Weaveworld

The point was incontestable. When the world was coming to an end, what did names matter?

‘I think we should be together,’ he said, after a pause, ‘instead of spread across the country. Perhaps we can muster something if we’re all in one place.’

‘I see the sense in that.’

‘Better than the Scourge picking us off!’

‘But where?’

‘There was a place …’ he said, ‘where it never came. I remember it vaguely. Apolline will tell us better.’

‘What kind of place?’

‘A hill, I think it was,’ he said, his unblinking stare on the white paper tablecloth between them. ‘Some kind of hill …’

‘We’ll go there then, shall we?’

‘It’s as good a place to die as any.’

II

DUST AND ASHES

1

he saints on the facade of the Church of St Philomena and St Callixtus had long since lost their faces to the rain. They had no eyes to see the visitors that came to the door in the early evening of 21st December; nor did they have ears to hear the debate on the step. Even if they had heard, and seen – even if they’d stepped off their pedestals and gone out to warn England that it had an Angel in its midst – their alarms would have gone unheeded. England had no need of saints tonight, nor any night: it had martyrs enough.

Hobart stood on the threshold, the Scourge’s light visible through the flesh of his throat and darting from the corners of his mouth. He had hold of Shadwell’s arm, and would not let him step out of the snow.

‘This is a church …’ he said, not with Uriel’s voice but with his own. Sometimes the Angel seemed to give him the right to self-government for a while, only to pull the leash tight again if its host grew fractious.

‘Yes, it’s a church,’ said Shadwell. ‘And we’re here to destroy it.’

Hobart shook his head.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I won’t do that.’

Shadwell was too tired for argument. This was not the first of the day’s visits. Since leaving Chariot Street the Angel had led them to several sites around the country, where it remembered the Seerkind taking refuge during the last holocaust. All had been wasted journeys: the places – when they were still recognizable – were devoid of magic or its makers. The weather had deteriorated by the hour. Snow now blanketed the country from one end to the other, and Shadwell was weary of both the trek and the chill. He’d become anxious too, as each pursuit ended in disappointment; anxious that Uriel would grow impatient, and his control of the creature would begin the slip. That was why he’d brought the Angel here, where he knew there was magic, or its leavings. This was where Immacolata had made the Rake: a place part shrine, part womb. Here Uriel’s hunger for destruction would be assuaged, for tonight at least.

‘We have work to do inside,’ he told Uriel’s host. ‘The Scourge’s work.’

But Hobart still refused to cross the threshold.

‘We can’t destroy it …’ he said, ‘… God’s house.’

There was irony aplenty in the fact that he. Shadwell – raised a Catholic – and Uriel, God’s fire, should be ready to demolish this pitiful temple; while Hobart – whose only religion had been the Law – refused. This was the man who kept not the Bible close to his heart, but a book of faery-tales. So why this sudden fastidiousness? Did he sense that death was close, and it was time to repent his Godlessness? If so, Shadwell was unmoved.

‘You’re the Dragon, Hobart,’ he said. ‘You can do what you like.’

The man shook his head, and at his denial the light in his throat brightened.

‘You wanted fire, you’ve got it,’ Shadwell went on.

‘I don’t want it,’ Hobart said, his words becoming choked. ‘Take … it … away …’

The last syllables were forced through chattering teeth. Smoke came too, up from his belly. And after it, Uriel’s voice.

‘No more argument,’ it demanded.

Though it seemed to have reclaimed the reins of Hobart’s body, the man still fought to keep control for himself. The conflict made him shake violently, a display Shadwell was certain would draw unwelcome attention if they didn’t soon step out of public view.

‘There are Seerkind inside,’ he said. ‘Your enemies.’

His coaxing went unheard by either Uriel or Hobart. Either the Angel was losing its grip on its vessel, or Hobart had developed new powers of resistance, for Uriel was having to fight hard to regain total possession. One or other of them began to beat the body’s fist against the portico, perhaps to distract its opponent. The flesh, caught between man and Angel, burst and bled.

Shadwell tried to avoid being spattered, but the Inspector’s grip was fiercer than ever, holding him close. The wasted head turned in Shadwell’s direction. From the smoky cavern between his teeth Hobart’s voice emerged, barely decipherable.

‘Get … it … out of me,’ he pleaded.

‘I can do nothing,’ Shadwell said, wiping a fleck of blood from his upper lip with his free hand, ‘It’s too late.’

‘He knows that.’ came the reply. Not Hobart’s voice this time, but Uriel’s. ‘He’s the Dragon forever.’

Hobart had begun to sob, his snot and tears boiling away as they reached the furnace of his mouth.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ said Uriel, its tone a parody of Shadwell at his silkiest. ‘Do you hear me, Hobart?’

The head nodded loosely, as if the muscle of the neck it was carried on was half cut through.

‘Shall we go inside?’ said Shadwell.

Again, that dislocated nodding. The body was free of twitches now; the face a blank. As final proof of the Angel’s triumph, Hobart dropped his hold on Shadwell, then turned and went ahead of the Salesman into the church.

It was deserted, the candles cold, the smell of incense souring.

‘There are raptures here,’ said Uriel.

‘Indeed there are,’ said Shadwell, following the creature down the aisle to the chancel rail. He had expected the crucifix above the altar to win some response from the Angel, but Uriel passed it by without a glance, and crossed to the baptistery door. It laid Hobart’s broken hand upon the wood. The boards smouldered, the door flew open. It was the same procedure at the second door. With Uriel-in-Hobart leading the way they descended into the crypt.

They were not alone there; a light was burning at the far end of the passage along which Immacolata had come to meet Shadwell: from the Shrine, presumably. Without further word Uriel began along the corridor, ribbons of its hidden self flowing from Hobart’s torso and grazing the caskets in the walls, pleasuring in their stillness, their silence. It was half way between stairs and Shrine when a priest stepped from an intersecting passageway and blocked the path. His face was pale, as if powdered, a streak of blue dirt – some sign of obsequience – daubed in the centre of his forehead.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

‘Step aside,’ said Shadwell.

‘You’re trespassing,’ the man retorted. ‘Get out of here!’

Uriel had stopped a yard or two from where the priest stood, and now threw its hand out and snatched hold of one of the casket ledges, its other hand taking hold of Hobart’s hair and dragging the man’s face towards the wall as if to beat its own skull open. This was not the Angel’s doing, Shadwell realized, but Hobart’s. Using the