1
n its way, Capra’s House was as great a surprise as anything Suzanna had seen in the Fugue. It was a low building, in a state of considerable disrepair, the off-white plaster that clad its walls falling away to reveal large hand-made red bricks beneath. The tiles of the porch were much weather-beaten; the door itself barely hanging on its hinges. Myrtle trees grew all around it, and in their branches the myriad bells they’d heard were hanging, responsive to the merest breath of wind. Their sound, however, was all but cancelled by the raised voices from within. It sounded more like a riot than civilized debate.
There was a guard at the threshold, squatting on his haunches, making a ziggurat of rocks in front of him. At their approach he stood up. He was fully seven feet tall.
‘What business have you got here?’ he demanded of Jerichau.
‘We have to see the Council –’
From within, Suzanna could hear a woman’s voice, raised dear and strong.
‘I will not lie down and sleep!’ she said. The remark was followed by a roar of approval from her supporters.
‘It’s vital we talk to the Council,’ said Jerichau.
‘Impossible,’ the guard pronounced.
‘This is Suzanna Parrish,’ said Jerichau. ‘She –’
He had no need to go on.
‘I know who she is,’ the guard said.
‘If you know who I am then you know I woke the Weave,’ said Suzanna. ‘And I’ve opinions the Council should hear.’
‘Yes,’ said the guard, ‘I can see that.’
He glanced behind him. The din had, if anything, worsened.
‘It’s bedlam in there,’ he warned. ‘You’ll be lucky if you’re heard.’
‘I can shout with the best,’ said Suzanna.
The guard nodded. ‘No doubt,’ he said, it’s straight ahead.’ He stood aside, pointing down a short hallway to a half-closed door.
Suzanna took a deep breath, looking round at Jerichau to see that he was still in tow, then she walked down the passage and pushed the door.
The room was large, but filled with people; some sitting, some on their feet, some even standing on chairs to get a better view of the debate’s chief protagonists. There were five individuals in the heat of it. One, a woman with wild hair and an even wilder look – whom Jerichau identified as Yolande Dor. Her faction were in a knot around her, egging her on. She was facing two men, one long-nosed individual whose face was beetroot with yelling, and his older companion, who had a restraining hand upon the first man’s arm. They were clearly the opposition. In between was a negress, who was haranguing both parties, and an oriental, immaculately dressed, who looked to be the moderator. If so, he was failing in this function. It could only be moments before the fists replaced opinions.
The presence of the interlopers had been noted by a few of the assembly, but the lead players raged on, deaf to each other’s arguments.
‘What’s the name of the man in the middle?’ Suzanna asked Jerichau.
‘That’s Tung,’ said Jerichau.
‘Thank you.’
Without another word Suzanna stepped towards the debators.
‘Mr Tung,’ she said.
The man looked towards her, and the fretfulness on his face turned to panic.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded to know.
‘Suzanna Parrish.’
The name was enough to hush the argument instantly. Those faces which were not already turned in Suzanna’s direction were now.
‘A Cuckoo!’ the old man said. ‘In Capra’s House!’
‘Shut up,’ said Tung.
‘You’re the one,’ said the negress. ‘You!’
‘Yes?’
The remark ignited a fresh outburst, but this time it wasn’t confined to those at the centre of the room.
Tung, whose calls for control went unheard, pulled a chair up, stood on it, and yelled:
The ploy worked; the din died down. Tung was touchingly pleased with himself.
‘Ha,’ he said, with a little pout of self-satisfaction. ‘I think that’s a little better. Now …’ he turned to the old man. ‘You have an objection, Messimeris?’
‘Indeed I do,’ came the reply. He jabbed an arthritic finger in Suzanna’s direction: ‘She’s trespassing. I demand she be removed from this chamber.’
Tung was about to reply, but Yolande was there before him.
‘This is no time for constitutional niceties,’ she said. ‘Whether we like it or not, we’re awake.’
She looked at Suzanna.
‘And she’s responsible.’
‘Well I’m not staying in the same room as a Cuckoo,’ said Messimeris, contempt for Suzanna oozing from his every word. ‘Not after all they’ve done to us.’ He looked at his red-faced companion. ‘Are you coming, Dolphi?’
‘I am indeed,’ he replied.
‘Wait,’ said Suzanna. ‘I don’t want to break any rules –’
‘You already have,’ said Yolande, ‘and the walls are still standing.’
‘For how long?’ said the negress.
‘Capra’s House is a sacred place,’ Messimeris murmured. It was clear that this was no sham: he was genuinely offended by Suzanna’s presence.
‘I understand that,’ said Suzanna. ‘And I respect it. But I feel responsible–’
‘And so you are,’ said Dolphi, working himself up into a fresh lather. ‘But that’s little comfort now, is it? We’re awake, damn you. And we’re
‘I know,’ said Suzanna. ‘What you say’s right.’
This rather deflated him: he’d been expecting argument.
‘You agree?’ he said.
‘Of course I agree. We’re all vulnerable at the moment.’
‘At least we can fend for ourselves now we’re awake,’ Yolande argued, instead of just lying there.’
‘We had the Custodians,’ said Dolphi. ‘What happened to them?’
‘They’re dead,’ Suzanna replied.
‘All of them?’
‘What does she know?’ Messimeris commented. ‘Don’t listen to her.’
‘My grandmother was Mimi Laschenski,’ said Suzanna.
For the first time since she’d entered the fray Messimeris looked her straight in the eye. He was no stranger to unhappiness, she thought; it was there in abundance now.
‘So?’ he said.
‘And she was murdered,’ Suzanna went on, returning his stare, ‘by one of
‘Never!’ said Messimeris, without a trace of doubt.
‘Who?’ said Yolande.
‘Immacolata.’
‘Not ours!’ Messimeris protested. ‘Not one of ours.’
‘Well she’s certainly no Cuckoo!’ Suzanna retorted, her patience beginning to wear thin. She took a step towards Messimeris, who took a firmer grip of Dolphi’s arm, as if he might use his colleague as a shield should push
