Weaveworld (68 page)

‘Describe them …’ Nimrod demanded.

It was surely the by-blows the man spoke of, Suzanna thought, grown to monstrous proportions. But as the man began to tell what he knew she was distracted by the sight of a prisoner she hadn’t previously noticed, squatting in the filthiest part of the compound, face turned to the rock. It was a woman, to judge by the hair that fell to the middle of her back, and she’d not been bound like the rest, simply left to grieve in the dirt.

Suzanna made her way through the captives towards her. As she approached she heard mutterings, and saw that the woman had her lips pressed to the stone, and was talking to it as if seeking comfort there. Her supplication faltered as Suzanna’s shadow fell on the rock, and she turned.

It took a heart-beat only for Suzanna to see beyond the dried blood and excrement on the face that now looked up towards her; it was Immacolata. On her maimed face was the look of a tragedian. Her eyes were swollen with tears, and brimming now with a fresh flood; her hair was unbraided and thick with mud. Her breasts were bared for all to see, and in every sinew there was a terrible bewilderment. Nothing of her former authority remained. She was a madwoman, squatting in her own shit.

Contrary feelings fought in Suzanna. Here, trembling before her, was the woman who’d murdered Mimi in her own bed; part architect of the calamities which had overtaken the Fugue. The power behind Shadwell’s throne, the source of countless deceits and sorrows; the Devil’s inspiration. Yet she could not feel for Immacolata the hatred she’d felt for Shadwell or Hobart. Was it because the Incantatrix had first given her access to the menstruum, albeit unwillingly; or was it that they were – as Immacolata had always claimed – somehow
sisters?
Might
this
, under other skies, have been her fate; to be lost and mad?

‘Don’t … look at … me,’ the woman said softly. There was no sign of recognition in her blood-shot eyes.

‘Do you know who you are?’ Suzanna asked her.

The woman’s expression didn’t change. After a few moments her answer came.

‘The rock knows,’ she said.

‘The rock?’

‘It’ll be sand soon. I told it so, because it’s true. It’ll be sand.’

Immacolata took her gaze off her questioner and began to stroke the rock with her open palm. She’d been doing this for some while, Suzanna now saw. There were streaks of blood on the stone, where she’d rubbed the skin from her palm as if attempting to erase the lines.

‘Why will it be sand?’ Suzanna asked.

‘It must come,’ said Immacolata. ‘I’ve seen it. The Scourge. It must come, and then we will all be sand.’ She stroked more furiously. ‘I told the rock.’

‘Will you tell
me?’

Immacolata glanced round, and then back to the rock. For a little while Suzanna thought the woman had forgotten the questioner until the words came again, haltingly.

‘The Scourge must come,’ she said. ‘Even in its sleep, it knows.’ She stopped wounding her hand. ‘Sometimes it almost wakes,’ she said. ‘And when it does, we’ll all be sand …’

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;
clearer
, 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.

Suzanna began to move towards her, trusting that the menstruum would keep this terrible rapture from curdling her brains. It did so. Though she had to be nimble to avoid the brutalities on every side, she reached the vicinity of the rock without harm.

Immacolata seemed not to see her. Head back, teeth bared in a grin of appalling ferocity, her attention was entirely upon the mayhem she’d given birth to.

‘Forget them.’
Suzanna called up to her.

At these words the head dropped a fraction, and Suzanna felt the Incantatrix’s gaze come to rest on her.

‘Why are you doing this?’ she said. ‘They’ve done you no harm.’

‘You should have left me to my emptiness,’ the Incantatrix replied. ‘You made me remember.’

‘Then for
my
sake,’ Suzanna said, ‘leave them be.’

Behind her, the shouts had begun to wane, only to be replaced by the moans of the dying and the sobs of those who’d woken from this delusion to find their knives buried in the hearts of their friends.

Whether the rapture had faltered because Immacolata had done her worst, or because she’d responded to Suzanna’s appeal, was neither here nor there. At least the death-dealing had stopped.

There was a moment’s respite only, however, before a shot punctuated the sobs. The bullet struck the rock between Immacolata’s bare feet. Suzanna turned to see Yolande Dor striding through the mortuary that had once been her little army, taking fresh aim at the Incantatrix as she did so.

Immacolata was not prepared to play target. As the second of the shots pealed against the rock, the Incantatrix rose into the air, and floated towards Yolande. Her shadow, passing over the battlefield like that of a carrion-bird, was fatal. At its touch the wounded, unable to run before it, turned their faces to the blood-sodden ground and breathed their last. Yolande didn’t wait for the shadow to reach her, but fired at the creature over and over again. The same power that held Immacolata aloft simply threw the bullets aside.

Suzanna yelled for Yolande to retreat, but her warning went unheard or ignored. The Incantatrix swept down upon the woman and snatched her up – the menstruum wrapping them both in light – then threw her across the field. Her body hit the face of the rock upon which Immacolata had been standing, with a sickening thud, and dropped, broken, to the ground.

None of the surviving rebels made a move to go to their commander’s aid. They stayed – frozen in terror – as the Incantatrix floated, a yard above the ground, across the arena of bodies, her shadow claiming those failing few who’d not been silenced by it on its outward journey.