Weaveworld

V

NONESUCH

1

s they stepped into the streets de Bono warned them that the township had been put together in considerable haste, and that they shouldn’t expect a paradigm of civil planning. But the warning went little way to preparing them for the experience ahead. There seemed to be no sign whatsoever of order in the place. The houses had been laid cheek by jowl in hapless confusion, the tunnels between – the terms streets flattered them – so narrow, and so thick with citizens, that wherever the eye went it found faces and facades ranging from the primitive to the baroque.

Yet it wasn’t dark here. There was a shimmering in the stone, and in the paving at their feet, that lit the passages, and turned the humblest wall into an accidental masterpiece of bright mortar and brighter brick.

Any glamour the town could lay claim to was more than matched by its inhabitants. Their clothes had in them that same amalgam of the severe and the dazzling which the visitors had come to recognize as quintessentially Seerkindish; but here, in the Fugue’s closest approximation to an urban environment, the style had been taken to new extremes. Everywhere there were remarkable garments and accoutrements on view. A formal waistcoat that rang with countless tiny bells. A woman whose clothes, though buttoned up to the throat, so matched the colour of her skin she was dressed as if naked. On a window sill a young girl sat cross-legged, ribbons of every colour lifting around her face on no discernible breeze. Further down the same alley a man whose fedora seemed to have been woven from his hair was talking with his daughters, while in an adjacent doorway, a man in a rope suit sang to his dog. And style, of course, bred anti-style, like that of the negress and the white woman who whistled past naked but for pantaloons held up with string.

Though all took pleasure in how they appeared, it was not an end in itself. They had business to do this new morning; there was no time for posturing.

The only sights that seemed to be drawing any significant attention were the few items of late twentieth-century bric-a-brac that a few of the citizens were playing with. More gifts from the Prophet’s Elite, no doubt. Toys that would tarnish in days, the way all Shadwell’s promises would. There was no time to try and persuade the owners of these glittering nonsenses to discard them; they would find out soon enough how frail any gift from that source truly was.

‘I’ll take you to The Liars.’ said de Bono, leading the way through the crowd. ‘We’ll eat there, then get on our way.’

From every direction sights and sounds claimed the attention of the Cuckoos. Snatches of conversation came at them from doorstep and window; and songs (some from radios); and laughter. A baby bawled in its mother’s arms; something barked above them, and Cal looked up to see a peacock parading on a high balcony.

‘Where’s he gone, for God’s sake?’ said Suzanna, as de Bono disappeared into the crowd for the third or fourth time. ‘He’s too damn quick.’

‘We have to trust him. We need a guide,’ said Cal. He caught sight of de Bono’s blond head. There –’

They turned a corner. As they did so a cry went up from somewhere in the packed alleyway ahead, so piercing and so grief-stricken it seemed murder must have been committed. The sound didn’t silence the crowd, but hushed it enough for Cal and Suzanna to catch the words that followed, as the echo of the howl died.

‘They burned Capra’s House!’

‘That can’t be,’ somebody said, a denial taken up on every side, as the word spread. But the news-carrier was not about to be shouted down.

‘They burned it!’ he insisted. ‘And killed the Council.’

Cal had pressed forward through the throng to within sight of the man, who indeed looked as if he’d witnessed some catastrophe. He was dirtied with smoke and mud, through which tears coursed as he repeated his story, or what few bones of it there were. The denials were quietening now: there could be no doubting that he spoke the truth.

It was Suzanna who asked the simple question:

‘Who did it?’

The man looked her way.

‘The Prophet…’ he breathed. ‘It was the Prophet.’

At this the crowd erupted, curses and imprecations filling the air.

Suzanna turned back to Cal.

‘We weren’t quick enough,’ she said, tears in her eyes. ‘Jesus, Cal, we should have been there.’

‘We wouldn’t have made it,’ said a voice at their side. De Bono had reappeared. ‘Don’t blame yourselves,’ he said. Then added: ‘Or me.’

‘What now?’ said Cal.

‘We find the bastard and we kill him,’ Suzanna said. She took hold of de Bono’s shoulder. ‘Will you show us the way out?’

‘Of course.’

He about-turned and led them away from the knot of citizens surrounding the weeping man. It was apparent as they went that the news had reached every ear and alleyway. The songs and the laughter had entirely vanished. A few people were staring up at the slice of sky between the roofs, as if waiting for lightning. The looks on their faces reminded Cal of how the people of Chariot Street had looked, the day of the whirlwind: full of unspoken questions.

To judge by the snatches of conversation they caught as they went, there was some argument as to what had precisely happened. Some were saying that all those in Capra’s House had been murdered; others that there were survivors. But whatever the discrepancies, the broader points were undisputed: the Prophet had declared war on any who challenged his primacy; and to that end his followers were already sweeping the Fugue in search of unbelievers.

‘We have to get out into open country,’ said Suzanna. ‘Before they reach here.’

‘It’s a small world,’ de Bono observed, ‘it won’t take them long to purge it, if they’re efficient.’

‘They will be,’ said Cal.

There was no sign of panic amongst the residents; no attempt to pack their bags and escape. This persecution, or events like it, had happened before, or so their furrowed faces seemed to say. And most likely it would all happen again. Should they be so surprised?

It took the trio a handful of minutes to wind their way out of the township, and into the open air.

‘I’m sorry we have to part so quickly,’ Suzanna said to de Bono, when they stood at the perimeter.

‘Why should we have to part?’

‘Because we came here to stop the Prophet,’ Suzanna said, ‘and we’re going to do that.’

‘Then I’ll take you where he’ll be.’

‘Where?’ said Cal.

‘The Firmament,’ de Bono replied with confidence. ‘The old palace. That’s what they were saying in the street. Didn’t you hear them? And it stands to reason. He’d be bound to take the Firmament if he wants to be King.’