, squire," she replied.

They left the room. At the end of the pa.s.sage, picked out in the wash from the skylight, was the little room where Benjamin slept. He closed and locked the door behind them. The room was like a well, far taller than it was wide. Another grubby window was set into the square ceiling s.p.a.ce. Derkhan and Benjamin stepped over the flimsy mattress to the ramshackle old wardrobe at its foot, a relic with a decaying grandeur at odds with the slum setting.

Benjamin reached inside and swept a few greasy s.h.i.+rts out of the way. He reached into the fingerholds drilled strategically in the wardrobe's wooden back, and with a little grunt, lifted it away. He turned it gently sideways and laid it on the cabinet's floor.

Derkhan looked into the small brick doorway Benjamin had uncovered while he reached onto a little shelf in the wardrobe and took down a matchbox and a candle. He lit the candle in a burst of sulphur, s.h.i.+elding it from the cool air that wafted from the hidden room. With Derkhan behind him, he stepped through the wardrobe and lit up the office of Runagate Rampant Runagate Rampant.

Derkhan and Benjamin lit the gaslamps. The room was large, dwarfing the adjoining bedroom. The air inside was heavy and sluggish. There was no natural light. High above, the frame of a skylight was visible, but the gla.s.s was painted over in black.

Around the room were dotted tumbledown chairs and a couple of desks, all covered in paper and scissors and typewriters. On one chair sat an inactive construct, its eyes dim. One of its legs was crushed and ruined, bleeding copper wire and splinters of gla.s.s. The wall was papered with posters. Stacks of mouldering Runagate Rampant Runagate Rampants lined the room. Against one damp wall was the unwieldy-looking press, a huge iron thing coated in grease and ink.

Benjamin sat at the largest desk and tugged a chair over next to him. He lit a long, drooping cigarillo. It smoked profusely. Derkhan joined him. She jerked her thumb at the construct.

"How's that old thing?" she asked.

"Too b.l.o.o.d.y noisy to use during the day. I have to wait till the others have gone, but then the press is hardly silent itself, so that makes no difference. And it ain't half a relief not to have to spin that d.a.m.n wheel over and over and over all f.u.c.king night, once a fortnight. I just chuck a bit of coal in his innards, point him at it, and have a snooze."

"How's the new issue?"

Benjamin nodded slowly and pointed at a bound pile beside his chair.

"Not too bad. Going to print off a few more. We're running a little thing about your Remade in the freakshow."

Derkhan waved her hand.

"It's not a big story."

"No, but it's . . . y'know . . . toothy toothy . . . We're leading on the election. 'f.u.c.k the Lottery,' in slightly less strident terms." He grinned. "I know it's pretty much the same as last issue, but that's the time of year." . . . We're leading on the election. 'f.u.c.k the Lottery,' in slightly less strident terms." He grinned. "I know it's pretty much the same as last issue, but that's the time of year."

"You weren't a lucky winner in the lotto this year, were you?" asked Derkhan. "Your number come up?"

"Nah. Only once in me life, years ago. Ran out to the ballot clasping me prize voucher proudly and voted Finally We Can See. Youthful enthusiasm." Ben sn.i.g.g.e.red. "You don't qualify automatically, do you?"

"Devil's Tail, Benjamin, I don't have that kind of money! I'd give a d.a.m.n sight more to RR RR if I did. No, and I didn't win this year, either." if I did. No, and I didn't win this year, either."

Benjamin split the string on the pile of papers. He shoved a handful at Derkhan. She picked up the top copy and glanced at the front. Each copy was a single large sheet of paper folded in half and half again. The font on the front page was about the same size as that used in the Beacon Beacon or the or the Quarrel Quarrel or any other of New Crobuzon's legal press. However, inside the folds of or any other of New Crobuzon's legal press. However, inside the folds of Runagate Rampant Runagate Rampant stories and slogans and exhortations jostled with each other in a thicket of tiny print. It was ugly but efficient. stories and slogans and exhortations jostled with each other in a thicket of tiny print. It was ugly but efficient.

Derkhan pulled out three shekels and pushed them across to Benjamin. He took them with a murmur of thanks and put them in a tin at the front of his desk.

"When are the others coming?" asked Derkhan.

"I'm meeting a couple in the pub in an hour or so, then the rest this evening and tomorrow." In the oscillating, violent, disingenuous and repressive political atmosphere of New Crobuzon, it was a necessary defence that except in a few cases, the writers for Runagate Rampant Runagate Rampant did not meet. That way the chance of infiltration by the militia was minimized. Benjamin was the editor, the only person on the constantly s.h.i.+fting staff whom everyone knew, and who knew everyone. did not meet. That way the chance of infiltration by the militia was minimized. Benjamin was the editor, the only person on the constantly s.h.i.+fting staff whom everyone knew, and who knew everyone.

Derkhan noticed a pile of roughly printed sheets on the floor by her seat. Runagate Rampant Runagate Rampant's fellow seditionist papers. Halfway between comrades and rivals.

"Anything good?" she asked, and indicated the stack. Benjamin shrugged.

"The Shout's rubbish this week. Decent lead in Forge Forge about Rudgutter's dealings with the s.h.i.+pping companies. I'll get someone to chase it, actually. Apart from that it's slim pickings." about Rudgutter's dealings with the s.h.i.+pping companies. I'll get someone to chase it, actually. Apart from that it's slim pickings."

"What do you want me to get onto?"

"Well . . ." Benjamin flicked through papers, consulted his notes. "If you can just keep your ear to the ground about the dock strike . . . Canva.s.s opinion, try and get a few positive responses, a few quotes, you know. And how about five hundred words on the history of the Suffrage Lottery?"