Weaveworld (51 page)

‘Be ready.’ the Prophet was telling the assembly. ‘Be ready. The hour is near.’

With that promise, the lights above the platform went out. When they came on again, moments later, the voice of Capra had gone, leaving an empty chair and a congregation ready to follow him wherever he chose to lead them.

There were cries from around the hall for him to speak to them again, but the door at the back of the stage was closed and not reopened. Gradually, realizing they wouldn’t persuade their leader to appear again, the crowd began to disperse.

‘Didn’t I tell you?’ said Nimrod. He stank of sweat, as did they all. ‘Didn’t I say?’

‘Yes, you did.’

Nimrod seized hold of Jerichau’s arm.

‘Come with me now,’ he said, eyes gleaming. ‘We’ll go to the Prophet. We’ll tell him where the carpet is.’

‘Now?’

‘Why not? Why give our enemies any more time to prepare themselves?’

Jerichau had vaguely anticipated this exchange. He had his excuses prepared.

‘Suzanna must be persuaded of the wisdom of this,’ he said. ‘I can best do that. She trusts me.’

‘Then I’ll come with you.’

‘No. I’ll do it alone.’

Nimrod looked wary; perhaps even suspicious.

‘I watched over you once.’ Jerichau reminded him, ‘when you were a babe in arms.’ This was his ace card. ‘Remember that?’

Nimrod couldn’t keep a smile from his face. ‘Such times,’ he said.

‘You’re going to have to trust me the way you trusted me then,’ Jerichau said. He didn’t much like the deception, but this was no time for ethical niceties. ‘Let me go to Suzanna,
and together we’ll bring the carpet here. Then we can all go to the Prophet; the three of us.’

‘Yes,’ said Nimrod. ‘I suppose there’s sense in that.’

They walked to the door together. The throng of devotees was already dispersing into the night. Jerichau made his farewells and his promises to Nimrod, and headed away. When he’d gained sufficient cover of distance and darkness, he made a long arc around the building, and headed back towards it.

IV

AS GOOD MEN GO

t began to rain while he kept watch at the rear of the foundry, but after twenty minutes his waiting was rewarded. A door opened, and two of the Prophet’s Elite Guard emerged. So eager were they for the shelter of their car – there were several parked behind the building – that they left the door behind them ajar. Jerichau lingered in the shelter of the dripping undergrowth until they’d driven away, then crossed at speed to the door, and stepped inside.

He was in a dirty, brick-lined corridor, off which several small passageways ran. A lamp burned at the end of the corridor where he stood; the rest of the place was in darkness.

Once away from the outside door – and the sound of the rain – he could hear voices. He followed them, the passageway becoming darker as he left the vicinity of the bulb. Words came and went.

‘… the smell of them …’ somebody said. There was laughter. Using it as cover, Jerichau moved more swiftly towards the sound. Now another light, albeit dim, reached his straining eyes.

‘They’re making a fool of you,’ a second voice said. It was Hobart who replied.

‘We’re close. I tell you,’ he said. ‘I’ll have her.’

‘Never mind the woman …’ came the response. The voice was perhaps that of the Prophet, though it had changed timbre.
‘… I want the carpet. All the armies in the world are worth fuck-all if we’ve got nothing to conquer.’

The vocabulary was less circumspect than his words from the platform had been: there was no reluctance to lead the army here; no false modesty. Jerichau pressed close to the door from beyond which the voices came.

‘Get this filth off me will you?’ said the Prophet. ‘It smothers me.’

No sooner had he spoken than all conversation on the other side of the door abruptly ceased. Jerichau held his breath, fearful he was missing some whispered exchange. But he could hear nothing.

Then, the Prophet again.

‘We shouldn’t have secrets …’ he said, apparently apropos of nothing. ‘Seeing is believing, don’t they
say
!’

At this, the door was flung wide. Jerichau had no chance to retreat, but stumbled forward into the room. He was instantly seized by Hobart, who wrenched his captive’s arm behind his back until the bones threatened to snap, at the same time seizing Jerichau’s head so hard he could not move it.

‘You were right,’ said the Prophet. He was standing stark naked in the middle of the room, legs apart, arms spread wide, the sweat dripping from him. A bare bulb threw its uncharitable light upon his pale flesh, from which steam rose.

‘I can sniff them out,’ said a voice Jerichau recognized, and the Incantatrix Immacolata stepped into his line of vision. Despite his situation the terrible maiming of her face gave him some satisfaction. Harm had been done to this creature. That was cause for rejoicing.

‘How long were you listening?’ the Prophet asked Jerichau. ‘Did you hear anything interesting? Do tell.’

Jerichau looked back towards the man. Three members of the Elite were working about his body, wiping him down with towels. It wasn’t just his sweat they were removing; parts of his flesh – at the neck and shoulders, on the arms and hands – were coming away too. This was the smothering filth Jerichau
had heard him complain of; he was sloughing off the skin of the Prophet. The air was rank with the stench of venomous raptures: the corrupt magic of the Incantatrix.

‘Answer the man,’ said Hobart, twisting Jerichau’s arm to within a fraction of breaking.

‘I heard nothing,’ Jerichau gasped.

The steaming man snatched a towel from one of his attendants.

‘Jesus,’ he said, as he rubbed at his face. ‘This stuff is a trial.’

Pieces of flesh fell from beneath the towel, and hit the floor, hissing. He threw the dirtied towel down with them, and looked back up at Jerichau. Remnants of the illusion clung to his features here and there, but the actor beneath was quite recognizable: Shadwell the Salesman, naked as the day he was born. He tore off the white wig he’d worn, and tossed that down too, then snapped his fingers. A cigarette, already lit, was placed in his hand. He drew on it deeply, wiping a glob of ectoplasm from beneath his eye with the ball of his hand.

‘Were you at the meeting?’ he asked.

‘Of course he was,’ Immacolata said, but she was silenced with a sharp look from Shadwell. He pulled at his foreskin, quite unselfconsciously.

‘Was I good?’ he said. ‘No, no, of course I was.’

He peered at his pudenda over his shiny gut. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he said.

Jerichau kept his mouth shut.

‘I asked you a question,’ said Shadwell. He put the cigarette between his lips and spread his arms, so that his dressers could finish his toilet. They proceeded to towel the remaining ectoplasm from his face and body, then began to powder his bulk.

‘I know him,’ said Hobart.

‘Do you indeed?’

‘He’s the woman’s partner. He’s with Suzanna.’

‘Really?’ said Shadwell. ‘Did you come to make a sale, is that it? See what we’d pay you for her?’

‘I haven’t seen her …’ Jerichau said.

‘Oh yes you have,’ said Shadwell. ‘And you’re going to tell us where to find her.’

Jerichau closed his eyes. Oh Gods, make this end, he thought; don’t let me suffer. I’m not strong. I’m not strong.

‘It won’t take long,’ Shadwell murmured.

Tell him,’ said Hobart. Jerichau cried out as his bones creaked.

‘Stop that!’ Shadwell said. The grip relaxed a little. ‘Keep your brutalities out of my sight,’ said the Salesman. His voice rose. ‘Understand me?’ he said. ‘Do you?
Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Shadwell grunted, then turned to Immacolata, his sudden fury just as suddenly dissipated.

‘I think your sisters might enjoy him,’ he said. ‘Get them here, will you?’

The Incantatrix uttered a summons, which came from her misshapen lips like breath on an icy morning. Shadwell returned his attention to Jerichau, speaking as he dressed.

There’s more than pain to be suffered,’ he said lightly, ‘if you don’t tell me where I may find the carpet.’

He hoisted up his trousers, and buttoned up the fly, throwing an occasional glance in Jerichau’s direction.

‘What are you waiting for?’ he said to the prisoner. ‘Some bargain or other?’

He put on his tie, while his attenders tied his shoe-laces.

‘You’ll wait a long time, my friend. I don’t barter these days. I don’t offer treats. My days as a Salesman are numbered.’

He took the jacket from his attendant, and slipped it on. The lining shimmered. Its powers were familiar to Jerichau from Suzanna’s stories; but it seemed Shadwell had no desire to win a confession from him by that means.

‘Tell me where the carpet can be found,’ he said, ‘or the sisters and their children will undo you nerve by nerve. Not a difficult choice, I would have thought.’

Jerichau made no reply.

There was a chill wind from the corridor.

‘Ah, the ladies,’ said Shadwell; and Death flew in at the door.

V

THE HOURS PASS

1

nd still he didn’t return.

It was three-thirty in the morning. She had stood by the window as the hour grew late; watched drunkards brawl, and two unlikely whores ply their desperate trade, until a police vehicle cruised by and they were either arrested or hired. Now the street was deserted, and all she had to watch were the lights changing at the crossroads – green, red, amber, green – without a vehicle passing in either direction. And still he didn’t return.

She turned over a variety of explanations. That the meeting was still going on, and he couldn’t slip away without arousing suspicion; that he’d found friends amongst the audience, and was talking over old times with them. That this; that that. But none of her excuses quite convinced her. Something was wrong. She and the menstruum both knew it.

They had made no contingency plans, which was stupid. How could they have been so stupid, she asked herself over and over. Now she was left pacing the narrow room not knowing what to do for the best; not wanting to leave in case he returned the minute after and discovered her gone, yet fearful of staying in case he’d been captured and was even now being beaten into telling them where she could be found.