"China Mieville - Iron Council" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mieville China)

before it in a depression of wheat-brown grass, the dirigible moorings and minarets of Myrshock.

It was an ugly port. They were wary. This was not their territory.
The architecture looked thrown together, chance materials aggregated and surprised to find themselves a town. Old but without history. Where it was designed, its
aesthetic was unsureтАФchurches with cement facades mimicking antique curlicues, banks using slate in uncommon colours, achieving only vulgarity.
Myrshock was mixed. Human women and men lived beside cactacae, the thorned and brawny vegetable race, and garuda, bird-people freebooters from the Cymek over
the water, who dappled the air as well as the streets. Vodyanoi in a canal ghetto.
The travellers ate street food by the seawall. There were ranks of foreign craft and Myrshock ships, steamers with factory towers, cogs, merchant ships with great
bridles for their seawyrms. Unlike the river docks of their home this was a brine harbour, so there were no vodyanoi stevedores. Lounging against walls were the
mountebanks and freelance scum of any port.
тАЬWe have to be careful,тАЭ Cutter said. тАЬWe need a Shankell-bound ship, and mostly that means cactus crew. You know what we have to do. We canтАЩt face cactacae. We
need a small ship, and small people.тАЭ
тАЬThereтАЩll be tramp steamers,тАЭ said Ihona. тАЬPirates, most of them . . .тАЭ She looked vaguely around her.
Cutter spasmed and was quite still. Someone spoke to him. That voice again, up close whispering into his ear. He was iced in place.
The voice said: тАЬThe Akif. Steaming south.тАЭ
The voice said: тАЬRoutine run, small crew. Useful damn cargoтАФsable antelopes, broken for riders. Your deposits are paid. You sail at ten tonight.тАЭ
Cutter stared at each passerby, each sailor, each waterfront thug. He saw no one mouthing words. His friends watched him, alarmed at his face.
тАЬYou know what to do. Go up the Dradscale. ThatтАЩs the way the militia went. I checked.
тАЬCutter you know I could make you do thisтАФyou remember what happened in the MendicansтАФbut I want you to listen and do it because you should do it. We want the
same thing, Cutter. IтАЩll see you on the other shore.тАЭ
The cold dissipated, and the voice was gone.
тАЬWhat in hellтАЩs wrong?тАЭ said Pomeroy. тАЬWhatтАЩs going on?тАЭ

When Cutter told them, they argued until they began to attract attention.
тАЬSomeone is playing with us,тАЭ said Pomeroy. тАЬWe donтАЩt make it easier for them. We donтАЩt get on that godsdamned boat, Cutter.тАЭ He clenched and unclenched his bulky
fist. Elsie touched him nervously, tried to calm him.
тАЬI donтАЩt know what to tell you, man,тАЭ Cutter said. The close-up voice had exhausted him. тАЬWhoever it is, it ainтАЩt militia. Someone from the Caucus? I donтАЩt see how, or
why. Some free agent? It was them who held off the fReemade: that backward horse-man got whispered, like I did. I donтАЩt know whatтАЩs going on. You want to take
another boat, I ainтАЩt going to argue. But we best find one soon. And seems to me we might as well find this one, just to know.тАЭ
The Akif was a rusted thing, little more than a barge, with a single low deck and a captain pathetically grateful for their passage. He looked uncertain at Fejh, but smiled
again when they mentioned the priceтАФyes, already half-paid, he said, with the letter they had left for him.
It was perfect, and it decided them. Though Pomeroy raged against the decision, Cutter knew he would not desert them.
SomeoneтАЩs watching us, thought Cutter. Someone who whispers. Someone who says theyтАЩre my friend.
The sea, then the desert, then miles of unmapped land. Can I do this?
Only a small sea. The man they searched for left trails, left people affected. Cutter could see his friendsтАЩ anxieties and did not blame themтАФtheir undertaking was
enormous. But he believed they would find the man they followed.
He went with his friends to search for rumours of a clay-rider or militia hunters, before they sailed. They went to send a letter back to the city, to their Caucus contacts,
saying they were en route, that they had found tracks.
The drifting man passed through arcane geography, between fulgurites and over alkaline pools. He stood still while he drifted, folding and unfolding his arms. He
picked up speed, gliding full of wrongness.
A bird was his companion but it did not fly, only clung to his head. It opened its wings and let the air spread its feathers. There was a growth on it, something that
mangled its outlines.
The man passed villages. What animals were there to see him howled.
At the stub-end of the hills, in a drying landscape, the drifting man neared an interruption. Something embedded in the dirt, a star of rust-red and ragged brown-black
cloth. A dead man. Come from very high and ironed down into the land. A little blood had soaked into the ground and blackened. The meat was tendered and flattened
into outlines.
The man who drifted above the earth and the bird who rode him paused above the dead. They looked down at him, and they looked up with unnatural perfect timing
into the sky.

CHAPTER THREE