Imajica

  “There are ceremonies—”

  “I don’t give a shit,” Gentle said, and without waiting for further objections from Floccus, he headed off in what he hoped was the right direction.

  Floccus followed, trotting beside Gentle, opening new arguments against what Gentle was planning with every fourth or fifth step. The Erasure was restless tonight, he said, there was talk of ruptures in it; to wander in its vicinity when it was so volatile was dangerous, possibly suicidal; and besides, it was a desecration. Gentle might be a Maestro, but it didn’t give him the right to ignore the etiquette of what he was planning. He was a guest, invited in on the understanding that he obey the rules. And rules weren’t written for the fun of it. There were good reasons to keep strangers from trespassing there. They were ignorant, and ignorance could bring disaster on everybody.

  “What’s the use of rules, if nobody really understands what’s going on out there?” Gentle said.

  “But we do! We understand this place. It’s where God begins.”

  “So if the Erasure kills me, you know what to write in my obituary. ‘Gentle, ended where God begins.’ “

  “This isn’t funny, Gentle.”

  “Agreed.”

  “It’s life or death.”

  “Agreed.”

  “So why are you doing it?”

  “Because wherever Pie is, that’s where I belong. And I would have thought even someone as half-sighted and short-witted as you would have seen that!”

  “You mean shortsighted and halfwitted.”

  “You said it.”

  Ahead lay the door he and Athanasius had stepped through. It was open and unguarded.

  “I just want to say—” Floccus began.

  “Leave it alone, Floccus.”

  “—it’s been too short a friendship,” the man replied, bringing Gentle to a halt, shamed by his outburst.

  “Don’t mourn me yet,” he said softly.

  Floccus made no reply, but backed away from the open door, leaving Gentle to step through it alone. The night outside was hushed, the wind having dropped to little more than a breeze. He scanned the terrain, left and right. There were worshipers in both directions, kneeling in the gloom, their heads bowed as they meditated on God’s Nowhere. Not wishing to disturb them, he moved as quietly as he could over the uneven ground, but the smaller shards of rock ahead of him skipped and rolled as he approached, as though to announce him with their rattle and clatter. This was not the only response to his presence. The air he exhaled, which he’d turned to killing use so many times now, darkened as it left his lips, the cloud shot through with threads of bright scarlet. They didn’t disperse, these breaths, but sank as though weighed down by their own lethality, wrapping around his torso and legs like funeral robes. He made no attempt to shrug them off, even though their folds soon concealed the ground andslowed his step. Nor did he have to puzzle much over their purpose. Now that he was unaccompanied by Athanasius, the air was determined to deny him the defense of walking here as an innocent, as a man in pursuit of an errant lover. Wrapped in black and attended by drums, his profounder nature was here revealed: he was a Maestro with a murderous power at his lips, and there would be no concealing that fact, either from the Erasure or from those who were meditating upon it.

  Several of the worshipers had been stirred from their contemplations by the sound of the stones and now looked up to see they had an ominous figure in their midst. One, kneeling alone close to Gentle’s path, rose in panic and fled, uttering a prayer of protection. Another fell prostrate, sobbing. Rather than intimidate them further with his gaze, Gentle turned his eyes on God’s Nowhere, scouring the ground close to the margin of solid earth and void for some sign of Pie ‘oh’ pah. The sight of the Erasure no longer distressed him as it had when he’d first stepped out here with Athanasius. Clothed as he was, and thus announced, he came before the void as a man of power. For him to have attempted the rites of Reconciliation, he must have made his peace with this mystery. He had nothing to fear from it.

  By the time he set eyes on Pie ‘oh’ pah he was three or four hundred yards from the door, and the assembly of meditators had thinned to a brave few who’d wandered from the main knot of the congregation in search of solitude. Some had already retreated, seeing him approach, but a stoical few kept their praying places and let this stranger pass by without so much as glancing up at him. Now so folded in sable breath he feared Pie would not recognize him, Gentle began to call the mystif’s name. The call went unacknowledged. Though the mystif’s head was no more than a dark blur in the murk, Gentle knew what its hungry eyes were fixed upon: the enigma that was coaxing its steady step the way a cliff edge might coax a suicide. He picked up his pace, his momentum moving steadily larger stones as he went. Though there was no sign that the mystif was in any hurry, he feared that once it was in the equivocal region between solid ground and nothingness, it would be irretrievable.

  “Pie!” he yelled as he went. “Can you hear me? Please, stop!”

  The words went on clouding and clothing him, but they had no effect upon Pie until Gentle turned his requests into an order.

  “Pie ‘oh’ pah. This is your Maestro. Stop.”

  The mystif stumbled as Gentle spoke, as though his demand had put an obstacle in its way. A small, almost bestial sound of pain escaped it. But it did as its sometime summoner had ordered and stopped in its tracks like a dutiful servant, waiting until the Maestro reached its side.

  Gentle was within ten paces, now, and saw how far advanced the process of unknitting was. The mystif was barely more than a shadow among shadows, its features impossible to read, its body insubstantial. If Gentle needed any further proof that the Erasure was not a place of healing, it was in the sight of the uredo, which was more solid than the body it had fed upon, its livid stains intermittently brightening like embers caught by a gusting wind.

  “Why did you leave your bed?” Gentle said, his pace slowed once again as he approached the mystif. Its form seemed so tenuous he feared any violent motion might disperse it entirely. “There’s nothing beyond the Erasure you need, Pie. Your life’s here, with me.”

  The mystif took a little time to reply. When it did its voice was as ethereal as its substance, a slender, exhausted plea emerging from a spirit at the edge of total collapse.

  “I don’t have any life left, Maestro,” it said.

  “Let me be the judge of that. I swore to myself I wouldn’t let you go again, Pie. I want to look after you, make you well. Bringing you here was a mistake, I see that now. I’m sorry if it’s brought you pain, but I’ll take you away—”

  “It wasn’t a mistake. You found your way here for your own reasons.”

  “You’re my reason, Pie. I didn’t know who I was till you found me, and I’ll forget myself again if you go.”

  “No, you won’t,” it said, the dubious outline of its head turning in Gentle’s direction. Though there was no gleam to mark the place where its eyes had been, Gentle knew it was looking at him. “You’re the Maestro Sartori. The Reconciler of the Imajica.” It faltered for a long moment. When its voice came again, it was frailer than ever. “And you are also my master, and my husband, and my dearest brother. . . . If you order me to stay, then I will stay. But if you love me, Gentle, then please . . . let . . . me . . . go.”

  The request could scarcely have been made more simply or more eloquently, and had Gentle known without question there was an Eden on the other side of the Erasure, ready to receive Pie’s spirit, he would have let the mystif go there and then, agonizing as it would be. But he believed differently and was ready to say it, even in such proximity to the void.

  “It’s not heaven, Pie. Maybe God’s there, maybe not. But until we know—”

  “Why not just let me go now and see for myself? I’m not afraid. This is the Dominion where my people were made. I want to see it.” In these words there was the first hint of passion Gentle had so far heard. “I’m dying, Maestro. I need to lie down and s
leep.”

  “What if there’s nothing there, Pie? What if it’s only emptiness?”

  “I’d prefer the absence to the pain.”

  The reply defeated Gentle utterly. “Then you’d better go,” he said, wishing he could find some more tender way to relinquish his hold, but unable to conceal his desolation with platitudes. However much he wanted to save Pie from suffering, his sympathy could not outweigh the need he felt, nor quite annul the sense of ownership which, however unsavory, was a part of what he felt towards this creature.

  “I wish we could have taken this last journey together, Maestro,” Pie said. “But you’ve got work to do, I know. Great work.”

  “And how do I do it without you?” Gentle said, knowing this was a wretched gambit—and half ashamed of it—but unwilling to let the mystif pass from life without voicing every desire he knew to keep it from going.

  “You’re not alone,” Pie said. “You’ve met Tick Raw and Scopique. They were both members of the last Synod, and they’re ready to work the Reconciliation with you.”

  “They’re Maestros?”

  “They are now. They were novices the last time, but they’re prepared now. They’ll work in their Dominions while you work in the Fifth.”

  “They waited all this time?”

  “They knew you’d come. Or, if not you, somebody in your place.”

  He’d treated them both so badly, he thought, Tick Raw especially.

  “Who’ll represent the Second?” he said. “And the First?”

  “There was a Eurhetemec in Yzordderrex, waiting to work for the Second, but he’s dead. He was old the last time, and he couldn’t wait. I asked Scopique to find a replacement.”

  “And here?”

  “I’d hoped that honor might fall to me, but now you’ll need to find someone in my place. Don’t look so lost, Maestro, please. You were a great Reconciler—”

  “I failed. How great is that?”

  “You won’t fail again.”

  “I don’t even know the ceremonies.”

  “You’ll remember, after a time.”

  “How?”

  “All that we did and said and felt is still waiting in Gamut Street. All our preparations, all our debates. Even me.”

  “Memory isn’t enough, Pie.”

  “I know. . . .”

  “I want you real. I want you . . . forever.”

  “Maybe, when the Imajica is whole again and the First Dominion opens, you’ll find me.”

  There was some tiny hope in that, he thought, though whether it would be enough to keep him from despair when the mystif had disappeared he didn’t know.

  “May I go?” Pie said.

  Gentle had never uttered a harder syllable than his next. “Yes,” he said.

  The mystif raised its hand, which was no more than a five-fingered wisp of smoke, and put it against Gentle’s lips. He felt no physical contact, but his heart jumped in his chest.

  “We’re not lost,” Pie said. “Trust in that.”

  Then the fingers dropped away, and the mystif started from Gentle’s side towards the Erasure. There were perhaps a dozen yards to cover, and as the gap diminished Gentle’s heart, already pounding after Pie’s touch, beat faster, its drum tolling in his head. Even now, knowing he couldn’t rescind the freedom he’d granted, it was all he could do not to pursue the mystif and delay it just another moment: to hear its voice, to stand beside it, to be the shadow of its shadow.

  It didn’t glance back, but stepped with cruel ease into the no-man’s-land between solidity and nothingness. Gentle refused to look away but stared on with a steadfastness more defiant than heroic. The place was well named. As the mystif walked it was erased, like a sketch that had served its Creator’s purpose and was no longer needed on the page. But unlike the sketch, which however fastidiously erased always left some trace to mark the artist’s error, when Pie finally disappeared the vanishing was complete, leaving the spot flawless. If Gentle had not had the mystif in his memory—that unreliable book—it might never have existed.

  I

  WHEN HE RETURNED INSIDE, it was to meet the stares of fifty or more people gathered at the door, all of whom had obviously witnessed what had just happened, albeit at some distance. Nobody so much as coughed until he’d passed; then he heard the whispers rise like the sound of swarming insects. Did they have nothing better to do than gossip about his grief? he thought. The sooner he was away from here, the better. He’d say his farewells to Estabrook and Floccus and leave immediately.

  He returned to Pie’s bed, hoping the mystif might have left some keepsake for him, but the only sign of its presence was the indentation in the pillow on which its beautiful head had lain. He longed to lie there himself for a little time, but it was too public for such an indulgence. He would grieve when he was away from here.

  As he prepared to leave, Floccus appeared, his wiry little body twitching like a boxer anticipating a blow.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said.

  “I was coming to find you anyway,” Gentle said. “Just to say thank you, and goodbye.”

  “Before you go,” Floccus said, blinking maniacally, “I’ve a message for you.” He’d sweated all the color from his face and stumbled over every other word.

  “I’m sorry for my behavior,” Gentle said, trying to soothe him. “You did all you could have done, and all you got for it was my foul temper.”

  “No need to apologize.”

  “Pie had to go, and I have to stay. That’s the way of it.”

  “It’s a pleasure to have you back,” Floccus gushed. “Really, Maestro, really.”

  That Maestro gave Gentle a clue to this performance. “Floccus? Are you afraid of me?” he said. “You are, aren’t you?”

  “Afraid? Ah, well—ah, yes. In a manner of speaking. Yes. What happened out there, your getting so close to the Erasure and not being claimed, and the way you’ve changed”—the dark garb still clung about him, he realized, its slow dispersal draping shreds of smoke around his limbs—“it puts a different complexion on things. I hadn’t understood; forgive me, it was stupid; I hadn’t understood, you know, that I was in the company of, well, such a power. If I, you know, caused any offense—”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I can be frivolous.”

  “You were fine company, Floccus.”

  “Thank you, Maestro. Thank you. Thank you.”

  “Please stop thanking me.”

  “Yes. I will. Thank you.”

  “You said you had a message.”

  “I did? I did.”

  “Who from?”

  “Athanasius. He’d like very much to see you.”

  Here was the third farewell he owed, Gentle thought. “Then take me to him, if you would,” he said, and Floccus, his face flooded with relief that he’d survived this interview, turned and led him from the empty bed.

  In the few minutes it took for them to thread their way through the body of the tent, the wind, which had dropped almost to nothing at twilight, began to rise with fresh ferocity. By the time Floccus ushered him into the chamber where Athanasius waited, it was beating at the walls wildly. The lamps on the floor flickered with each gust, and by their panicky light Gentle saw what a melancholy place Athanasius had chosen for their parting. The chamber was a mortuary, its floor littered with bodies wrapped in every kind of rag and shroud, some neatly parceled, most barely covered: further proof—as if it were needed—of how poor a place of healing this was. But that argument was academic now. This was neither the time nor the place to bruise the man’s faith, not with the night wind thrashing at the walls and the dead everywhere underfoot.

  “Do you want me to stay?” Floccus asked Athanasius, clearly desperate to be shunned.

  “No, no. Go by all means,” the other replied.

  Floccus turned to Gentle and made a little bow. “It was an honor, sir,” he said, then beat a hasty retreat.

  When Gentle looked back towards Athanasius
, the man had wandered to the far end of the mortuary and was staring down at one of the shrouded bodies. He had dressed for this somber place, the loose bright garb he’d been wearing earlier discarded in favor of robes so deep a blue they were practically black.

  “So, Maestro,” he said. “I was looking for a Judas in our midst and I missed you. That was careless, eh?”

  His tone was conversational, which made a statement Gentle already found confusing doubly so.

  “What do you mean?” he said.

  “I mean you tricked your way into our tents, and now you expect to depart without paying a price for your desecration.”

  “There was no trick,” Gentle said. “The mystif was sick, and I thought it could be healed here. If I failed to observe the formalities out there, you’ll excuse me. I didn’t have time to take a theology lesson.”

  “The mystif was never sick. Or if it was you sickened it yourself, so you could worm your way in here. Don’t even bother to protest. I saw what you did out there. What’s the mystif going to do, make some report on us to the Unbeheld?”

  “What are you accusing me of exactly?”

  “Do you even come from the Fifth, I find myself wondering, or is that also part of the plot?”

  “There is no plot.”

  “Only I’ve heard that revolution and theology are bad bed-fellows there, which of course seems strange to us. How can one ever be separated from the other? If you want to change even a little part of your condition, you must expect the consequences to reach the ears of divinities sooner or later, and then you must have your reasons ready.”

  Gentle listened to all of this, wondering if it might not be simplest to quit the room and leave Athanasius to ramble. Clearly none of this really made any sense. But he owed the man a little patience, perhaps, if only for the words of wisdom he’d bestowed at the wedding.

  “You think I’m involved in some conspiracy,” Gentle said. “Is that it?”

  “I think you’re a murderer, a liar, and an agent of the Autarch,” Athanasius said.

  “You call me a liar? Who’s the one who seduced all these poor fuckers into thinking they could be healed here, you or me? Look at them!” He pointed along the rows. “You call this healing? I don’t. And if they had the breath—”