Weave World

Part Four. What Price Wonderland?

Caveat Emptor (Let the Buyer Beware) Latin Motto

1

TO SELL IS TO OWN

1

That was the most important lesson Shadwell had learned as a salesman. If what you possessed was desired ardently enough by another person, then you as good as possessed that person too.

Even princes could be owned. Here they were now, or their modern equivalent, all assembled at his call: the old money and the new, the aristocracy and the arrivistes, watching each other warily, and eager as children for a glimpse of the treasure they were here to fight over.

Paul van Niekerk, reputed to own the finest collection of erotica in the world, outside the walls of the Vatican; Marguerite Pierce, who had with the death of her parents inherited at the tender age of nineteen one of the largest personal fortunes in Europe; Beauclerc Norris, the Hamburger King, whose company owned small states; the oil billionaire Alexander A., who was within hours of death in a Washington hospital but had sent his companion of many years, a woman who answered only to Mrs A., Michael Rahimzadeh, the origins of whose fortune were impossible to trace, its previous owners all recently, and suddenly, deceased; Leon Devereaux, who'd come hot-foot from Johannesburg, his pockets lined with gold dust; and finally, an unnamed individual whose features had been toyed with by a succession of surgeons, who could not take from his eyes the look of a man with an unspeakable history. That was the seven.

2

They'd started to arrive at Shearman's house, which stood in its own grounds on the edge of Thurstaston Common, in the middle of the afternoon. By six-thirty they had all gathered. Shadwell played the perfect host - plying them with drinks and platitudes - but letting few hints drop as to what lay ahead.

It had taken him years, and much conniving, to get access to the mighty, and more trickery still to learn which of them had dreams of magic. When pressed, he'd used the jacket, seducing those who fawned upon the potentates into revealing all they knew. Many had no tales to tell; their masters made no sign of mourning a lost world. But for every atheist there was at least one who believed; one prone to moping over lost dreams of childhood, or to midnight confessions on how their search for Heaven had ended only in tears and gold.

From that list of believers Shadwell had then narrowed the field down to those whose wealth was practically unfathomable. Then, using the jacket once more, he got past the underlings and met his elite circle of buyers face to face.

It was an easier pitch to make than he'd imagined. It seemed that the existence of the Fugue had long been rumoured in both the highest places and the lowest; extremes which more than one of this assembly knew with equal intimacy; and he had enough detail of the Weaveworld from Immacolata to persuade them that he would soon enough be able to offer that place for sale. There was one from his short-list who would have no truck with the Auction, muttering that such forces could not be bought and sold, and that Shadwell would regret his acquisitiveness; another had died the previous year. The rest were here, their fortunes trembling in readiness to be spent.

‘Ladies and gentlemen.' he announced. ‘Perhaps the time has come for us to view the object under consideration.' He led them like sheep through the maze of Shearman's manse to the room on the first floor where the carpet had been laid. The curtains were drawn; a single light shed a warm illumination onto the Weave, which almost covered the floor.

Shadwell's heart beat a little faster as he watched them inspect the carpet. This was the essential moment, when the purchasers' eyes first alighted upon the merchandise; the moment when any sale was truly made. Subsequent talk might massage the price, but no words, however cunning, could compete with this first exchange of glance and goods. Upon that, everything pivoted. And he was aware that the carpet, however mysterious its designs, appeared to be simply that: a carpet. It required the client's imagination, stoked by longing, to see the geography that lay in wait there.

Now, as he scanned the faces of the seven, he knew his gambit had not failed. Though several of them were tactical enough to try and disguise their enthusiasm, they were mesmerized, each and every one.

This is it,' Devereaux said, his usual severity confounded by awe. ‘... I didn't really think ...'

That it was real?' Rahimzadeh prompted.

‘Oh it's real enough,' said Norris. He'd already gone down on his haunches to finger the goods.

Take care,' said Shadwell. ‘It's volatile.'

‘What d'you mean?'

The Fugue wants to show itself,' Shadwell replied. ‘It's ready and waiting.'

‘Yes,' said Mrs A. ‘I can feel it.' She clearly didn't like the sensation very much. ‘Alexander said it would look just like an ordinary carpet, and I suppose it does. But... I don't know ... there's something odd about it.'

‘It's moving,' said the man with the lifted face.

Norris stood up. ‘Where?' he said.

‘In the centre.'

All eyes studied the intricacies of the Gyre design, and yes, there did seem the subtlest eddying in the Weave. Even Shadwell had not noticed this before. It made him more eager than ever to have the business over and done with. It was time to sell.

‘Does anybody have any questions?' he asked.

‘How can we be certain?' said Marguerite Pierce. ‘That this is the carpet.'

‘You can't.' said Shadwell. He'd anticipated this challenge, and had his reply to hand. ‘You either know in your gut that the Fugue is waiting in the Weave, or else you leave. The door is open. Please. Help yourself.'

The woman said nothing for several seconds.

Then: ‘I'll stay.' she said.

‘Of course.' said Shadwell. ‘Shall we begin?'

II

TELL ME NO LIES

The room they'd put Suzanna in was cold and charmless enough, but it could have taken lessons from the man who sat opposite her. He handled her with an ironic courtesy that never quite concealed the hammer head beneath. Not once during the hour of their interview had he raised his voice above the conversational, nor shown the least impatience at repeating the same enquiries. ‘What's the name of your organization?' ‘I have none,' she'd told him for the hundredth time. ‘You're in very serious trouble.' he said. ‘Do you understand that?'

‘I demand to see a solicitor.' ‘There'll be no solicitor.' ‘I have rights.' she protested.

‘You forfeited your rights on Lord Street.' he said. ‘Now. The name of your confederates.' ‘I don't have any confederates, damn you.' She told herself to be calm, but the adrenalin kept pumping. He knew it, too. He didn't take his lizard eyes off her for an instant. Just kept watching, and asking the same old questions, winding her up until she was ready to scream. ‘And the nigger-' he said. ‘He's in the same organization.' ‘No. No, he doesn't know anything.' ‘So you admit the organization exists.' ‘I didn't say that.' ‘You just admitted as much.'

‘You're putting words in my mouth.'

Again, the sour civility: Then please... speak for yourself.'

‘I've nothing to say.'

‘We've witnesses that'll testify that you and the nigger -'

‘Don't keep calling him that.'

That you and the nigger were at the centre of the riot. Who supplies your chemical weapons?'

‘Don't be ridiculous.' she said. That's what you are. You're ridiculous.'

She could feel herself flushing, and tears threatened. Damn it, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

He must have sensed her determination, because he gave up that line of questioning and tried another.

Tell me about the code,' he said.

This perplexed her utterly. ‘What code?'

He took Mimi's book from the pocket of his jacket, and laid it on the table between them, his wide, pale hand placed proprietorially across it.

‘What does this mean?' he said.

‘It's a book ....'

‘Don't take me for a fool.'

‘I don't,' she thought. ‘You're dangerous, and you make me afraid.'

But she replied: ‘Really, it's just a book of faery-tales.'

He opened it, flicking through the pages.

‘You read German?'

‘A little. The book was a present. From my grandmother.'

He paused here and here, to glance at the illustrations. He lingered over one - a dragon, its coils gleaming in a midnight forest - before passing on.

‘You realize, I hope, that the more you lie to me the worse things will get for you.'

She didn't grace the threat with a reply.

‘I'm going to take your little book apart -' he said.

‘Please don't-'

She knew he'd read her concern as confirmation of her guilt, but she couldn't help herself.

‘Page by page,' he said. ‘Word by word if I have to.'

There's nothing in it,' she insisted. ‘It's just a book. And it's mine.'

‘It's evidence,' he corrected her. ‘It means something.'

‘.... faery-tales ...'

‘I want to know what.'

She hung her head, so as not to let him enjoy her pain.

He stood up.

‘Wait for me, would you?' he said, as if she had any choice in the matter. ‘I'm going to have a word with your nigger friend. Two of this city's finest have been keeping him company -' he paused to let the sub-text sink in,'- I'm sure by now he'll be ready to tell me the whys and the wherefores. I'll be back in a little while.'

She put her hand over her mouth to stop herself begging him to believe her. It would do no good.

He rapped on the door. It was unbolted; he stepped out into the corridor. The door was locked behind him.

She sat at the table for several minutes and tried to make sense of the feeling that seemed to narrow her wind-pipe and her vision, leaving her breathless, and blind to everything but the memory of his eyes. Never in her life had she felt anything quite like it.

It took a little time before she realized that it was hate.

IIII

SO NEAR, SO FAR

1

The echoes that Cammell had spoken of were still loud and clear in Rue Street when, as evening drew on, Cal and his passengers arrived there. It was left to Apolline, using pages torn from the atlas spread out like playing cards on the bare boards of the upper room, to compute the carpet's present location.

To Cal's untutored eye it seemed she did this much the same way his mother had chosen horses for her annual flutter on the Derby, with closed eyes and a pin. It was only to be hoped that Apolline's method was more reliable; Eileen Mooney had never chosen a winner in her life.

There was a burst of controversy half way through the process, when Apolline - who appeared to have entered a trance of some kind - spat a hail of pips onto the floor. Freddy made some scathing remark at this, and Apolline's eyes snapped open.

‘Will you keep your damn silence?' she said. This is bloody hard work.'

‘It's not wise to use the Giddies,' he said. They're unreliable.'

‘You want to take over?' she challenged him. ‘You know I've got no skill with that.' Then bite your tongue,' she snapped. ‘And leave me to it, will you? Go on!' She got to her feet and pushed him towards the door. ‘Go on. Get out of here. All of you.' They withdrew to the landing, where Freddy continued to complain. The woman's lazy.' he said. ‘Lilia didn't need the fruit.'

‘Lilia was special,' said Nimrod, sitting at the top of the stairs, still wrapped in his tattered shirt. ‘Let her do it her way, will you? She's not stupid.'

Freddy sought solace with Cal. ‘I don't belong to these people.' he protested. ‘It's all a terrible error. I'm not a thief.'

‘What is your profession then?'

‘I'm a barber. And you?'

‘I work in an insurance company.' It seemed odd to think of that; of his desk, the claim forms piling up in the tray; of the doodles he'd left on the blotting paper. It was another world.

The bedroom door opened. Apolline was standing there, with one of the pages from the atlas in her hand. ‘Well?' said Freddy. She handed the page to Cal. ‘I've found it.' she said.

2

The trail of echoes led them across the Mersey, through Birken-head, and over Irby Hill, to the vicinity of Thurstaston Common. Cal knew the area not at all, and was surprised to find such rural territory within a hop, skip and a jump of the city.

They circled the area, Apolline in the passenger seat, eyes closed, until she announced:

‘It's here. Stop here.'

Cal drew up. The large house they had arrived outside was in darkness, although there were several impressive vehicles in the driveway. They vacated the car, climbed the wall, and approached.

This is it.' Apolline announced. ‘I can practically smell the Weave.'

Cal and Freddy made two complete circuits of the building, looking for an entrance that wasn't locked, and on the second trip found a window which, while too small for an adult, offered easy access to Nimrod.

‘Softly, softly does it,' Cal counselled, as he hoisted Nimrod through. ‘We'll wait by the front door.' ‘What are our tactics?' Cammell enquired. ‘We get in. We take the carpet. We bugger off again,' said Cal.

There was a muffled thump as Nimrod leapt or tumbled from the sill on the other side. They waited a moment. There was no further sound, so they returned to the front of the house, and waited in the darkness. A minute passed; and another, and yet another. Finally, the door opened, and Nimrod was standing there, beaming. ‘Lost my way,' he whispered.

They slipped inside. Both lower and upper floors were unlit, but there was nothing restful about the darkness. The air was agitated, as if the dust couldn't quite bear to settle.

‘I don't think there's anyone here,' said Freddy, going to the bottom of the stairs.

‘Wrong,' Cal whispered. There was no doubting the origin of the chill in the air.

Freddy ignored him. He had already climbed two or three steps. It passed through Cal's head that his foolhardy show of indifference to danger, which was more than likely compensation for his cowardice at Chariot Street, would do no good to anyone. But Apolline was already accompanying Freddy upstairs, leaving Cal and Nimrod to investigate the ground floor.

Their route led them through a murky assault course, which Nimrod, being much the smaller, negotiated with more ease than Cal.

Toll's right,' Nimrod whispered as they passed from room to room. The Weave's here. I can feel it.'

So could Cal; and at the thought of the Fugue's proximity he felt his courage bolstered. This time he wasn't alone against Shadwell. He had allies, with powers of their own, and they had the element of surprise on their side. With a little luck they might steal the Salesman's booty from under his nose.

Then there was a cry from the upper landing. It was unmistakably Freddy; his voice anguished. The next moment came the stomach-turning sound of his body tumbling down the stairs. Two minutes in, and the game was up.

Nimrod had already started back the way they'd come, apparently careless of the consequences. Cal followed, but stumbled into a table in the darkness, the corner of which found his groin.

As he stood upright, cupping his balls, he heard Immaco-lata's voice. Her whisper seemed to come from every direction at once, as though she was in the very walls.

‘Seerkind....' she said.

The next moment he felt an icy air against his face. He knew the sour stench it carried, from that night in the trash canyons by the river. It was the smell of corruption - the sisters' corruption - and with it came a dismal light by which he could pick out the geography of the room he occupied. Of Nimrod there was no sign; he'd gone ahead into the hall, where the light was sourced. And now Cal heard him cry out. The light flickered. The cry stopped. The wind was chillier as the sisters came in search of further victims. He had to hide; and quickly. Eyes on the passage ahead, down which the light was spilling, he backed away towards the only exit door available.

The room he stepped into was the kitchen, and it offered nothing in the way of hiding places. His bladder aching, he went to the back door. It was securely locked. There was no key. Panic mounting, he glanced back through the kitchen door. The Magdalene was floating through the room he'd just left, her blind head moving back and forth as she scoured the air for a trace of human heat. It seemed he could feel her fingers at his throat already; her lips on his mouth.

Despairing, he scanned the kitchen one more time, and his gaze alighted on the refrigerator. As the Magdalene approached the kitchen, he crossed to the refrigerator and opened the door. Arctic air billowed out to greet him. He threw the door as wide as possible, and bathed himself in the chill.

The Magdalene was on the kitchen threshold now, trails of her poison milk seeping from her breasts. There she hovered, as if uncertain of whether she sensed life here or not.

Cal stood absolutely still, praying the cold air would cancel his warmth. His muscles had begun to jitter, and the urge to piss was near enough unbearable. Still she didn't move, except to put her hand on her perpetually swollen belly, and pat whatever slept there.

And then, from the next room, he heard the cracked voice of the Hag.

‘Sister ...' she whispered. She was coming through. He was lost if she entered.

The Magdalene advanced into the kitchen a little way, and her head turned with horrid intent in his direction. She glided a little closer. Cal held his breath.

The creature was within two yards of him now, her head still moving back and forth on a neck of mucus and ether. Beads of her bitter milk floated towards him and broke against his face. She sensed something, that was clear, but the cold air was confusing her. He set the muscles of his jaw to prevent his teeth from chattering, praying for some diversion from above.

The shadow of the Hag fell through the open door.

‘Sister?' she said again. ‘Are we alone?'

The Magdalene's head drifted forward, her neck becoming grotesquely long and thin, until her blind face hovered a foot from Gal's. It was all he could do to prevent himself from running.

Then, she seemed to make up her mind. She turned towards the door.

‘All alone,' she said, and drifted back to join her sister. With every foot of ground she covered he was certain she'd think better of her retreat, and come in search of him again. But she disappeared through the kitchen door, and they left to get on with business elsewhere.

He waited for a full minute until the last vestiges of their phosphorescence had faded. Then, gasping for breath, he stepped away from the refrigerator.

From above he heard shouts. He shuddered to think what entertainments were afoot here. Shuddered too at the thought that he was now alone.

IV

BREAKING THE LAW

1

It was Jerichau's voice she heard, Suzanna had no doubt of that, and it was raised in wordless protest. The cry startled her from the murky pit that had claimed her since Hobart's departure. She was at the door in seconds, and beating on it. ‘What's happening?' she demanded. There was no reply from the guard on the other side; only another heart-rending shout from Jerichau. What were they doing to him?

She'd lived all her life in England, and - never having had more than a casual acquaintance with the law - had assumed it a fairly healthy animal. But now she was in its belly, and it was sick; very sick.

Again she beat a tattoo on the door, again it went unanswered. Tears of impotence began, stinging her sinuses and eyes. She put her back to the door and tried to stifle the sobs with her hand, but they wouldn't be quelled.

Aware that the officer in the corridor could hear her sorrows, she started across to the other side of the cell, but something stopped her dead in her tracks. Through her watery vision she saw that the tears she'd shed on the back of her hand no longer resembled tears at all. They were almost silvery; and bursting, as she watched, into tiny spheres of luminescence. It might have come from a story in Mimi's book: a woman who wept living tears. Except that this was no faery-tale. The vision was somehow more real than the concrete walls that imprisoned her; more real even than the pain that had brought these tears to her eyes.

It was the menstruum she was weeping. She hadn't felt it move in her since she'd knelt beside Cal at the warehouse, and events had proceeded so speedily from there she had given little thought to it. Now she felt the torrent afresh, and a wave of elation swept her.

Down the corridor Jerichau cried out again, and in response, the menstruum, bright to blinding, brimmed in her subtle body.

Unable to prevent herself, she yelled, and the stream of brightness became a flood, spilling from her eyes and nostrils, and from between her legs. Her gaze fell on the chair which Hobart had occupied and it instantly flung itself against the far wall, rattling against the concrete as if panicking to be gone from her presence. The table followed, smashing itself to splinters.

From outside the door she heard voices, raised in consternation. She didn't care. Her consciousness was in and of the tide, her sight running to the edge of the menstruum's reach and looking back at herself, wild-eyed, smiling a river. She was looking down from the ceiling too, where her liquid self was rising in spume.

Behind her, they were unlocking the door. They'll come with cudgels, she thought. These men are afraid of me. And with reason. I'm their enemy, and they're mine.

She turned. The officer in the doorway looked pitifully frail, his boots and buttons a weak man's dream of strength. He gaped at the scene before him - the furniture reduced to tinder, the light dancing on the walls. Then the menstruum was coming at him.

She followed in its wake, as it threw the man aside. Parts of her consciousness trailed behind her, snatching the truncheon from his hand and breaking it in pieces; other parts surged ahead of her physical body, turning corners, seeking under doors, calling Jerichau's name -

The interrogation of the male suspect had proved disappointing for Hobart. The man was either an imbecile or a damn good actor - one minute answering his questions with more questions, the next, talking in riddles. He'd despaired of getting any sense from the prisoner, so he'd left him in the company of Laverick and Boyce, two of his best men. They'd soon have the man spitting the truth, and his teeth with it.

Upstairs at his desk he'd just begun a closer analysis of the book of codes when he heard the sound of breakage from below. Then Patterson, the officer he'd left guarding the woman, began yelling.

He was heading down the stairs to investigate when he was inexplicably seized by the need to void his bladder; an ache which became an agonizing pain as he descended. He refused to let it slow his progress, but by the time he reached the bottom of the stairs he was almost doubled up.

Patterson was sitting in the corner of the passageway, his hands over his face. The cell door was open.

‘Stand up, man!' Hobart demanded, but the officer could only sob like a child. Hobart left him to it.

Boyce had seen the expression on the suspect's face change seconds before the cell door was blown open, and it had almost broken his heart to see a smile so lavish appear on features he'd sweated to terrorize. He was about to beat the smile to Kingdom Come when he heard Laverick, who'd been enjoying a mid-session cigarette in the far corner of the room, say: ‘Jesus Christ', and the next moment -

What had happened in that next moment?

First the door had rattled as if an earthquake was waiting on the other side; then Laverick had dropped his cigarette and stood up, and Boyce, suddenly feeling sick as a dog, had reached out to take the suspect hostage against whatever was beating on the door. He was too late. The door was flung wide - brightness flooded in - and Boyce felt his body weaken to the point of near collapse. An instant later something took hold of him, and turned him round and round on his heels. He was helpless in its embrace. All he could do was cry out as the cool force made gushing entry into him through every hole in his body. Then, as suddenly as he'd been snatched, he was let go. He hit the cell floor just as a woman, who seemed both naked and dressed to him, stepped through the door. Laverick had seen her too, and was shouting something, which the rushing in Boyce's ears - as if his skull was being rinsed in a river - drowned out. The woman terrified him as he'd only been terrified in dreams. His mind struggled to recall a ritual of protection against such terrors, one he'd known before his own name. He had to be quick, he knew. His mind was close to being washed away.

Suzanna's gaze lingered on the torturers for only an instant

- it was Jerichau that concerned her. His face was raw, and puffed up with repeated beatings, but smiling at the sight of his rescuer.

‘Quickly,' she said, extending a hand to him.

He stood up, but he wouldn't approach her. He's afraid too, she thought. Or if not afraid, at least respectful.

‘We must go -'

He nodded. She stepped out into the corridor again, trusting that he'd follow. In the scant minutes since the menstruum had flowed in her she'd begun to exercise some control over it, like a bride learning to trail and gather the length of her train. Now, when she left the cell, she mentally called the wash of energy after her, and it came to her.

She was glad of its obedience, for as she began along the corridor Hobart appeared at the far end. Her confidence momentarily faltered, but the sight of her - or whatever he saw in her place - was enough to make him stop in his tracks. He seemed to doubt his eyes, for he shook his head violently. Gaining confidence, she began to advance towards him. The lights were swinging wildly above her head. The concrete walls creaked when she laid her fingers on them, as though with a little effort she might crack them wide. The thought of such a thing began to make her laugh. The sound of her laughter was too much for Hobart. He retreated and disappeared up the stairs.

2

No further challenge was offered as they made their escape. They climbed the stairs, then crossed the abruptly deserted office. Her very presence threw mounds of paperwork into the air, that spiralled down around her like vast confetti. (I'm married to myself, her mind announced.) Then she was stepping through the doors into the evening beyond, Jerichau a respectful distance behind. There were no thanks forthcoming. He merely said:

‘You can find the carpet.'

‘I don't know how.'

‘Let the menstruum show you.' he told her.

The reply didn't make much sense to her, until he extended his hand, palm up:

‘I never saw the menstruum so strong in anyone,' he said. ‘You can find the Fugue. It and I -'

He didn't need to finish his sentence; she understood. He and the carpet were made of the same stuff; the Weave was the woven, and vice versa. She seized hold of his hand. In the building behind them alarm bells had begun to ring, but she knew they would not come after her: not yet.

Jerichau's face was a knot of anguish. Her touch was not kind to him. But in her head lines of force spiralled and converged. Images appeared: a house, a room. And yes, the carpet, lying in splendour before hungry eyes. The lines twisted; other images fought for her attention. Was that blood spilled so copiously on the floor?; and Cal's heel slipping in it?

She let go of Jerichau's hand. He made a fist of it.

‘Well?' he said.

3

Before she could reply a patrol car squealed into the yard. The driver's partner, alerted by the alarm, was already stepping from the car, demanding that the escapees halt. He began towards them, but the menstruum threw a ghost-wave towards him which caught him up and washed him out into the street. The driver threw himself out of the car and fled towards the safety of brick? and mortar, leaving the vehicle free for the taking.

‘The book,' said Suzanna as she slipped into the driver's seat. ‘Hobart's still got my book.'

‘We've no time to go back,' said Jerichau.

Easily said. It hurt to think of leaving Mimi's gift in the hands of Hobart. But in the time it would take her to find him and claim it back, the carpet might be lost. She had no choice; she'd have to leave it in his possession.

Odd as it seemed, she knew there were few hands in which it was more secure.

4

Hobart retired to the toilet and gave vent to his bladder before he filled his trousers, then went out to face the chaos that had turned his well-ordered headquarters into a battlefield.

The suspects had escaped in a patrol car, he was informed. That was some comfort. The vehicle would be easy to trace. The problem was not finding them again, but subduing them. The woman possessed the skill to induce hallucinations; what other powers might she evidence if cornered? With this and a dozen other questions in his head, he went down in search of Laverick and Boyce.

There were a few men lingering at the cell door, clearly unwilling to step inside. She's slaughtered them, he thought, and could not deny a spasm of satisfaction that the stakes were suddenly so much higher. But it was not blood he smelt as he reached the door, it was excrement.

Laverick and Boyce had stripped off their uniforms, and smeared themselves from head to foot with the product of their own bowels. Now they were crawling around like animals, grinning from ear to ear, apparently well content with themselves.

‘Jesus Christ,' said Hobart.

At the sound of his master's voice, Laverick looked up, and tried to get his tongue around some words of explanation. But his palate wasn't the equal of it. Instead, he crawled into a corner and hid his head.

‘You'd better get them hosed down,' Hobart told one of the officers. ‘We can't have their wives seeing them like that.'

‘What happened, sir?' the man asked.

‘I don't know yet.'

Patterson had appeared from the cell where the woman had been held, tear-stains on his face. He had some words of explanation.

‘She's possessed, sir,' he said. ‘I opened the door and the furniture was half way up the wall.'

‘Keep your hysteria to yourself,' Hobart told him.

‘I swear it, sir,' Patterson protested. ‘I swear it. And there was this light -'

‘No, Patterson! You saw nothing!' Hobart wheeled round on the rest of the spectators. ‘If any of you breathe a word of this, there'll be worse than shit to eat. You understand me?'

There were mute nods from the assembly.

‘What about them?' said one, glancing back into the cell.

‘I told you. Scrub them down and take them home.'

‘But they're like children,' someone said.

‘No children of mine,' Hobart replied, and took himself off upstairs where he could sit and look at the pictures in the book in private.

V

THRESHOLD

1

‘What's the disturbance?' van Niekerk demanded to know.

Shadwell smiled his smile. Though he was irritated by the interruption to the Auction, it had served to lend further heat to the buyers' eagerness.

‘An attempt to steal the carpet -' he said. ‘By whom?' Mrs A. asked. Shadwell pointed to the border of the carpet. There is, you'll observe, a portion of the Weave missing,' he admitted. ‘Small as it is, its knots concealed several inhabitants of the Fugue.' He watched the buyers' faces as he spoke. They were utterly mesmerized by his story, desperate for some confirmation of their dreams. ‘And they came here?' said Norris. ‘They did indeed.'

‘Let's see them,' the Hamburger King demanded, ‘if they're here, let's see them.'

Shadwell paused before replying. ‘Maybe one,' he said. He'd been fully prepared for the request, and had already planned with Immacolata which of the prisoners they'd display. He opened the door, and Nimrod, released from the Hag's embrace, tottered onto the carpet. Whatever the buyers had expected, the sight of this naked child was not it.

‘What is this?' Rahimzadeh snorted. ‘Do you think we're fools?' Nimrod looked up from the Weave underfoot at the puzzled faces that surrounded him. He would have set them right on any number of matters, but that Immacolata had laid her fingers on his tongue, and he couldn't raise a grunt from it.

This is one of the Seerkind.' Shadwell announced.

‘It's just a child,' said Marguerite Pierce, her voice betraying some tenderness. ‘A poor child.'

Nimrod stared at the woman: a fine, big-breasted creature, he thought.

‘He's no child,' said Immacolata. She had slipped into the room unseen; now all eyes turned to her. All except Marguerite's, which still rested on Nimrod. ‘Some of the Seerkind are shape-changers.'

‘This?' said van Niekerk.

‘Certainly.'

‘What crap are you trying to feed us, Shadwell?' Morris said. ‘I'm not taking -'

‘Shut up,' said Shadwell.

Shock closed Norris' mouth; a lot of beef had been minced since he'd last been talked to that way.

‘Immacolata can undo this rapture,' he said, floating the word on the air like a valentine.

Nimrod saw the Incantatrix make a configuration of thumb and third finger, through which, with a sharp intake of breath, she nonchalantly drew the shape-changing rapture. It was not an unwelcome shudder that convulsed him now; he was weary of this hairless skin. He felt his knees begin to tremble, and he fell forward onto the carpet. Around him, he could hear awed whispers, becoming louder with every step of the undeceiving, and more astonished.

Inmacolata was not delicate in her undoing of his anatomy. He winced as his flesh was transformed. There was one delicious moment in this hasty unveiling, when he felt his balls drop once more. Then, his manhood re-established, a second sequence of growth began, his skin tingling as the hair sprouted on his belly and back. Finally his face appeared from the facade of innocence, and he was - balls and all - himself again.

Shadwell looked down at the creature lying on the carpet, its skin faintly blue, its eyes golden; then at the buyers. This spectacle had probably doubled the price they'd bid for the carpet. Here was magic, in the panting flesh; more real and more oddly bewitching than even he'd anticipated.

‘You made your point,' said Norris, his voice flat. ‘Let's get down to numbers.'

Shadwell concurred.

‘Perhaps you'd remove our guest?' he said to Immacolata, but before she could make a move Nimrod was up and kneeling at the feet of Marguerite Pierce, covering her ankles with kisses.

This excited but mute entreaty did not go unnoticed. The woman stretched her hand down to touch the thick hair of Nimrod's head.

‘Leave him with me,' she said to Immacolata.

‘Why not?' said Shadwell. ‘Let him watch ...'

The Incantatrix made a muttered protest.

‘No harm in it,' said Shadwell. ‘I can handle him.' Immacolata withdrew. ‘Now ...' said the Salesman. ‘Shall we re-open the bidding?'

2

Half way between the kitchen and the bottom of the stairs Cal remembered he was unarmed. He rapidly retraced his steps and dug around in the kitchen drawers until he located a wide knife. Although he doubted if the sister's ethereal bodies would prove susceptible to a mere blade, its weight in his hand offered some comfort.

His heel slid in blood as he began to climb the stairs; it was a sheer fluke that his outflung hand found the bannister and kept him from falling downstairs. He silently cursed his clumsiness, and took the rest of the ascent more slowly. Though there was no sign of the sisters' luminescence from above, he knew they were close. But frightened as he was, one conviction attended his every step: whatever horrors were

ahead he would find a way to kill Shadwell. Even if he had to open the bastard's throat with his own hands he'd do it. The Salesman had broken his father's heart, and that was a hanging offence.

At the top of the stairs, a sound; or rather several: human voices raised in argument. He listened more closely. It wasn't argument at all. They were bidding, and Shadwell's voice was clearly distinguishable, fielding the contesting bids.

Under the cover of the racket Cal slipped across the landing to the first of several doors that presented themselves. Cautiously, he opened it, and entered. The small room was unoccupied, but the connecting door was ajar, and a light burned beyond. Leaving the door to the landing open, in case he needed to beat a fast retreat, he padded across to the second and peered through.

On the floor lay Freddy and Apolline; there was no sign of Nimrod. He studied the shadows, to be certain they concealed no by-blow; then he pushed the door open.

The bids and counter-bids were still flying, and their commotion drowned out any sound he made crossing to where the prisoners lay. They were very still, their mouths stifled with clots of ethereal matter, their eyes closed. It was clearly Freddy who'd spilled the blood on the stairs; his body was much worse for the sisters' attentions, his face raked with their fingers. But the profoundest wound was between his ribs, where he'd been stabbed with his own scissors. They protruded from him still.

Cal pulled away Freddy's gag, which crawled on his hands as if maggoty, and was rewarded with a breath from the wounded man. But there was no sign of consciousness. He then performed the same service for Apolline. She showed more sign of life - moaning as if about to wake.

The clamour of bids was heating up in the adjacent room; it was clear from the din that there were a good number of would-be purchasers involved. How could he hope to bring the process to a halt with so many in Shadwell's faction, and he single-handed?

At his side, Freddy moved.

His lids flickered open, but there was little in the way of life behind them.

‘Cal....' he tried to say. The word was a shape not a sound. Cal bent closer to him, putting his arms around his chilly, trembling body.

‘I'm here, Freddy,' he said.

Freddy tried to speak again.

‘... almost...' he said.

Cal tightened his embrace, as though he could keep the life from seeping out. But a hundred hands couldn't have kept it from going; it had better places to be. Still Cal couldn't help but say:

‘Don't go.'

The man made a tiny shake of his head.

‘... almost....' he said again, ‘... almost....'

The syllables seemed too much for him. His trembling stopped.

‘Freddy ...'

Cal put his fingers to the man's lips, but there was no trace of breath. As he stared at the empty features Apolline snatched hold of his hand. She too was cold. Her eyes turned skyward; he followed her gaze.

Immacolata was lying on the ceiling, staring down at him. She'd been hovering there all along, basking in his sorrow and helplessness.

A shout of horror had reached his lips before he could prevent it, and in that instant she swooped, her darkness reaching for him. For once, however, his clumsiness did him a kindness, and he fell backwards before her claws could connect. The door at his back gave inwards, and he pitched himself through it, his terror of her touch lending him speed.

‘What is this?'

The speaker was Shadwell. Cal had thrown himself into the midst of the Auction. The Salesman was at one end of the room, while half a dozen others, dressed as if for a night at the Ritz, were standing around the room. Immacolata would surely hesitate to murder him in such company. He had a moment's grace, at least.

Then he looked down, and the sight before him made him sick with joy.

He was sprawled across the carpet: its warp and weft were tingling beneath his palms. Was that why he so suddenly and absurdly felt safe-as though all that had gone before had been a test, the prize for which this was sweet reunion?

‘Get him out of here,' said one of the buyers.

Shadwell took a step towards him.

‘Remove yourself, Mr Mooney.' the Salesman said. ‘We've got business here.'

So have I, thought Cal, and as Shadwell approached he drew the knife from his pocket and sprang at the man. Behind him, he heard Immacolata cry out. He had seconds only in which to act. He thrust the blade at Shadwell, but despite his bulk, the Salesman neatly side-stepped it.

There was a commotion from the buyers, which Cal took to be an expression of horror, but no - he glanced towards them to see that they'd taken the sale into their own hands, and were shouting bids in each others' faces.

It was laughable to see, but Cal had little time to applaud them, for Shadwell had torn open his jacket. The lining blazed.

‘Anything you want? he said.

As he spoke he stepped towards Cal, blinding him with the glamour of the garment, and knocked the knife from his hand. With Cal disarmed, he resorted to less subtle tactics, delivering a knee to Cal's groin that dropped him groaning to the floor. There he lay for several seconds, unable to move until the nausea subsided. Through the daze of light and sickness he could see Immacolata, still waiting for him at the door. Behind her, the sisters. So much for his attack. He was weaponless now, and alone -

But no; not alone. Never alone.

He was lying on a world, wasn't he?, on a sleeping world. Miracles beyond counting were in the Weave beneath him, if he could just liberate them.

But how? There were raptures, no doubt, to stir the Fugue from its slumber, but he knew none of them. All he could do was lay his palms on the carpet and whisper:

‘Wake up ...'

Was he deluding himself, or was there already a restlessness in the knots?, as though the creatures there struggled against their condition, like sleepers desperate to wake themselves, knowing the day had broken, but powerless to stir.

Now, from the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a naked figure crouching at the feet of a buyer. It was undoubtedly one of the Seerkind, but no-one he recognized. Or at least not the body. But the eyes -

‘Nimrod?' he murmured.

The creature had seen him, and crawled from its place of safety to the edge of the carpet. He wasn't noticed. Shadwell was already back amongst the buyers, trying to prevent the Auction from becoming a blood-bath. He'd forgotten Cal's existence.

‘Is it you?' Cal said.

Nimrod nodded, pointing to his throat.

‘You can't speak? Shit!'

Cal glanced towards the door. Immacolata was still in wait. She had the patience of a carrion-bird.

The carpet...' said Cal. ‘We have to wake it.'

Nimrod looked at him blankly.

‘Don't you understand what I'm saying?'

Before Nimrod could signal any reply, Shadwell had settled the buyers and announced:

‘We'll begin again.'

Then, to Immacolata: ‘Remove the assassin.'

Cal had at best seconds before the Incantatrix stopped his life. He desperately scanned the room for an exit route. There were several windows, all heavily draped. Perhaps if he could reach one he might fling himself out. Even if the fall killed him it could not be worse than death at Immacolata's touch.

But before she reached him she halted. Her gaze, which had been fixed upon him, now drifted away. She turned to Shadwell and the word she said was:

‘... menstruum ...'

As she spoke the room beyond the door, where Apolline and Freddy had been left, was washed with a radiance which splashed through onto the carpet. At its touch, the colours seemed to become more vivid.

And then a shriek of wrath - the voice of the Hag - rose from the room, followed by a further spillage of light.

These new sights and sounds were enough to set the buyers into a fresh spin. One went to the door - either as spectator or escapee - and fell back, his hands over his eyes, yelling that he was blinded. Nobody went to his aid. The rest of the party retreated to the far end of the room, while the fury at the other escalated.

A figure had appeared at the door, threads of brilliance describing spirals all about her. Cal knew her at once, despite her transformation.

It was Suzanna. Fluid fireworks ran like veins over her arms, and showered from her fingertips; they danced on her belly and breasts and ran out from between her legs to ignite the air.

Seeing her thus, it took several seconds for Cal to voice his welcome, and by that time the sisters were through the door in pursuit of her. The battle had done grievous harm on both sides. The display of the menstruum could not hide the bleeding wounds on Suzanna's neck and body; and, though pain was most likely beyond the experience of the wraith-sisters, they too were torn.

Whether weakened or not, they fell back when Immacolata raised her hand, leaving Suzanna to their living sister.

‘You're late,' she said. ‘We were waiting.'

‘Kill her,' said Shadwell.

Cal studied the look on Suzanna's face. Try as she might she could not entirely disguise her exhaustion.

Now, perhaps feeling his eyes on her, she looked his way, her gaze locking with his, then moving to his hands, which were still palm down upon the Weave. Did she read his thoughts, he wondered. Did she comprehend that the only hope remaining to them lay asleep at her feet?

Again, their eyes met, and in them Cal saw that she understood.

Beneath his fingers, the Weave tingled as though a mild electric shock was passing through it. He didn't remove his hand, but let the energy use him as it so desired. He was just part of a process now: a circle of power that ran through the carpet from Suzanna's feet to his hands and up through his eyes and back along the line of their glance to her.

‘Stop them ...' said Shadwell, dimly comprehending this mischief, but as Immacolata moved towards Cal again one of the buyers said:

The knife ...'

Cal didn't break the look he shared with Suzanna, but the knife now floated into view between them, as if raised on the heat of their thoughts.

Suzanna had no more idea of why or how this was happening than Cal, but she too grasped, albeit vaguely, the notion of the circuit that ran through her, the menstruum, the carpet, him, the gaze, and back to her again. Whatever was occurring here it had seconds only to work its miracle, before Immacolata reached Cal and broke the circle.

The knife had begun to spin now, catching fresh speed with each turn. Cal felt a fullness in his testicles which was almost painful; and - more alarmingly - the feeling that he was no longer quite fixed in his body, but being teased out, out through his eyes, to meet Suzanna's gaze on the knife between them, which was moving at such a speed it resembled a silver ball.

And then, quite suddenly, it dropped out of the air like a felled bird. Cal followed its descent, as with a thud it buried its point in the centre of the carpet.

Instantly, a shock-wave ran through every inch of warp and weft, as if the knife-point had severed a strand upon which the integrity of the whole depended. And with that strand cut, the Weave was loosed.

3

It was the end of the world, and the beginning of worlds. First, a column of dervish cloud rose from the middle of the Gyre, flying up towards the ceiling. As it struck, wide cracks opened, bringing an avalanche of plaster onto the heads of all beneath. It momentarily occurred to Cal that what Suzanna and he had unleashed was now beyond their jurisdiction. Then the wonders began, and all such concerns were forgotten.

There was lightning in the cloud, throwing arcs out to the walls and across the floor. As they sprang forth, knots from one border of the carpet to the other slipped their configurations, and the strands grew like grain in mid-summer, spilling colour as they rose. It was much as Cal and Suzanna had dreamt several nights before, only multiplied a hundredfold; ambitious threads climbing and proliferating across the room.

The pressure of growth beneath Cal was enough to throw him off the carpet as the strands sprang from their bondage, spreading the seeds of a thousand forms to right and left. Some were swifter to rise than others, reaching the ceiling in seconds. Others chose instead to make for the windows, trailing streamers of colour as they broke the glass and raced out to meet the night.

Everywhere the eye went there were new and extraordinary displays. At first the explosion of forms was too chaotic to be made sense of, but no sooner was the air awash with colour than the strands began to shape finer details, distinguishing plant from stone, and stone from wood, and wood from flesh. One surging thread exploded against the roof in a shower of motes, each of which, upon contact with the humus of the decaying Weave, threw out tiny shoots. Another was laying zig-zag paths of blue-grey mist across the room; a third and a fourth were intertwining, and fire-flies were leaping from their marriage, sketching in their motion bird and beast, which their companions clothed with light.

In seconds the Fugue had filled the room, its growth so fast that Shearman's house could not contain it. Boards were uprooted as the strands sought new territories; the rafters were thrown aside. Nor were bricks and mortar any better defence against the threads. What they couldn't coax, they bullied; what they couldn't bully, they simply overturned.

Cal had no intention of being buried. Bewitching as these birth-pangs were, it could not be long before the house collapsed. He peered through the fireworks towards the place where Suzanna had been standing, but she'd already gone. The buyers were also making their escape, fighting like street dogs in their panic.

Scrambling to his feet, Cal started to make his way to the door, but he'd got no more than two steps when he saw Shadwell moving towards him.

‘Bastard!' the Salesman was screeching. ‘Interfering bastard!'

He reached into his jacket pocket, drew out a gun, and took aim at Cal.

‘Nobody crosses me, Mooney!' he screamed; then fired.

But even as he pulled the trigger somebody leapt at him. He fell sideways. The bullet flew wide of its target.

Cal's saviour was Nimrod. He raced towards Cal now, his expression all urgency. He had reason. The entire house had begun to shake; there were roars of capitulation from above and below. The Fugue had reached the foundations, and its enthusiasm was about to pitch the house over.

Nimrod seized hold of Cal's arm, and pulled him not towards the door but towards the window. Or rather, the wall that had once contained the window, for the burgeoning Weave had torn them all out. Beyond the wreckage, the Fugue was telling its long-silenced story hither and thither, filling the darkness with further magic.

Nimrod glanced behind him.

‘Are we going to jump?' said Cal.

Nimrod grinned, and held on even tighter to Cal's arm. One backward glance told Cal that Shadwell had found his gun, and was aiming it at their backs.

‘Look out!' he yelled.

Nimrod's face brightened, and he pressed his hand on the nape of Cal's neck, to make him tuck his head down. An instant later Cal understood why, as a wave of colour sprang from the Weave, and Nimrod threw them both before it. The force carried them out through the window, and for a panicky moment they trod thin air. Then the brightness seemed to

solidify and spread beneath them, and they were riding down it like surfers on a tide of light.

The ride was over all too soon. Mere seconds later they were rudely deposited in a field some distance from the house, and the wave was off into the night, parenting all manner of flora and fauna as it went.

Dizzied but exhilarated, Cal got to his feet, and was delighted to hear Nimrod exclaim:

‘Ha!'

‘You can speak?'

‘It appears so,' said Nimrod, his grin wider than ever. ‘I'm out of her reach here -'

‘Immacolata.'

‘Of course. She undid my rapture, to tempt the Cuckoos. And tempting I was. Did you see the woman in the blue dress?'

‘Briefly.'

‘She fell for me on sight,' said Nimrod. ‘Perhaps I should find her. She's going to need some tenderness, things being what they are -' and without another word he turned back towards the house, which was well on its way to rubble. Only as he disappeared in the confusion of light and dust did Cal notice that in his true shape Nimrod possessed a tail.

Doubtless he could look after himself, but there were others Cal was still concerned for. Suzanna, for one, and Apolline, whom he'd last seen lying beside Freddy in the ante-chamber to the Auction Room. All was din and destruction, but he started back towards the house nevertheless, to see if he could find them.

It was like swimming against a technicolour tide. Strands, late-born, flew and burst about him, some breaking against his body. They were kinder by far to living tissue than they were to brick. Their touch didn't wound him, but lent him fresh energy. His body tingled as though he'd stepped from an ice-water shower. His head sang.

There was no sign of the enemy. He hoped Shadwell had been buried in the house, but he knew too much of the luck of the wicked to believe this likely. He did however glimpse several of the buyers wandering in the brightness. They didn't aid each other, but made their way as solitaries, either gazing at the ground for fear it open beneath their feet, or stumbling, hands masking their tears.

As he came within thirty yards of the house there was a further burst of activity from within, as the great cloud of the Gyre, spitting lightning, shrugged off the walls that had confined it, and blossomed in all directions.

He had time enough to see the figure of one of the buyers consumed by the cloud, then he turned and ran.

A wave of dust threw him on his way; filaments of brightness flew to left and right of him like ribbons in a hurricane. A second wave followed, this time of brick-shards and furniture. His breath was snatched from his lips, and his legs from beneath him. Then he was performing acrobatics, head over heels, no longer knowing Heaven from Earth.

He didn't try to resist, even if resistance had been possible, but let the fast train take him wherever it chose to go.