Un Lun Dun

by China Miéville

  For a horrible moment one of the unseen figures was directly above them, so close the guttering shook by Zanna’s head. She and Deeba stared at each other, their eyes very wide. None of the Slaterunners, nor either of the girls, dared breathe.

  At very long last, the searchers moved away. Zanna let out a trembling sigh. Silently, Inessa beckoned and crawled on.

  What seemed like hours later, they reached the edge of the Roofdom.

  Zanna and Deeba emerged from under the eaves. Before them, the streets sloped away, and the real walls of UnLondon rose, in bricks and wood and the mixed junk called moil.

  “Not far now,” Inessa said. Alf and Jonas trod gingerly, and grumbled about how much they hated it down on the ground.

  Behind them, the roofs sloped directly up from the pavement like slate tents. Zanna and Deeba rolled their eyes.

  19

  The Evasive Bridge

  Rising from the night streets of UnLondon was the arc of the Pons Absconditus. It was a suspension bridge, with supporting up-down iron curves like two dorsal ridges. It should be spanning a river. It was not. Instead, it rose out of backstreets, from nowhere in particular, went over the roofs, and came down several streets away, in a different nowhere in particular.

  There were few bulbs on in few windows. Occasionally, Deeba and Zanna saw four lights rush by through the UnLondon streets, two white lights at the front, two red at the back. The first time, they thought it was a car, but there was nothing there, only a glow like headlights. It was as if in the absence of automobiles, UnLondon had provided their pretty illuminations itself, to leave glowing trails in its night-streets.

  The headlights veered past the obstacles that littered the abcity, some half-grown out of the tarmac, some lying ready to be used: old sofas; dishwashers; skips full of glass; chairs emerging from London, growing on their rusty legs like flowers with four stalks.

  “Why’d they build the bridge here?” Deeba said.

  “They didn’t,” Inessa said. “This is just somewhere people know they can find it. It’s like any bridge: it’s to connect somewhere to somewhere else. That’s what bridges are for.”

  There was no one in the streets. The streetlamps shed a dim, dirty light. Below the bridge were a load of dustbins. The corrugated metal cylinders were about half Zanna’s height. They all had their round lids carefully on.

  “Now,” said Inessa. “We need to get onto the bridge, to see the Propheseers.”

  “It comes down over there,” Deeba said. “Behind those houses.”

  But behind those houses, there was another row between them and the end of the bridge. Frowning, Zanna and Deeba turned another corner, and came to a sudden stop.

  The bridge still came down close to them—but still just behind another brick row.

  “What’s going on?” Zanna said. “We’re not getting any closer.”

  Walking under the Pons was no problem. Zanna and Deeba went back and forth below it several times, and it stayed politely immobile. They tried to walk onto it, and its ends stayed stubbornly one or two streets beyond them. They came at it slowly, quickly, sneakily, in full view. It was always just out of their reach.

  Zanna and Deeba and the Slaterunners stopped in the dark under the bridge, among the dustbins. Deeba stroked Curdle.

  “It’s like a rainbow,” Zanna said. “You can’t reach its end. How are we supposed to get on?”

  Something flitted quietly through the air. They tensed, but it was just a scrunched-up piece of paper, dropping from the bridge. It settled among the dustbins.

  “I wondered how they kept undesirables off,” Inessa said. “I didn’t realize the bridge was shy.”

  “Yeah,” Deeba said. “Looks like they don’t need any guards.”

  “Actually,” Inessa said, “I think they have them too.” She pointed.

  One by one, dustbins around them were standing up.

  There were seven or eight of them. A pair of skinny legs jutted from each of their round metal undersides. From their sides sprouted thin, muscly arms. Their lids teetered, then tilted. They opened just a slit. Inside was darkness, in the thick of which were eyes.

  The dustbins stepped closer.

  They moved with an athletic precision. The Slaterunners circled warily, ready for attack. But the bin in front raised its hand, and spread surprisingly dainty fingers, as if to say, Wait. It tapped the side of its lid, and cupped its hand in an ostentatious listening motion. There was that sound again. The noise of boots.

  “They’ve found our trail!” Inessa said.

  The dustbin put its finger to where its lips should be. It made quick gestures, and two of its companions ran fast and soundlessly out of the shadows.

  In the light of the streetlamps they retracted their arms and legs with a faint shlp, leaving only grubby stains where each limb had been. They were instantly disguised—just a pair of dustbins. After a moment they sprouted limbs again. They stood in karate poses. Then they opened their own lids, reached into their own dark interiors, and drew out weapons.

  One took out a sword, and the other two pairs of nunchucks, which Zanna and Deeba recognized from martial-arts films. The two dustbins ran off towards the sound of the pursuers, disappearing in shadows.

  You: the dustbin leader pointed to Zanna and Deeba, then pointed straight up, to the bridge above them. Beckoned.

  “It wants us to go,” Deeba said.

  “Not without the Slaterunners,” Zanna said. “They’re the ones got us here…”

  “It’s alright,” Inessa said. “I’ve no business with the Propheseers, whereas you…you’re expected. You go, Shwazzy. We need to get back to the Roofdom. These are the Propheseers’ protectors. They’ll get us out of here safely. We’ll be alright, and so will you.”

  Zanna and Deeba gave each of the Slaterunners a hug.

  “Thank you,” Zanna said.

  “Take care of yourself,” Inessa said. “Shwazzy…we’re counting on you. All of us.”

  The dustbin crept, Zanna and Deeba behind it, through the same streets that they had just walked. This time, however, the end of the bridge grew closer with every turn.

  “How did you do that?” Zanna muttered. The dustbin motioned her to silence.

  The Pons Absconditus rose in front of them. To either side were the doorless backs of houses. UnLondoners might be able to see the bridge from their rear windows, but without a guide, they’d have no success reaching it.

  It rose like the back of a sea serpent. At its apex were moving figures.

  The girls’ dustbin escort walked them onto the bridge.

  “Finally,” said Zanna. “The Propheseers.”

  “We can go home,” Deeba almost gasped.

  “And find out the truth,” said Zanna quietly.

  20

  The Welcome

  There was an office on the bridge.

  In the middle of the road was a collection of desks and chairs, telephones, weird-looking computers, bookshelves, and potted plants. Twenty or thirty men and women were working away. Mostly they wore shabby suits. They read reports and shuffled files. None of them noticed Zanna, Deeba, and the dustbin approach.

  The girls could see to the Roofdom; they could see the waterwheel; they could see the outline of Manifest Station and across the skyline of UnLondon.

  Eventually, one by one, the people on the bridge looked up. One by one, their mouths fell open. Deeba moved closer to Zanna. The two girls stood quietly, and waited.

  “Um…” said Zanna eventually. “Hello. We were told you could help us.”

  “Can I…help you?” It was an old man who spoke. He wore a nondescript suit and an extraordinarily long beard. He spoke hesitantly, and his voice contained disapproval, surprise…and, though he was trying to hide it, excitement. “May I ask how you managed to get here? Who exactly are you?”

  “My name’s Zanna. This is Deeba. Are you…”

  “I am Mortar of the Propheseers. But…but who are you?” He spoke
more breathlessly, and quickly. “Where are you from?”

  “I’m Zanna, I said. I’m from London. I think you know who I am.” She spoke with sudden authority that made Deeba stare at her. “I’ll show you.”

  All the Propheseers gasped as Zanna reached into her pocket—

  —and hesitated, and fumbled, and groped in another pocket, and another, more and more frantic.

  “Deeba,” she whispered. “It’s gone! The travelcard…it’s gone!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s gone. It was in my back pocket and now it’s not.” The Propheseers and the dustbin were watching, puzzled.

  “That…that ghost-boy!” said Deeba. “He must’ve took it! On the roofs…Excuse me,” she said more loudly, to the old man. “It’s just…my friend had something that sort of said who she was, and, and we’ve been using it to get here, and now it’s been stole, and we…”

  Her voice petered out at the sight of the Propheseers’ faces.

  “I knew it wasn’t possible,” one muttered.

  “Remember,” said another, “the enemy’ll try anything.” She looked at Zanna unpleasantly.

  “Who are you really?” said a third.

  “I had a card,” Zanna said, stricken. She searched her pockets again. “It’d show you…” She and Deeba began to back away.

  “Wait.” It was the old man who spoke. “We have to be sure. Lectern! Bring it!”

  A woman came trotting towards them through the desks. In her arms, she carried a huge, mottled book.

  “Is it her?” whispered the old man.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Hold on…”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute.”

  Zanna and Deeba started. This new voice was reedy and self-important. It rolled sounds around. It seemed to come out of nowhere. “Check page three-sixty-five,” it went on. The woman flicked to the right place.

  “Who is that?” said Deeba. She and Zanna looked around.

  “Tall for her age, blond hair,” the voice went on. “Let me have a good look…Decent-enough aura, brustly at the spectrids. Resonating in at least five or six dimensobilities…Let’s check the history. Page twenty-four please.”

  “Deeba,” whispered Zanna.

  “I know.”

  The voice was coming from the book.

  “Oh my,” it said, suddenly hushed. “Well tear me up and shove me in a hutch. It’s her. It is.”

  The woman slapped the book shut. Her mouth went slack.

  “It’s her,” she said.

  “It is,” the book said. “It’s the Shwazzy. We’ve found her.”

  “You’ve found her?” Deeba said. “I don’t think so. She found you, more like. And it wasn’t easy, neither.”

  “What…?” said the old man again. “Lectern, who is that? Why’s she here?”

  “I don’t know, Mortar…” the woman said.

  “It’s alright,” the disembodied voice interrupted. “She’s in here. Page seventy-seven, ‘Shwazzy’s First Appearance.’ Look her up in the index: ‘Shwazzy, Companions of the.’ Um…something like that, anyway.”

  The woman riffled through the pages and read silently.

  “It’s right,” she said. “Fits the description. This…is how it’s supposed to go.” She and the man were staring at Zanna, rapt.

  “Everyone!” the old man shouted. “Attention, please! I have an announcement! All of you know what’s been happening. All of you know of the danger we face. I’m sure many of you have despaired. That what was promised would never come. There’s no shame in it: it’s understandable. But despair is over.

  “The Shwazzy is here! She’s come!”

  One by one, the Propheseers stood at their desks and began to applaud. The UnSun began to rise. It illuminated Zanna’s face full-on, momentarily blinding her. She couldn’t see the clapping Propheseers, but she could hear their shouts of welcome.

  21

  An Unlikely Place of Work

  “I didn’t think it could be true!” the woman Lectern said. “We got a garbled message from a conductor, couriered through several hands. Told us that you were coming!”

  “Jones!” Deeba said. “Is he okay?”

  “What?” said the old man, looking away from Zanna and glancing at Deeba in surprise. “Yes. I don’t know. He must be. Said he was hiding south of the river. But the point is he told us you were coming. We thought that was all nonsense. But…

  “This is extraordinary. You’ve met our guards.” He gestured at the silent cylindrical guide. “The secret warriors: the binja. It’s just as well we passed on the message. We thought the conductor was confused, but we dropped a communiqué down, just in case. But we had to be sure, in case they’d been confused, escorted in some imposter. In fact, we should tell them to stand down. Jorkins!” he shouted. “Memo to the binja. ‘Shwazzy received safely. Many thanks. Yours, et cetera, et cetera.’”

  A scrawny young man nodded and speedily typed. He whipped the piece of paper from his typewriter, crumpled it up, and threw it over the edge of the bridge.

  “Amazing guards,” Mortar said. He stroked his long beard thoughtfully. “An ancient, ancient order. The right mixture of chemicals left to marinate long enough in the right conditions in those bins, some secret training, and voila.”

  “Are they all loyal?” said Deeba. “Do any of them go off and be baddies?”

  “You’re a talkative young lady, aren’t you?” he said. “All sorts of interesting questions.”

  Zanna and Deeba sat with Mortar and Lectern a little way away from the office area. The binja stood nearby, scanning the area from under its lid, constantly. Curdle played under the table.

  “We were being followed,” Zanna said. “What if they get past the binja?”

  “Don’t you worry,” Lectern said. “This bridge is rarely just where you want it to be. Only once you’re actually on it. And only Propheseers and our guests know how to get there. It’s all a question of remembering what a bridge does—gets from somewhere to somewhere else.”

  “Now look,” Zanna said. “I’m knackered and hungry. I’ve got no idea what’s going on. We’ve got no idea what’s going on.”

  “We just want to go home,” Deeba said. “We didn’t want to be here in the first place.”

  “I don’t know what you lot want,” Zanna said. “I don’t know why some people are so pleased to see me. And I don’t know why some people aren’t.”

  “Everyone’s said the Propheseers’ll explain, blah blah blah,” Deeba said. “And that you’ll tell us how to get back.”

  “Well, here we are, and we need to know.”

  “We’re being chased by flies and nutters,” Deeba said.

  “People are asking me if I’ve got the Klin…something,” Zanna said. “I don’t even know what they’re on about. Who’s chasing me? And what’s the Smog? And why’s it after me?”

  “Of course, of course,” Mortar said. “I can’t imagine how confused you must be, Shwazzy. And we will help you home again. But there’s something you can do first. We have tried to contact you, over the years. We’ve heard rumors of where you might be. From the clouds, and the animals, and a few savvy abnauts. And from the book.”

  “That’s right,” said the voice from the book, smugly.

  “There’s always a difficulty of interpretation. But from careful reading—over generations!—we’ve learnt many things.”

  “Many, many things,” the voice went on.

  “Hush,” Lectern said, and looked apologetically at Zanna.

  “We tried to ease your journey. Sent you the Pass. A pity that was stolen. It took…some effort to send it across the Odd, believe me.”

  In the distance, UnLondon’s giant chests of drawers were opening up, and flocks of birds were setting out into the dawn.

  “Shwazzy,” Mortar said. “UnLondon is at war. We’re under attack. And it’s been written, for centuries, that you—you—will come and save us.”

  �
�Me?” said Zanna.

  “Her?” said Deeba.

  “I’m just, I’m…just a girl,” said Zanna.

  “You’re the Shwazzy,” Mortar said. “You’re our hope. Against the Smog.

  “What is the Smog? Just exactly what it sounds like—thick, smoky fog. And why’s it out to get you? Because it hates being beaten.”

  “Why does it think I’ll beat it?” Zanna said.

  “It doesn’t think you will,” Lectern said. “It knows you already have.”

  22

  History Lessons

  “Not you personally,” Mortar explained. “But you, Londoners. Even if you didn’t know it.”

  “Let me tell the history,” the book said grandly. “Page fifty-seven.” Lectern flicked through to the relevant place. The book cleared its nonexistent throat.

  “Abcities have existed at least as long as the cities,” it said. “Each dreams the other.

  “There are ways to get between the two, and a few people do, though very few know the truth. This is where the most energetic of London’s discards come, and in exchange London takes a few of our ideas—clothes, the waterwheel, the undernet.

  “Mostly such swaps are beneficial, or harmless. Mostly.”

  Mortar and Lectern were staring intently at Zanna.

  “Back in your old queen’s time,” the book said, “London filled up with factories, and all of them had chimneys. In houses they burnt coal. And the factories were burning everything, and letting off smoke from chemicals and poisons. And the crematoria, and the railways, and the power stations, all added their own effluvia.”

  “Their own what?” said Zanna.

  “Muck,” said Lectern.

  “Add all that to the valley fog, and what you get’s a smoke stew,” the book went on. “So thick they called it pea soup. Yellow-brown and sitting on the city like a stinking dog. It used to get into people’s lungs. It could kill them. That’s what smog is.”

  “Well,” said Mortar. “That’s what it was. But something happened.”