Weaveworld

4

His appetite seemed to have expanded in direct proportion to the direness of their jeopardy. She sat across the table of the Chinese restaurant where he took her, and watched him wade through the menu, devouring not only his food but most of hers too.

It didn’t take long for them to provide each other with outlines of their recent investigations. Most of her news was stale stuff now: the Scourge was amongst them. But Nimrod had more current information, gleaned from conversations overheard and questions asked. At Chariot Street – he was able to report – no bodies had been found, so it might be safely assumed that Cal had not perished there. Remains had however been found in Rue Street.

‘I didn’t know any of them personally,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid you did.’

‘Who?’

‘Balm de Bono.’

‘– de Bono?’

‘He was at Rue Street last night.’

She fell silent, thinking of the brief time she’d spent with de Bono, and of their debates together. Now he was gone. And how soon would the rest of them follow?

‘What do we do, Nimrod?’ she murmured. ‘Do we try and hide again? Another Weave?’

‘There aren’t enough of us to fill a prayer mat,’ Nimrod said mournfully. ‘Besides, we don’t have the raptures. There’s very little power left between us.’

‘So we sit back and wait for the Scourge to pick us off? Is that what you’re saying?’

Nimrod drew his hand over his face.

‘I’ve fought about as hard as I can …’ he said. ‘I think we all have.’

He fetched a tobacco tin from his pocket, and began to roll himself a cigarette. ‘I’ve made my mistakes,’ he said, ‘I fell for Shadwell’s lies … I even fell in love.’

‘You did?’

He made a slight smile, which reminded Suzanna of the irrepressible creature he’d once been. ‘Oh yes …’ he said. ‘… I’ve had my adventures in the Kingdom. But they didn’t last long. There was always a part of me that never left the Fugue. That still hasn’t left.’ He lit the match-thin cigarette he’d rolled. ‘I suppose that’s ludicrous,’ he said, ‘given that the place doesn’t exist any longer.’

He’d forsaken his dark glasses as soon as the waiter had retired. His eyes, their gold untarnished, were on her now, looking for some sliver of hope.

‘You can remember it?’ she said.

‘The Fugue? Of course.’

‘So can I. Or at least I think I can. So maybe it isn’t lost.’

He shook his head.

‘Don’t be sentimental,’ he chided. ‘Memories aren’t enough.’

It was fruitless to argue the niceties of that: he was telling her that he was in pain; he didn’t want platitudes or metaphysics.

She turned over in her head the problem of whether she should tell him what she knew: that she had reason to hope that all was not lost; that the Fugue might be again, one day. It was, she knew, a slender hope – but he needed a life-line, however tenuous.

‘It’s not over,’ she said.

‘Dream on,’ he replied. ‘It’s finished.’

‘I tell you the Fugue’s not gone.’

He looked up from his cigarette.

‘What do you mean?’

‘In the Gyre … I used the Loom.’

‘Used the Loom? What are you saying?’

‘Or it used me. Maybe a bit of both.’

‘How? Why?’

‘To keep everything from being lost.’

Nimrod was leaning across the table now.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

‘Neither do I, fully,’ she replied. ‘But something happened. Some force …’

She sighed. She didn’t have the words to describe those moments. Part of her wasn’t even sure it had happened. But of one thing she was certain:

‘I don’t believe in defeat, Nimrod. I don’t care what this fucking Scourge is. I won’t lie down and die because of it.’

‘You don’t have to,’ he said. ‘You’re a Cuckoo. You can walk the other way.’

‘You should know better than that,’ she said, sharply. ‘The Fugue belongs to anyone who’ll die for it. Me … Cal…’

He looked chastened.

‘I know,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s not just you who needs the Fugue, Nimrod. We all do.’

She glanced towards the window. Through the bamboo blinds she could see that the snow was coming down again with fresh vehemence, ‘I never believed in Eden,’ she said softly. ‘Not the way the Bible tells it. Original sin and all that crap. But maybe the story’s got an echo somewhere in it.’

‘An echo?’

‘Of the way things really were. A place of miracles, where magic was made. And the Scourge ended up believing the Eden story, because it was a corrupted version of the truth.’

‘Does it matter?’ Nimrod sighed. ‘Whether the Scourge is an Angel or not; whether it comes from Eden, or not, how does that alter anything? The point is, it believes it’s Uriel. And that means it’ll destroy us.’

The point was incontestable. When the world was coming to an end, what did names matter?

‘I think we should be together,’ he said, after a pause, ‘instead of spread across the country. Perhaps we can muster something if we’re all in one place.’

‘I see the sense in that.’

‘Better than the Scourge picking us off!’

‘But where?’

‘There was a place …’ he said, ‘where it never came. I remember it vaguely. Apolline will tell us better.’

‘What kind of place?’

‘A hill, I think it was,’ he said, his unblinking stare on the white paper tablecloth between them. ‘Some kind of hill …’

‘We’ll go there then, shall we?’

‘It’s as good a place to die as any.’