There,' said Hobart to the driver. ‘We found it. There!'
Suzanna peered from the window. There was neither moon nor stars to illuminate the scene, but she could see the black bulk of the mountains all around, and far below, lights burning.
The convoy followed the hill top for half a mile, then began a steady descent into the valley.
The lights she'd seen were car headlamps, the vehicles parked in a large circle, so that the lights created an arena. The arrival of Hobart's convoy was clearly expected; as they came within fifty yards of the circle she saw figures coming to greet them.
The car came to a halt.
‘Where are we?' she slurred.
‘Journey's end,' was all Hobart would say. Then, to the driver: ‘Bring her.'
The legs beneath her were rubber-jointed; she had to hold onto the car for a while before she could persuade them to behave. With the driver keeping firm hold of her, she was then taken towards the arena. Only now did she realize the scale of the gathering. There were dozens of cars in the ring, and many more in the darkness beyond. The drivers and passengers, who amounted to hundreds, were not Human but Seerkind. Amongst them were anatomies and colorations that must have made them outcasts in the Kingdom.
She scanned the faces, looking for any that she knew, and one in particular. But Jerichau was not amongst them.
Hobart now stepped into the ring of light, and as he did so from the shadows on the opposite side of the arena stepped a figure Suzanna assumed was that of the Prophet. His appearance was greeted with a soft swell of murmuring from the Seerkind. Some pushed their way forward to get a better look at their Saviour; others fell to their knees.
He was impressive, Suzanna conceded to herself.
His deep-set eyes were fixed on Hobart, and a small smile of approval found his lips as the Inspector bowed his head before his master. So, that was the way of it. Hobart was in the Prophet's employ, which fact scarcely covered the latter with glory. Words were exchanged between them, the breath of the speakers visible on the cold air. Then the Prophet put his gloved hand on Hobart's shoulder and turned to announce to the assembly the return of the Weaveworld. Suddenly the air was full of shouts.
Hobart turned towards the Black Maria and beckoned. From its recesses came two of the Inspector's cohorts, carrying the carpet. They entered the ring of light, and, at Hobart's instruction, laid the carpet at the Prophet's feet. The crowd was hushed utterly in the presence of their sleeping homeland; and the Prophet, when he spoke, did not need to raise his voice.
‘Here,' he said, almost casually. ‘Did I not promise?'
... and so saying he put his heel to the carpet. It unrolled in front of him. The silence held; all eyes were on the design; two hundred minds and more sharing the same thought...
Open Sesame...
... the call of all eager visitors, set before closed doors, and desiring access.
Open; show yourself ...
Whether it was that collective act of will that began the unweaving, or whether the Prophet had previously plotted the mechanism, Suzanna could not know. Sufficient that it began. Not at the centre of the carpet, as at Shearman's house, but from the borders.
The last unweaving had been more accident than design, a wild eruption of threads and pigment, the Fugue breaking into sudden and chaotic life. This time there was clearly system at work in the process, the knots decoding their motifs in a pre-arranged sequence. The dance of threads was no less complex than before, but there was a consummate grace about the spectacle, the strands describing the most elegant manoeuvres as they filled the air, trailing life as they went. Forms were clothing themselves in flesh and feather, rock was flowing, trees taking flight towards their rooting place.
Suzanna had seen this glory before, of course, and was to some extent prepared for it. But to the Seerkind, and even more to Hobart and his bully-boys, the sight awoke fear and awe in equal measure.
Her guard utterly forgot his duty, and stood like a child before his first firework display, unsure of whether to run or stay. She took her chance while it was offered, and slipped from his custody, away from the light that would reveal her, glancing back long enough to see the Prophet, his hair rising like white fire from his scalp, standing in the midst of the unweaving while the Fugue burst into life all around him.
It was difficult to draw her gaze away, but she ran as best her legs would allow towards the darkness of the slopes. She moved twenty, thirty, forty yards from the circle. Nobody came after her.
A particularly bright blossoming at her back momentarily lit the terrain before her like a falling star. It was rough, uncultivated ground, interrupted only by the occasional outcrop of rock; a valley chosen for its remoteness, most likely, where the Fugue could be stirred from sleep uninterrupted by Humankind. How long this miracle would remain hidden, with summer on its way, was a moot point, but perhaps they had plans for a rapture to divert the inquisitive.
Again, the land ahead of her was lit, and momentarily she glimpsed a figure up ahead. It was there and gone so quickly she could not trust her eyes.
Another yard however, and she felt a chill on her cheek that was no natural wind. She guessed its source the instant it touched her, but she had no time to retreat or prepare herself before the darkness unfolded and its mistress stepped into her path.
X
FATALITIES
1
The face was mutilated beyond recognition, but the voice, colder than the chill the body gave off, was indisputably that of Immacolata. Nor was she alone: her sisters were with her, darker than the dark.
‘Why are you running?' said the Incanta-trix. ‘There's nowhere to escape to.' Suzanna halted. There was no ready way past the three. Turn around,' said Immacolata, another splendour from the Weave uncharitably lighting the wound of her face. ‘See where Shadwell stands? That'll be the Fugue in moments.' ‘Shadwell?' said Suzanna.
‘Their beloved Prophet,' came the reply. ‘Beneath that show of holiness I lent him, there beats a Salesman's heart.'
So Shadwell was the Prophet. What a perfect irony, that the seller of encyclopaedias should end up peddling hope.
‘It was his idea, said the Incantatrix, ‘to give them a Messiah. Now they've got a righteous crusade, as Hobart calls it. They're going to claim their promised land. And destroy it in the process.'
They won't fall for this.'
They already have, sister. Holy wars are easier to start than rumours, amongst your Kind or mine. They believe every sacred word he tells them, as though their lives depended upon it. Which in a sense they do. They've been conspired against and cheated - and they're ready to tear the Fugue apart to get their hands on those responsible. Isn't that perfect?
The Fugue'll die at the very hands of those who've come to save it.'
‘And that's what Shadwell wants?'
‘He's a man: he wants adoration.' She gazed over Suzanna's shoulder towards the unweaving, and the Salesman, still in its midst. ‘And that's what he's got. So he's happy.'