Weaveworld

had of taking the Fugue with words alone had been squandered in that one tyrannical gesture. He could not now hope to win these territories by stealth and seduction. It was armed suppression or nothing.

Having seen for herself what damage the Seerkind’s raptures were capable of, she nurtured some faint hope that any such suppression might be subverted. But what damage – perhaps irreversible – would be done to the Fugue while its inhabitants’ freedom was being won? These woods and meadows weren’t meant to host atrocities; their innocence of such horrors was a part of their power to enchant.

It was at such a spot – once untainted, now all too familiar with death – that she encountered the first living person in her travels that day. It was one of those mysterious snatches of architecture of which the Fugue could boast several; in this case a dozen pillars ranged around a shallow pool. On top of one of the pillars sat a stringy middle-aged man in a shabby coat – a large pair of binoculars around his neck – who looked up from the notebook in which he was scribbling as she approached.

‘Looking for someone?’ he enquired.

‘No.’

‘They’re all dead anyway,’ he said dispassionately. ‘See?’ The pavement around the pool was splashed with blood. Those that had shed it lay face up at the bottom of the water, their wounds white.

‘Your handiwork?’ she asked him.

‘Me? Good God no. I’m just a witness. And what army are you with?’

‘I’m with nobody,’ she said. ‘I’m on my own.’

This he wrote down.

‘I don’t necessarily believe you,’ he said, as he wrote. ‘But a good witness sets down what he sees and hears, even if he doubts it.’

‘What have you seen?’ she asked him.

‘Confusion,’ he said. ‘People everywhere, and nobody sure who was who. And blood-letting the like of which I never thought to see here.’ He peered at her. ‘You’re not Seerkind,’ he said.

‘No.’

‘Just wandered in by chance, did you?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Well I’d wander back out again if I were you. Nobody’s safe. A lot of folks have packed their bags and gone into the Kingdom rather than be slaughtered.’

‘So who’s left fighting?’

‘Wild men. I know I shouldn’t venture an opinion but that’s the way it looks to me. Barbarians, raging around.’

Even as he spoke she heard shouting a little way off. With their breakfast done, the wild men were at work already.

‘What can you see from up there?’ she asked him.

‘A lot of ruins,’ he said. ‘And occasional glimpses of the factions.’ He put his binoculars to his eyes and made a sweep of the terrain, pausing here and there as he caught sight of some interesting detail. ‘There’s been a battalion out of Nonesuch in the last hour,’ he said, ‘looking much the worse for wear. There’s rebels over towards the Steps, and another band to the North-West of here. The Prophet left the Firmament a little while ago – I can’t say exactly when, my watch was stolen – and there’s several squads of his evangelists preceding him, to clear the way.’

‘The way where?’

‘To the Gyre, of course.’

‘The Gyre?’

‘My guess is that was the Prophet’s target from the outset.’

‘He’s not a Prophet,’ said Suzanna. ‘He’s called Shadwell.’

‘Shadwell?’

‘Go on, write that down. He’s a Cuckoo, and a salesman.’

‘You know this for certain?’ the man said. Tell me all.’

‘No time,’ Suzanna replied, much to his aggravation. ‘I’ve got to get to him.’

‘Oh. So he’s a friend.’

‘Far from it,’ she said, her eyes straying back to the bodies in the pool.

‘You’ll never get near his throat, if that’s what you’re hoping,’ the man told her. ‘He’s guarded day and night.’

‘I’ll find a way,’ she said. ‘You don’t know what he’s capable of.’

‘If he’s a Cuckoo and he tries stepping into the Gyre, that’ll be the end of us, that I do know. Still, it’ll give me a last chapter, eh?’

‘And who’ll be left to read it?’

2

She left him up on his pillar, like some lonely penitent, pondering the remark. Her thoughts were grimmer for the conversation. Despite the presence of the menstruum in her system, she knew very little of how the forces that had made the Weaveworld worked, but it didn’t take genius to see that for Shadwell to trespass on the rapturous ground of the Gyre would prove cataclysmic. He was all that rarefied region, and its makers, despised: he was Corruption. Perhaps the Gyre could destroy itself rather than give him access to its secrets. And if it ceased to exist wouldn’t the Fugue – the unity of which was preserved by the power there – be lost to the maelstrom? That, she feared, was what the witness had meant with his pronouncements. If Shadwell entered the Gyre, the world would end.

There’d been no sign of animal or bird life since she’d left the vicinity of the pool. The trees and bushes were deserted; the undergrowth was hushed. She summoned the menstruum up until it brimmed in her, ready to be used in her defence should the occasion arise. There was no time left for niceties now. She would kill anyone who tried to prevent her from getting to Shadwell.

A noise from behind a partially demolished wall drew her attention. She stood her ground, and challenged the observer to make himself known. There was no reply forthcoming.

‘I won’t ask you again,’ she said. ‘Who’s there?’

At this there was a fall of brick shards, and a boy of four or five, naked but for socks and dust, stood up and clambered over the rubble towards her.

‘Oh my God,’ she said, her heart going out to the child. In the instant her defences fell there was movement to right and left of her, and she found herself surrounded by a ragged selection of armed men.

The child’s forlorn expression dropped, as one of the soldiers summoned him to his side. The man put a grimy hand through the boy’s hair, and gave him a grim smile of approval.

‘Name yourself,’ someone demanded of her.

She had no idea of which side these men were on. If they were of Shadwell’s army, admitting her name would be an instant death sentence. But, desperate as things were, she couldn’t bring herself to unleash the menstruum against men – and a child – whose allegiance she didn’t even know.

‘Shoot her,’ the boy said. ‘She’s with them.’

‘Don’t you dare,’ said a voice at the back. ‘I know her.’

She turned, as her saviour spoke her name, and there – of all people – was Nimrod. The last time they’d met he’d been a convert to Shadwell’s unholy crusade: all talk of glorious tomorrows. Time and circumstance had humbled him. He was a picture of wretchedness, his clothes tattered, his face full of hurt.

‘Don’t blame me,’ he said before she could even speak.

‘I don’t,’ she said. There’d been times she’d cursed him, but they were history now. Truly I don’t.’

‘Help me –’ he said suddenly, and came to her. She hugged him. He concealed his tears behind their embrace, until the others left off watching the reunion and slipped back into hiding.

Only then did he ask:

‘Have you seen Jerichau?’

‘He’s dead,’ she said. ‘The sisters killed him.’

He drew away from her, and covered his face with his hands.