Weave World

2

He'd called Gluck from a telephone box at the Pier Head, where he'd gone following the confrontation in the fog. There was no particular plan in this: he'd just felt the need to go to the river, and the last night bus before dawn had taken him there. He'd slipped the Scourge, at least for the time being; he even entertained the thought that the creature might be satisfied with the devastation it had wrought. But his gut knew differently. The Angel - Shadwell's flame of God — had an insatiable appetite for death. It would not be satisfied until they were all dust: Shadwell included, he hoped. Indeed the only comfort he drew from the night's horrors was the sense he'd had that he'd been viewing the Salesman's farewell performance.

The wind off the river was bitter; the snow in it pricked his skin like needles. But he leaned on the railings and watched the water until his fingers and face were numb; then, with the clocks on the Liver Building all offering times in the vicinity of six, he went in search of sustenance. He was in luck. A small cafe was open, serving breakfast to the early-run bus drivers. He bought himself a substantial meal, thawing out as he ate his eggs and toast, still trying to sort out what was for the best. Then, around six-thirty, he tried to get through to Gluck. He hadn't really expected any reply, but luck was with him, at least in this, for just as he was about to put the receiver down, the ‘phone at the other end was picked up.

‘Hello?' said a sleep-thickened voice. Though Cal knew Gluck scarcely at all, he'd seldom, if ever, been so happy to make contact with someone.

‘Mr Gluck? It's Cal Mooney. You probably won't remember me, but -'

‘- of course I remember. How are things on the Mersey?'

‘I have to talk to you. It's urgent.'

‘I'm all ears.'

‘I can't on the ‘phone.'

‘Well, come and see me. Do you have my address?'

‘Yes. I've still got your card.'

‘Then come. I'd enjoy the company.'

These welcoming words, coming after the losses of the night, were almost too much; Cal felt his eyes pricking.

‘I'll get the first train down,' he said.

‘I'll be here.'

Cal stepped out of the telephone box into the biting air. Daylight was still a while away; the snow-bound streets were almost deserted as he trudged up towards the station. A truck laboured through the gloom, spreading grit on the icy road; a newspaper vendor was laying out the early morning edition in the dubious shelter of a doorway; otherwise, he saw nobody. It was difficult to imagine, as he trudged, that there would ever be another spring in Spook City.

3

Suzanna stood at the end of Chariot Street and stared at the sight before her. There were too many people milling around for her to advance any further - her suspicion of uniforms had not mellowed; nor had that of Cuckoos in large numbers

- but she could see dearly from where she stood that the Mooney house no longer existed. It had been razed literally to the ground, and the fire that had consumed it had spread along the row in both directions. The Scourge had come visiting in the night.

Trembling, she left the scene, and made her way to Rue Street, fearing the worst. She found there nothing she hadn't anticipated. Mimi's house had been gutted.

What was she to do now? return to London and leave Cal - if he'd survived - to his own devices? She had no way of tracing him; she could only trust that somehow he'd find his way to her. Things were so damn chaotic, with the Kind spread across the country, and Cal missing, and the book?; she didn't dare think too hard about that. She just turned her back on the ruins of Mimi's house and walked away down Rue Street, what little store of optimism she'd possessed defeated by what she'd seen.

As she turned the corner, a kerb-crawler drew up alongside her, and a round face, wearing sun-glasses, leaned out of the window.

‘You're going to get cold,' he said.

‘Go to Hell,' she told him, and quickened her step. He kept pace with her.

‘I told you to go to Hell,' she said, throwing him a look intended to leave him limp. He slid his glasses down his nose, and stared at her. The eyes revealed beneath were bright gold.

‘Nimrod?'

‘Who else?'

Had it not been for the eyes she'd never have recognized him. His face had filled out, all but a hint of his good looks gone.

‘I need feeding,' he said. ‘How about you?'

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 ludicrousI 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