Weaveworld

Suzanna looked around for Jerichau. They’d become separated in the last minutes of her briefing at Capra’s House, when Messimeris had taken her aside to offer her some words of advice. He had still been in full flow when the Weave had reached the doorstep of Capra’s House: she had never heard his final remarks.

‘Please …’ said Shadwell, smiling. ‘We can surely come to some arrangement. If you wish, I’ll buy the item off you. How much shall we say?’

He opened his jacket, no longer directing his spiel at Suzanna but at the two who were carrying the carpet. Strong armed they might be, but easy fodder. Already they were staring into the folds of the jacket.

‘Maybe you see something you like?’ he said.

‘It’s a trick,’ said Suzanna.

‘But look –’ one of them said to her, and damn it if she instinctively didn’t do exactly that. Had the night not brought so many exhausting diversions she would have had the strength to avert her sight immediately, but she wasn’t fast enough. Something glimmered in the mother-of-pearl lining, and she could not quite unhook her gaze.

‘You do see something –’ Shadwell said to her. ‘Something pretty, for a pretty woman.’

She did. The raptures of the jacket had seized her in two seconds flat, and she couldn’t resist its mischief.

At the back of her head a voice called her name, but she ignored it. Again, it called. Look away, it said, but she could see something taking shape in the lining, and it tantalized her.

‘No, damn you!’ the same voice shouted, and this time a blurred figure came between her and Shadwell. Her reverie broke, and she was thrown from the jacket’s soothing embrace to see Cal in front of her, throwing a barrage of punches at the enemy. Shadwell was much the bigger of the two men, but the heat of Cal’s fury had momentarily cowed him.

‘Get the fuck out of here!’ Cal yelled.

By now Shadwell had overcome his shock, and launched himself upon Cal, who reeled before the retaliation. Knowing he’d lose the bout in seconds, he ducked beneath Shadwell’s fists and took hold of the Salesman in a bear-hug. They wrestled for several seconds: precious time which Suzanna seized to lead the carpet-carriers through the rubble and away.

Their escape came not a moment too soon. In the time she’d been distracted by the jacket, day had almost come upon them. They’d soon be easy targets for Immacolata, or indeed anyone else who wanted to stop them.

Hobart, for instance. She saw him now, as they reached the edge of Shearman’s estate, stepping out of a car parked in the street. Even in this dubious light – and at some distance – she knew it was he. Her hatred smelt him. And she knew too, with some prophetic sense the menstruum had undammed in her, that even if they escaped him now, the pursuit would not stop here. She’d made an enemy for the millennium.

She didn’t watch him for long. Why bother? She could perfectly recall every nick and pore upon his barren face; and if the memory ever grew a little dim all she would have to do was look over her shoulder.

Damn him, he’d be there.

3

Though Cal held onto Shadwell with the tenacity of a terrier, the Salesman’s superior weight rapidly gained the day. Cal was thrown down amongst the bricks, and Shadwell closed in. No quarter was given. Shadwell began to kick him, not once but a dozen times.

‘Fucking bastard!’ he yelled.

The kicks kept coming, timed to prevent Cal getting up.

‘I’m going to break every bone in your fucking body,’ Shadwell promised. ‘I’m going to fucking kill you.’

He might have done it too, but that somebody said:

‘You –’

Shadwell’s assault stopped momentarily, and Cal looked past the Salesman’s legs to the man in dark glasses who was approaching. It was the policeman from Chariot Street.

Shadwell turned on the man.

‘Who the hell are you?’ he said.

‘Inspector Hobart,’ came the reply.

Cal could imagine the wave of guilelessness that would now be breaking over Shadwell’s face. He could hear it in the man’s voice:

‘Inspector. Of course. Of course.’

‘And you?’ Hobart returned. ‘Who are you?’

Cal didn’t hear the rest of the exchange. He was occupied with the business of making his bruised body crawl away through the rubble, hoping the same good fortune that had let him escape alive had speeded Suzanna on her way.

Where is she?’

Where’s who?’

‘The woman who was here,’ said Hobart. He took off his glasses, the better to see this suspect in the half- light. The man has dangerous eyes, thought Shadwell. He has the eyes of a rabid fox. And he wants Suzanna too. How interesting.

‘Her name is Suzanna Parrish,’ said Hobart.

‘Ah,’ said Shadwell.

‘You know her?’

‘Indeed I do. She’s a thief.’

‘She’s a good deal worse than that.’

What’s worse than a thief? thought Shadwell. But said: ‘Is that so?’

‘She’s wanted for questioning on charges of terrorism.’

‘And you’re here to arrest her?’

‘I am.’

‘Good man,’ said Shadwell. What better? he thought: an upstanding, fine-principled, Law-loving despot. Who could ask for a better ally in such troubled times?

‘I have some evidence,’ he said, ‘that may be of value to you. But strictly for your eyes only.’

On Hobart’s instruction Richardson retired a little way.

‘I’m in no mood for games,’ Hobart warned.

‘Believe me,’ said Shadwell, ‘upon my mother’s eyes: this is no game.’

He opened his jacket. The Inspector’s fretful glance went immediately to the lining. He’s hungry, thought Shadwell; he’s so hungry. But what for? That would be interesting to see. What would friend Hobart desire most in all the wide world?

‘Maybe … you see something there that catches your eye?’

Hobart smiled; nodded.

‘You do? Then take it, please. It’s yours.’

The Inspector reached towards the jacket.

‘Go on,’ Shadwell encouraged him. He’d never seen such a look on any human face: such a wilderness of innocent malice.

A light ignited within the jacket, and Hobart’s eyes suddenly grew wilder still. Then he was drawing his hand out of the lining, and Shadwell almost let out a yelp of surprise as he shared the lunatic’s vision. In the palm of the man’s hand a livid fire was burning, its flames yellow and white. They leapt a foot high, eager for something to consume, their brilliance echoed in Hobart’s eyes.

‘Oh yes,’ said Hobart. ‘Give me fire –’

‘It’s yours, my friend.’

‘– and I’ll burn them away.’

Shadwell smiled.