Weave World

After one circuit, de Bono spoke what Cal had been thinking: ‘It's no use us waiting out here. We have to go in.'

Hearts hammering, they climbed the steps and entered.

Cal had been told to expect the miraculous, and he wasn't disappointed. Each room he put his head into showed him some new glory in tile and brick and paint. But that was all; only miracles.

‘There's nobody here,' said de Bono, when they'd made a complete search of the lower floor. ‘Shadwell's gone.'

‘I'm going to try upstairs,' Cal said.

They climbed the flight, and separated, for speed's sake. At the end of one corridor Cal discovered a room whose walls were cunningly set with fragments of mirrors, reflecting the visitor in such a fashion that he seemed to see himself behind the walls, in some place of mist and shadow, peering out from between the bricks. That was strange enough; but by some further device - the method of which was beyond him - he seemed not to be alone in that other world, but sharing it with an assortment of animals - cats, monkeys and flying fish - all of which his reflection had apparently fathered, for they all had his face. He laughed to see it, and they all laughed with him, fish included.

Indeed it was not until his laughter died down that he heard de Bono summoning him, his shouts urgent. He left the room reluctantly, and went in search of the rope-dancer.

The call was coming from up a further flight of stairs.

‘I hear you,' he yelled up to de Bono, and began to climb. The ascent was lengthy and steep, but delivered him into a room at the top of a watch-tower. Light poured through windows on every side, but the brightness couldn't dissuade him that the room had seen horrors; and recently. Whatever it had witnessed, de Bono had worse to show him.

‘I've found Shadwell,' he announced, beckoning Cal over.

‘Where?'

‘At the Narrow Bright.'

Cal peered through the window adjacent to de Bono.

‘Not that one,' he was told. ‘This one brings it nearer.'

A telescopic window; and through it, a scene to make his pulse pick up its pace. Its backcloth: the seething Mantle cloud; its subject: massacre.

‘He's going to breach the Gyre,' de Bono said.

It clearly wasn't just the conflict that had paled the youth; it was the thought of that act.

‘Why would he want to do that?'

‘He's a Cuckoo isn't he?' came the reply. ‘What more reason does he need?'

‘Then we have to stop him,' Cal said, ungluing his gaze from the window and heading back towards the stairs.

‘The battle's already lost,' de Bono replied.

‘I'm not going to stand and watch him occupy every damn inch of the Fugue. I'll go in after him, if that's what it takes.'

De Bono looked at Cal, a mixture of anger and despair on his face.

‘You can't,' he said. ‘The Gyre's forbidden territory, even to us. There are mysteries in there even Kind aren't allowed to set eyes on.'

‘Shadwell's going in.'

‘Exactly,' said de Bono. ‘Shadwell's going in. And you know what'll happen? The Gyre will revolt. It'll destroy itself.'

‘My God ....'

‘And if it does, the Fugue comes apart at the seams.'

‘Then we stop him or we die.'

‘Why do Cuckoos always reduce everything to such simple choices?'

‘I don't know. You've got me there. But while you're thinking about it, here's another one: are you coming or staying?'

‘Damn you, Mooney.'

‘You're coming then?'

XIV

THE NARROW BRIGHT

1

There were less than a dozen individuals from amongst Yolande's rebel band who were firm enough of limb to make their way towards the Gyre. Suzanna went with them - Nimrod had requested that - though she told him in plain terms that any dream of overwhelming the enemy by force of arms was misbegotten. The enemy were many; they were few. The only hope remaining lay in her getting close to Shadwell, and dispatching him personally. If Nimrod's people could clear her route to the Prophet they might yet do service; otherwise, she advised them to preserve themselves, in the hope that there'd be a life worth living tomorrow.

They got within about two hundred yards of the battle, the sound of shots, and shouts, and car-engines, deafeningly loud, when she had her first sight of Shadwell. He'd found himself a mount - a vast, vile monster that could only be one of the Magdalene's children grown to a foul adulthood - and he was sitting astride its shoulders, surveying the battle.

‘He's protected,' said Nimrod at her side. There were beasts, human and less than human, circling the Prophet. ‘We'll divert them as best we can.'

There'd been a moment, as they'd approached the Gyre, when Suzanna's spirits had risen, despite the circumstance. Or perhaps because of it; because this confrontation promised to be the end-game - the war that would end all wars - after

which she'd have no more nights dreaming of loss. But the moment had passed quickly. Now all she felt - peering through the smoke at her enemy - was despondency.

It grew with every yard they covered. Wherever she looked, there were sights pitiful or nauseating. The struggle, it was clear, was already lost. The Gyre's defendants had been outnumbered and outarmed. Most had been laid low; the corpses food for Shadwell's creatures. The remnants, brave as they were, could not keep the Salesman from his prize any longer.

I was a dragon once, she found herself thinking, as she fixed her eye on the Prophet. If she could only remember how it had felt she might be one again. But this time there'd be no hesitation, no moment of doubt. This time, she'd devour.

2

The route to the Gyre took Cal through territory he remembered from his rickshaw ride; but its ambiguities had fled before the invading army, or else hidden their subtle heads.

And, he wondered, what of the old man he'd met at the end of that ride? Had he fallen prey to the marauders? Had his throat slit defending his little corner of Wonderland? Most likely Cal would never know. A thousand tragedies had wracked the Fugue in recent hours - the old man's fate was just part of a greater horror. A world was going to ash and dust around them.

And up ahead, the architect of these outrages. Cal saw the Salesman now, at the heart of the carnage, his face blazing with triumph. The sight made him put aside any thought of safety. With de Bono at his heels, he pitched into the thick of the battle.

There was scarcely a foot of clear ground between the bodies; the closer he got to Shadwell, the thicker the smell of blood and burning flesh became. He was soon separated from de Bono in the confusion, but it didn't matter any longer. His priority had to be the Salesman; every other consideration fell away. Maybe it was this purposefulness which got him through

the blood-letting alive, though bullets filled the air like flies. His very indifference was a kind of blessedness. What he failed to notice, failed in turn to notice him. Thus he went unscathed through the heart of the battle, until he was within ten yards of Shadwell.

He cast around amongst the slain at his feet, in search of a weapon, and laid his hands on a machine-gun. Shadwell was dismounting from the beast he'd been riding, and turning his back on the conflict. There were a mere handful of defenders left between him and the Mantle, and they were already falling. He was seconds only from entering the Gyre. Cal raised the gun, and pointed it towards the Prophet.

But before his finger could find the trigger something rose up from feasting at his side, and came at him. One of the Magdalene's children, flesh between its teeth. He might have tried to kill it, but recognition slurred his intent. The creature that tore the gun from his hand was the self-same that had almost murdered him at the warehouse: his own child.

It had grown; it now stood half as tall again as Cal. But for all its bulk it was no sloth. Its fingers reached for him swift as lightning, and he only ducked them by the slimmest of margins, flinging himself down amid the corpses, where it doubtless intended to lay him permanently.