Weaveworld

I

STRATEGY

hadwell’s army of deliverance consisted of three main battalions.

The first, and by far the largest, was the mass of the Prophet’s followers, the converts whose fervour he had whipped to fanatical proportions, and whose devotion to him and to his promise of a new age knew no bounds. He had warned them that there would be bloodshed, and bloodshed they would have, much of it their own. But they were prepared for such sacrifice; indeed the wilder faction amongst them, chiefly Ye-me, the most hot-headed of the Families, were fairly itching to break some bones.

It was an enthusiasm Shadwell had already used – albeit discreetly – when occasional members of his congregation had called his preaching into question, and he was ready to use it again if there was any sign of softening in the ranks. He would of course do what he could to subdue the Fugue by rhetoric, but he didn’t much fancy his chances. His followers had been easily duped: their lives in the Kingdom had so immersed them in half-truths that they were ready to believe any fiction if it was properly advertised. But the Seerkind who had remained in the Fugue would not be so easily misled. That was when the truncheons and the pistols would be called into play.

The second part of his army was made up of Hobart’s confederates, choice members of the Squad Hobart had diligently prepared for a day of revolution that had never come. Shadwell had introduced them to the pleasures of his jacket, and they had all found something in the folds worth selling their souls for. Now they were his Elite, ready to defend his person to the death should circumstance demand.

The third and final battalion was less visible than the other two, but no less powerful for that. Its soldiers were the by-blows, the sons and daughters of the Magdalene: an unnumbered and unordered rabble whose resemblance to their fathers was usually remote, and whose natures ranged from the subtly lunatic to the beserk. Shadwell had made sure the sisters had kept their charges well hidden, as they were evidence of a corruption the Prophet could scarcely be associated with, but they were waiting, scrabbling at the veils Immacolata had flung around them, ready for release should the campaign demand such terrors.

He had planned his invasion with the precision of a Napoleon.

The first phase, which he undertook within an hour of dawn, was to go to Capra’s House, there to confront the Council of the Families before it had time to debate the situation. The approach was made as a triumphal march, with the Prophet’s car, its smoked glass windows concealing the passengers from the eyes of the inquisitive, leading a convoy of a dozen vehicles. In the back of the car Shadwell sat with Immacolata at his side. As they drove he offered his condolences on the death of the Magdalene.

‘I’m most distressed …’ he said quietly. ‘… we’ve lost a valued ally.’

Immacolata said nothing.

Shadwell took a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lit up. The cigarette, and the covetous way he had of smoking it, as if any moment it would be snatched from his lips, was utterly out of synch with the mask he wore, ‘I think we’re both aware of how this changes things,’ he said, his tone colourless.

‘What does it change?’ she said. How he liked the unease that was plain on her face.

‘You’re vulnerable,’ he reminded her. ‘Now more than ever. That concerns me.’

‘Nothing’s going to happen to me,’ she insisted.

‘Oh but it might,’ he said softly. ‘We don’t know how much resistance we’re going to meet. It might be wise if you withdrew from the Fugue entirely.’

‘No! I want to see them burn.’

‘Understandable,’ Shadwell said. ‘But you’re going to be a target. And if we lose you, we lose access to the Magdalene’s children as well.’

Immacolata looked across at Shadwell. ‘Is that what this is about? You want the by-blows?’

‘Well… I think there’s some tactical –’

‘Have them,’ she interrupted. Take them, they’re yours. My gift to you. I don’t want to be reminded of them. I despised her appetites.’

Shadwell offered a thin smile.

‘My thanks,’ he said.

‘You’re welcome to them. Just let me watch the fires, that’s all I ask.’

‘Oh certainly. Absolutely.’

‘And I want the woman found. Suzanna. I want her found and given to me.’

‘She’s yours,’ said Shadwell, as though nothing were simpler. ‘One thing though. The children. Is there some particular word I use to bring them to me?’

‘There is.’

He drew on his cigarette. ‘I’d best have it,’ he said. ‘As they’re mine.’

‘Just call them by the names she gave them. That’ll unleash them.’

‘And what are their names?’ he said, reaching into his pocket for a pen.

He scribbled them on the back of the cigarette pack as he recited them, so as not to forget them. Then, the business concluded, they continued their drive in silence.