Weaveworld

IV

AS GOOD MEN GO

t began to rain while he kept watch at the rear of the foundry, but after twenty minutes his waiting was rewarded. A door opened, and two of the Prophet’s Elite Guard emerged. So eager were they for the shelter of their car – there were several parked behind the building – that they left the door behind them ajar. Jerichau lingered in the shelter of the dripping undergrowth until they’d driven away, then crossed at speed to the door, and stepped inside.

He was in a dirty, brick-lined corridor, off which several small passageways ran. A lamp burned at the end of the corridor where he stood; the rest of the place was in darkness.

Once away from the outside door – and the sound of the rain – he could hear voices. He followed them, the passageway becoming darker as he left the vicinity of the bulb. Words came and went.

‘… the smell of them …’ somebody said. There was laughter. Using it as cover, Jerichau moved more swiftly towards the sound. Now another light, albeit dim, reached his straining eyes.

‘They’re making a fool of you,’ a second voice said. It was Hobart who replied.

‘We’re close. I tell you,’ he said. ‘I’ll have her.’

‘Never mind the woman …’ came the response. The voice was perhaps that of the Prophet, though it had changed timbre. ‘… I want the carpet. All the armies in the world are worth fuck-all if we’ve got nothing to conquer.’

The vocabulary was less circumspect than his words from the platform had been: there was no reluctance to lead the army here; no false modesty. Jerichau pressed close to the door from beyond which the voices came.

‘Get this filth off me will you?’ said the Prophet. ‘It smothers me.’

No sooner had he spoken than all conversation on the other side of the door abruptly ceased. Jerichau held his breath, fearful he was missing some whispered exchange. But he could hear nothing.

Then, the Prophet again.

‘We shouldn’t have secrets …’ he said, apparently apropos of nothing. ‘Seeing is believing, don’t they say!’

At this, the door was flung wide. Jerichau had no chance to retreat, but stumbled forward into the room. He was instantly seized by Hobart, who wrenched his captive’s arm behind his back until the bones threatened to snap, at the same time seizing Jerichau’s head so hard he could not move it.

‘You were right,’ said the Prophet. He was standing stark naked in the middle of the room, legs apart, arms spread wide, the sweat dripping from him. A bare bulb threw its uncharitable light upon his pale flesh, from which steam rose.

‘I can sniff them out,’ said a voice Jerichau recognized, and the Incantatrix Immacolata stepped into his line of vision. Despite his situation the terrible maiming of her face gave him some satisfaction. Harm had been done to this creature. That was cause for rejoicing.

‘How long were you listening?’ the Prophet asked Jerichau. ‘Did you hear anything interesting? Do tell.’

Jerichau looked back towards the man. Three members of the Elite were working about his body, wiping him down with towels. It wasn’t just his sweat they were removing; parts of his flesh – at the neck and shoulders, on the arms and hands – were coming away too. This was the smothering filth Jerichau had heard him complain of; he was sloughing off the skin of the Prophet. The air was rank with the stench of venomous raptures: the corrupt magic of the Incantatrix.

‘Answer the man,’ said Hobart, twisting Jerichau’s arm to within a fraction of breaking.

‘I heard nothing,’ Jerichau gasped.

The steaming man snatched a towel from one of his attendants.

‘Jesus,’ he said, as he rubbed at his face. ‘This stuff is a trial.’

Pieces of flesh fell from beneath the towel, and hit the floor, hissing. He threw the dirtied towel down with them, and looked back up at Jerichau. Remnants of the illusion clung to his features here and there, but the actor beneath was quite recognizable: Shadwell the Salesman, naked as the day he was born. He tore off the white wig he’d worn, and tossed that down too, then snapped his fingers. A cigarette, already lit, was placed in his hand. He drew on it deeply, wiping a glob of ectoplasm from beneath his eye with the ball of his hand.

‘Were you at the meeting?’ he asked.

‘Of course he was,’ Immacolata said, but she was silenced with a sharp look from Shadwell. He pulled at his foreskin, quite unselfconsciously.

‘Was I good?’ he said. ‘No, no, of course I was.’

He peered at his pudenda over his shiny gut. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he said.

Jerichau kept his mouth shut.

‘I asked you a question,’ said Shadwell. He put the cigarette between his lips and spread his arms, so that his dressers could finish his toilet. They proceeded to towel the remaining ectoplasm from his face and body, then began to powder his bulk.

‘I know him,’ said Hobart.

‘Do you indeed?’

‘He’s the woman’s partner. He’s with Suzanna.’

‘Really?’ said Shadwell. ‘Did you come to make a sale, is that it? See what we’d pay you for her?’

‘I haven’t seen her …’ Jerichau said.

‘Oh yes you have,’ said Shadwell. ‘And you’re going to tell us where to find her.’

Jerichau closed his eyes. Oh Gods, make this end, he thought; don’t let me suffer. I’m not strong. I’m not strong.

‘It won’t take long,’ Shadwell murmured.

Tell him,’ said Hobart. Jerichau cried out as his bones creaked.

‘Stop that!’ Shadwell said. The grip relaxed a little. ‘Keep your brutalities out of my sight,’ said the Salesman. His voice rose. ‘Understand me?’ he said. ‘Do you? Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Shadwell grunted, then turned to Immacolata, his sudden fury just as suddenly dissipated.

‘I think your sisters might enjoy him,’ he said. ‘Get them here, will you?’

The Incantatrix uttered a summons, which came from her misshapen lips like breath on an icy morning. Shadwell returned his attention to Jerichau, speaking as he dressed.

There’s more than pain to be suffered,’ he said lightly, ‘if you don’t tell me where I may find the carpet.’

He hoisted up his trousers, and buttoned up the fly, throwing an occasional glance in Jerichau’s direction.

‘What are you waiting for?’ he said to the prisoner. ‘Some bargain or other?’

He put on his tie, while his attenders tied his shoe-laces.

‘You’ll wait a long time, my friend. I don’t barter these days. I don’t offer treats. My days as a Salesman are numbered.’

He took the jacket from his attendant, and slipped it on. The lining shimmered. Its powers were familiar to Jerichau from Suzanna’s stories; but it seemed Shadwell had no desire to win a confession from him by that means.

‘Tell me where the carpet can be found,’ he said, ‘or the sisters and their children will undo you nerve by nerve. Not a difficult choice, I would have thought.’

Jerichau made no reply.

There was a chill wind from the corridor.

‘Ah, the ladies,’ said Shadwell; and Death flew in at the door.