Weaveworld

  But tonight, Shadwell had tired of his creature. He had new vassals on every side, and mistreating the sometime plutocrat had become a tired joke. Before the unweaving, he’d left Norris to the untender mercies of his Elite, to be their lackey. That unkindness was nothing, however, to his other; the withdrawal of the illusion that had won Norris’ compliance.

  Norris was not a stupid man. When the shock of waking to find himself bruised from head to foot had worn off he soon put the pieces of his recent history together. He couldn’t know how much time had passed since he’d fallen for Shadwell’s trick, (he’d been declared dead in his home town in Texas, and his wife had already married his brother), nor could he recall more than vaguely the discomforts and abuse that had been heaped upon him in his period of servitude. But he was quite certain of two things. One, that it was Shadwell who had reduced him to his present abjection, and two, that Shadwell would pay for the privilege.

  His first task was to escape his new masters, which, during the spectacle of the unweaving, was easily done. They didn’t even notice that he’d slipped away. The second objective was to find the Salesman, and this he reasoned was best done with the aid of whatever police force this peculiar country boasted. To that end he approached the first group of Seerkind he came across and demanded to be taken to somebody in authority. They were apparently unimpressed by his demands, but suspicious nevertheless. They called him a Cuckoo, which he took some exception to, and then accused him of trespassing. One of the women even suggested he might be a spy, and should be taken post haste to somebody in authority, at which point Norris reminded her that he’d been requesting that all along.

  So they took him.

  2

  Which is how, a short while later, Shadwell’s discarded horse was brought to Capra’s House, which was at the time the centre of considerable commotion. The Prophet had arrived at the House half an hour before, at the end of his triumphal march, but the Councillors had refused him access to the sacred ground until they’d first debated the ethics of it.

  The Prophet declared himself willing to accede to their metaphysical caution (after all was he not Capra’s mouthpiece?, he understood absolutely the delicacy of this), and so stayed behind the black windows of his car until the Councillors had sorted the matter out.

  Crowds had gathered, eager to see the Prophet in the flesh, and fascinated by the cars. There was an air of innocent excitement. Envoys ferried messages back and forth between the occupants of the House and the leader of the convoy that waited on its threshold, until it was at last announced that the Prophet would indeed be given access to Capra’s House, on the understanding that he went bare-foot, and alone. This the Prophet apparently agreed to, because mere minutes after this announcement the car door was opened and the great man indeed stepped forth, his feet naked, and approached the doorstep. The throng pressed forward to see him better – this Saviour who’d brought them to safety.

  Norris, who was towards the back of the crowd, caught only a glimpse of the figure. He saw nothing of the man’s face. But he saw the jacket well enough, and he recognized it on the instant. It was the same garment with which the Salesman had tricked him. How could he ever forget the iridescent fabric? It was Shadwell’s jacket. It followed therefore that the wearer was Shadwell.

  The sight of the jacket brought back an echo of the humiliations he’d endured at Shadwell’s hands. He remembered the kicks and curses; he remembered the contempt. Filled with just fury, he shrugged off the hold of the man at his side, and squirmed his way through the pack of spectators towards the door of Capra’s House.

  At the front of the crowd he glimpsed the jacket and the man who wore it stepping inside. He made to follow, but a guard at the doorway blocked his path. He was pitched backwards, the throng laughing and applauding his antics, idiots that they were.

  ‘I know him!’ he yelled, as Shadwell disappeared from view. ‘I know him!’

  He got to his feet, and ran at the door a second time, veering away at the last moment. The guard took the bait and gave chase, pursuing him into the crowd. Norris’ life as a lackey had taught him something of strategy; he avoided the guard’s grasp and made a dive for the unprotected doorway, flinging himself over the threshold before his pursuer could bring him down.

  ‘Shadwell!’ he yelled.

  In the chamber of Capra’s House the Prophet froze in mid-platitude. The words he’d been speaking were all conciliation, all understanding, but even the blindest of the assembly could not have failed to read the flicker of anger in the peace-bringer’s eyes as that name was called.

  ‘Shadwell!’

  He turned towards the door. Behind him he heard the Councillors exchange whispered remarks. Then there was a commotion in the passageway outside, the door was flung open, and Norris was standing there, yelling his name.

  The horse faltered as it set eyes on the Prophet. Shadwell could see doubt registering. This wasn’t the face Norris had expected to see. He might yet escape with his masquerade unchallenged.

  ‘Shadwell?’ he said to Norris. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know anybody by that name.’ He turned to the Councillors. ‘Do you know the gentleman?’ he enquired.

  They regarded him with open suspicion, especially an old man at the heart of the gaggle, who hadn’t taken his baleful eyes off the Prophet since Shadwell had entered this hovel. Now the canker of doubt had spread, damn it.

  ‘The jacket …’ said Norris.

  ‘Who is this man?’ the Prophet demanded. ‘Will somebody please have him taken out?’ He tried to make a joke of it. ‘I think he’s a little mad.’

  Nobody moved; nobody except the horse. Norris stepped towards the Prophet, yelling as he came.

  ‘I know what you did to me!’ he said. ‘Don’t think I don’t. Well I’m going to sue your ass off, Shadwell. Or whoever the hell you are.’

  There was a further disturbance at the front door, and Shadwell glanced up to see two of Hobart’s finest knocking the guard aside and coming to his aid. He opened his mouth to instruct them he could handle the situation, but before the words were off his lips Norris, his face all fury, flung himself at his enemy.

  The Prophet’s Elite had strict orders in such circumstances. Nobody, but nobody, was to lay hands on their beloved leader. Without a second’s hesitation the two men had their pistols from their holsters, and they shot Norris dead in his tracks.

  He fell forward at Shadwell’s feet, blood coming from his wounds in bright spurts.

  ‘Jesus God,’ said Shadwell, through gritted teeth.

  The echoes of the executioners’ shots took longer to die than Norris had. It was as if the walls disbelieved the sound, and were playing it back and forth, back and forth, until they’d verified the transgression. Outside, the crowd had fallen absolutely silent; silent too, the assembly behind him. He could feel their accusing eyes.

  That was stupid,’ he murmured to the killers. Then his arms outspread, he turned to the councillors.

  ‘I do apologize for this unfortunate –’

  ‘You’re not welcome here,’ one of the number said. ‘You’ve brought death into Capra’s House.’

  ‘It was a misunderstanding,’ he replied softly.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I insist you hear me out.’

  Again: ‘No.’

  Shadwell offered a tiny smile.

  ‘You call yourselves wise,’ he said. ‘Believe me, if that’s true then you’ll listen to what I’ve got to say. I didn’t come here alone. I’ve got people –your people, Seerkind – with me. They love me, because I want to see the Fugue prosper, as they do. Now … I’m prepared to let you share my vision, and the triumph that’ll come with it, if you want to. But believe me, I’m going to liberate the Fugue with or without your support. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Get out of here,’ said the old man who’d been watching him.

  ‘Be careful, Messimeris,’ one of the others whispered.

  ‘You don’t seem to und
erstand,’ Shadwell said, ‘I’m bringing you freedom.’

  ‘You’re not Seerkind,’ Messimeris replied. ‘You’re a Cuckoo.’

  ‘What if I am?’

  ‘You cheated your way in here. You don’t hear Capra’s voice.’

  ‘Oh I hear voices,’ said Shadwell. ‘I hear them loud and clear. They tell me that the Fugue’s defenceless. That its leaders have spent too much time in hiding. That they’re weak and frightened.’

  He surveyed the faces in front of him, and saw, it had to be admitted, little of the weakness or the fear he spoke of: only a stoicism that would take longer to erode than he had time to waste. He glanced round at the men who’d shot Norris.

  ‘It seems we have no choice,’ he said. The men perfectly understood the signal. They withdrew. Shadwell turned back to the Councillors.

  ‘We want you to leave,’ Messimeris re-stated.

  ‘Is that your final word?’

  ‘It is,’ said the other.

  Shadwell nodded. Seconds ticked by, during which neither side moved a muscle. Then the front door opened again, and the gunmen returned. They had brought four more of the Elite with them, which made up a firing squad of six.

  ‘I request you, one final time.’ said Shadwell, as the squad formed a line to either side of him, ‘don’t resist me.’

  The Councillors looked more incredulous than afraid. They had lived their lives in this world of wonders, but here before them was an arrogance that finally brought disbelief to their faces. Even when the gunmen raised their weapons they made no move, spoke no protest. Only Messimeris asked:

  ‘Who is Shadwell?’

  ‘A salesman I once knew,’ said the man in the fine jacket. ‘But he’s dead and gone.’

  ‘No,’ said Messimeris. ‘You’re Shadwell.’

  ‘Call me what you like,’ said the Prophet. ‘Only bow your heads to me. Bow your heads and all’s forgiven.’

  Still there was no movement. Shadwell turned to the gunman at his left and claimed the pistol from his hand. He pointed it at Messimeris’ heart. The two were standing no more than four yards apart; a blind man could not have failed to kill at that range.

  ‘I say again: bow your heads.’

  At last, a few of the assembly seemed to comprehend the seriousness of their situation, and did as he requested. Most just stared, however, pride, stupidity or plain disbelief keeping them from acquiescence.

  Shadwell knew the crisis point was upon him. He either pulled the trigger now, and in so doing bought himself a world, or else he left the salesroom and never looked back. In that instant he remembered standing on a hill-top, the Fugue laid before him. The memory tipped the balance. He shot the man.

  The bullet entered Messimeris’ chest, but there was no flow of blood; nor did he fall. Shadwell fired again, and a third time for good measure. Each shot hit home, but the man still failed to fall.

  The Salesman felt a tremor of panic run through the six gunmen that stood around him. The same question was on their lips as on his: why wouldn’t the old man die?

  He fired his pistol a fourth time. As the bullet struck him the victim took a step towards his would-be executioner, raising his arm as he did so, as if he intended to snatch the smoking weapon from Shadwell’s hand.

  The motion was enough to push one of the six beyond the limits of his self-control. With a high-pitched cry he started to fire into the crowd. His hysteria instantly ignited the rest. Suddenly they were all firing, emptying their guns in their hunger to close the accusing eyes in front of them. In moments the chamber was filled with smoke and din.

  Through it all, Shadwell saw the man he’d first fired upon complete the motion he’d begun with his salute. Then Messimeris fell forward, dead. His collapse didn’t silence the guns; they blazed on. There were a few Councillors who’d fallen to their knees, heads bowed as Shadwell had demanded, and there were others who were taking refuge in the corners of the room. But most were simply gunned down where they stood.

  Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.

  Shadwell threw down his gun, and – though he had no taste for abattoirs – forced himself to survey the carnage before him. It was, he knew, the responsibility of one aspiring to Godhood never to look away. Wilful ignorance was the last refuge of humanity, and that was a condition he would soon have transcended.

  And, when he studied the scene, it wasn’t so unbearable. He could look at the tumble of corpses and see them for the empty sacks they were.

  But, as he turned to the door, something did make him flinch. Not a sight, but a memory: of Messimeris’ last act. That stepping forward, that raised hand. He hadn’t realized what it had signified until now. The man had been seeking payment. Try as he might to find some other explanation, Shadwell could not.

  He, the sometime Salesman, had finally become a purchaser; and Messimeris’ dying gesture had been to remind him of that.

  He would have to start the campaign moving. Subdue the opposition and get access to the Gyre as speedily as possible. Once he’d drawn back the veil of cloud he’d be a God. And Gods were beyond the claims of creditors, alive or dead.

  IV

  THE ROPE-DANCERS

  1

  al and Suzanna walked as swiftly as curiosity would allow. There was much, despite the urgency of their mission, that slowed their steps. Such fecundity in the world around them, and a razor-sharp wit in its shaping, that they found themselves remarking on the remarkable so frequently they had to give it up and simply look. Amid the spectacle of flora and fauna surrounding them they saw no species entirely without precedent in the Kingdom of the Cuckoo, but nothing here – from pebble to bird, nor anything the eye could admire between – was untouched by some transforming magic.

  Creatures crossed their path that belonged distantly to the family of fox, hare, cat and snake; but only distantly. And amongst the changes wrought in them was a total lack of timidity. None fled before the newcomers; only glanced Cal and Suzanna’s way in casual acknowledgement of their existence, then went about their business.

  It might have been Eden – or an opium dream of same – until the sound of a radio being ineptly tuned broke the illusion. Fragments of music and voices, interspersed with piercing whines and white noise, all punctuated by whoops of pleasure, drifted from beyond a small stand of silver birches. The whoops were rapidly replaced, however, by shouting and threats, which escalated as Cal and Suzanna made their way through the trees.

  On the other side was a field of tall, sere grass. In it, three youths. One was balanced on a rope slung loosely between posts, watching the other two as they fought. The source of the acrimony was self-evident: the radio. The shorter of the pair, whose hair was so blond it was almost white, was defending his possession from his bulkier opponent, with little success. The aggressor snatched it from the youth’s grip and threw it across the field. It struck one of several weather-worn statues that stood half lost in the grass, and the song it had been playing abruptly ceased. Its owner threw himself at the destroyer, yelling his fury:

  ‘You bastard! Your broke it! You damn well broke it.’

  ‘It was Cuckoo-shite, de Bono,’ the other youth replied, easily fending off the blows. ‘You shouldn’t mess with shite. Didn’t your Mam tell you that?’

  ‘It was mine!’ de Bono shouted back, giving up on his attack and going in search of his possession. ‘I don’t want your scummy hands on it.’

  ‘God, you’re pathetic, you know that?’

  ‘Shut up, dickhead!’ de Bono spat back. He couldn’t locate the radio in the shin-high grass, which merely fuelled his fury.

  ‘Galin’s right,’ the rope-percher piped up.

  De Bono had fished a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles from the breast pocket of his shirt, and had crouched down to scrabble around for his prize.

  ‘It’s corruption,’ said the youth on the rope, who had now taken to performing a series of elaborate steps along its length: hops, skips and jumps. Starbrook
would have your balls if he knew.’

  ‘Starbrook won’t know,’ de Bono growled.

  ‘Oh yes he will,’ said Galin, casting a look up at the rope-dancer. ‘Because you’re going to tell him, aren’t you. Toller?’

  ‘Maybe,’ came the reply; and with it a smug smile.

  De Bono had found the radio. He picked it up and shook it. There was no music forthcoming.

  ‘You shit-head,’ he said, turning to Galin. ‘Look what you did.’

  He might have renewed his assault at this juncture, if Toller, from his perch on the rope, hadn’t set eyes on their audience.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ he said.

  All three stared at Suzanna and Cal.

  This is Starbrook’s Field,’ said Galin, his tone threatening. ‘You shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t like women here.’

  ‘Mind you, he’s a damn fool,’ said de Bono, putting his fingers through his hair and grinning at Suzanna. ‘And you can tell him that, too, if he ever comes back.’

  ‘I will,’ said Toller, grimly. ‘Depend on it.’

  ‘Who is this Starbrook?’ said Cal.

  ‘Who’s Starbrook?’ Galin said. ‘Everybody knows …’ His voice trailed away; comprehension dawned. ‘You’re Cuckoos,’ he said.

  That’s right.’

  ‘Cuckoos?’ said Toller, so aghast he almost lost his balance. ‘In the Field?’

  De Bono’s grin merely became more luminous at this revelation.

  ‘Cuckoos,’ he said. Then you can mend the machine –’

  He crossed towards Cal and Suzanna, proffering the radio.

  ‘I’ll give it a try,’ said Cal.

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ said Galin, either to Cal, or de Bono, or both.

  ‘It’s just a radio, for God’s sake,’ Cal protested.