Philip made his way to the sofa and knelt before the Greme, lowering his head. ‘Take this fucking thing off me, Pocket.’
‘Ah. Readied, are we? No need to demand Render this time, my pony?’
‘Just take it off.’
‘Magick word?’
‘Please.’
Pocket leaned forward and looped the chain over Philip’s head. He took the Amulet in his pale hand, studied it for a moment, then secreted it inside his jerkin.
‘Easy in the end, eh, Murdstone? Just like that. Who’d have thought? Now, are you meaning to spend all day with your snout in my crotch?’
Philip crawled across the room and into his armchair. The glass of whiskey he’d abandoned many hours earlier contained a drowned bluebottle and smelled of burning plastic. He drank from it nonetheless.
Pocket watched him. He said, ‘Not the ending you’d hankered, I fancy.’
‘No.’ It came out as a malted croak. ‘It’s horrible. Ugly. Perverse. Wrong!’
‘True.’
‘They’d hate it. Gorgon, Hollywood, everyone. I’d get slaughtered. Minerva would have my balls.’
‘I wish her stronger luck in that work than I had.’
‘It’s … hopeless.’
‘That’s a tad on the harsh side, Murdstone.’
Philip riled his hair with his hands. ‘I can do dark, Pocket. I do do dark. But that’ – he gestured towards the stairs – ‘that is …’
‘True,’ the Greme said once more. A muted trilling from Pocket’s pocket. He took out the egg, twisted it. Hummed a quick calculation.
Philip had sagged in the chair; now he lifted his head. His gaze was wet and reddish.
‘And you, Pocket. Why?’
‘That’s a riddle with only one arsecheek, Murdstone. Me why what?’
‘It was you, wasn’t it, that led the Swelts to the Library. Betrayed poor old Orberry. Why, for God’s sake?’
Wellfair put his hands on his knees and studied them for a long moment. ‘It don’t sit well with me, Murdstone. Don’t think that. I’m glad the Ledgers burned, truth told. I wouldn’t want my doings inked and fixed.’ He looked up. ‘But I’d no flukin choice, see?’
‘What happened, Pocket?’
The Greme sighed. ‘I was square snaffled, Murdstone. Turns out Morl’s occulators had angled the Fourth Device. And there was I in bleddy Mort A’Dor asleep beneath the buggerin thing. When I wake up there’s Morl smirkin down at me with a dozen Swelts behind him. I near on beshat myself. To cut to the quick of it, there’s two ways it can go. One is I get chopped to gobbets, slow. And wakeful while it’s done. Or I enter his service. Mince or minion. Not exactly arsy-varsy, is it? Can’t say I argued the toss with myself for very long. Would you?’
Philip said nothing.
‘But d’you know what really naggled my wick, Murdstone? What proper slived and boned me? I swear thrall, on my knees, and when I’m done Morl says to me, I should kill you anyway, Greme, for crimes against language. How so, master, says I, all aback. And he says – hark to this, Murdstone – my manner of writing was rustic slopshite. And deribative.’
Pocket was temporarily overcome by bitterness. Philip could taste its sharpness on the stale air.
‘Rustic, Murdstone! Rustic! And me a Full Clerk with two Ledgers and half a flaky one under my belt!’ He thumped his albino fist on the arm of the sofa. He was lost in sullen introspection for several slow seconds. Then he looked at Philip and said, ‘Deribative’s a word not known to me. But I’d wager my bollix it’s not by way of a compliment.’
‘No,’ Philip said, ‘it’s not.’ He eased the dead fly out of his glass with two fingers and flipped it at the fireplace. It fell short.
The Greme sat silently, perhaps in expectation of sympathy or even absolution. When neither was forthcoming he got to his feet and chafed his hands together in a businesslike way, as might a milkmaid settling to the first teats on a cold morning.
‘Well, anyways up. You’ve got the third portion of your tribble and, like I say—’
‘I’ve deleted it.’
‘Whatsay?’
‘Waked and Banished it. Buried it outside the parish.’
‘You’re frolickin with me.’
‘No.’
Pocket stared at him. ‘Stap me, Murdstone, if you aren’t the … Words bleddy fail me.’ He fingered an earlobe anxiously. ‘T’won’t go down well in certain quarters, I can vouch you that. He wants it known abroad.’
‘Sod him,’ Philip said sincerely.
‘Clamp your gob, Murdstone,’ Pocket hissed. ‘Fluke me.’ After worrying at his ear a little longer the Greme said, ‘We keep this close, hear me? Not a bleddy word to a living soul or any other kind. No more talk of Waking and Banishing. And I never heard tell of it. I reckon I must’ve fell deaf as a coffin-nail this last while.’ He waited. ‘Murdstone?’
‘OK,’ Philip said listlessly.
‘Whatsay?’
‘Square, Pocket. Square. Who gives a monkey’s, anyway?’ Philip was aware that his speech had slurred and thickened. But it wasn’t the whisky. He was separating out. Parts of him weren’t taking messages. He refocused on Pocket, watched him stretch his back and flare his nostrils ostentatiously.
‘Fresh air, Murdstone. That’s what we need. I’ve had as much reek of your manky burrow as my noseholes can handle. Come on, my dabchick. Out of doors. On your feet.’
‘I’m all right where I am.’
Wellfair gave an impatient little grunt and made a lifting gesture with his hand. Philip’s legs straightened of their own accord and he found himself upright. At the same instant, as if he’d hoisted his head into a nasty stratum, he became aware of the unpleasant odour in the room. It was brownish and hairy.
He tottered to the open door and let Pocket take his arm.
9
The light was too much for him. A sudden white-out, prismatic at its edges. He was obliged to support himself on his voodoo fence until he could see.
Pocket waited, inhaling hungrily like the survivor of a long-haul flight, then escorted Philip to the gateway in the ancient drystone wall.
In autumns past, the view had been a particular delight to him. The soft magenta iridescence of the heather on Goat’s Elbow Hill, larch and birch taking on shades of spice and tobacco, slow-roiling mists lending the scene a sad but pleasurable transience. Not so now. It seemed to Philip bleak, smoky, harshly lit: the sinister establishing shot of a violent movie. There was definitely something wrong with his eyes. And now his ears were playing tricks, too; sheep-groan and birdsong phasing into human cries, a dog’s furious barking into laughter. Something soft landed on his hand. A flake of ash.
‘Murdstone?’
Philip turned. Pocket was gazing up at him. The Greme’s eyes were pools of blackness. Philip tried to speak but could only gasp as he was seized, enwrapped, by a force that hosed him into the sky. It was a shorter trip this time. In a mere second he found himself – presumably incorporeal but still in possession of his faculties, such as they were – stationary.
Below him, Flemworthy was burning.
Thick smoke – bringing with it olfactory nuances of monkfish and pomegranate molasses – poured from the windows of the Gelder’s Rest. It cast a pall, red-brindled by firelight, over the Square. Flameproof Swelts pushed red-hot trolleys of loot from the inferno that had once been Kwik Mart.
The thatched roofs of the public conveniences and the library were harmoniously ablaze. Francine and Merilee, squealing pleasurably, their plump calves pumping, were being borne on the shoulders of two eager Swelts towards the shrubbery of the Memorial Gardens.
From the roof of the warehouse behind Farm and Leisure Footwear a fireball erupted, a huge red and black chrysanthemum on a tall black stalk.
At the junction of Okehampton Road and Pester Street an articulated lorry had jackknifed, shedding its cargo of blazing bales of straw onto the Chapel of Rest belonging to Lumb & Son, funeral directors, thus saving
two grieving families the not inconsiderable expense of formal cremation.
Slowly the holocaust rolled out of Philip Murdstone’s appalled gaze. Fresh horrors came into view.
Around the trashed remains of Krishna Mersey’s yurt a platoon of Swelts, smoking spliffs the size of trombones, performed a stumbling victory dance.
Swelts were everywhere, in fact. The landscape was wormy with them. Some, chanting, marched towards some violent purpose. Others roamed in bands, looting and pillaging at random.
The Wringers had been uprooted, the stones laid on the ground to form the letters
At Sullencott Manor, his back to the ha-ha, his service pistol in one hand and a cavalry sabre in the other, Sir Arthur readied himself for his last stand. The walls of his venerable home wore a coat of fire or perhaps, Philip hoped, Virginia creeper.
At the Toggenheim Stud, a festive band of Swelts roasted goats on spits improvised from lances supported on halberds.
Pocket’s grip on Philip’s arm tightened and they gained height and speed. Beyond Sheep Nose Tor, the high moor stretched into the hazy distance. It became unfamiliar, then took on a new familiarity. They were above Farrin. As soon as Philip recognized it, it gave way to the restless sands of Galling Waste.
Time gulped, swallowing itself; above Homely Plain Philip found himself rewitnessing the disasters he had described a few hours earlier. Groaning, he looked ahead, expecting to see the louring cloud of Morl’s Thule. It was not there. In its place an immense and glittering monolith reared into the sky. A vast tower of black reflective glass towards which, at which, Pocket was steering him at suicidal speed.
Inside his head he heard Pocket say Morl’s Panopticon.
The building loomed towards them until all else was blotted out. Philip felt a scream spool out of him like a knotted rope. They hurtled into the dark mirror. The last thing he saw before his death was his own distorted face; then he smashed into it.
Death, it turned out, was merely an icy spasm. When it was over, Philip found himself on all fours closely studying a floor formed of large hexagons of polished white marble. It looked expensive. Cautiously, he turned his head right then left. The floor seemed infinite in both directions.
‘Greetings, Murdstone. Our reunion, while inevitable, has been deferred longer than I had anticipated. Please stand.’
Philip did not want to stand. He wanted to continue to admire the ingenious floor and not see anything else at all, ever. He had died, and if Heaven were nothing more than perfect tiling he’d settle for that. He stood.
Morl, in person, was considerably more handsome than his appearances in Dark Entropy and Warlocks Pale suggested. The Antarch sat in a high-backed black chair, his right leg slung over one of its arms. He wore a simple white tunic and blue trousers beneath the necromantic robe. Between the drapes of his silver hair, his long face was perfectly symmetrical. Eyes – both of them! – blue as an iceberg’s shadow.
Peter O’Toole, Philip thought. Before his face went under the harrow.
Nothing wrong with the hands, either. Morl clicked the fingers of the left one. Pocket, who had been kneeling, got to his feet and, with a modest flourish, produced the Amulet. He lowered it by its chain onto Morl’s palm.
The necromancer caressed it with his thumb. ‘It has taken me no little effort, Murdstone, to disconjure and reconjure this small item. It was deeply spellbound. Its encryption was unique, the key lost. Its allegiance as unpredictable as it is powerful. And my labours were no whit eased by the misguided activities of this meddlesome Greme.’
Pocket lowered his head.
‘Yet I succeeded, as I assured you I would.’ He smiled. It was a smile that would have domesticated a grizzly bear.
‘Now, clerk, let us try its powers.’
‘Yes, master.’
Pocket approached the chair and, with due reverence, took the Amulet and looped its chain over his head. It hung peaceably against his belly. He walked briskly to a low table upon which sat a ream of paper and a fat inkpot. He settled himself on a stool and took up a pen. He examined its nib, appeared to find it satisfactory and dipped it in the ink. He flexed his fingers.
‘Square-set, master.’
Morl sat straighter and lightly gripped the arms of his chair. He raised his face slightly and closed his eyes. Instantly, Pocket began writing. Writing at tremendous speed, the tip of his blue tongue protruded, his hand a pale blur when it flew back and forth between paper and inkpot. He flicked completed pages away; they formed themselves into a neat pile.
Released from Morl’s hypnotic gaze, Philip felt himself sag. It would have been nice to sit down. His head was fizzing like sherbet. He turned it cautiously.
The dimensions of the space he was in seemed measureless, their perspective perverse.
Dark, but not dark. He was standing in one of several oases of light.
In another, some incalculable distance away, a great hemisphere of something like glass rose out of the floor; images, continuously changing and reforming, revolved on its surface.
In another, less distant, a cluster of furniture: a floating rail of hooks from which feminine apparel and soft implements were suspended; a white divan; a coiled black cabinet containing flasks and alembics of multi-coloured fluids.
In yet another, a leafless and muscular plant grew from a shallow bowl. Its branches clasped a huge fruit which might have been an apple were it not blue.
There was no sound other than Pocket’s hectic nibscratch. Philip felt it on his skin. Nibitch.
It stopped. Morl opened his eyes. Pocket let his pen fall. Unused ink crept from its nib back into the pot.
‘Word count, Greme?’
‘Three hunnerd and one score, a dozen and two odd, master.’
‘Quality?’
‘Top, master. Banewood and honey.’
Something was puzzling Philip and it wasn’t computation.
‘You are at liberty to speak, Murdstone. You have a question?’
‘Yes. Well. I mean, you’ve won, haven’t you? You’ve conquered the Realm …’
‘I reject the term conquest. I have merely brought about a much-needed and long-delayed modernization.’
‘Right. Sorry. But I was under the impression that you couldn’t do it without the Amulet. But you did. So I don’t understand why you went to so much trouble to get it.’
The smile again. ‘Your obtuseness continues to delight me,’ Morl said pleasantly. ‘It has unexpected depths.’
‘Thank you.’
‘The answer to your question is really rather simple. Nothing is real, Murdstone. Or, to be more exact, reality is fluid. Slippery. There are two ways of stabilizing it. The first is by the use of Magick, of course. However, Magick is difficult, its practice arduous. And even in the hands and mind of an adept as experienced as myself, not entirely reliable. The second is with words. Words and stories. The world is the stories we tell of it, Murdstone. That is why the Ledgers were held in such idolatrous esteem and so jealously guarded. They were also superstitious, confused and helplessly backward-looking, which made their destruction an urgent necessity.’
Philip risked a glance at Pocket, whose face was a whitewashed stone.
‘And now I have mastery of the Amulet, Murdstone. When I release my subjects from forgetfulness they will find themselves, through its powers, in a different story. The only story. My story.’
Morl seemed to be expecting an appreciative response, so Philip said, ‘Yes, I see. That’s very … brilliant.’
‘No, Murdstone. Simple. Merely troublesome to execute. Of course, the story will differ in some respects from the one I vouchsafed you, which was, of necessity, fanciful in parts. But it takes fancy needlework to make a silk purse from a pig’s ear. Eh, clerk?’
‘It does, master,’ Pocket said humbly.
‘Nonetheless, I presume your legions of benighted admirers will consume its final volume with their usual avidity? Might I even entertain the possibility of them finding
it instructive?’
Pocket grimaced a warning.
‘Yes,’ Philip said. ‘I’m sure they will.’ His vision had gone rambly again. The islands of light wandered. He said, ‘Can I sit down? I’ve got the most terrible headache.’
‘Have you, indeed? I shall relieve you of that forthwith.’
Morl raised a hand. The darkness behind him was illuminated to reveal a phalanx of Swelts. The foremost two wore red aprons over their armour. One bore a heavy axe with a long, crescent-edged blade. They advanced, their tusks wetted by anticipated pleasure, and took up position on either side of Philip, whose knees gave way.
‘Our business is concluded, Murdstone. I have much to attend to. You will understand, of course, that there can be no question of you returning, knowing what you know, to your own pitiful dimension. However, since you have been, to coin a phrase, a helpful nuisance, I have given orders that you are to be dispatched swiftly.’
‘No. Wait. Please. Listen, I’m a writer. I could work for you. I know how stories work. That’s what I’m good at.’
Pocket coughed behind his hand.
‘In an advisory capacity, even. Editorial. I could be useful. Please don’t kill me. It would be a waste.’
Morl chuckled. ‘What need have I of writers, Murdstone? Of drunkards and dreamers? Scribblers like you are a thing of the past. I have the Amulet.’
Words ran around in Philip’s brain like burning rats. He grabbed at a few of them. ‘Ah yes, but but it might … run out, lose its charge sort of thing or reverse it or something, then you’d need …’
Morl gestured with his head. Philip’s executioners stooped and effortlessly lifted him. His feet dangled half a metre from the floor.
‘No! Pleasepleaseplease! It’s not fair! It wasn’t my fault! Tell him, Pocket!’
He was turned. He was in darkness. Being carried deeper into it.
He looked back at the diminishing light and cried, ‘I could get you an agent!’
‘Where were we, Greme?’
‘The Lady Mesmira has fled the drunken, boorish attentions of the outlaw Cadrel, master, and thrown herself upon your mercy. Her nightshift, saturated by rain, clings to her. Her pink rosebud nipples are clearly discernible through the flimsy fabric and …’