Frey didn’t quite understand what she meant by ‘utopia’ - it sounded like one of Crake’s words - but he got the idea.
‘All those craft, all these people,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t it seem like there’s far more pirates here than this place was built to hold?’
‘Certainly does,’ she said.
‘And what does that say to you?’
‘Says they’re being gathered here for something.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ he replied.
The market was a little less crowded than the streets and bars, but not by much. It sat on a platform all of its own, linked by bridges to several of its neighbours. Oil lamps hung from the awnings of rickety stalls, adding a smoky tang to the already fouled air. Their flickering light mixed uneasily with the electric bulbs hanging overhead, casting a strange glow on the heaving sea of faces that surged beneath.
Malvery pushed his way through the crowd, with Frey and Jez following in his slipstream. The stalls they passed were guarded by shotgun-wielding heavies. There were all manner of wares for sale: trinkets and knick-knacks, hardware, boots and coats, navigational charts. Dubious fried meats were offered to hungry shoppers, and someone was roasting chestnuts nearby. The noise of yelled conversation was deafening.
‘You get the impression that this has all got a little out of control?’ Jez screamed in Frey’s ear.
Frey didn’t hear what she said, so he nodded as if he agreed, and then replied, ‘I think whoever’s running this show, they’ve let things get a bit out of control!’
Jez, who also hadn’t heard him, said, ‘Definitely!’
Frey spotted a stall on the edge of the market platform, where the traffic wasn’t quite so oppressive and it was possible to see the darkening marsh in the background. One of several signs that hung from its pole-and-canvas frontage declared:
Breathe the Free Aire! Filters 8 Shillies!
He tapped Malvery on the shoulder and steered him over. The storekeeper saw them coming and perked up. He was a thin, ginger-haired man with an enormous, puckered patch of scar tissue that ran across one side of his face. It looked like he’d been mauled by a bear.
‘How did you get that?’ Frey asked conversationally, indicating the scar.
‘How did I get what?’ the storekeeper asked, genuinely puzzled.
Frey thought a moment and then let it drop. ‘These filters you’re selling. They’d protect us against the bad air in the canyons?’
The storekeeper grinned. ‘Guaranteed. Did your old ones let you down?’
‘Something like that.’
‘That’s rough, friend. Well, you can rely on these.’ He pulled one out of a crate behind him and put it on. It was a black metal oval with several breathing-slits that fitted over the mouth and nose, secured over the head by a strip of leather. ‘Wo wetter n orb wetwibooshun bawls.’
‘What?’
The shopkeeper took off the mask. ‘I said, no better in all Retribution Falls.’
‘Okay. I need seven.’
