Un Lun Dun

by China Miéville

  “This is it,” said the book as they stepped onto the north side of the river. “This is Mr. Speaker’s Talklands.”

  “Why’s it so quiet?” said Deeba.

  The streets were not empty, but the few people they passed were walking quickly, and looking down. No one was speaking.

  “Shhhh,” the book said. It spoke in little bursts of whisper when no one was near. “Mr. Speaker. Laws. No unapproved talkage.”

  “No way.”

  “Shhh. Could get us arrested. He has…special servants. Could be anywhere. Shouldn’t antagonize them. Keep shtum till we’re at the phone.”

  “What then?” Deeba whispered. “How’m I supposed to keep shtum there?”

  “Well, talk fast. It was your stupid idea.”

  It was eerie, walking in completely silent streets. Deeba found herself scuffing her feet just to make a sound.

  “So where is the phone?” she whispered.

  “No idea,” said the book. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Shut up,” Deeba hissed. “I’m making this call. So look in your index and find it.”

  It took them until almost the setting of the UnSun, but by a combination of trial, error, and deduction, under the book’s complaining direction, they found their way into thickets of backstreets.

  “He’s built a maze around the telephone,” the book said. “So people can’t find it.”

  The streets emptied as they went on. They passed between terraces that loomed and leaned and became overhangs, until they walked in a tunnel between buildings.

  The turns grew sharper, the streets shorter and more cramped. The alleys seemed to double back impossibly. Deeba and her companions passed dead ends, spirals, carefully confusing blind alleys.

  “I think I’ve got a map,” the book said. “Check around page three-sixty.”

  There was a plan of the maze, so extraordinarily complicated it looked like a human brain. Below it was printed: THE BLABYRINTH.

  “I can’t follow this,” Deeba said, staring in the light of the streetlamps and the moving stars.

  “’Course you can,” the book said. “You see the entrance? Put your finger on it. Now follow as I tell you. Don’t press too hard on the page, you’ll tickle. Are you ready?

  “We’ve gone left, left, right, left, left, right, right, left, and right. Then left. Stop. Where your finger is is where we are.”

  “How can you remember that?” Hemi said.

  “I’m a book,” it said smugly. “We have good memories. Mark that place. Gently. Do you have a pencil? Now find a way from where we are to the center. When you’ve found one, move your finger along it.”

  It took Deeba and Hemi several minutes of false starts and retracing their trails, but eventually they traced a twisting route to the center of the maze. Deeba moved her finger slowly along it, and the book translated her fingertip journey, murmuring directions she and Hemi cautiously followed.

  At last they turned into the cul-desac at the center of the Talklands maze. In front of them was a red phone box.

  58

  Touching Base

  “Dad?”

  “Deeba?”

  The phone had accepted the coins in various currencies that Deeba had fed it. It wasn’t a good line, and Deeba’s voice and her father’s were separated by long pauses, and heavily distorted, but they could hear each other.

  Hemi, Curdle, and the book waited outside the phone box, looking into the rapidly encroaching night.

  “Dad, can you hear me? I’m so glad to talk to you!”

  “What are you up to, darling?” he said after another long pause. Even knowing about the phlegm effect, Deeba could not help being shocked by how calm he sounded. She had not been home for so long.

  “I’m okay, Dad, I just wanted to say I’ll see you soon. And to tell you I love you and…and don’t forget about me.”

  As she spoke, Deeba was astonished to see through the glass a dense clot of wasps emerge from the phone outside the box and tear off into the night. They flew close together, extraordinarily fast, disappearing in an instant.

  After a moment, they, or another group, zoomed back down out of the sky and into the phone again. They buzzed together, and through the receiver, Deeba heard her father’s voice.

  “Forget about you?” he laughed. “What are you talking about, mad girl?” She laughed back, a little hysterical with happiness.

  “Get Mum, will you?” she said, and watched the insects zip off again to buzz her voice down the phone to her father. But only half of them came back, and when she heard her father’s response, it was broken up and faint.

  “…can’t…not…gone out…” he said.

  “Say that again, Dad, I can’t hear you.” Deeba sent the wasps skywards. “Tell her I said hello! Tell her I called!” Make her think about me, Deeba thought. Hemi knocked on the phone box. Deeba didn’t even look at him, just made an irritated motion.

  Her father said something else in an even more fragmented voice, and Hemi knocked again. The book muttered her name.

  “Will you shut up, you two?” she said with her hand over the receiver.

  “Deeba,” said the book. “Get out here now.”

  When Deeba turned, what she saw through the glass made her hang up in the middle of the static that was all she could hear. She stepped back outside to join her companions.

  Dark figures were bearing down on them.

  They moved furtively, and fast.

  “What are they?” Deeba said. She saw a quickly scuttling thing moving like a crab, something dark red and simian, a stiff-legged man the size of her little brother. They and others came towards the travelers, with no sound.

  They approached with slow and threatening motions, in an amazing variety of shapes and colors and spikes and limbs. None of them had mouths.

  “They’re Mr. Speaker’s court,” the book whispered. “They’re going to take us back to him. We’ve been done for unauthorized speaking in the Talklands.”

  “Maybe I can explain,” Deeba said.

  “Explain? You’ve done enough talking. Just keep your mouth shut from now on.”

  One of the skulking little figures stamped its foot in obvious anger. It was a little potbellied man with yellow skin, on four scrawny legs, waving four thin arms at them to shut up. He had at least five or six eyes, blinking rapidly and glowering. He made a shhhh motion, with his forefinger in front of where his mouth should be.

  His companions grabbed Deeba and Hemi roughly by their arms. A big mouthless squirrel with wings and something like the cross of an armadillo and a centipede squabbled silently over the book, until the squirrel-thing bore it away.

  “Careful!” Deeba heard the book say. “You’ll scratch my cover!” She struggled but could not break free.

  “Deeba,” Hemi muttered. “D’you think you could have a plan that doesn’t involve me being attacked?”

  “Leave us alone,” she shouted. Each word seemed to make her captors more angry. “I just wanted to talk to my mum and dad. I wasn’t causing trouble. I have to go!”

  But Deeba, Hemi, Curdle, and the book were swept away, out of the Blabyrinth and through the streets. For the first time since entering the borough Deeba heard noises. The night rang with extraordinary cries, single words spoken with an amazing, resounding voice.

  “KETTLE!” she heard, and “MAGNANIMOUS! SEPTIC! GULLY!”

  These and other words emanated from an enormous building shaped like a drum, towards which the silent figures dragged them.

  59

  Despotic Logorrhea

  “SO,” the enormous voice said as Deeba and her companions were dragged inside. The sound of the words echoed everywhere. “UNLICENSED SPEAKING. THAT’S A SERIOUS OFFENSE IN THE TALKLANDS.”

  In the dead center of the huge hall, a man sat on a raised throne. At least, Deeba thought, sort of a man.

  Under sumptuous robes, his limbs and body were twig-thin. His head was extended and misshapen, to accom
modate his absolutely enormous mouth. It was almost as big as the rest of his body. His huge jaw and teeth moved exaggeratedly as he spoke with that astonishingly loud voice.

  He wore a crown of inverted spikes, each of which, Deeba realized, was a speaking trumpet that swung down in front of his mouth, to amplify him further.

  “TERMINUS!” he said. “SPOOL! BRING THE CULPRITS CLOSER. GECKO!”

  When he spoke, Deeba saw quick motion in front of Mr. Speaker’s mouth.

  “What was that?” Hemi whispered.

  “QUIET!” Mr. Speaker shouted, and Deeba gasped to see something living slip from his mouth, scuttle like a millipede down his shirt, and disappear. “NO TALKING WITHOUT PERMISSION!”

  With each word, another strange animal-thing seemed to coalesce and drop from behind his teeth. They were small, and each a completely different shape. They flew or crawled or slithered into the room, where, Deeba realized, hundreds of other creatures waited. Again, none had mouths.

  “SOOOOO,” Mr. Speaker said slowly, watching her, a snail-thing popping out from between his lips. “YOU’RE JEALOUS OF MY UTTERLINGS?”

  Five more animals emerged. One, when he said jealous, was a beautiful iridescent bat.

  “SOLILOQUY!” Mr. Speaker said. His enormous lips stretched around sound that seemed to coagulate. The word thickened and tumbled out, taking on color and shape, rolling into his lap in a trembling ball.

  It unfolded shyly and looked around. The word soliloquy was a long-necked sinuous quadruped. Mr. Speaker raised his eyebrow at it. The utterling scrambled off him, shook itself, reared on its hind legs, and grabbed hold of Hemi.

  “Eeurgh…” Hemi said, then shut his mouth sharp as Mr. Speaker stared at him.

  “UTTERLINGS,” Mr. Speaker said. “MY WORDS MADE FLESH.” More fleeting things left his mouth. “GUM!” he bellowed, and a slug-snake oozed out and around Deeba’s ankles.

  “Good thing they don’t last forever,” the book whispered. “Or he’d take over UnLondon.”

  “ARE YOU SPEAKING?” Utterlings tumbled from Mr. Speaker’s maw. “I GAVE NO PERMISSION! QUIET! CARTOGRAPHY!”

  The last word was a thing like a bowler hat with several spidery legs and a fox’s tail. All through the hall, the utterlings trembled.

  After a silence, Deeba raised her hand. Mr. Speaker sat back, obviously pleased that she had asked permission to speak. He nodded.

  “Um…I’m sorry I didn’t know the rules and that…but…we really need to get out and find something. It’s really important. We’re in a hurry.”

  “WHAT IS THE NATURE OF YOUR SEARCH?”

  The utterlings the and search were tiny beakless birds. Deeba ignored them as they fluttered. Hemi nodded at her, and the book whispered, “Go on.”

  “Well,” she said. “We’re looking for something to fight the Smog. Please let us go. For UnLondon’s sake.”

  “THE SMOG? WHAT DO I CARE ABOUT THE SMOG?” The two utterlings for the word Smog were similar little monkeys, but each had a different skin color and number of limbs. Deeba supposed it must be to do with Mr. Speaker’s intonation.

  “THE SMOG DOESN’T BOTHER ME, AND I WON’T BOTHER IT. WHAT DO I CARE IF IT RUNS UNLONDON? AWKWARD!” He spat out awkward, a two-headed chicken-bodied utterling. “YOU BROKE THE LAWS OF THE TALKLANDS. WHAT AM I GOING TO DO WITH YOU?”

  Deeba thought quickly. The utterlings were strong. And even if she could break free, Mr. Speaker would just say more words and they would be overpowered.

  “I could pay a fine,” Deeba said. “I’ve got cash. (I know I said it was yours but I assume you’re not going to kick up a fuss?)” She whispered the last sentence to Hemi out of the side of her mouth.

  “Just get us out of here,” he whispered back.

  “NOW THAT,” said Mr. Speaker, “IS AN INTERESTING IDEA.”

  “It’s in my pocket,” Deeba said. “I don’t know how much, but—”

  “NOT MONEY.” A humpbacked lizard undulated down Mr. Speaker’s front. “YOU PAY ME IN DIFFERENT CURRENCY.”

  “What is it you want?”

  “WORDS.”

  “What?” said Deeba.

  “PAY IN WORDS. TELL ME NEW WORDS.” Deeba winced to see Mr. Speaker’s vast tongue lick his enormous lips. “GIVE ME GOOD PAYMENT, YOU CAN GO. PROMISE.

  “AND NO INVENTING! A WORD’S NO GOOD IF YOU’RE THE ONLY ONE SAYING IT. I’LL KNOW IF YOU MAKE IT UP. SUCH!” Such was a football-sized mouthless beetle in blue.

  “Well,” Deeba said, thinking carefully. “I might be able to. ’Cause I’m not from here. So I know some words you might not’ve heard.” She paused and thought about things she and her friends might say—or might once have said: she wasn’t going to give up anything too good or new.

  “I like your crown,” she said. “It’s a nice bit of bling.”

  Mr. Speaker gaped in absolute delight.

  “BLING!” he said. A big silver-furred locust crawled out of his mouth.

  “I don’t like the way you’re talking to me, though. You’re getting lairy.”

  “LAIRY!” Mr. Speaker crooned, emitting a baby-sized thing with one staring eye.

  “Yeah. Don’t diss me.”

  “DISS!” Diss was a six-legged brown bear cub. Mr. Speaker was almost crying with delight.

  “So that’s enough, brer,” Deeba said. “Now you have to let us go.”

  “BRER!” Mr. Speaker said, and sighed as a big bumblebee with human hands flew drunkenly from his throat. “LOVELY! LOVELY!”

  “There,” said Deeba. “I’m sorry we spoke without permission. Now…would you let us go, please?”

  “LET YOU GO?” said Mr. Speaker. “OH, I DON’T THINK SO. I HAVEN’T HEARD WORDS LIKE THAT IN MY LIFE. I CAN STILL TASTE THEM COMING OUT. LOOK AT THEM!”

  It was true. The slang utterlings looked particularly healthy and energetic. Mr. Speaker stared at Deeba greedily.

  “NO NO NO. NOT GIVING THAT UP. YOU’RE STAYING HERE. YOU GET TO TALK TO ME WITH THOSE LOVELY WORDS. TEACH ME ALL THE LANGUAGE YOU KNOW, FOREVER AND EVER.”

  60

  Insurgent Verbiage

  “No way!” Hemi said. “That’s not on!”

  “You promised!” the book said.

  “I CAN DO WHATEVER I WANT,” MR. Speaker said. “A PROMISE IS WORDS. I’M MR. SPEAKER! WORDS MEAN WHATEVER I WANT. WORDS DO WHAT I TELL THEM!”

  His voice echoed in the enormous room, and the utterlings jumped up and down enthusiastically. Deeba looked around at the utterlings holding her, felt the strength of their grip. She thought quickly.

  “I don’t think that’s true,” she said.

  Silence settled, and all the eyes in the room turned to Deeba.

  “WHAT?” Mr. Speaker said.

  “Well,” said Deeba. “I don’t think words do what anyone tells them all the time.”

  Hemi was looking at her with at least as much bewilderment on his face as Mr. Speaker had.

  “What are you on about?” Hemi said.

  “YES, WHAT ARE YOU ON ABOUT?”

  Deeba paused to admire about, an utterling like a living spiderweb.

  “Words don’t always mean what we want them to,” she said. “None of us. Not even you.” The room was quiet. All the people and things in it were listening.

  “Like…if someone shouts ‘Hey you!’ at someone in the street, but someone else turns around. The words misbehaved. They didn’t call the person they were meant to. Or if you see someone at a party and they’re wearing something mad, and you say ‘That’s some outfit!’ and they think you’re being rude, but you meant it really.

  “Or like if someone says something’s bad and people think they mean bad bad and they mean good bad. Or…” Deeba giggled, remembering one of the Blyton books her mother had given her, saying she had enjoyed it when she was Deeba’s age. “Or like that old book with a girl’s name that just sounds rude now.”

  The utterlings were twitching, and staring at her. Mr. Speaker was flinching. He looked sick.
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  “Or even,” Deeba said, “like some words that mean something but they’ve got like a feeling of something else, so if you say them, you might be saying something you don’t mean to. Like if I say someone’s really nice then I might mean it, but it sounds a little bit like they’re boring. You know?”

  “Yeah,” said Hemi. “Yeah.”

  “The thing is,” Deeba said, eyeing Mr. Speaker, “you could only make words do what you want if it was just you deciding what they mean. But it isn’t. It’s everyone else, too. Which means you might want to give them orders, but you aren’t in total control. No one is.”

  “THIS IS OUTRAGEOUS NONSENSE!” Mr. Speaker spluttered, burping four confused creatures, but Deeba interrupted him.

  “So, you might think all these words have to obey you. But they don’t.”

  “NO MORE SPEAKING! UTTERLINGS, TAKE HER AWAY!”

  The utterlings were staring at Deeba, absolutely still, their eyes enormous. None of them moved. Mr. Speaker’s face went dark purple with rage.

  “UTTERLINGS!” he shrieked.

  “Even your words don’t always do what you want,” Deeba said. She wasn’t looking at Mr. Speaker, though. She was looking at the utterlings, and she raised her eyebrows.

  “TAKE HER AWAY!”

  Some of the utterlings tightened their grips, but others were loosening them. Standing in a little group nearby, looking at Deeba uncertainly, were the silver locust, the many-legged bear, the bee, and the staring thing: the utterlings of London slang.

  “I bet you could shut him up,” Deeba said to them. “I bet you don’t really have to do what he says.”

  Hesitantly, the four utterlings turned and looked at Mr. Speaker. They moved towards him.

  For a moment it was only those four, but very quickly, others joined them. The four-legged four-armed little man who had captured Deeba was one of a crew bearing down on Mr. Speaker, who was so apoplectic with rage he wasn’t even saying words—just screeching.