Weaveworld

AN OPEN BOOK

1

he Law had come to Nonesuch.

It had come to root out dissension: it had found none. It had come with truncheons, riot shields and bullets, prepared for armed rebellion: it had found no whisper of that either. All it had found was a warren of shadowy streets, most of them deserted, and a few pedestrians who bowed their heads at the first sign of a uniform.

Hobart had immediately ordered a house to house search. It had been greeted with a few sour looks, but little more than that. He was disappointed; it would have been gratifying to have found something to sharpen his authority upon. All too easy, he knew, to be lulled into a false sense of security, especially when an anticipated confrontation had failed to materialize. Vigilance was the key word now; unending vigilance.

That was why he’d occupied a house with a good view of the township from its upper storeys, where he could take up residence for the night. Tomorrow would bring the big push on the Gyre, which could surely not go unopposed. And yet, who could be certain with these people? They were so docile; like animals, rolling over at the first sign of a greater power.

The house he’d commandeered had little to recommend it, beyond its view. A maze of rooms; a collection of faded murals, which he didn’t care to study too closely; spare and creaking furniture. The discomfort of the place didn’t bother him: he liked spartan living. But the atmosphere did; the sense he had that the ousted tenants were still here, just out of sight. If he’d been a man who believed in ghosts, he’d have said the house was haunted. He wasn’t, so he kept his fears to himself, where they multiplied.

Evening had fallen, and the streets below were dark. He could see little from his high window now, but he could hear laughter drifting up from below. He’d given his men the evening to enjoy themselves, warning them never to forget that the township was enemy territory. The laughter grew more riotous, then faded down the street. Let them indulge themselves, he thought. Tomorrow the crusade would take them onto ground the people here thought of as sacred: if they were going to show any resistance, it would be then. He’d seen the same happen in the world outside: a man who wouldn’t lift a finger if his house were burned down throwing a fit if someone touched a trinket he called holy. Tomorrow promised to be a busy day, and a bloody one too.

Richardson had declined the opportunity to take the night off, preferring to stay in the house, and make a report of the day’s events for his personal records. He kept a ledger of his every move, set down in a tiny, meticulous hand. He worked on it now, as Hobart listened to the laughter disappearing below.

Finally, he put down his pen.

‘Sir?’

‘What is it?’

‘These people, sir. It seems to me –’ Richardson halted, unsure of how best to voice a question that had been vexing him since they’d arrived, ‘– it seems to me they don’t look quite human.’

Hobart studied the man. His hair was immaculately cut, his cheeks immaculately shaved, his uniform immaculately pressed.

‘You may be right,’ he said.

A flicker of distress crossed Richardson’s face.

‘I don’t understand … sir.’

‘While you’re here, you should believe nothing you see.’

‘Nothing, sir?’

‘Nothing at all,’ Hobart said. He put his fingers to the glass. It was cold; his body heat lent the tips misty haloes. The whole place is a mass of illusions. Tricks and traps. None of it’s to be trusted.’

‘It’s not real?’ Richardson said.

Hobart stared across the roofs of this little nowhere, and turned the question over. Real was a word he’d once had no problem using. Real was what made the world go round, what was solid and true. And its flip side, unreal, that was what some lunatic in a cell shouted at four in the morning; unreal was dreams of power without the flesh to give them weight.

But his view of these matters had subtly changed since his first encounter with Suzanna. He had wanted her capture as he’d wanted no other, and his pursuit of her had led from one strangeness to another, until he was so fatigued he scarcely knew right from left. Real? What was real? Perhaps (this thought would have been unthinkable before Suzanna) real was merely what he said was real. He was the general, and the soldier needed an answer, for his sanity’s sake. A plain answer, that would let him sleep soundly.

He gave it:

‘Only the Law’s real here,’ he said. ‘We have to hang onto that. All of us. Do you understand?’

Richardson nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

There was a long pause, during which somebody outside began whooping like a drunken Cherokee. Richardson closed his ledger, and went to the second window.

‘I wonder …’ he said.

‘Yes?’

‘Perhaps I should go out. Just for a while. To see these illusions face to face.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Now that I know it’s all a lie –’ he said, ‘– I’m safe, aren’t I?’

‘As safe as you’re ever going to be,’ said Hobart.

‘Then, if you don’t mind …’

‘Go on. See for yourself.’

Richardson was away in seconds, and down the stairs. A few moments later Hobart caught sight of his shadowy form moving away down the street.

The Inspector stretched. He was tired to the marrow. There was a mattress in the next room, but he was determined not to avail himself of it. Laying his head on a pillow would offer the rumours of occupancy here an easy victim.

Instead he sat down in one of the plain chairs and took the book of faery-tales from his pocket. It had not left his presence since its confiscation; he’d lost count of the times he’d scanned its pages. Now he did the same again. But the lines of prose grew steadily hazier in front of him, and though he tried to check himself, his lids became heavier and heavier.

Long before Richardson had found himself an illusion to call his own, the Law that had come to Nonesuch had fallen asleep.