Weave World

Part Five. Revels

‘Flee into some forgotten night and be Of all dark long my moon-bright company; Beyond the rumour even of Paradise come. There, out of all remembrance, make our home.' Walter de la Mare The Tryst

I

CAL, AMONGST MIRACLES

1

True joy is a profound remembering; and true grief the same.

Thus it was, when the dust storm that had snatched Cal up finally died, and he opened his eyes to see the Fugue spread before him, he felt as though the few fragile moments of epiphany he'd tasted in his twenty-six years - tasted but always lost - were here redeemed and wed. He'd grasped fragments of this delight before. Heard rumour of it in the womb-dream and the dream of love; known it in lullabies. But never, until now, the whole, the thing entire. It would be, he idly thought, a fine time to die. And a finer time still to live, with so much laid out before him.

He was on a hill. Not high, but high enough to offer a vantage point. He got to his feet and surveyed this new-found land.

The unknotting of the carpet had by no means finished; the raptures of the Loom were far too complex to be so readily reversed. But the groundwork was laid: hills, fields, forest, and much else besides.

Last time he'd set eyes on this place it had been from a bird's eye view, and the landscape had seemed various enough. But from the human perspective its profusion verged on the riotous. It was as if a vast suitcase, packed in great haste, had been upturned, its contents scattered in hopeless disarray.

There appeared to be no system to the geography, just a random assembling of spots the Seerkind had loved enough to snatch from destruction. Butterfly copses and placid water-meadows; lairs and walled sanctuaries; keeps, rivers and standing stones.

Few of these locations were complete: most were slivers and snatches, fragments of the Kingdom ceded to the Fugue behind humanity's back. The haunted corners of familiar rooms that would neither be missed nor mourned, where children had perhaps seen ghosts or saints; where the fugitive might be comforted and not know why, and the suicide find reason for another breath.

Amid this disorder, the most curious juxtapositions abounded. Here a bridge, parted from the chasm it had crossed, sat in a field, spanning poppies; there an obelisk stood in the middle of a pool, gazing at its reflection.

One sight in particular caught Cal's eye.

It was a hill, which rose almost straight-sided to a tree-crowned summit. Lights moved over its face, and danced amongst the branches. Having no sense of direction here, he decided to make his way down towards it.

There was music playing somewhere in the night. It came to him by fits and starts, at the behest of the breeze. Drums and violins; a mingling of Strauss and Sioux. And occasionally, evidence of people too. Whispers in the trees; shadowed figures beneath a canopy which stood in the middle of a waist-high field of grain. But the creatures were fugitive; they came and went too quickly for him to gain more than a fleeting impression. Whether this was because they knew him for the Cuckoo he was, or simply out of shyness, only time would tell. Certainly he felt no threat here, despite the fact that he was, in a sense, trespassing. On the contrary, he felt utterly at peace with the world and himself. So much so that his concern for the others here - Suzanna, Apolline, Jerichau, Nimrod -was quite remote. When his thoughts did touch upon them it was only to imagine them wandering as he was wandering, lost among miracles. No harm could come to them; not here. Here was an end to harm, and malice, and envy too. Having

this living rapture wrapping him round, what was left to envy or desire?

He was within a hundred yards of the hill and stood before it in amazement. The lights he'd seen from a distance were in fact human fire-flies; wingless, but describing effortless arabesques around the hill. There was no communication between them that he could hear, yet they had the precision of daredevils, their manoeuvres repeatedly bringing them within a hair's breadth of each other.

‘You must be Mooney.'

The speaker's voice was soft, but it broke the hold the lights had on him. Cal looked off to his right. Two figures were standing in the shade of an archway, their faces still immersed in darkness. All he could see were the two blue-grey ovals of their faces, hanging beneath the arch like lanterns.

‘Yes. I'm Mooney,' he said. Show yourselves, he thought. ‘How do you know my name?'

‘News travels fast here,' came the reply. The voice seemed slightly softer and more fluting than the first, but he couldn't be certain it wasn't the same speaker. ‘It's the air,' said his informant. ‘It gossips.'

Now one of the pair stepped into the night-light. The soft illumination from the hill moved on his face, lending it strangeness, but even had Cal seen it by daylight this was a face to be haunted by. He was young, yet completely bald, his features powdered to remove any modulation in skin-tone, his mouth and eyes almost too wet, too vulnerable, in the mask of his features.

‘I'm Boaz,' he said. ‘You're welcome, Mooney.'

He took Cal's hand, and shook it, and as he did so his companion broke her covenant with shadow.

‘You can see the Amadou?' she said.

It took Cal several seconds to conclude that the second speaker was indeed a woman, the processes of his doubt in turn throwing doubt on the sex of Boaz, for the two were very close to being identical twins.

‘I'm Ganza,' said the second speaker. She was dressed in the same plain black trousers and loose tunic as her brother, or lover, or whatever he was; and she too was bald. That, and their powdered faces, seemed to confuse all the cliches of gender. Their faces were vulnerable, yet implacable; delicate, yet severe.

Boaz looked towards the hill, where the fire-flies were still cavorting.

This is the Rock of the First Fatality.' he told Cal. ‘The Amadou always gather here. This is where the first victims of the Scourge died.'

Cal looked back towards the Rock, but only for a moment. Boaz and Ganza fascinated him more; their ambiguities multiplied the more he watched them.

‘Where are you going tonight?' said Ganza.

Cal shrugged. ‘No idea,' he said. ‘I don't know a yard of this place.'

‘Yes, you do,' she said. ‘You know it very well.'

While she spoke she was idly locking and unlocking her fingers, or so it seemed, until Cal's eyes lingered on the exercise for two or three seconds. Then it became apparent that she was passing her fingers through the palms of the other hand, left through right, right through left, defying their solidity. The motion was so casual, the illusion - if illusion it was - so quick, that Cal was by no means certain he was interpreting it correctly.

‘How do they look to you?' she enquired.

He looked back at her face. Was the finger-trick some kind of test of his perception? It wasn't her hands she was talking about, however.

The Amadou.' she said. ‘How do they appear?'

He glanced towards the Rock again.

‘... like human beings.' he replied.

She gave him a tiny smile.

‘Why do you ask?' he wanted to know. But she didn't have time to reply before Boaz spoke.

There's a Council been called.' he said. ‘At Capra's House. I think they're going to re-weave.'

That can't be right.' said Cal. They're going to put the Fugue back?'

That's what I hear.' said Boaz.

It seemed to be fresh news to him; had he just lifted it off the gossiping air? The times are too dangerous, they're saying.' he told Cal. ‘Is that true?'

‘I don't know any other.' Cal said. ‘So I've got nothing to compare them with.'

‘Do we have the night?' Ganza asked.

‘Some of it.' said Boaz.

Then we'll go to see Lo; yes?'

‘It's as good a place as any.' Boaz replied. ‘Will you come?' he asked the Cuckoo.

Cal looked back towards the Amadou. The thought of staying and watching their performance a while longer was tempting, but he might not find another guide to show him the sights, and if time here was short then he'd best make the most of it.

‘Yes. I'll come.'

The woman had stopped lacing her fingers.

‘You'll like Lo.' she said, turning away, and starting off into the night.

He followed, already full to brimming with questions, but knowing that if indeed he only had hours to taste Wonderland he should not waste time and breath asking.

II

AT THE LAKE, AND LATER

1

There had been a moment, back in the Auction House, when Suzanna had thought her life was at an end. She'd been helping Apolline down the stairs when the walls had creaked, and it seemed the house had come down around their ears. Even now, as she stood watching the lake, she was not certain how they'd escaped alive. Presumably the menstruum had intervened on her behalf, though she had not consciously willed it to do so. There was much she had to learn about the power she'd inherited. Not least, how much it belonged to her and how much she to it. When she found Apolline, whom she'd lost in the furore, she would find out all the woman knew.

In the meantime, she had the islands, their backs crowned with cypress trees, to wonder about, and the lisp of the waves on the stones to soothe her. ‘We should go.'

Jerichau broke her reverie as softly as he could, touching the back of her neck with his hand. She had left him at the house that stood along the shore, talking with friends he'd not seen in a human life-time. They had reminiscences to exchange, in which she had no place, and which, she sensed, the others had no desire to share. Criminal talk, she'd uncharitably concluded as she left them to it. Jerichau was a thief, after all. ‘Why did we come here?' she asked him.

‘I was born here. I know every one of these stones by name.' His hand still rested on her shoulder. ‘Or at least I did. It seemed a good place to show you -'

She looked away from the lake towards him. His brow was furrowed; ‘But we can't stay,' he said.

‘Why not?'

‘They'll want to see you at Capra's House.'

‘Me?'

‘You unmade the Weave.'

‘I had no choice,' she said. ‘Cal was going to be killed.'

The furrow deepened.

‘Forget Cal,' he said, his tone toughening. ‘Mooney's a Cuckoo. You're not.'

‘Yes I am,' she insisted. ‘Or least that's what I feel I am, and that's the important thing

His hand dropped from her shoulder. He was suddenly sullen.

‘Are you coming or not?' he said.

‘Of course I'm coming.'

He sighed.

‘It wasn't meant to be this way.' he said, his voice recapturing some of its former gentility.

She wasn't sure what he was speaking of: the unweaving, his reunion with the lake, or the exchange between them. Perhaps a little of each.

‘Maybe it was a mistake to unmake the Weave,' she said, somewhat defensively, ‘but it wasn't just me. It was the menstruum.'

He raised his eyebrows.

‘It's your power,' he said, not without rancour. ‘Control it.'

She gave him a frosty look. ‘How far is Capra's House?'

‘Nothing's far in the Fugue,' he replied. ‘The Scourge destroyed most of our territories. Only these few remain.'

‘Are there more in the Kingdom?'

‘A few maybe. But all we really care for is here. That's why we have to hide it again, before morning.'

Morning. She'd almost forgotten that the sun would soon be rising and, with it. Humankind. The thought of her fellow

Cuckoos - with their taste for zoos, freak-shows and carnivals - invading this territory did not much amuse her.

‘You're right,' she said. ‘We have to be quick,' and together they went up from the lake towards Capra's House.

2

As they walked Suzanna had answered several questions that had been vexing her since the unweaving. Chief amongst them: what had happened to the portion of the Kingdom that the Fugue had invaded? It was not well populated certainly -there was the considerable acreage of Thurstaston Common behind the Auction House, and fields to either side; but the area was not entirely deserted. There were a number of houses in the locality, and up towards Irby Heath the population grew denser still. What had happened to those residences? And indeed to their occupants?

The answer was quite simple: the Fugue had sprung up around them, accommodating their existence with a kind of wit. Thus a line of lamp-posts, their fluorescence extinguished, had been decorated with blossoming vines like antique columns; a car had been almost buried in the side of a hill, another two had been tipped on their tails and leaned nose to nose.

The houses had been less recklessly treated; most were still complete, although the flowerage of the Fugue reached to their very doorsteps, as if awaiting an invitation inside.

As to the Cuckoos, she and Jerichau encountered a few, all of whom seemed more puzzled than fearful. One man, dressed only in trousers and braces, was complaining loudly that he'd lost his dog - ‘Damn fool mutt,' he said. ‘You seen him?' -and seemed indifferent to the fact that the world had changed around him. It was only after he'd headed off, still calling after the runaway, that Suzanna wondered if the fellow was seeing what she saw, or whether the same selective blindness that kept the haloes from human eyes was at work here. Was the dog-owner wandering familiar streets, unable to see beyond the cell of his assumptions? Or perhaps just glimpsing the Fugue from the corner of his eye, a glory he'd remember in his dotage, and weep over?

Jerichau had no answers to these questions. He didn't know, he said, and he didn't care.

And still the visions unfurled. With every step she took her astonishment grew at the variety of places and objects the Seerkind had saved from the conflagration. The Fugue was not, as she'd anticipated, simply a collection of haunted groves and thickets. Holiness was a far more democratic condition; it informed fragments of every kind: intimate and momentous, natural and artificial. Each corner and niche had its own peculiar mode of rapture.

The circumstances of their preservation meant that most of these fragments had been torn from their context like pages from a book. Their edges were still raw with the violence of that removal, and the haphazard way they'd been thrown together only made their disunity seem more acute. But there were compensations. The very disparity of the pieces - the way the domestic abutted the public; the commonplace, the fabulous - created fresh conundrums; hints of new stories that these hitherto unconnected pages might tell.

Sometimes the journey showed them collisions of elements so unlikely they defied any attempt to synthesize them. Dogs grazing beside a tomb, from the fractured lid of which rose a fountain of fire that ran like water; a window set in the ground, its curtains billowing skyward on a breeze that carried the sound of the sea. These riddles, defying her powers of explanation, marked her profoundly. There was nothing here that she hadn't seen before - dogs, tombs, windows, fire - but in this flux she found them re-invented, their magic made again before her eyes.

Only once, having been told by Jerichau that he had no answers to her questions, did she press him for knowledge, and that was regarding the Gyre, whose covering of cloud was perpetually visible, its brightest lightning bursts throwing hill and tree into relief.

That's where the Temple of the Loom is,' he said. ‘The closer you get to it the more dangerous it becomes.'

She remembered something of this from that first night, when they'd talked of the carpet. But she wanted to know more.

‘Why dangerous?' she asked.

The raptures required to make the Weave were without parallel. It required great sacrifice, great purity, to control them and knit them. More than most of us would ever be capable of. Now the power protects itself, with lightning and storms. And wisely. If the Gyre's broken into, the Weave rapture won't hold. All we've gathered here will come apart; be destroyed.'

‘Destroyed?'

‘So they say. I don't know if it's true or not. I've got no grasp of the theoretical stuff.'

‘But you can perform raptures.'

The remark seemed to baffle him. That doesn't mean I can tell you how,' he said. ‘I just do ‘em.'

‘Like what?' she said. She felt like a child, asking for tricks from a magician, but she was curious to know the powers residing in him.

He made an odd face; one full of contradictions. There was a shyness there; something quizzical; something fond.

‘Maybe I'll show you,' he said. ‘One of these times. I can't sing or dance, but I've got ways with me.' He stopped speaking, and walking too.

She didn't need any sign from him to hear the bells that were in the air around them. They were not the bells of a steeple - these were light and melodic - but they summoned nevertheless.

‘Capra's House,' he said, striding ahead. The bells, knowing they were heard, rang them on their way.

III

DELUSIONS

1

The bulletin that had gone out from Hobart's Division announcing the escape of the anarchists had not gone unheard; but the alarm had come a little before eleven, and the patrols were dealing with the nightly round of fist-fights, drunken driving and theft which climaxed about that time. In addition there'd been a fatal stabbing on Seel Street, and a transvestite had been the cause of a near-riot in a pub on the Dock Road. Thus, by the time any serious attention had been paid to the alarm-call, the escapees were long gone; slipped through the Mersey Tunnel on their way to Shearman's house.

But on the opposite side of the river, just outside Birken-head, a vigilant patrolman by the name of Downey caught sight of them. Leaving his partner in a Chinese restaurant ordering Chop Suey and Peking Fried Duck, Downey gave chase. The radio alert warned that these miscreants were extremely dangerous, and that no attempt should be made to apprehend them single-handed. Patrolman Downey therefore kept a discreet distance, aided in this by a thorough knowledge of the area.

When the villains finally reached their destination, however, it became apparent that this was no ordinary pursuit. For one, when he reported his location to Division he was told that things there were in considerable disarray - could he hear a man sobbing in the background? - and that this matter would be dealt with by Inspector Hobart in person. He was to wait, and watch.

It was while he was waiting and watching that he had his second proof that something untoward was in the air.

It began with lights flickering in the second-storey windows of the house; then exploding into the outside world, taking wall and window with it.

He got out of his car and began to walk towards the house. His mind, used to filing reports, was already scrabbling for adjectives to describe what he was seeing, but he kept coming up empty-handed. The brilliance that spilled from the house did not resemble anything he had witnessed or dreamt of before.

He was not a superstitious man. He immediately sought a secular explanation for the things he saw, or almost saw, all around him; and seeking, found. He was viewing UFO activity; that was surely it. He'd read reports of similar events happening to perfectly ordinary Joes like himself. It was not God or lunacy he was facing, but a visitation from a neighbouring galaxy.

Content that he had some grasp on the situation, he hurried back to the car to put his report through to headquarters. He was stymied, however. There was white noise on all frequencies. No matter: he'd informed them of his location on first arriving. They'd come to his aid presently. In the meanwhile his task was to watch this landing like a hawk.

That task rapidly became more difficult, as the invaders began to bombard him with extraordinary illusions, designed, no doubt, to conceal their operations from human sight. The waves of force that had burst from the house threw the car on its side (or at least that's what his eyes informed him; he was not about to take it as Gospel); then vague forms began to roil about him. The tarmac beneath his feet seemed to sprout flowers; bestial forms were performing acrobatics above his head.

He saw several members of the public similarly ensnared by these projections. Some stared up at the sky, others were on their knees praying for sanity.

And it came, by and by. Knowing that these images were merely phantoms gave him strength to resist them. Over and over he told himself that what he was seeing was not real, and by degrees the visions bowed to his certainty, grew faint, and finally faded almost entirely.

He scrambled into the over-turned car and tried the radio again, though he had no idea if anybody was hearing it or not. Oddly, he wasn't that concerned. He'd beaten the delusions, and that conviction sweetened his vigil. Even if they came for him now - the monsters that had landed here tonight - he would not fear them. He would put out his own eyes rather than let them bewitch him afresh.

2

‘Any further word?'

‘There's nothing, sir,' said Richardson. ‘Only din.'

‘Forget it then,' said Hobart. ‘Just drive. We'll sniff them out if it takes us all fucking night.'

As they travelled, Hobart's thoughts returned to the scene he'd left behind him. His men reduced to babbling idiots, his cells defiled with shit and prayers. He had a score to settle with these forces of darkness.

Once upon a time he would not have cast himself so readily in the role of avenger. He'd been squeamish in admitting to any degree of personal involvement. But experience had made an honest man of him. Now - at least in the company of his men - he didn't pretend to be removed from the issues at hand, but confessed freely the heat in his belly.

After all, the business of pursuit and punishment was just a way to spit in the eye of one who had already spat on you. The Law, just another word for revenge.

IV

ALLEGIANCES

1

It was eighty years, give or take half a decade, since the three sisters had trodden the earth of the Fugue. Eighty years of exile in the Kingdom of the Cuckoo, worshipped and reviled by turns, almost losing their sanity amongst the Adamaticals, but driven to endure countless mortifications by their hunger one day to have the Weaveworld in their avenging grasp.

Now they hung in the air above that rapturous earth - its touch so antithetical that walking upon it was a trial - and surveyed the Fugue from end to end.

‘It smells too much alive,' said the Magdalene, lifting her head to the wind.

‘Give us time,' Immacolata told her.

‘What about Shadwell?' the Hag wanted to know. ‘Where is he?'

‘Out looking for his clients, probably,' the Incantatrix replied. ‘We should find him. I don't like the thought of his wandering here unaccompanied. He's unpredictable.'

‘Then what?'

‘We let the inevitable happen,' said Immacolata, gently swinging round to take in every sacred yard of the place. ‘We let the Cuckoos tear it apart.'

‘What about the Sale?'

‘There'll be no Sale. It's too late.'

‘Shadwell's going to know you used him.'

‘No more than he used me. Or would have liked to.'

A tremor passed through the Magdalene's uncertain substance.

‘Wouldn't you like to give yourself to him once?' she enquired softly. ‘Just once.'

‘No. Never.'

‘Then let me have him. I can use him. Imagine his children.'

Immacolata reached out and grasped her sister's fragile neck. ‘You will never lay a hand on him,' she said. ‘Not a finger.'

The wraith's face grew absurdly long, in a parody of remorse.

‘I know,' she said. ‘He's yours. Body and soul.'

The Hag laughed. The man's got no soul,' she said.

Immacolata released the Magdalene, filaments of her sister's matter decaying into sewer air between them.

‘Oh, he has a soul,' she said, letting gravity claim her for the earth beneath. ‘But I want no part of it.' Her feet touched the ground. ‘When all this is over - when the Seerkind are in the Cuckoo's hands - I'll let him go his way. Unharmed.'

‘And us?' said the Hag. ‘What happens to us then? Will we be free?'

‘That's what we agreed.'

‘We can go into extinction?'

‘If that's what you want.'

‘More than anything,' said the Hag. ‘More than anything.'

‘There are worse things than existence,' said Immacolata.

‘Oh?' the Hag replied. ‘Can you name one?'

Immacolata thought for a short while.

‘No,' she conceded, with a soft sigh of distress. ‘You may be right, sister.'

2

Shadwell had fled from the disintegrating house moments after Cal and Nimrod had escaped through the window, and had barely avoided being caught by the cloud that had swallowed Devereaux. He'd ended up face down, his mouth filled with dust and with the sour taste of defeat. After so many years of anticipation, to have the Auction end in ruin and humiliation, it was enough to make him weep.

But he didn't. For one thing, he was an optimist by nature: in today's rejection the seeds of tomorrow's sale. For another, the spectacle of the Fugue solidifying about him was a fine distraction from his sorrows. And for a third, he had found one worse off than he.

‘What the fuck is happening?' It was Norris, the Hamburger King. Blood and plaster dust vied for the right to paint his face, and somewhere in the maelstrom he'd lost both the back of his jacket and most of his trousers; also one of his fine Italian shoes. The other he carried.

‘I'll sue the ass off you!' he screeched at Shadwell. ‘You fucking asshole. Look at me! Fucking asshole!'

He began to beat Shadwell with the shoe, but the Salesman was in no mood to be bruised. He slapped the man back, hard. Within seconds they were brawling like drunkards, indifferent to the extraordinary scenes coming to life all around them. The tussle left them more breathless and bloody than they'd started out, and did nothing to resolve their differences. ‘You should have taken precautions!' Norris spat. ‘It's too late for accusations,' Shadwell replied. The Fugue's woken whether we like it or not.'

‘I would have woken it myself,' said Norris. ‘If I'd got to own it. But I would have been ready and waiting. Had some forces to go in and take control. But this? It's chaos! I don't even know which way is out.'

‘Any way'll do. It's not that big. If you want out, just walk in any direction.'

This simple solution seemed to pacify Norris somewhat. He turned his gaze on the burgeoning landscape.

‘I don't know though ...' he said, ‘... maybe it's better this way. At least I get to see what I would have bought.' ‘And what do you make of it?'

‘It's not the way I'd thought it'd be. I'd expected something ... tamer. Frankly, I'm not sure now I'd want to own the place.'

As his voice faltered an animal that could surely be found in no menagerie jumped from the flux of threads and snarled a welcome at the world before bounding off.

‘See?' said Norris. ‘What was that?'

Shadwell shrugged. ‘I don't know,' he said. ‘There's things here that probably died out before we were born.'

‘That?' said Norris, staring after the hybrid beast. ‘I never saw the like of that before, even in books. I tell you I want none of this fucking place. I want you to get me out.'

‘You'll have to find your own way,' said Shadwell. ‘I've got business here.'

‘Oh no you don't,' said Norris, pointing his shoe at Shadwell. ‘I need a body-guard. And you're it.'

The sight of the Hamburger King reduced to this nervous wreckage amused Shadwell. More than that, it made him feel - perhaps perversely - secure.

‘Look,' he said, his manner softening. ‘We're both in the same shit here -'

‘Damn right we are.'

‘I've got something that might help,' he said, opening his jacket,'- something to sweeten the pill.'

Norris looked suspicious. ‘Oh yeah?'

‘Have a peep,' said Shadwell, showing the man the jacket lining. Norris wiped off the blood that was running into his left eye, and stared into the folds. ‘What do you see?'

There was a moment of hesitation, when Shadwell wondered if the jacket was still functioning. Then a slow smile broke over Norris' face, and a look familiar from countless other such seductions crept into his eyes.

‘See something you like?' Shadwell asked him.

‘Indeed I do.'

Take it then. It's yours. Free, gratis and for nothing.'

Norris smiled, almost coyly. ‘Wherever did you find him?' he asked, as he extended a trembling hand towards the jacket. ‘After all these years ....'

Tenderly, he drew his temptation from the folds of the lining. It was a wind-up toy: a soldier with a drum, so fondly and so accurately remembered by its owner that the illusion he now held in his hand had been recreated with every dent and scratch in place.

‘My drummer,' said Norris, weeping for joy as if he'd taken possession of the world's eighth wonder. ‘Oh my drummer.' He turned it over. ‘But there's no key,' he said. ‘Do you have it?'

‘I may find it for you, by and by,' Shadwell replied.

‘One of his arms is broken,' said Norris, stroking the drummer's head. ‘But he still plays.'

‘You're happy?'

‘Oh yes. Yes thank you.'

Then put it in your pocket, so that you can carry me awhile,' said Shadwell.

‘Carry you?'

‘I'm weary. I need a horse.'

Norris showed no trace of resistance to this notion, though Shadwell was a bigger and heavier man, and would constitute quite a burden. The gift had won him over utterly, and while it held him in thrall he would allow his spine to crack before disobeying the giftgiver.

Laughing to himself, Shadwell climbed onto the man's back. His plans might have gone awry tonight, but as long as people had dreams to mourn he could possess their little souls awhile.

‘Where do you want me to take you?' the horse asked him.

‘Somewhere high.' he directed. Take me somewhere high.'

V

THE ORCHARD OF LEMUEL LO

1

Neither Boaz nor Ganza were voluble guides. They led the way through the Fugue in almost complete silence, only breaking that silence to warn Cal that a stretch of ground was treacherous, or to keep close to them as they moved down a colonnade in which he heard dogs panting. In a sense he was glad of their quietness. He didn't want a guided tour of the terrain, at least not tonight. He'd known, when he'd first looked down at the Fugue from the wall in Mimi's yard, that it couldn't be mapped, nor its contents listed and committed to memory like his beloved timetables. He would have to understand the Weaveworld in a different fashion: not as hard fact but as feeling. The schism between his mind and the world it was attempting to grasp was dissolving. In its place was a relationship of echo and counter echo. They were thoughts inside each other's heads, he and this world; and that knowledge, which he could never have found the words to articulate, turned the journey into a tour of his own history. He'd known from Mad Mooney that poetry was heard differently from ear to ear. Poetry was like that. The same, he began to see, was also true of geography.

2

They climbed a long slope. He thought maybe a tide of crickets leapt before their feet; the earth seemed alive.

At the top of the slope they looked across a field. At the far side of the field was an orchard.

‘Almost there,' said Ganza, and they began towards it.

The orchard was the biggest single feature he'd seen in the Fugue so far; a plot of maybe thirty or forty trees, planted in rows and carefully pruned so that their branches almost touched. Beneath this canopy were passages of neatly clipped grass, dappled by velvet light.

This is the orchard of Lemuel Lo,' Boaz said, as they stood on the perimeter. His gentle voice was softer than ever. ‘Even amongst the fabled, it's fabled.'

Ganza led the way beneath the trees. The air was still and warm and sweet. The branches were laden with a fruit that Cal did not recognize.

‘They're Jude Pears,' Boaz told him. ‘One of the species we've never shared with the Cuckoos.'

‘Why not?'

‘There are reasons.' said Boaz. He looked around for Ganza, but she'd disappeared down one of the avenues. ‘Help yourself to the fruit,' he said, moving away from Cal in search of his companion. ‘Lem won't mind.'

Though Cal thought he could see all the way down the corridor of trees his eyes deceived him. Boaz took three steps from him, and was gone.

Cal reached towards one of the low-slung branches and put his hand on one of the fruits. As he did so there was a great commotion in the tree and something ran down the branch towards him.

‘Not that one!'

The voice was bass profundo. The speaker was a monkey.

‘They're sweeter upstairs,' the beast said, throwing its brown eyes skyward. Then it ran back the way it had come, its passage bringing leaves down around Cal. He tried to follow its progress, but the animal moved too fast. It was back in half a dozen seconds, with not one but two fruits. Perched in the branches, it threw them down to Cal.

‘Peel them,' it said. ‘One each.'

Despite their name, they didn't resemble pears. They were the size of a plum, but with a leathery skin. It was tough, but it couldn't disguise the fragrance of the meat inside.

‘What are you waiting for?' the monkey demanded to know. ‘They're tasty, these Giddys. Peel it and see.'

The fact of the talking monkey - which might have stopped Cal dead in his tracks a week before - was just part of the local colour now.

‘You call them Giddys?' he said. ‘Jude Pears; Giddy Fruit. It's all the same meat.' The monkey's eyes were on Cal's hands, willing him to peel the fruit. He proceeded to do just that. They were more difficult to skin than any fruit he'd encountered; hence the monkey's bargain with him, presumably. Viscous juice ran from the broken skin and over his hands; the smell was ever more appetizing. Before he'd quite finished peeling the first of them, the monkey snatched it from his grasp and wolfed it down. ‘Good -' it said, between mouthfuls. Its pleasure was echoed from beneath the tree. Somebody made a sound of appreciation, and Cal glanced away from his labours to see that there was a man squatting against the trunk, rolling a cigarette. He looked back up to the monkey, then down at the man, and the voice from the beast made new sense. ‘Good trick,' he said.

The man looked up at Cal. His features were distressingly close to mongoloid; the smile he offered huge, and seemingly uncomprehending.

‘What is?' said the voice from the branches. Confounded as he was by the face below him, Cal pursued his assumption, and addressed his reply not to the puppet but the puppeteer.

Throwing your voice like that.'

The man still grinned, but showed no sign that he'd understood. The monkey, however, laughed loudly. ‘Eat the fruit.' it said.

Cal's fingers had worked at the peeling without his direction. The Giddy was skinned. But some lingering superstition about stolen fruit kept him from putting it to his lips.

Try it.' said the monkey. ‘They're not poisonous -'

The smell was too tantalizing to resist. He bit.

‘-at least not to us.' the monkey added, laughing again.

The fruit tasted even better than its scent had promised. The meat was succulent, the juice strong as a liqueur. He licked it off his fingers, and the palms of his hand.

‘Like it?'

‘Superb.'

‘Food and drink all in one.' The monkey looked at the man beneath the tree. ‘Want one, Smith?' it asked.

The man put a flame to his cigarette and drew on it.

‘D'you hear me?'

Getting no response, the monkey scampered back up into the higher reaches of the tree.

Cal, still eating the pear, had found the pips at its centre. He chewed them up. Their slight bitterness only complemented the sweetness of the rest.

There was music playing somewhere between the trees, he now noticed. One moment lilting, the next manic.

‘Another?' said the monkey, re-appearing with not two but several fruit.

Cal swallowed the last of his first.

‘Same deal.' the monkey said.

Suddenly greedy, Cal took three, and started to peel.

There's other people here.' he said to the puppeteer.

‘Of course.' said the monkey. This has always been a gathering place.'

‘Why do you speak through the animal?' Cal asked, as the monkey's fingers claimed a peeled fruit from his hands.

The name's Novello.' said the monkey. ‘And who says he's speaking at all?'

Cal laughed, as much at himself as at the performance.

‘Fact is.' said the monkey, ‘neither of us is quite sure who does what any longer. But then love's like that, don't you find?'

It threw back its head and squeezed the fruit in its hand, so that the liquor ran down its throat.

The music had found a fresh intoxication. Cal was intrigued to find out what instruments it was being played upon. Violins certainly, and whistles and drums. But there were sounds amongst these that he couldn't place. ‘Any excuse for a party.' said Novello. ‘Must be the biggest breakfast in history.' ‘I daresay. Want to go see?' ‘Yes.'

The monkey ran along the branch, and scurried down the trunk to where Smith was sitting. Cal, chewing the seeds of his second Giddy, reached up and claimed a further handful of fruit from amongst the foliage, pocketing half a dozen against future hunger, and skinning another to be consumed on the spot.

The sound of monkey-chatter drew his gaze down to Novello and Smith. The beast was perched on the man's chest, and they were talking to each other, a babble of words and grunts. Cal looked from man to beast and back to man again. He could not tell who was saying what to whom.

The debate ended abruptly, and Smith stood up, the monkey now sitting on his shoulder. Without inviting Cal to follow, they threaded their way between the trees. Cal pursued, peeling and eating as he went.

Some of the visitors here were doing as he'd done, standing beneath the trees, consuming Jude Pears. One or two had even climbed up and were draped amongst the branches, bathing in the perfumed air. Others, either indifferent to the fruit or sated upon it, lay sprawled in the grass and talked together in low voices. The atmosphere was all tranquillity.

Heaven is an orchard, Cal thought as he walked; and God is plenty.

That's the fruit talking.' said Novello. Cal wasn't even aware that he'd spoken aloud. He looked round at the monkey, feeling slightly disoriented.

‘You should watch yourself.' the animal said, ‘an excess of Judes isn't good for you.'

‘I've got a strong stomach.' Cal replied.

‘Who said anything about your stomach?' the monkey replied. ‘They're not called Giddy Fruit for nothing.'

Cal ignored him. The animal's condescending tone irritated him. He picked up his pace, overtaking man and beast.

‘Have it your way.' said the monkey.

Somebody darted between the trees a little way ahead of Cal, trailing laughter. To Cal's eyes the sound was momentarily visible; he saw the rise and fall of notes as splashes of light, which flew apart like dandelion heads in a high wind. Enchantment upon enchantment. Plucking and peeling yet another of Lo's remarkable fruits as he went, he hurried on towards the music.

And ahead of him, the scene came clear. A blue and ochre rug had been laid on the ground between the trees, with wicks in oil flickering along its borders; and at its edge the musicians he'd heard. There were five of them: three women and two men, dressed formally in suits and dresses, in the dark threads of which brilliant designs were somehow concealed, so that the subtlest motion of the folds in the flame-light revealed a glamour that brought to Gal's mind the iridescence of tropical butterflies. More startling, however, was the fact that this quintet had not a single instrument between them. They were singing these violins, pipes and drums, and offering in addition sounds no instrument could hope to produce. Here was a music which did not imitate natural sound - it was not bird or whale song, nor tree nor stream - but instead expressed experiences which lay between words: the off-beat of the heart, where intellect could not go.

Hearing it, shudders of pleasure ran down Gal's spine.

The show had drawn an audience of perhaps thirty Seerkind, and Cal joined them. His presence was noted by a few, who threw mildly curious glances in his direction.

Surveying the crowd, he attempted to allot these people to one or other of the four Families, but it was near enough impossible. The choral orchestra were presumably Aia; hadn't Apolline said that it was Aia blood that had given her a good singing voice? But amongst the rest, who was who? Which of these people were of Jerichau's Family, for instance: the

Babu? Which of the Ye-me, or the Lo? There were negro and Caucasian faces, and one or two with an oriental cast; there were some who boasted traits not quite human - one with Nimrod's golden eyes (and tail too, presumably); another pair whose features carried symmetrical marking that crept down from the scalp; yet others who bore - either at the dictates of fashion or theology - elaborate tattoos and hair-styles. There was the same startling variety in the clothes they wore, the formal designs of their late nineteenth-century garb refashioned to suit the wearer. And in the fabrics of skirts, suits and waistcoats, the same barely concealed iridescence: threads of carnival brilliance in wait behind the monochrome.

Gal's admiring gaze went from one face to another, and he felt he wanted each of these people as a friend, wanted to know them and walk with them and share his pittance of secrets with them. He was vaguely aware that this was probably the fruit talking. But if so, then it was wise fruit.

Though his hunger was assuaged, he took another of the pears from his pocket and was about to peel it when the music came to an end. There was applause and whistling. The quintet took their bows. As they did so a bearded man with a face as lined as a walnut, who had been sitting on a stool close to the edge of the rug, stood up. He looked directly at Cal and said:

‘My friends ... my friends ... we have a stranger amongst us...'

The applause was dying down. Faces turned in Cal's direction; he could feel himself blush.

‘Come out, Mr Mooney! Mr Calhoun Mooneyl'

Ganza told the truth: the air did gossip.

The man was beckoning. Cal made a murmur of protest.

‘Come on. Entertain us a while!' came the reply.

At this Cal's heart started to thump furiously. ‘I can't,' he said.

‘Of course you can,' the man grinned. ‘Of course you can!'

There was more applause. The shining faces smiled around him. Somebody touched his shoulder. He glanced round. It was Novello.

‘That's Mr Lo,' said the monkey. ‘You mustn't refuse him.'

‘But I can't do anything -'

‘Everybody can do something,' said the monkey. ‘If it's only fart.'

‘Come on, come on.' Lemuel Lo was saying. ‘Don't be shy.'

Much against his will, Cal edged through the crowd towards the rectangle of wicks.

‘Really ...' he said to Lo. ‘I don't think ...'

‘You've eaten freely of my fruit,' said Lo, without rancour. ‘The least you can do is entertain us.'

Cal looked about him for some support, but all he saw were expectant faces.

‘I can't sing, and I've two left feet,' he pointed out, still hoping self-depreciation might earn him an escape-route.

‘Your great-grandfather was a poet, wasn't he?' said Lemuel, his tone almost rebuking Cal for not making mention of the fact.

‘He was,' said Cal.

‘And can you not quote your own great-grandfather?' said Lemuel.

Cal thought about this for a moment. It was clear he was not going to be released from this circle without at least making some stab at recompense for his greed, and Lemuel's suggestion was not a bad one. Many years ago Brendan had taught Cal one or two fragments of Mad Mooney's verse. They'd meant little enough to Cal at the time - he'd been about six years old - but their rhymes had been intriguing.

The rug is yours,' said Lemuel, and stood aside to let Cal have access to the performing area. Before he'd had an opportunity to run any of the lines through his head - it was two decades since he'd learnt them; how much would he remember? - he was standing on the rug, staring across the flickering footlights at his audience.

‘What Mr Lo says is true ...' he said, all hesitation,'... my great-grandfather...'

‘Speak up,' somebody said.

‘... my great-grandfather was a poet. I'll try and recite one of his verses. I don't know if I can remember them, but I'll do my best.'

There was scattered applause at this, which made Cal more uneasy than ever.

‘What's it called, this poem?' said Lemuel.

Cal wracked his brain. The title had meant even less than the lines when he'd first been taught it, but he'd learned it anyway, parrot-fashion.

‘It's called Six Commonplaces.' he said, his tongue quicker to shape the words than his brain was to dust them off.

‘Tell it, my friend,' said the orchard-keeper.

The audience stood with bated breath; the only movement now was that of the flames around the rug.

Cal began.

‘One part of love...'

For a terrible instant his mind went totally blank. If somebody had asked him his name at that juncture he would not have been able to reply. Four words, and he was suddenly speechless.

In that moment of panic he realized that he wanted more than anything in the world to please this gracious gathering; to show them how glad he was to be amongst them. But his damn tongue-

At the back of his head, the poet said:

‘Go on, boy. Tell them what you know. Don't try and remember. Just speak.'

He began again, not falteringly this time, but strongly, as though he knew these lines perfectly well. And damn it, he did. They flowed from him easily, and he heard himself speaking them in a voice he'd never have thought himself capable of. A bard's voice, declaiming.

‘One part of love is innocence, One part of love is guilt. One part the milk, that in a sense Is soured as soon as spilt. One part of love is sentiment. One part of love is lust. One part is the presentiment Of our return to dust.'

Eight lines, and it was all over; over, and he was standing, the lines buzzing in his head, both pleased that he'd got through the verse without fumbling, and wishing it could have gone on a while longer. He looked at the audience. They were not smiling any longer, but staring at him with an odd puzzlement in their eyes. For an instant he thought maybe he'd offended them. Then came the applause, hands raised above their heads. There were shouts and whistles.

‘It's a fine poem!' Lo said, applauding heartily as he spoke. ‘And finely delivered!'

So saying, he stepped out of the audience again and embraced Cal with fervour.

‘Do you hear?' Cal said to the poet in his skull. They like you.'

And back came another fragment, as if fresh from Mad Mooney's lips. He didn't speak it this time: but he heard it clearly.

Forgive my Art. On bended knees, I do confess: I seek to please.

And it was a fine thing, this pleasing business. He returned Lemuel's hug.

‘Help yourself, Mr Mooney,' the orchard-keeper said, ‘to all the fruit you can eat.'

Thank you,' said Cal.

‘Did you ever know the poet?' he asked.

‘No,' said Cal. ‘He was dead before I was born.'

‘Who can call a man dead whose words still hush us and whose sentiments move?' Mr Lo replied.

That's true.' said Cal.

‘Of course it's true. Would I tell a lie on a night like this?'

Having spoken, Lemuel called somebody else out of the crowd: another performer brought to the rug. Cal felt a pang of envy as he stepped over the footlights. He wanted that breathless moment again: wanted to feel the audience held by his words, moved and marked by them. He made a mental note to learn some more of Mad Mooney's verses if and when he saw his father's house again, so that next time he was here he had new lines to enchant with.

His hand was shaken and his face kissed half a dozen times as he made his way back through the crowd. When he turned round to face the rug once more, he was surprised to find that the next performers were Boaz and Ganza. Doubly surprised: they were both naked. There was nothing overtly sexual in their nakedness: indeed it was as formal in its way as the clothes they'd shrugged off. Nor was there any trace of discomfort amongst the audience: they watched the pair with the same grave and expectant looks as they'd watched him.

Boaz and Ganza had gone to opposite sides of the carpet, halted there a beat, then turned and begun to walk towards each other. They advanced slowly, until they were nose to nose, lip to lip. It crossed Cal's mind that maybe some erotic display was in the offing, and in a way that confounded his every definition of erotic, that was true, for they continued to walk towards each other, or so his eyes testified, pressing into each other, their faces disappearing, their torsos congealing, their limbs too, until they were one body, the head an almost featureless ball.

The illusion was absolute. But there was more to come; for the partners were still moving forward, their faces appearing now to press through the back of each other's craniums, as though the bone was soft as marshmallow. And still they advanced, until they were like Siamese twins born back to back, their single skull now teased out, and boasting two faces.

As if this weren't enough, there was a further twist to the trick, for somehow in the flux they'd exchanged genders, to stand finally — quite separate once more — in their partner's place.

Love's like that, the monkey had said. Here was the point proved, in flesh and blood.

As the performers bowed, and fresh applause broke out, Cal detached himself from the crowd and began to wander back through the trees. Several vague thoughts were in his head. One, that he couldn't linger here all night, and should soon go in search of Suzanna. Another that it might be wise to seek a guide. The monkey, perhaps?

But first, the laden branches drew his eye again. He reached, took another handful of fruit, and began to peel. Lo's ad hoc vaudeville was still going on behind him. He heard laughter, then more applause, and the music began again.

He felt his limbs growing heavier; his fingers were barely the equal of the peeling; his eye-lids drooped. Deciding he'd better sit down before he fell down, he settled beneath one of the trees.

Drowsiness was claiming him, and he had no power to resist it. There was no harm in dozing for a while. He was safe here, in the wash of starlight and applause. His eyes flickered closed. It seemed he could see his dreams approaching - their light growing brighter, their voices louder. He smiled to greet them.

It was his old life he dreamt.

He stood in the shuttered room that lay between his ears and let the lost days appear on the wall like a lantern show; moments retrieved from some stock-pile he hadn't even known he'd owned. But the scenes that were paraded before him now - these passages from the unfinished book of his life - no longer seemed quite real. It was fiction, that book; or at best momentarily real, when some part of him had leapt from that stale story, and glimpsed the Fugue in waiting.

The sound of applause called him to the surface of sleep, and his eyes flickered open. The stars were still set amongst the branches of the Giddy trees; there was still laughter and flame-light near at hand; all was well with his new-found land.

I wasn't born ‘til now, he thought, as the lantern show returned. I wasn't even born.

Content with that thought, his mind's eye peeled another of Lo's sweet fruits, and put it to his lips.

Somewhere, somebody was applauding him. Hearing it, he took a bow. But this time he did not wake.

VI

CAPRA'S HOUSE

1

In 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 clear 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 debaters.

‘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?'

‘Do you know what you ‘ve done?'

The remark ignited a fresh outburst, but this time it wasn't confined to those at the centre of the room. Everybody was yelling.

Tung, whose calls for control went unheard, pulled a chair up, stood on it, and yelled:

‘Silence!'

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, Delphi?'

‘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 Delphi, working himself up into a fresh lather. ‘But that's little comfort now, is it? We're awake, damn you. And we're lost.'

‘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 Delphi. ‘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 unhappi-ness, she thought; it was there in abundance now.

‘So?' he said.

‘And she was murdered.' Suzanna went on, returning his stare, ‘by one of your people.'

‘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 Delphi's arm, as if he might use his colleague as a shield should push come to shove.

‘Every one of us is in danger.' she said, ‘and if you don't see that then all your sacred places - not just Capra's House, all of them - they'll be wiped away. All right, you've got reason not to trust me. But at least give me a hearing.'

The room had fallen pin-drop quiet.

Tell us what you know.' said Tung.

‘Not all that much,' Suzanna admitted. ‘But I know you've got enemies here in the Fugue, and God knows how many more outside.'

‘What do you suggest we do about it?' said a new voice, from somewhere in Delphi's faction.

‘We fight.' said Yolande.

‘You'll lose.' Suzanna replied.

The other woman's fine features grew tight. ‘Defeatism from you too?' she said.

‘It's the truth. You've got no defences against the Kingdom.'

‘We have the raptures.' said Yolande.

‘Do you want to make weapons of your magic?' Suzanna replied. ‘Like Immacolata? If you do that, you may as well call yourself Cuckoos.'

This argument won some murmurs of assent from the assembly; and sour stares from Yolande.

‘So we have to re-weave.' said Messimeris, with some satisfaction. ‘Which is what I've been saying from the outset.'

‘I agree.' said Suzanna.

At this, the room erupted afresh, Yolande's voice rising above the din: ‘No more sleep!' she said. ‘I will not sleep!'

Then you'll all be wiped out.' Suzanna yelled back.

The din subsided a little.

This is a cruel century.' said Suzanna.

‘So was the last.' somebody commented. ‘And the one before that!'

‘We can't hide forever,' said Yolande, appealing to the room. Her call received considerable support, despite Suzanna's intervention. And indeed it was difficult not to sympathize with her case. After so much sleep, the idea of consigning themselves to the dreamless bed of the Weave could not be attractive.

‘I'm not saying you should stay in the carpet for long.' said Suzanna. ‘Just until a safe place can be -'

‘I've heard all of this before,' Yolande broke in. ‘We'll wait, we said, we'll keep our heads low ‘til the storm blows over.'

There are storms and storms.' said a man somewhere at the back of the crowd. His voice penetrated the clamour with ease, though it was scarcely more than a whisper. This in itself was enough to make the argument die down.

Suzanna looked in the direction of the sound, though she could not yet see the speaker. It came again:

‘If the Kingdom destroys you ...' the voice said, ‘.... then all my Mimi's pain was for nothing ...'

The Councillors were stepping aside as the speaker moved through them towards the centre of the room. He came into view. It took Suzanna several seconds to realize that she'd seen this face before, and another beat to remember where: in the portrait on Mimi's bedroom wall. But the faded photograph had failed to convey more than a hint of the man's presence; or indeed of his physical beauty. It wasn't difficult, seeing the way his eyes flickered, and his close-cropped hair flattered the curve of his skull, to understand why Mimi had slept beneath his gaze all her lonely life. This was the man she'd loved. This was -

‘Romo.' he said, addressing Suzanna. ‘Your grandmother's first husband.'

How had he known, sleeping in the Weave, that Mimi had taken a human husband? Had the air told him that tonight?

‘What do you want here?' said Tung. ‘This isn't a public thoroughfare.'

‘I want to speak on behalf of my wife. I knew her heart better than any of you.'

‘That was years ago, Romo. Another life.'

Romo nodded.

‘Yes ...' he said. ‘It's gone, I know. So's she. All the more reason I speak for her.'

Nobody made any attempt to silence him.

‘She died in the Kingdom.' he said, ‘to keep us from harm.

She died without trying to wake us. Why was that? She had ev^ry reason to want the unweaving. To be relieved of her duties; and be back with me.'

‘Not necessarily -' Messimeris said.

Romo smiled. ‘Because she married?' he said. ‘I would have expected no less. Or because she'd forgotten? No. Never.' He spoke with such authority, yet so gently, everyone in the room attended to him. ‘She didn't forget us. She simply knew what her granddaughter knows. That it isn't safe.'

Yolande went to interrupt, but Romo raised his hand.

‘A moment, please.' he said. Then I'm going. I've got business elsewhere.'

Yolande closed her mouth.

‘I knew Mimi better than any of you. As far as I'm concerned we parted only yesterday. I know she guarded the Weave as long as she had breath and wit to do so. Don't waste her agonies by throwing us into the hands of our enemies just because you get a whiff of freedom in your nostrils.'

‘Easy for you to say.' Yolande replied.

‘I want to live again as much as you do.' Romo told her. ‘I stayed here because of my children, thinking - the way we all thought - that we'd be awake in a year or two. Now look. We open our eyes, and the world has changed. My Mimi died an old woman, and it's the child of her child who stands in her place to tell us that we are as close to extinction as ever. I believe she speaks with Mimi's blessing. We should listen to her.'

‘What do you advise?' said Tung.

‘Advise?' Yolande said. ‘He's a lion-tamer, why should we listen to his advice?'

‘I suggest we re-weave.' said Romo, ignoring her outburst. ‘Re-weave before the Cuckoos come amongst us. Then we find somewhere safe, somewhere we can unweave again in our own time, where the Cuckoos won't be waiting at the border. Yolande's right.' he said, looking at her. ‘We can't hide forever. But facing tomorrow morning in this chaotic state isn't courage, it's suicide.'

The speech was neatly argued, and it clearly impressed a good number of the assembly.

‘And if we do?' said one of Yolande's clan. ‘Who guards the carpet?'

‘She does.' said Romo, looking at Suzanna. ‘She knows the Kingdom better than anyone. And it's rumoured she's got access to the menstruum.'

‘Is that true?' said Tung.

Suzanna nodded. The man took a half step away from her. A swell of comments and questions now rose in the room, many of them directed at Romo. He was having none of them, however.

‘I've said all I have to say on the subject.' he announced. ‘I can't leave my children waiting any longer.'

With that, he turned and started back the way he'd come. Suzanna pursued him, as the controversy escalated afresh.

‘Romo!' she called after him.

He stopped, and turned back.

‘Help me.' she said. ‘Stay with me.'

There's no time.' he said. ‘I've got an appointment to keep, on your grandmother's behalf.'

‘But there's so much I don't understand.'

‘Didn't Mimi leave you instructions?' he said.

‘I was too late. By the time I reached her, she couldn't...' She stopped. Her throat was tight; she felt the sorrow of losing Mimi rising up in her.'.... couldn't speak. All she left me was a book.'

Then consult that.' Romo said. ‘She knew best.'

‘It was taken from me.' Suzanna said.

Then you have to get it back. And what answers you don't find there, put in for yourself.'

This last remark lost Suzanna entirely, but before she could question it Romo spoke again.

‘Look between,' he said. That's the best advice I can offer.'

‘Between what?'

Romo frowned. ‘Simply between,' he said, as though the sense of this was self-evident. ‘I know you're the equal of it. You're Mimi's child.'

He leaned towards her, and kissed her.

‘You have her look.' he said, his hand trembling against her cheek. She suddenly sensed that his touch was more than friendly; and that she felt something undeniable towards him: something inappropriate between her and her grandmother's husband. They both stepped back from the touch, startled by their feelings.

He began to walk towards the door, his goodnight delivered with his back to her. She went after him a pace or two, but didn't try to delay him any longer. He had business, he'd said. As he pushed open the door there was a roar from the darkness and her heart jumped as beasts appeared around him. He was not under attack, however. He'd spoken of children, and here they were. Lions, half a dozen or more, welcoming him with growls, their golden eyes turned up towards him as they jockeyed for the place closest to his side. The door slammed, eclipsing them.

They want us to take our leave.'

Jerichau was standing in the passageway behind her. She stared at the closed door for a moment longer, as the sound of the lions faded, then turned to him.

‘Are we being thrown out?' she asked.

‘No. They just want to debate the problem awhile.' he said. ‘Without us.'

She nodded.

‘I suggest we walk a little way.'

By the time they opened the door, Romo and the animals had gone; about Mimi's business.

2

So they walked.

He had his silence; she, hers. So many feelings to try and comprehend. Her thoughts went back to Mimi, and the sacrifice she'd made, knowing Romo, her beautiful lion-tamer, was sleeping in a place she could not trespass. Had she touched the knots where he was concealed, she wondered?; had she knelt and whispered her love for him to the Weave? The very thought of it was beyond bearing. No wonder she'd been so severe, so stoical. She'd stood guard at the paradise gates, alone; unable to breathe a word of what she knew; fearful of dementia, fearful of death.

‘Don't be afraid,' Jerichau said at last.

‘I'm not afraid,' she lied, then, remembering that the colours from her would be contradicting her every word, said: ‘Well ... maybe a little. I can't be a Custodian, Jerichau. I'm not the equal of it.'

They'd emerged from the myrtle copse and walked out into a field. Several huge marble beasts stood in the knee-high grass, their species either mythical or extinct, but either way chiselled in loving detail; tusk and fur and tiny eye. She leaned against the flank of one and stared at the ground. They could hear neither the debate behind them nor the bells in the branches; only night-insects going about their business in the shadow of the beasts.

His gaze was upon her - she felt it - but she couldn't raise her head to meet it.

‘I think maybe -' he began, then stopped.

The insects chattered on, mocking his struggle for words.

Again, he tried.

‘I just wanted to say: I know you're the equal of anything.'

She was going to smile at this courtesy, but:

‘No. That's not what I wanted to say.' He took a fresh breath, and with it said: ‘I want to go with you.'

‘With me?'

‘When you go back to the Kingdom. Whether it's with the carpet or without it, I want to be with you.'

Now she looked up, and his dark face was that of an accused man awaiting verdict; hanging on every flicker of her lash.

She smiled, searching for a response. Finally she said:

‘Of course. Of course. I'd like that.'

‘Yes?' he gasped. ‘You would?'

The anxiety fled from his face, replaced by a luminous grin.

‘Thank you,' he said. ‘I want so much that we should be friends.'

Then friends we'll be,' she replied.

The stone was chilly against her back; he, in front of her, exuded warmth. And there was she, where Romo had advised her to be: between.

VII

SHADWELL ON HIGH

Let me down.' said the Salesman to his broken-backed mount. They'd climbed a steep-sided hill, the highest Shadwell could find. The view from the top was impressive. Norris, however, wasn't much interested in the view. He sat down, labouring for breath, and clutched his one-handed drummer to his chest, leaving Shadwell to stand on the promontory and admire the moon-lit vista spread beneath him.

The journey here had offered a host of extraordinary sights; the occupants of this province, though plainly related to species outside the Fugue, had somehow been coaxed by magic into new forms. How else to explain moths five times the size of his hand, which yowled like mating cats from the tops of the trees? Or the shimmering snakes he'd seen, posing as flames in the niche of a rock? Or the bush the thorns of which bled onto its own blossoms?

Such novelties were everywhere. The pitch he'd offered to his clients when tempting them to the Auction had been colourful enough; but it had scarcely begun to evoke the reality. The Fugue was stranger by far than any words of his had suggested; stranger, and more distressing.

That was what he felt, looking down from the hill-top: distress. It had come over him slowly, as they'd journeyed here, beginning like dyspepsia, and escalating to the point where he felt a kind of terror. At first he'd tried not to admit

its origins to himself, but such was its force the feeling could now no longer be denied.

It was covetousness that had come to birth in his belly; the one sensation that no true Salesman could ever indulge. He tried to get the better of the ache by viewing the landscape and its contents in strictly commercial terms: how much could he ask for that orchard?; or the islands in that lake?; or the moths? But for once the technique failed him. He looked down over the Fugue and all thought of commerce was swept away.

It was no use to struggle. He had to admit the bitter fact: he'd made a terrible error trying to sell this place.

No price could ever be put on such mind-wracking profusion; no bidder, however wealthy, had the wherewithal to purchase it.

Here he was, looking down on the greatest collection of miracles the world had ever seen, with all ambition to lord it over princes fled.

A new ambition had taken its place. He would be a prince himself. More than a prince.

Here was a country, laid before him. Why should he not be King?

VIII

THE VIRGIN BLOODED

Happiness was not a condition Immacolata was much familiar with, but there were places in which she and her sisters felt something close to it. Battlefields at evening, when every breath she drew was somebody else's last; mortuaries and sepulchres. Anywhere death was, they took their ease; played amongst cadavers, and pick-nicked there.

That was why, when they'd got bored with searching for Shadwell, they came to the Requiem Steps. It was the only place in the Fugue sacred to death. As a child Immacolata had come here day after day to bathe in the sorrow of others. Now her sisters had taken themselves off in search of some unwilling father, and she was here alone, with thoughts so black the night sky was blindingly bright beside them.

She slipped off her shoes, and went down the steps to the black mud at the edge of the river. Here it was the bodies were finally relinquished to the waters. Here the sobs had always been loudest, and faith in the hereafter had trembled in the face of cold fact.

It was many, many years since those rituals had been in vogue. The practice of giving the dead to this or any other river had been stopped; too many of the corpses were being found by the Cuckoos. Cremation had taken over as the standard method of disposal, much to Immacolata's chagrin.

The Steps had dramatized something true, in the way that they descended into mud. Standing there now, with the river

moving fast before her, she thought how easy it would be to pitch herself into the flood, and go the way of the dead.

But she would leave too much unfinished business behind. She'd leave the Fugue intact, and her enemies alive. There was no wisdom in that.

No; she had to go on living. To see the Families humiliated; their hopes, like their territories, in dust; their miracles reduced to playthings. Destruction would be altogether too easy for them. It hurt for an instant only, then it was all over. But to see the Seerkind enslaved: that was worth living for.

The roar of the waters soothed her. She grew nostalgic, remembering the bodies she'd seen snatched beneath this tide.

But did she hear another roar, beneath that of the river? She looked up from the murky waters. At the top of the steps was a ramshackle building, little more than a roof supported by columns, in which the lesser mourners had loitered while the final farewells were made at the river-side. She could just see movement there now; fugitives in the shadows. Was it her sisters? She didn't sense their proximity.

Her unspoken question was answered as she crossed the mud back to the bottom step.

‘I knew you'd be here.'

Immacolata halted, her foot on the step.

‘Of all places ... here.'

Immacolata felt a twinge of trepidation. Not because of the man who emerged from the shelter of the column, but because of the company he kept. They moved in the shadows behind him, their panting flanks silken. Lions! He'd come with lions.

‘Oh yes,' Romo said, seeing the Incantatrix flinch, ‘I'm not alone, like she was. This time you're the vulnerable one.'

It was true. The lions were unreflective creatures. Her illusions would not mislead them. Nor would her assaults easily touch the tamer, who shared that bestial indifference.

‘Sisters ....' she breathed. ‘Come to me.'

The lions were moving into the moonlight, six in all; three male, three female. Their eyes were glued to their owner, awaiting his instructions.

She took a step backwards. The mud was slick beneath her

heel. She almost lost her balance. Where was the Magdalene, and the Hag? She sent another thought in hectic pursuit of them, but fear made it sluggish.

The lions were at the top of the steps now. She didn't dare take her eyes off them, though she loathed the sight. They were so effortlessly magnificent. Much as the thought appalled her, she knew she would have to flee before them. She would have the menstruum carry her up above the river before they reached her. But it was taking its time to flow through her, distracted as she was. She made an attempt to delay their approach.

‘You shouldn't trust them ....' she said.

‘The lions?' said Romo, half-smiling.

‘The Seerkind. They cheated Mimi as they cheated me. They left her in the Kingdom, while they took refuge. They're cowards and deceivers.'

‘And you? What are you?'

Immacolata felt the menstruum begin to suffuse her shadow-self. With her escape certain, she could afford to tell the truth.

‘I'm nothing,' she said, her voice now so soft it was almost lost in the din of the river. ‘I'm alive as long as my hatred for them keeps me alive.'

It was almost as if the lions understood this last remark, for they came at her suddenly, leaping down the steps to where she stood.

The menstruum rippled about her; she started to rise. Even as she did so the Magdalene appeared from along the river, and let out a cry.

The call diverted Immacolata's attention, her feet inches from the mud. It was all that the first of the lions required. He launched himself from the steps towards her, and before she could avoid the attack, he clawed her from the air. She fell backwards into the mud.

Romo pushed his way through the rest of the pride, calling the animal back before Immacolata mustered her powers. The summons came too late. The menstruum was spiralling around the beast, tearing at its face and flanks; the animal could not have disengaged itself now if it had wanted to. But the menstruum's attack left little in reserve for defence, and the lion landed blow after blow, each gouging a brutal wound. Immacolata shrieked and squirmed in the blood-streaked mud, but the lion would not let her alone.

As its claws opened her face, it let out a throttled roar, and its assault ceased. It stood over Immacolata for an instant, as steam rose from between them; then it staggered sideways. Its abdomen had been opened from throat to testicles. It was not the menstruum's doing, but that of the knife now dropping from Immacolata's hand. The beast, trailing its innards, stumbled a little way then keeled over in the mud.

The rest of the animals growled their distress, but held their positions at Romo's command.

As for Immacolata, the sisters were coming to her aid, but she spat some contemptuous words at them and dragged herself to her knees. The wounds she'd sustained would have left a human being, or indeed most Seerkind, dead in the dirt. Her flesh and upper chest had been traumatically mauled; the flesh hung in sickening ribbons. Still she hauled herself to her feet, and turned her agonized eyes, which were now set in a single wound, on Romo.

‘I will destroy everything you ever loved ...' she said, her voice throbbing, her hand clutching her face while the blood gushed between her fingers. The Fugue. The Seerkind. All of it! Wiped away. You have my promise. You will weep.'

If it had been in Romo's power he would have had no compunction about dispatching the Incantatrix on the spot. But delivering Immacolata to pastures new was beyond the power of lion or lion-tamer; weakened as the enemy was, she and her sisters would undoubtedly kill the rest of the animals before they reached her. He would have to be content with what their surprise attack had achieved, and hope that Mimi knew, in her resting place, that her torment had been avenged.

He moved towards the felled lion, speaking soft words. Immacolata made no attempt to harm him, but started up towards the steps, her sisters flanking her.

The lions stood their ground, waiting for the order that would unleash them. But Romo was too busy grieving. He had laid his cheek on the cheek of the dying animal, still murmuring to it. Then the words of comfort stopped, and a look scarcely less than tragic came over his face.

The lions heard his silence, and knew what it signified. They turned their heads to him, and as they did so Immacolata rose into the air, a saint of mud and wounds, the wraith-sisters trailing her like corrupted seraphim.

He looked up as they ascended into darkness, a patter of blood falling. Almost as the night erased them he saw Immacolata's head loll, and the sisters rise to her aid. This time the Incantatrix did not despise their support, but let them bear her away.

IX

NEVER, AND AGAIN

The ziggurat builder who'd stood guard outside Capra's House was shouting at them from the edge of the field, courtesy preventing him from coming any closer.

They want you back at the House.' he called.

As they walked back towards the myrtle trees it became apparent that events of some moment were afoot. Members of the Council were already leaving Capra's House, urgency in their step and on their faces. The bells in the trees were all ringing, though there was no breeze moving, and there were lights above the House, like vast fire-flies. The Amadou.' said Jerichau.

The lights swooped and rose in elaborate configurations. ‘What are they doing?' Suzanna asked. ‘Signalling.' Jerichau replied. ‘Signalling what?'

As he went to reply, Yolande Dor appeared between the trees and stood in front of Suzanna.

They're fools to trust you.' she stated flatly. ‘But I tell you now, I'm not sleeping. You hear me? We have a right to live\ You damn Cuckoos don't own the earth!' Then she was away, cursing Suzanna as she went.

That means they're taking Rome's advice.' said Suzanna. That's what the Amadou are saying.' Jerachau confirmed, still watching the sky.

‘I'm not sure I'm ready for this.'

Tung was at the door, calling her in.

‘Hurry, will you? We have precious little time.'

She hesitated. The menstruum offered her no courage now; her stomach felt like a cold furnace: ash and emptiness.

‘I'm with you.' Jerichau reminded her, reading her anxiety.

His presence was some comfort. Together, they went inside.

When she stepped into the chamber she was greeted by an almost reverential hush. All eyes were turned on her. There was desperation in every face. Last time she'd been here, mere minutes ago, she'd been an invader. Now she was the one upon whom their fragile hopes for survival depended. She tried not to let her fear show, but her hands trembled as she stood before them.

‘We're decided.' said Tung.

‘Yes.' she replied. ‘Yolande told me.'

‘We don't like it much.' said one of the number, whom Suzanna recognized as a defector from Yolande's faction. ‘But we've got no choice.'

There are already disturbances at the border.' said Tung. The Cuckoos know we're here.'

‘And it'll soon be morning.' said Messimeris.

So it would. Dawn could be no more than ninety minutes away. An hour after that, and every curious Cuckoo in the vicinity would be wandering in the Fugue - not quite seeing it perhaps, but knowing there was something to stare at, something to fear. How long after that before there was a reprise of the scene on Lord Street?

‘Steps have been taken to begin the re-weaving.' said Delphi.

‘Is that difficult?'

‘No.' said Messimeris. The Gyre has great power.'

‘How long will it take?'

‘We have perhaps an hour.' said Tung, ‘to teach you about the Weave.'

An hour: what would she learn in an hour?

Tell me only as much as I need to know for your safety.' she said. ‘And no more than that. What I don't know I can't let slip.'

‘Point taken.' said Tung. ‘No time for formalities, then. Let's begin.'

X

THE SUMMONS

Cal woke suddenly.

There was a slight chill in the air, though that wasn't what had woken him. It was Lemuel Lo, calling his name. ‘Calhoun ... Calhoun ...' He sat up. Lemuel was at his side, smiling through the thicket of his beard. There's someone here asking for you.' he said. ‘Oh?'

‘We haven't much time, my poet.' he said as Cal struggled to his feet. The carpet's being rewoven. In little more than minutes all this'll be sleeping again. And me with it.' That can't be right.' said Cal.

‘It is, friend. But I have no fear. You'll be watching over us, won't you?'

He clasped Cal's hand in a fierce grip. ‘I dreamt something ....' Cal said. ‘What was that?'

‘I dreamt that this was real and the other wasn't.' Lemuel's smile faded. ‘I wish what you dreamt were true.' he said. ‘But the Kingdom's all too real. It's just that a thing that grows too certain of itself becomes a kind of lie. That's what you dreamt. That the other place is a place of lies.'

Cal nodded. The grip on his hand tightened, as though there was a pact in the making.

‘Don't be lost to it, Calhoun. Remember Lo, eh? And the orchard? Will you? Then we'll see each other again.'

Lemuel embraced him.

‘Remember,' he said, his mouth next to Cal's ear.

Cal returned the bear-hug as best he could, given Lo's girth. Then the orchard-keeper broke from him.

‘Best go quickly,' he said. ‘Your visitor has important business, she says.' and he strode away to where the rug was being rolled up, and some last melancholy songs sung.

Cal watched him thread his way between the trees, his fingers brushing against the bark of each as he passed. Commanding them to sweet sleep, no doubt.

‘Mr Mooney?'

Cal looked round. There was a small woman with distinctly oriental features standing two trees' breadth from him. In her hand she held a lamp, which she raised as she approached him, her scrutiny both lengthy and unapologetic.

‘Well,' she said, her voice musical, ‘he told me you were handsome, and so you are. In a quirky kind of way.'

She cocked her head slightly, as if trying to make better sense of Cal's physiognomy.

‘How old are you?'

‘Twenty-six. Why?'

‘Twenty-six,' she said. ‘His mathematics is terrible.'

So's mine, Cal was about to say, but there were other more pressing questions. The first of which was:

‘Who are you?'

‘I'm Chloe,' came the woman's reply. ‘I've come to fetch you. We should hurry. He gets impatient.'

‘Who does?'

‘Even if we had time to talk I'm forbidden to tell you,' Chloe replied. ‘But he's eager to see you, that I can say. Very eager.'

She turned and started to walk away from the corridor of trees. She was still speaking, but Cal couldn't catch the words. He set off in pursuit of her, the end of a sentence drifting back to him.

‘- not time by foot -'

‘What did you say?' he asked, coming abreast of her.

‘We have to travel quickly,' she said.

They had reached the perimeter of the orchard, and there stood, of all things, a rickshaw. Leaning on the handles, smoking a thin black cigarette, was a wiry middle-aged man, dressed in bright blue pantaloons and a shabby vest. On his head, a bowler hat. This is Floris,' Chloe told Cal. ‘Please get in.'

Cal did as he was told, settling himself amongst a litter of cushions. He could not have refused this adventure if his life had depended upon it. Chloe got in beside him.

‘Hurry,' she said to the driver, and they took off like the wind.

XI

AT THE GAZEBO

1

He'd promised himself he wouldn't look back at the orchard, and he was as good as his promise until the very last when, before the surrounding night claimed the sight entirely, he weakened and glanced round.

He could just see the ring of light where he'd stood and recited Mad Mooney's verse; then the rickshaw turned a corner, and the sight was gone.

Floris was responsive to Chloe's imperative: hurry they did. The vehicle rocked and rolled, hauled over stone and pasture with equal gusto, and threatening all the while to pitch its passengers out. Cal held onto the side of the vehicle and watched the Fugue pass by. He cursed himself for sleeping as he had, and missing a night of exploration. When he'd first glimpsed the Weaveworld it had seemed so very familiar, but travelling these roads he felt like a tourist, ogling the sights of an alien country.

‘It's a strange place,' he said, as they passed beneath a rock which had been carved in the form of a vast, teetering wave. ‘What did you expect?' said Chloe. ‘Your own back yard?' ‘Not exactly. But I thought I knew it, in a way. At least in dreams.'

‘Paradise always has to be stranger than you expect, doesn't it?, or it loses its power to enchant. And you are enchanted.' ‘Yes,' he said. ‘And afraid.'

‘Of course you are,' said Chloe. ‘It keeps the blood fresh.' He didn't really comprehend the remark, but there were

other claims upon his attention. At every turn and brow a fresh vista. And ahead the most impressive sight of all: the roiling cloud-wall of the Gyre.

‘Is that where we're headed?' he asked.

‘Close to it.' said Chloe.

They plunged suddenly into a copse of birch-trees, the silver bark bright by the lightning flashes from the cloud, then headed up a small incline, which Floris took at an impressive rate. Beyond the copse the land abruptly changed character. The earth was now dark, almost black, and the vegetation seemed more appropriate to a hot-house than the open air. More than that, as they reached the top of the rise and began to make their way along its spine, Cal found himself subject to odd hallucinations. At either side of the road he kept glimpsing scenes that weren't quite there; like images on a mis-tuned television, slipping out of focus and back in again. He saw a house built like an observatory, with horses grazing around it; saw several women in dresses of watered silk, laughing together. There was much else he saw, but none of it for more than a few seconds.

‘You find it unsettling?' said Chloe.

‘What's going on?'

This is paradoxical ground. Strictly speaking, you shouldn't be here at all. There are always dangers.'

‘What dangers?'

If she offered a reply it was drowned out by a thunder-clap from the belly of the Gyre, which followed upon lilac lightning. They were within a quarter of a mile of the cloud now; the hairs on Cal's arms and nape stood up; his testicles ached.

But Chloe wasn't interested in the Mantle. She was gazing at the Amadou, moving in the sky behind them.

‘The re-weaving's under way,' she said. ‘That's why the Gyre's so restless. We have less time than I thought.'

On this cue Floris picked up his pace to a run, which threw loose earth up from his heels into the rickshaw.

‘It's for the best,' said Chloe. ‘This way he won't have time to get maudlin.'

Three minutes more of bruising travel and they came to a

small stone bridge, at which Floris brought the vehicle to a dusty halt.

‘Here we disembark,' said Chloe, and led Cal up a short flight of well-trodden steps to the bridge. It spanned a narrow but deep gorge, the sides of which were mossy and plumed with ferns. Water rushed beneath, feeding a pool where fishes jumped.

‘Come, come -' said Chloe, and hurried Cal over the bridge.

Ahead was a house, its doors and shutters flung wide. There were copious bird-droppings on the tiled roof, and several large black pigs slumbering against the wall. One raised itself as Cal and Chloe approached the threshold, snuffling at Cal's legs before returning to its porcine slumbers.

There were no burning lights inside; the only illumination came from the lightning, which this close to the Gyre was practically constant. By it, Cal surveyed the room Chloe had ushered him into. It was sparsely furnished, but there were papers and books on every available surface. On the floor lay a collection of thread-bare rugs; and on one of these a vast -and probably vastly ancient - tortoise. At the far end of the room was a large window, which looked onto the Mantle. In front of it a man was seated in a large, plain chair.

‘Here he is.' said Chloe. Cal wasn't sure who was being introduced to whom.

Either the chair or its occupant creaked as the man stood up. He was old, though not as old as the tortoise; about Brendan's age, Cal guessed. The face, though clearly acquainted with laughter, had known pain too. A mark, like a smoke stain, ran from his hairline to the bridge of his nose, where it veered off down his right cheek. It didn't disfigure his face, rather lent it an authority his features wouldn't otherwise have possessed. The lightning came and went, burning the man's silhouette into Cal's mind, but his host said nothing. He just looked at Cal, and looked some more. There was pleasure on his face, though quite why Cal didn't know. Nor did he feel ready to ask, at least not until the other broke the silence between them. That didn't seem to be on the cards, however. The man just stared.

It was difficult to be certain of much in the flare of the lightning, but Cal thought there was something familiar about the fellow. Suspecting they'd stand there for hours unless he initiated a conversation, he voiced the question his mind had already asked.

‘Do I know you from somewhere?'

The old man's eyes narrowed, as if he wanted to sharpen his sight to pin-point and pierce Cal's heart. But there was no verbal reply.

‘He's not allowed to converse with you,' Chloe explained. ‘People who live this close to the Gyre -' Her words died.

‘What?' said Cal.

There's not time to explain,' she said. ‘Just believe me.'

The man had not taken his gaze off Cal for a second, not even to blink. The perusal was quite benign; perhaps even loving. Cal was suddenly overcome by a fierce desire to stay; to forget the Kingdom, and sleep in the Weave, here; pigs, lightning and all.

But already Chloe had her hand on his arm.

‘We must go,' she said.

‘So soon?' he protested.

‘We're taking chances bringing you here in the first place.' she said.

The old man was now moving towards them, his step steady, his gaze the same. But Chloe intervened.

‘Now don't.' she said.

He frowned, his mouth tight. But he came no closer.

‘We have to be away.' she told him. ‘You know we must.'

He nodded. Were there tears in his eyes? Cal thought so.

‘I'll be back soon enough.' she told him. Til just take him to the border. All right?'

Again, a single nod.

Cal raised his hand in a tentative wave.

‘Well.' he said, more mystified than ever. ‘It's ... it's been ... an honour.'

A faint smile creased the man's face,

‘He knows.' said Chloe. ‘Believe me.'

She took Cal to the door. The lightning blazed through the room; the thunder made the air shake.

At the threshold Cal gave his host one last look, and to his astonishment - indeed to his delight - the man's smile became a grin that had a subtle mischief about it.

Take care.' Cal said.

Grinning even as the tears ran down his cheeks, the man waved him away and turned back towards the window.

2

The rickshaw was waiting on the far side of the bridge. Chloe bundled Cal into his seat, throwing the tasselled cushions out to lighten the load.

‘Be swift,' she said to Floris. No sooner had she spoken than they were off.

It was a hair-raising journey. A great urgency had seized everything and everybody, as the Fugue prepared to lose its substance to pattern again. Overhead, the night sky was a maze of birds; the fields were rife with animals. There was everywhere a great readying, as if for some momentous dive.

‘Do you dream?' Cal asked Chloe as they travelled. The question had come out of the blue, but was suddenly of great importance to him.

‘Dream?' said Chloe.

‘When you're in the Weave?'

‘Perhaps -' she said. She seemed preoccupied.'- but I never remember my dreams. I sleep too deeply ...' She faltered, then looked away from Cal before saying,'... like death.'

‘You'll wake again soon,' he said, understanding the melancholy that had come upon her. ‘It'll only be a few days.'

He tried to sound confident, but doubted that he was succeeding. He knew all too little of what the night had brought. Was Shadwell still alive; and the sisters? And if so where?

‘I'm going to help you,' he said. That I do know. I'm part of this place now.'

‘Oh yes,' she said with great gravity. That you are. But

Cal -' She looked at him, her hand taking his, and he felt a bond between them, an intimacy even, which seemed out of all proportion to the meagre time they'd known each other. ‘Cal. Future history is full of tricks.'

‘I don't follow.'

Things can be so easily erased,' she said. ‘And forever. Believe me. Forever. Entire lives gone, as if they'd never been lived.'

‘Am I missing something?' he said.

‘Just don't assume everything's guaranteed.'

‘I don't,' he told her.

‘Good. Good.' She seemed a little cheered by this. ‘You're a fine man, Calhoun. But you'll forget.'

‘Forget what?'

‘All this. The Fugue.'

He laughed. ‘Never.' he said.

‘Oh but you will. Indeed maybe you have to. Have to, or your heart would break.'

He thought of Lemuel again, and his parting words. Remember, he'd said. Was it really so difficult?

If there were any further words to be said on the subject, they went unvoiced, for at this point Floris brought the rickshaw to an abrupt halt.

‘What's the problem?' Chloe wanted to know.

The rickshaw driver pointed dead ahead. No more than a hundred yards from where the rickshaw stood the landscape and all it contained was losing itself to the Weave, solid matter becoming clouds of colour, from which the threads of the carpet would be drawn.

‘So soon.' said Chloe. ‘Get out, Calhoun. We can take you no further.'

The line of the Weave was approaching like a forest fire, eating up everything in its path. It was an awesome scene. Though he knew perfectly well what procedures were under way here - and knew them to be benevolent - the sight was almost chilling. A world was dissolving before his very eyes.

‘You're on your own from here.' said Chloe. ‘About turn, Floris! Andflyl'

The rickshaw was turned.

‘What happens to me?' said Cal.

‘You're a Cuckoo,' Chloe shouted back at him, as Floris hauled the rickshaw away. ‘You can simply walk out the other side!'

She shouted something else, which he failed to catch.

He hoped to God it wasn't a prayer.

XII

A VANISHING BREED

1

Despite Chloe's words, the spectacle ahead offered little comfort. The devouring line was approaching at considerable speed, and it left nothing unchanged. His gut feeling was to flee before it, but he knew that would be a vain manoeuvre. This same transfiguring tide would be eating in from all compass points: sooner or later there would be nowhere left to run.

Instead of standing still and letting it come to fetch him, he elected to walk towards it, and brave its touch.

The air began to itch around him as he took his first hesitant steps. The ground squirmed and shook beneath his feet. A few more yards and the region he was walking through actually began to shift. Loose pebbles were snatched into the flux; leaves plucked from bush and tree. ‘This is going to hurt,' he thought.

The frontier was no more than ten yards from him now, and he could see with astonishing clarity the processes at work: the raptures of the Loom dividing the matter of the Fugue into strands, then drawing these up into the air and knotting them - those knots in their turn filling the air like countless insects, until the final rapture called them into the carpet.

He could afford to wonder at this sight for seconds only before he and it met each other, strands leaping up around him like rainbow fountains. There was no time for farewells: the Fugue simply vanished from sight, leaving him immersed in the working of the Loom. The rising threads gave him the

sensation of falling, as though the knots were destined for heaven, and he a damned soul. But it wasn't heaven above him: it was pattern. A kaleidoscope that defeated eye and mind, its motifs configuring and re-configuring as they found their place beside their fellows. Even now he was certain he'd be similarly metamorphosed; his flesh and bone become symbol, and he be woven into the grand design.

But Chloe's prayer, if that it had been, afforded him protection. The Loom rejected his Cuckoo-stuff and passed him by. One minute he was in the midst of the Weave. The next the glories of the Fugue were behind him, and he was left standing in a bare field.

2

He wasn't alone there. Several dozen Seerkind had chosen to step out into the Kingdom. Some stood alone watching their home consumed by the Weave, others were in small groups, debating feverishly; yet others were already heading off into the gloom before the Adamaticals came looking for them.

Among them, lit by the blaze of the Weave, a face he recognized: that of Apolline Dubois. He went to her. She saw him coming, but offered no welcome.

‘Have you seen Suzanna?' he asked her.

She shook her head. ‘I've been cremating Frederick, and setting my affairs to rights,' she said.

She got no further. An elegant individual, his cheeks rouged, now appeared at her side. He looked every inch a pimp.

‘We should go. Moth,' he said. ‘Before the beasts are upon us.'

‘I know,' Apolline said to him. Then to Cal: ‘We're going to make our fortunes. Teaching you Cuckoos the meaning of desire.'

Her companion offered a less than wholesome grin. More than half his teeth were gold.

There are high times ahead,' she said, and patted Cal's cheek. ‘So you come see me one of these days,' she said. ‘We'll treat you well.'

She took the pimp's arm.

‘Bon chance,' she said, and the pair hurried away.

The line of the Weave was by now a good distance from where Cal stood, and the numbers of Seerkind who'd emerged was well into three figures. He went amongst them, still looking for Suzanna. His presence was largely ignored; they had more pressing concerns, these people, delivered into the late twentieth century with only magic to keep them from harm. He didn't envy them.

Amongst the refugees he caught sight of three of the Buyers, standing dazed and dusty, their faces blank. What would they make of tonight's experiences he wondered. Would they pour the whole story out to their friends, and endure the disbelief and contempt heaped on their heads; or would they let the tale fester untold? The latter, he suspected.

Dawn was close. The weaker stars had already disappeared, and even the brightest were uncertain of themselves.

‘It's over ...' he heard somebody murmur.

He looked back towards the Weave; the brilliance of its making had almost flickered out.

But suddenly, a shout in the night, and a beat later Cal saw three lights - members of the Amadou - rising from the embers of the Weave at enormous speed. They drew together as they rose, until, high above the streets and fields, they collided.

The blaze of their meeting illuminated the landscape as far as the eye could see. By it Cal glimpsed Seerkind running in all directions, averting their eyes from the brilliance.

Then the light died, and the pre-dawn gloom that followed seemed so impenetrable by contrast that Cal was effectively blind for a minute or more. As, by slow degrees, the world re-established itself about him, he realized that there had been nothing arbitrary about the fireworks or their effect.

The Seerkind had disappeared. Where, ninety seconds ago, there had been scraggling figures all around him, there was now emptiness. Under the cover of light, they'd made their escape.

XIII

A PROPOSAL

1

Hobart had seen the blaze of the Amadou too, though he was still two and a half miles from the spot. The night had brought disaster upon disaster. Richardson, still jittery after events at Headquarters, had twice driven the car into the back of stationary vehicles, and their route, which had taken them all over the Wirral, had been a series of cul-de-sacs.

But at last, here it was: a sign that their quarry was close. ‘What was that?' said Richardson. ‘Looked like something exploding.'

‘God knows,' said Hobart. ‘I wouldn't put anything past these people. Especially the woman.'

‘Should we call in some back-up, sir? We don't know their numbers.'

‘Even if we could -' Hobart said, switching off the white noise which had swallowed Downey hours ago, ‘-1 want to keep this quiet until we know what's what. Kill the headlights.' The driver did so, and they drove on in the murk that preceded daybreak. Hobart thought he could see figures moving in the mist beyond the grey foliage that lined the road. There was no time to investigate however; he would have to trust his instinct that the woman was somewhere up ahead.

Suddenly there was somebody in the road ahead of them. Cursing, Richardson threw the wheel over, but the figure seemed to leap up and over the car.

The vehicle mounted the pavement, and ran a few yards before Richardson brought it under control again.

‘Shit. Did you see that?'

Hobart had, and felt the same aching unease he'd felt back at Headquarters. These people were holding weapons that worked on a man's sense of what was real, and he loved reality more than his balls.

‘Didyou see?' said Richardson. The fucker just flew.'

‘No,' Hobart said firmly. ‘There was no flying. Understood?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Don't trust your eyes. Trust me.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘And if anything else gets in your way, run it down.'

2

The light that had blinded Cal blinded Shadwell too. He fell from the back of his human horse, and scrabbled around in the dirt until the world began to come back into focus. When it did two sights greeted him. One, that of Norris, lying on the ground sobbing like an infant. The other, Suzanna, accompanied by two of the Kind, emerging from the rubble of Shearman's house.

They weren't empty-handed. They were carrying the carpet. God, the carpet! He looked about him for the Incantatrix, but there was no-one near to aid him except the horse, who was well past aiding anybody.

Stay calm, he told himself, you ‘ve still got the jacket. He brushed off the worst of the dirt he'd acquired, centred the knot of his tie, then walked over to intercept the thieves.

Thank you so much,' he said as he approached them, ‘for preserving my property.'

Suzanna gave him a single glance, then told the carpet-bearers:

‘Ignore him.'

That said, she led them towards the road.

Shadwell went after them quickly, and took firm hold of the woman's arm. He was determined to preserve his politeness as long as possible; it always confused the enemy.

‘Do we have a problem here?' he wondered.

‘No problem,' Suzanna said.

The carpet belongs to me. Miss Parrish. I insist that it remain here.'

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.

‘You and I together,' he proposed.

Thus began a marriage made in Hell.

Back Among the Blind Men

‘If a man could pass through Paradise in a dream, and have a flower presented to him as a pledge that his soul had really been there, and if he found that flower in his hand when he awoke - Aye, and what then?' S. T. Coleridge Anima Poetae