The Scar by China Miéville Page A

percussion of chitin.
    They adorned their crustacean hindquarters with a kind of tattoo, carving designs into the shell and staining them with various extracts. The two older cray had an extraordinary array of symbols on their flanks.
    One stepped forward and spoke very quickly in Salkrikaltor. There was a moment’s silence.
    “Welcome,” said the young cray behind him, the translator. He spoke Ragamoll with a heavy accent. “We are glad you have come and speak with us.”

    The discussion started slowly. Council Leader King Skarakatchi and Councilman King Drood’adji made expressions of polite and ritualistic delight that were matched by Myzovic and Cumbershum. Everyone agreed that it was excellent that they had all met, and that two such great cities remained on such good terms, that trade was such a healthy way of ensuring goodwill, and so on.
    The conversation shifted quickly. With impressive smoothness, Bellis found herself translating specifics. The conversation had moved on to how many apples and plums the
Terpsichoria
would leave in Salkrikaltor, and how many bottles of unguent and liquor it would receive in return.
    It was not long before matters of state were discussed, information that must come from the upper echelons of New Crobuzon’s parliament: details about when and if ambassadors would be replaced, about possible trade treaties with other powers, and how such arrangements would impact on relations with Salkrikaltor.
    Bellis found it easy to close her ears to what she said, to pass such information straight through herself. Not out of patriotism or fealty to New Crobuzon’s government—of which she felt none—but out of boredom. The secret discussions were incomprehensible, the little snippets of information that Bellis spoke underwhelming and tedious. She thought instead of the tons of water above them, intrigued that she felt no panic.
    She worked automatically for some time, forgetting what she said almost immediately it was out of her mouth.
    Until suddenly she heard the captain’s voice change, and she discovered that she was listening.
    “I have one further question, Your Excellency,” said Captain Myzovic, sipping his drink. Bellis coughed and barked the Salkrikaltor sounds. “In Qé Banssa, I was ordered to check a bizarre rumor passed on by the New Crobuzon representative. It was so preposterous I was certain there had been a misunderstanding. Nevertheless, I detoured around the Fins—which is why we are late for this meeting.
    “During our diversion I discovered to my . . . dismay and concern that the rumors were true. I bring this up because it concerns our good friendship with Salkrikaltor.” The captain’s voice was hardening. “It is to do with our concerns in Salkrikaltor waters. At the southern edge of the Fins, as the councilors know, are the . . . vitally important investments for which we pay generous mooring rights. I am speaking, of course, of our platforms, our rigs.”
    Bellis had never heard the word
rigs
used so, and she spoke it smoothly in Ragamoll. The crays seemed to understand. She kept her translation automatic and smooth, but Bellis listened in fascination to every word the captain spoke.
    “We passed them after midnight. First one, then another. All was as it should be, both for the
Manikin
and
Trashstar
rigs. But, councilors . . .” He sat forward, put down his glass, and stared at them predatorily. “I have a very important question.
Where is the other one?
”

    The cray officials stared at the captain. With slow, comic simultaneity, they looked at each other, then back at Captain Myzovic.
    “We confess . . . to confusion, Captain.” The translator spoke softly for his leaders, his voice unchanging, but for the briefest second Bellis caught his eye. Something passed between them, some shared astonishment, some camaraderie.
    What are we party to, brother?
Bellis thought. She was tense, and craved a cigarillo.
    “We have no knowledge of what you