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.See, Judah? You see? Whether we died or not.”“I had.it’s the Council.I had to make them, you, safe.”“It’s not yours to choose, Judah.Not yours.”He moved his arms slightly out from his sides, stood square to her, looked down at her.The connection between them remained, a line of force.They seemed to draw in energy from the surrounds.Judah stared at her with patience, a readiness.“It was not yours, Judah Low.You never understood that.You never knew.” She raised her pistol and Cutter made a sound and moved in Rahul’s grip.She pressed it against Judah’s chest.He did not flinch.“The thing in you.You did not create the Iron Council, Judah Low.It was never yours.” She stepped back and raised the pistol till he stared into its mouth.“And maybe you’ll die not understanding, Judah.Judah Low.Iron Council was never yours.You don’t get to choose.You don’t decide when is the right time, when it fits your story.This was the time we were here.We knew.We decided.And you don’t know, and now we don’t either, we’ll never know what would have happened.You stole all those people from themselves.”“I did it,” Judah whispered, “for you, for the Iron Council.To save it.”“That I know,” she said.She spoke quietly, but her voice still shook.“But we were never yours, Judah.We were something real, and we came in our time, and we made our decision, and it was not yours.Whether we were right or wrong, it was our history.You were never our augur Judah.Never our saviour.“And you won’t hear this, you can’t, but this now isn’t because you’re a sacrifice to anything.This isn’t how it needed to be.This is because you had no right.”Cutter heard the end in her voice and saw Ann-Hari’s hand move.Now, he thought.Now Judah, stop her.In the tiny splintered instant that she tightened her hand he thought: Now.Call an earth golem.Judah could focus and drag from the hard earth before him a grey earth golem that would rise, levering itself out of the stuff of its own substance with weeds and weed-debris hanging still to it, the hillside itself become moving, and it could intervene.It could stand between Judah and Ann-Hari and take her bullet, stop it with the density of its matter, then reach and cuff the gun away and grip her close so that she could not fight and Judah would be safe from her, and could have the golem walk her away or keep her motionless while he turned with Cutter and they went on around the roots where trees had been torn up and past the powdering rocks to New Crobuzon.An air golem.One hard gust of ab-live wind to close Ann-Hari’s eyes and make her aim falter.An obedient figure made of air to stand before the Iron Councillor and throw her clothes into her face, to channel very hard and fast into the barrels of her pistol, to ruin any shots.And as the air around displaced by the dance of the new presence made whorls of dust rise and the gusting of dry leaf-matter where it still scabbed bushes, Judah and Cutter could leave.Make her gun a golem.Turn the very pistol itself into a small and quick golem and have it close its mouth, have it eat the bullet before it spat it away, and then Judah might have the thing twist in Ann-Hari’s hand and turn with what limited motion its shape allowed it, and point up into her face, a threat, and give Judah the time, while Ann-Hari was paralysed with that surprise and the menace of her own weapon, give him the time to get away, with Cutter, over the rise and the pathway.Make the bullet a golem.And it could fall.Make her clothes golems.They might trip her.Make a golem of those scattered little dead trees.Make a golem of clouds.Of the shadows, of her own shadow.Make another sound golem.Make a golem of sound and time to keep her unmoving.It was very cold.Sing your rhythms again fast to make a golem of still time and stop her up and we’ll go.But Judah did nothing and Ann-Hari pulled her trigger.CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVEIt was by the Tar that Cutter regained the city.A night entry.Slowly and under new laws, the New Crobuzon authorities were reopening riverine trade.The barge-rangers were waiting to establish new runs.Cutter came back into New Crobuzon disguised in a coal-smeared overall, piloting a fat low-slung boat.Around him the houses spread out from the wind of the river, tens then hundreds, and he heard their sounds and remembered them, the settling of architecture, and knew he was coming home.The bargeman he had bribed to crew him was eager for Cutter to leave.With the repeating cough of the engine they came past the tarry houses of Raven’s Gate, the khepri warren of Creekside, the houses disguised by mucal addenda, and under the old brick bridges of New Crobuzon, while the boat left a rainbow discharge on the water.Airships went.They stalked on searchlight legs.A fat glare pinioned the boat then blinked off, twice.He walked through the warehouses of Smog Bend, the bleached brick, the stained concrete.Past creosote, past bitumen and mouldered posters, past the dumps of building matter, powdered glass and stone, into streets once held by the Collective.Cutter walked past the lots where there had been meetings of residents voting noisily on everything.Now they were as they had been, little wildernesses of concrete-splitting bramble and cow-parsley, wildnesses for the insects.There were spirals on the walls.Rain was washing them away.Days later and Cutter knew the new rules, knew how to avoid the militia who patrolled the streets and locked down Creekside and Murkside and above all Dog Fenn.They said there were still pockets of Collectivist treachery, and they were ruthless in their hunt.Cutter said nothing when he saw the squads emerge from broken buildings with men and women screaming their innocence or occasionally rebellion.He kept his eyes down.Numb as he was, he negotiated the checkpoints, offering his forgeries without fear, because he did not care if he was challenged, and when he was not he would walk on without triumph.Uptown had its beauty.BilSantum Plaza, Perdido Street Station.It was as if there had been no war.The spirals were smears.Perdido Street Station loomed like a god over the city.Cutter looked up at its roofscape, at where he had been.In the last days of the Collective there had been a desperate copy of the skyrail attack [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.See, Judah? You see? Whether we died or not.”“I had.it’s the Council.I had to make them, you, safe.”“It’s not yours to choose, Judah.Not yours.”He moved his arms slightly out from his sides, stood square to her, looked down at her.The connection between them remained, a line of force.They seemed to draw in energy from the surrounds.Judah stared at her with patience, a readiness.“It was not yours, Judah Low.You never understood that.You never knew.” She raised her pistol and Cutter made a sound and moved in Rahul’s grip.She pressed it against Judah’s chest.He did not flinch.“The thing in you.You did not create the Iron Council, Judah Low.It was never yours.” She stepped back and raised the pistol till he stared into its mouth.“And maybe you’ll die not understanding, Judah.Judah Low.Iron Council was never yours.You don’t get to choose.You don’t decide when is the right time, when it fits your story.This was the time we were here.We knew.We decided.And you don’t know, and now we don’t either, we’ll never know what would have happened.You stole all those people from themselves.”“I did it,” Judah whispered, “for you, for the Iron Council.To save it.”“That I know,” she said.She spoke quietly, but her voice still shook.“But we were never yours, Judah.We were something real, and we came in our time, and we made our decision, and it was not yours.Whether we were right or wrong, it was our history.You were never our augur Judah.Never our saviour.“And you won’t hear this, you can’t, but this now isn’t because you’re a sacrifice to anything.This isn’t how it needed to be.This is because you had no right.”Cutter heard the end in her voice and saw Ann-Hari’s hand move.Now, he thought.Now Judah, stop her.In the tiny splintered instant that she tightened her hand he thought: Now.Call an earth golem.Judah could focus and drag from the hard earth before him a grey earth golem that would rise, levering itself out of the stuff of its own substance with weeds and weed-debris hanging still to it, the hillside itself become moving, and it could intervene.It could stand between Judah and Ann-Hari and take her bullet, stop it with the density of its matter, then reach and cuff the gun away and grip her close so that she could not fight and Judah would be safe from her, and could have the golem walk her away or keep her motionless while he turned with Cutter and they went on around the roots where trees had been torn up and past the powdering rocks to New Crobuzon.An air golem.One hard gust of ab-live wind to close Ann-Hari’s eyes and make her aim falter.An obedient figure made of air to stand before the Iron Councillor and throw her clothes into her face, to channel very hard and fast into the barrels of her pistol, to ruin any shots.And as the air around displaced by the dance of the new presence made whorls of dust rise and the gusting of dry leaf-matter where it still scabbed bushes, Judah and Cutter could leave.Make her gun a golem.Turn the very pistol itself into a small and quick golem and have it close its mouth, have it eat the bullet before it spat it away, and then Judah might have the thing twist in Ann-Hari’s hand and turn with what limited motion its shape allowed it, and point up into her face, a threat, and give Judah the time, while Ann-Hari was paralysed with that surprise and the menace of her own weapon, give him the time to get away, with Cutter, over the rise and the pathway.Make the bullet a golem.And it could fall.Make her clothes golems.They might trip her.Make a golem of those scattered little dead trees.Make a golem of clouds.Of the shadows, of her own shadow.Make another sound golem.Make a golem of sound and time to keep her unmoving.It was very cold.Sing your rhythms again fast to make a golem of still time and stop her up and we’ll go.But Judah did nothing and Ann-Hari pulled her trigger.CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVEIt was by the Tar that Cutter regained the city.A night entry.Slowly and under new laws, the New Crobuzon authorities were reopening riverine trade.The barge-rangers were waiting to establish new runs.Cutter came back into New Crobuzon disguised in a coal-smeared overall, piloting a fat low-slung boat.Around him the houses spread out from the wind of the river, tens then hundreds, and he heard their sounds and remembered them, the settling of architecture, and knew he was coming home.The bargeman he had bribed to crew him was eager for Cutter to leave.With the repeating cough of the engine they came past the tarry houses of Raven’s Gate, the khepri warren of Creekside, the houses disguised by mucal addenda, and under the old brick bridges of New Crobuzon, while the boat left a rainbow discharge on the water.Airships went.They stalked on searchlight legs.A fat glare pinioned the boat then blinked off, twice.He walked through the warehouses of Smog Bend, the bleached brick, the stained concrete.Past creosote, past bitumen and mouldered posters, past the dumps of building matter, powdered glass and stone, into streets once held by the Collective.Cutter walked past the lots where there had been meetings of residents voting noisily on everything.Now they were as they had been, little wildernesses of concrete-splitting bramble and cow-parsley, wildnesses for the insects.There were spirals on the walls.Rain was washing them away.Days later and Cutter knew the new rules, knew how to avoid the militia who patrolled the streets and locked down Creekside and Murkside and above all Dog Fenn.They said there were still pockets of Collectivist treachery, and they were ruthless in their hunt.Cutter said nothing when he saw the squads emerge from broken buildings with men and women screaming their innocence or occasionally rebellion.He kept his eyes down.Numb as he was, he negotiated the checkpoints, offering his forgeries without fear, because he did not care if he was challenged, and when he was not he would walk on without triumph.Uptown had its beauty.BilSantum Plaza, Perdido Street Station.It was as if there had been no war.The spirals were smears.Perdido Street Station loomed like a god over the city.Cutter looked up at its roofscape, at where he had been.In the last days of the Collective there had been a desperate copy of the skyrail attack [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]