‘Stop them,' Immacolata yelled.
The Salesman was examining the lacerations the Hag had made in his jacket. Another moment and her fingers would have clutched his heart.
‘Call them off, Shadwell! Please!'
‘She's dead already,' he said. ‘Let them play.'
Immacolata moved to aid her sister, but as she did so the largest of the by-blows, with the tiny white eyes of a deep-sea fish and a mouth like a wound, came between her and rescue. She spat an arrow of the menstruum into its pulsing chest, but it took the hurt in its stride, and came at her unchecked.
Shadwell had seen these monstrosities murder amongst themselves for the sport of it. He knew they could sustain horrendous injury without slowing. This one, for instance, called Vessel, could take a hundred such wounds and still make merry. Nor was it stupid. It had learned the lessons he'd taught it well enough. Even now it leapt upon the Incantatrix, wrapping its arms around her neck, and its legs about her hips.
Such intimacy would, he knew, drive Immacolata to distraction. Indeed, as it put its face to hers, kissing her as best its malformations would allow, she started to scream, all control and calculation finally lost. The menstruum flew from her in all directions, wasting its potency on the ceiling and the walls. Those few barbs that found her attacker did nothing but arouse it further. Though it had no sexual anatomy to speak of, Shadwell had trained it in the basic moves. It worked itself against her like a dog in heat, howling into her face.
Opening its mouth was a mistake on its part, for a fragment of the menstruum found its way down into its throat, and blew it wide. Its neck erupted, and its head, no longer supported, fell backwards on greasy strings of matter.
Even so, it clung to her, its body moving in ragged spasms against hers. But its grip had loosened sufficiently for her to tear its body from her, the struggle leaving her bloodied from head to foot.
Shadwell called the remaining by-blows from their vengeful play. They withdrew to his side. All that was left of the Hag was a litter that resembled the leavings on a fish-gutter's tiles.
Seeing the remains, Immacolata, her face slack to the point of imbecility, let out a low moan of loss.
‘Get her out of here,' said Shadwell. ‘I don't want to see her filthy face. Take her into the hills. Dump her.'
Two of the by-blows approached the Incantatrix, and took hold of her. There was not so much as a flicker in her eye, nor a finger raised in protest. She seemed no longer even to see them. Either the slaughter of her one remaining sister, or her own violation by the beast, or perhaps both, had undone something inside her. She was suddenly bereft of any power to enchant or terrify. A sack, which they hauled away through the door, and carried off down the stairs. Not once did she even raise her eyes in Shadwell's direction.
He listened to the slouching gait of the by-blows fade down the stairs, still half expecting her to come back for him, to mount one final attack. But no. It was over.
He crossed to the muck of the Hag. It smelt of something rotten.
‘Have it,' he said to the remaining beasts, who fell upon the scraps and fought over them. Revolted by their appetite, he turned his gaze back towards the Gyre.
Very soon now night would be upon the Fugue; a last curtain on the events of a busy day. With tomorrow, a new act would begin.
Somewhere beyond the cloud he was watching lay a knowledge that would transform him.
After that, no night would fall, except at his word; nor day dawn.
VII
AN OPEN BOOK
1
The 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.