She laid her cheek against the bloodied rock, and made a low sobbing sound.
‘Where's your sister?' Suzanna said.
At this, the sobbing faltered.
‘Is she here?'
‘I have ... no sisters,' Immacolata said. There was no trace of doubt in her voice.
‘What about Shadwell? Do you remember Shadwell?'
‘My sisters are dead. All gone to sand. Everything. Gone to sand.'
The sobs began again, more mournful than ever.
‘What's your interest in her?' Nimrod, who'd been standing at Suzanna's shoulder for several seconds, wanted to know.
‘She's just another lunatic. We found her amongst the corpses. She was eating their eyes.'
‘Do you know who she is?' Suzanna said. ‘Nimrod... that's Immacolata.'
His face grew slack with shock.
‘Shadwell's mistress. I swear it.'
‘You're mistaken,' he said.
‘She's lost her mind, but I swear that's who it is. I was face to face with her less than two days ago.'
‘So what's happened to her?'
‘Shadwell, maybe ...'
The name was echoed softly by the woman at the rock.
‘Whatever happened, she shouldn't be here, not like this -'
‘You'd better come speak to the commander. You can tell it all to her.'
2
It seemed it was to be a day of reunions. First Nimrod, then the Incantatrix, and now - leading this defeated troop - Yolande Dor, the woman who'd so vehemently fought the reweaving, back when Capra's House was still standing.
She too had changed. Gone, the strutting confidence of the woman. Her face looked pale and clammy; her voice and manner were subdued. She wasted no time with courtesies.
‘If you've got something to tell me, spit it out.'
‘One of your prisoners -' Suzanna began.
‘I've no time to hear appeals,' came the reply. ‘Especially from you.'
This isn't an appeal.'
‘I still won't hear it.'
‘You must; and you will,' Suzanna responded. ‘Forget how you feel about me -'
‘I don't feel anything,' was Yolande's retort. The Council condemned themselves. You were just there to carry their burden for them. If it hadn't been you it would have been somebody else.'
This outburst seemed to pain her. She slipped her hand inside her unbuttoned jacket, clearly nursing a wound there. Her fingers came away bloody. Suzanna persevered, but more softly. ‘One of your prisoners,' she said, ‘is Immacolata.' Yolande looked across at Nimrod. ‘Is that true?' ‘It's true,' Suzanna said. ‘I know her better than any of you. It's her. She's ... lost; insane maybe. But if we could get some sense from her, we might use her to reach Shadwell.'
‘Shadwell?'
‘The Prophet. They were allies once; him and Immacolata.' ‘I won't conspire with Corruption like that,' Yolande replied. ‘We'll hang her when the proper time comes.'
‘Well at least let me talk to her. Maybe I can coax something from her.'
‘If she's lost her mind, why should we trust a word she says? No. Let her rot.'
‘It's a wasted chance.'
‘Don't tell me about wasted chances,' Yolande said bitterly. There was clearly no hope of persuading her. ‘We move towards the Mantle in an hour,' she stated.
‘If you want to swell our ranks, do so. Or else get about your business.' This said, she turned her back on them both. ‘Come on,' said Nimrod, and took his leave. But Suzanna lingered.
‘For what it's worth,' she said, ‘I hope we have time to talk, when all this is over.'
Yolande didn't turn back. ‘Leave me alone,' she said. Suzanna did just that.
3
For several minutes after Suzanna's departure from the prisoners' compound, Immacolata sat in the murk of her forgetfulness. Sometimes she wept. Sometimes she stared at the silent rock in front of her. The violation Shadwell had visited upon her at the Firmament, following as it had upon the destruction of her wraith-sisters, had driven her mind into a wilderness. But she'd not been alone there. Somewhere in those wastes she'd been reacquainted with the spectre that had haunted her so often in the past: the Scourge. She, who'd been happiest where the air was thickest with decay, who'd made necklaces of entrails, and soul-mates of the dead - she had found in the presence of that abomination nightmares even she'd prayed to wake from.
It still slept - which was some small consolation in her terror - but it would not sleep forever. It had tasks unfinished; ambitions unfulfilled. Very soon it would rise from its bed, and come looking to finish its business.
And on that day?
‘... all sand ...' she told the stone.
This time it didn't answer her. It was sulking, because she'd been indiscreet, talking to the woman with the grey eyes.
Immacolata rocked back and forth on her heels, and as she rocked the woman's words drifted back to her, tantalizing her. She only remembered a little of what the woman had said: a phrase, a name. Or rather, one name in particular. It echoed in her head now.
Shadwell.
It was like an itch beneath her scalp; an ache in her skull. She wanted to dig through her ear drum and pull it out, grind it underfoot. She rocked faster, to soothe the name away, but it wouldn't leave her head.
Shadwell. Shadwell.
And now there were other names rising to join the ranks of the remembered -
The Magdalene.
The Hag.
She saw them before her, as clear as the rock; dearer: her sisters, her poor, twice-slaughtered sisters.
And beneath their dead heels she saw a land; a somewhere she'd conspired to spoil for such a long, weary time. Its name came back to her, and she spoke it softly.
‘The Fugue...'
That's what they'd called it, her enemies. How they'd loved it. How they'd fought for its safety, and in the process wounded her.
She put her hand out to the rock, and felt it tremble at her touch. Then she hauled herself to her feet, while the name that had begun this flood filled her head, washing forgetfulness away.
Shadwell.
How could she ever have forgotten her beloved Shadwell? She'd given him raptures. And what had he done in return? Betrayed and befouled her. Used her for as long as it had suited his purposes, then pitched her away, into the wilderness.
He hadn't thrown her far enough. Today, she'd found her way back, and she came with killing news.
4
The screams began suddenly, and mounted. Cries of disbelief, then shouts of horror the like of which Suzanna had never heard.
Ahead of her, Nimrod was already running towards the source of the din. She followed; and stepped into a scene of the bloodiest chaos.
‘We're attacked!' Nimrod yelled at her, as rebels ran in all directions, many bearing fresh wounds. The ground was already littered with bodies; more were falling with every moment.
Before Nimrod could plunge into the fray, however, Suzanna took hold of his jacket.
They're fighting each other!' she shouted to him, above the bedlam.
‘What?'
‘Look!' she said.
It took him only a few seconds to confirm what she'd seen. There was no sign of any outside attack. The rebels were at each others' throats. No quarter was being given on any side. Men were murdering men they'd moments ago been sharing
a cigarette with. Some had even risen from their death-beds and were beating at the heads of those who'd nursed them.
Nimrod stepped on to the battlefield and dragged one of these sudden lunatics from the throat of another.
‘What in God's name are you doing?' he demanded. The man was still struggling to reach his victim.
‘That bastard!' the man shrieked. ‘He raped my wife.'
‘What are you talking about?'
‘I saw him! Right there!' He jabbed his finger at the ground. ‘There!'
‘Your wife's not here!' Nimrod yelled, shaking the man violently. ‘She's not here!'
Suzanna scanned the battlefield. The same delusion, or something similar, had seized hold of all of these people. Even as they fought, they wept, and howled their accusations at each other. They'd seen their parents trampled underfoot, their wives abused and their children slaughtered: now they wanted to kill the culprits. Hearing this collective delusion voiced, she looked for its maker, and there - standing on a high rock, surveying the atrocities, was Immacolata. Her hair remained unbraided. Her breasts were still bare. But she was obviously no longer a stranger to her history. She'd remembered herself.