Weaveworld

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FATALITIES

1

he face was mutilated beyond recognition, but the voice, colder than the chill the body gave off, was indisputably that of Immacolata. Nor was she alone: her sisters were with her, darker than the dark.

‘Why are you running?’ said the Incantatrix. ‘There’s nowhere to escape to.’

Suzanna halted. There was no ready way past the three.

Turn around,’ said Immacolata, another splendour from the Weave uncharitably lighting the wound of her face. ‘See where Shadwell stands? That’ll be the Fugue in moments.’

‘Shadwell?’ said Suzanna.

‘Their beloved Prophet,’ came the reply. ‘Beneath that show of holiness I lent him, there beats a Salesman’s heart.’

So Shadwell was the Prophet. What a perfect irony, that the seller of encyclopaedias should end up peddling hope.

‘It was his idea,’ said the Incantatrix, ‘to give them a Messiah. Now they’ve got a righteous crusade, as Hobart calls it. They’re going to claim their promised land. And destroy it in the process.’

‘They won’t fall for this.’

‘They already have, sister. Holy wars are easier to suit than rumours, amongst your Kind or mine. They believe every sacred word he tells them, as though their lives depended upon it. Which in a sense they do. They’ve been conspired against and cheated – and they’re ready to tear the Fugue apart to get their hands on those responsible. Isn’t that perfect? The Fugue’ll die at the very hands of those who’ve come to save it.’

‘And that’s what Shadwell wants?’

‘He’s a man: he wants adoration.’ She gazed over Suzanna’s shoulder towards the unweaving, and the Salesman, still in its midst. ‘And that’s what he’s got. So he’s happy.’

‘He’s pitiful,’ said Suzanna. ‘You know that as well as I do. Yet you give him power. Your power. Our power.’

‘For my own ends, sister.’

‘You gave him the jacket.’

‘It was of my making, yes. Though there’ve been times I’ve regretted the gift.’

The ragged muscle of Immacolata’s face was incapable of its former deceptions. As she spoke she couldn’t mask the sorrow in her.

‘You should have taken it back,’ said Suzanna.

‘A gift of rapture can’t be lent,’ said Immacolata, ‘only given, and given in perpetuity. Did your grandmother teach you nothing? It’s time you learned, sister. I’ll give you those lessons.’

‘And what do you get in return?’

‘A distraction from Romo’s gift to me.’ She touched her face. ‘And from the stench of men.’ She paused, her maimed face darkening. They’ll destroy you for your strength. Men like Hobart.’

‘I wanted to kill him once,’ Suzanna said, remembering the hatred she’d felt.

‘He knows that. That’s why he dreams of you. Death the maiden.’ A laugh broke from her. They’re all mad, sister.’

‘Not all,’ said Suzanna.

‘What must I do to persuade you?’ the Incantatrix said. ‘Make you understand how you’ll be betrayed. Have already been betrayed.’

Without seeming to take a step, she moved away from Suzanna. Flickering strands of light were moving past them now, as the Fugue spread from its hiding place. But Suzanna scarcely noticed. Her eyes were fixed on the sight revealed when Immacolata stood aside.

The Magdalene was there, sumptuously clothed in folds of lacy ectoplasm: a wraith bride. And from beneath the creature’s skirts a pitiful figure was emerging, and turning its face up towards Suzanna.

‘Jerichau …’

The man’s eyes were clouded; though they settled on Suzanna there was no recognition in them.

‘See?’ said Immacolata. ‘Betrayed.’

‘What have you done to him?’ Suzanna demanded.

There was nothing left of the Jerichau she’d known. He looked like something already dead. His clothes were in tatters, his skin mottled and seeping from dozens of vicious wounds.

‘He doesn’t know you,’ said the Incantatrix. ‘He has a new wife now.’

The Magdalene stretched her hand out and touched Jerichau’s head, stroking it as if he were a lap-dog.

‘He went to my sister’s arms willingly –’ Immacolata said.

‘Leave him be.’ Suzanna yelled at the Magdalene. Enfeebled by the drugs, her self-control was perilously thin.

‘But this is love,’ Immacolata goaded. ‘There’ll be children in time. Many children. His lust knows no bounds.’

The thought of Jerichau coupling with the Magdalene made Suzanna shudder. Again, she called his name. This time his mouth opened, and it seemed his tongue was seeking to form a word. But no. All his palate could produce was a dribble of saliva.

‘You see how quickly they turn to fresh pleasures?’ said Immacolata. ‘As soon as your back is turned he’s ploughing another furrow.’

Rage leapt up in Suzanna, bettering her disgust. Nor did it come alone. Though the remnants of the drug still made any focus difficult, she felt the menstruum ambitious in her belly.

Immacolata knew it.

‘Don’t be perverse …’ she said, her voice seeming to whisper at Suzanna’s ear though they stood yards apart. ‘We are more alike than not.’

As she spoke Jerichau raised his hands from the ground towards Suzanna, and now she realized why there was no recognition in his eyes. He could not see her. The Magdalene had blinded her consort, to keep him close. But he knew she was there: he heard her, he reached for her.

‘Sister …’ Immacolata said to the Magdalene, ‘… bring your husband to heel.’

The Magdalene was quick to obey. The hand she had on Jerichau’s head grew longer, the fingers pouring down over his face, entering his mouth and nostrils. Jerichau attempted to resist, but the Magdalene pulled on him, and he tumbled backwards amongst her pestilential petticoats.

Without warning, Suzanna felt the menstruum spill from her and fly towards Jerichau’s tormentor. It happened in the time it took to see it. She caught a glimpse of the Magdalene’s features, stretched into a shriek, then the stream of silver light struck her. The wraith’s cry broke into pieces, fragments of sound spiralling off – a sobbing complaint, a howl of anger – as the assault lifted her into the air.

As usual, Suzanna’s thoughts were a beat behind the menstruum. Before she was fully aware of what she was doing the light was tearing at the wraith, gaping holes opening in its matter. The Magdalene retaliated, the stream of the menstruum carrying the attack back into Suzanna’s face. She felt blood splash down her neck, but the barbs only spurred her fury; she was tearing her enemy as though the wraith were a sheet of tissue paper.

Immacolata had not been a passive spectator in this, but had flung her own attack against Suzanna. The ground at Suzanna’s feet shuddered, then rose around her as if to bury her alive, but the subtle body pitched the earth wall back, then went at the Magdalene with redoubled fury. Though the menstruum seemed to have a life of its own, that was an illusion. She owned this power, she knew; now more than ever. It was her anger that fuelled it, that deafened it to mercy or apology; it was she who would not be satisfied until the Magdalene was undone.

And all at once, it was over. The Magdalene’s cries stopped dead.

Enough. Suzanna instructed. The menstruum let the few fragments of rotted ectoplasm drop to the spattered ground, and withdrew its light into its mistress. From attack to counter-attack to coup de grace had taken maybe a dozen seconds.

Suzanna looked towards Immacolata, whose wretched features were all disbelief. She was trembling from head to foot, as if she might fall to the ground in a fit. Suzanna took her chance. She’d no way of knowing if she could survive a sustained attack from the Incantatrix, and now was certainly no time to put the problem to the test. As the third sister threw herself amongst the Magdalene’s litter, and began to wail, Suzanna took to her heels.

The tide of the Fugue was lapping all around them now, and the brilliant air camouflaged her flight. Only after she’d covered ten yards or more did she come to her senses and remember Jerichau. There had been no sign of him in the vicinity of the dead Magdalene. Praying that he had found his way off the battlefield, she ran on, the Hag’s harrowing din loud in her ears.