‘Here,' he said, almost casually. ‘Did I not promise?'

... and so saying he put his heel to the carpet. It unrolled in front of him. The silence held; all eyes were on the design; two hundred minds and more sharing the same thought...

Open Sesame...

... the call of all eager visitors, set before closed doors, and desiring access.

Open; show yourself ...

Whether it was that collective act of will that began the unweaving, or whether the Prophet had previously plotted the mechanism, Suzanna could not know. Sufficient that it began. Not at the centre of the carpet, as at Shearman's house, but from the borders.

The last unweaving had been more accident than design, a wild eruption of threads and pigment, the Fugue breaking into sudden and chaotic life. This time there was clearly system at work in the process, the knots decoding their motifs in a pre-arranged sequence. The dance of threads was no less complex than before, but there was a consummate grace about the spectacle, the strands describing the most elegant manoeuvres as they filled the air, trailing life as they went. Forms were clothing themselves in flesh and feather, rock was flowing, trees taking flight towards their rooting place.

Suzanna had seen this glory before, of course, and was to some extent prepared for it. But to the Seerkind, and even more to Hobart and his bully-boys, the sight awoke fear and awe in equal measure.

Her guard utterly forgot his duty, and stood like a child before his first firework display, unsure of whether to run or stay. She took her chance while it was offered, and slipped from his custody, away from the light that would reveal her, glancing back long enough to see the Prophet, his hair rising like white fire from his scalp, standing in the midst of the unweaving while the Fugue burst into life all around him.

It was difficult to draw her gaze away, but she ran as best her legs would allow towards the darkness of the slopes. She moved twenty, thirty, forty yards from the circle. Nobody came after her.

A particularly bright blossoming at her back momentarily lit the terrain before her like a falling star. It was rough, uncultivated ground, interrupted only by the occasional outcrop of rock; a valley chosen for its remoteness, most likely, where the Fugue could be stirred from sleep uninterrupted by Humankind. How long this miracle would remain hidden, with summer on its way, was a moot point, but perhaps they had plans for a rapture to divert the inquisitive.

Again, the land ahead of her was lit, and momentarily she glimpsed a figure up ahead. It was there and gone so quickly she could not trust her eyes.

Another yard however, and she felt a chill on her cheek that was no natural wind. She guessed its source the instant it touched her, but she had no time to retreat or prepare herself before the darkness unfolded and its mistress stepped into her path.

X

FATALITIES

1

The face was mutilated beyond recognition, but the voice, colder than the chill the body gave off, was indisputably that of Immacolata. Nor was she alone: her sisters were with her, darker than the dark.

‘Why are you running?' said the Incanta-trix. ‘There's nowhere to escape to.' Suzanna halted. There was no ready way past the three. Turn around,' said Immacolata, another splendour from the Weave uncharitably lighting the wound of her face. ‘See where Shadwell stands? That'll be the Fugue in moments.' ‘Shadwell?' said Suzanna.

‘Their beloved Prophet,' came the reply. ‘Beneath that show of holiness I lent him, there beats a Salesman's heart.'

So Shadwell was the Prophet. What a perfect irony, that the seller of encyclopaedias should end up peddling hope.

‘It was his idea, said the Incantatrix, ‘to give them a Messiah. Now they've got a righteous crusade, as Hobart calls it. They're going to claim their promised land. And destroy it in the process.'

They won't fall for this.'

They already have, sister. Holy wars are easier to start than rumours, amongst your Kind or mine. They believe every sacred word he tells them, as though their lives depended upon it. Which in a sense they do. They've been conspired against and cheated - and they're ready to tear the Fugue apart to get their hands on those responsible. Isn't that perfect?

The Fugue'll die at the very hands of those who've come to save it.'

‘And that's what Shadwell wants?'

‘He's a man: he wants adoration.' She gazed over Suzanna's shoulder towards the unweaving, and the Salesman, still in its midst. ‘And that's what he's got. So he's happy.'

‘He's pitiful,' said Suzanna. ‘You know that as well as I do. Yet you give him power. Your power. Our power.'

‘For my own ends, sister.'

‘You gave him the jacket.'

‘It was of my making, yes. Though there've been times I've regretted the gift.'

The ragged muscle of Immacolata's face was incapable of its former deceptions. As she spoke she couldn't mask the sorrow in her.

‘You should have taken it back,' said Suzanna.

‘A gift of rapture can't be lent,' said Immacolata, ‘only given, and given in perpetuity. Did your grandmother teach you nothing? It's time you learned, sister. I'll give you those lessons.'

‘And what do you get in return?'

‘A distraction from Rome's gift to me.' She touched her face. ‘And from the stench of men.' She paused, her maimed face darkening. They'll destroy you for your strength. Men like Hobart.'

‘I wanted to kill him once,' Suzanna said, remembering the hatred she'd felt.

‘He knows that. That's why he dreams of you. Death the maiden.' A laugh broke from her. ‘They're all mad, sister.'

‘Not all,' said Suzanna.

‘What must I do to persuade you?' the Incantatrix said. ‘Make you understand how you'll be betrayed. Have already been betrayed.'

Without seeming to take a step, she moved away from Suzanna. Flickering strands of light were moving past them now, as the Fugue spread from its hiding place. But Suzanna scarcely noticed. Her eyes were fixed on the sight revealed when Immacolata stood aside.

The Magdalene was there, sumptuously clothed in folds of

lacy ectoplasm: a wraith bride. And from beneath the creature's skirts a pitiful figure was emerging, and turning its face up towards Suzanna.

‘Jerichau

The man's eyes were clouded; though they settled on Suzanna there was no recognition in them.

‘See?' said Immacolata. ‘Betrayed.'

‘What have you done to him?' Suzanna demanded.

There was nothing left of the Jerichau she'd known. He looked like something already dead. His clothes were in tatters, his skin mottled and seeping from dozens of vicious wounds.

‘He doesn't know you,' said the Incantatrix. ‘He has a new wife now.'

The Magdalene stretched her hand out and touched Jerichau's head, stroking it as if he were a lap-dog.

‘He went to my sister's arms willingly -' Immacolata said.

‘Leave him be,' Suzanna yelled at the Magdalene. Enfeebled by the drugs, her self-control was perilously thin.

‘But this is love,' Immacolata goaded. There'll be children in time. Many children. His lust knows no bounds.'

The thought of Jerichau coupling with the Magdalene made Suzanna shudder. Again, she called his name. This time his mouth opened, and it seemed his tongue was seeking to form a word. But no. All his palate could produce was a dribble of saliva.

‘You see how quickly they turn to fresh pleasures?' said Immacolata. ‘As soon as your back is turned he's ploughing another furrow.'

Rage leapt up in Suzanna, bettering her disgust. Nor did it come alone. Though the remnants of the drug still made any focus difficult, she felt the menstruum ambitious in her belly.

Immacolata knew it.

‘Don't be perverse ...' she said, her voice seeming to whisper at Suzanna's ear though they stood yards apart. ‘We are more alike than not.'