Weaveworld (94 page)

Somebody moved out of the half-light and took up a position beside Suzanna.

‘How close?’ he said.

Cal knew the voice, though the man was much changed.

‘Nimrod?’

The golden eyes glanced at Cal without registering anything, then looked away, before returning with recognition in them. Apolline had been right, Cal thought; he must look bad. Nimrod stretched his arm in front of Suzanna and clasped Cal’s hand tightly. As he broke contact again the girl at the perimeter let out the tiniest exclamation, and Nimrod’s question –
‘How close?’
– was answered.

Shadwell and Hobart had appeared at the top of the hill. Though the sky at their backs was dark, they were darker still against it, their ragged silhouettes unmistakable.

‘They found us,’ Nimrod breathed.

‘Not yet,’ said Suzanna.

Very slowly, she stood up, and as if on that signal a tremor – the twin to the rumour that had first hushed the wood – ran through the trees. The air seemed to darken even further.

‘They’re strengthening the screen,’ Nimrod whispered.

Cal wished he had some useful role to play in this, but all he could do was watch the hill and hope the enemy would turn its back and go searching elsewhere. He’d known Shadwell too long to believe this likely, however, and he wasn’t surprised when the Salesman started down the slope towards the field. The enemy was obstinate. He’d come to give the gift of Death he’d spoken of in Chariot Street, and he wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d done so.

Hobart, or the power inside him, was lingering on the brow of the hill, where it could better survey the terrain. Even at this distance the flesh of its face flared and darkened like embers in a high wind.

Cal glanced behind him. The Kind were just visible, standing at regular intervals between the trees, their concentration focused on the rapture that stood between them and slaughter. Its redoubled effect was strong enough to invade his eyes, though he stood within the walls. For a moment the darkness of the wood grew tenuous, and it seemed he could see through it, to the snow on the other side.

He looked back at Shadwell, who had reached the bottom of the slope and was scanning the landscape ahead of him. It was only now, seeing the man dearly, that Cal’s thoughts returned to the jacket that Shadwell had lost or thrown away, and which he too had abandoned in his travels. It was out there somewhere in the field behind Rayment’s Hill, where his frozen fingers had let it fall. As Shadwell started to walk towards the wood, he stood up, and whispered:

‘ … the jacket …’

Suzanna was close to him, her answer barely audible.

‘What about it?’

Shadwell had stopped walking again, and was scrutinizing the snow in front of him. Was some vestige of Cal’s and Novello’s tracks still visible?

‘Do you know where the jacket is?’ Suzanna was saying.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘On the other side of the hill.’

The Salesman had raised his eyes once more, and was staring at the scene in front of him. Even from a distance it was clear the expression on his face was one of puzzlement, even suspicion. The illusion was apparently holding; but for how long? On the hill above him Uriel spoke, its words carrying on the snow-laden wind.

‘I smell them,’
it said.

Shadwell nodded, and took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lighting it beneath the flap of his coat. Then he returned his gaze to the scene in front of him. Was it the chill that made him squint, or was he seeing a ghost of something against the glare of snow?

‘We’re just going to get weaker,’ said Suzanna. ‘Unless we get help.’

‘From the jacket?’ Cal said.

‘It had power once,’ she replied. ‘Maybe it still does. Can you find it?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘That’s not the answer we need.’

‘Yes. I can find it.’

She looked back towards the hill. Shadwell had decided to rejoin Uriel, and was climbing the slope once more. The Angel
had sat Hobart’s body in the snow, and was staring up at the clouds.

‘I’ll go with you,’ said Nimrod.

‘They’ll be able to see us from up there.’

‘We’ll make a detour. Get out round the back.’ He looked at Suzanna. ‘Yes?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Go on, while there’s still time.’

He was away at speed, Cal in tow, weaving through the trees and the Kind standing between them. The strain of keeping the shield up against the sight of man and Angel was taking its toll; several of the rapturers had collapsed; others were plainly near it.

Nimrod’s sense of direction was faultless; they came out on the far side of the wood, and instantly threw themselves face down in the snow. The depth of the fall was in their favour; they could practically tunnel through it, keeping the drifts between them and the hill as much as possible. But the snow could not protect them all the way; there were patches of open ground that had to be crossed if they weren’t to follow a route so hopelessly circuitous they’d not, reach their target before dawn. The wind was blowing sheets of loose snow before it, but in the gaps between them they had a clear view of the hill, and those on the summit – should they chance to look down – had a clear view of them. They’d caught the rhythm of the wind however, laying low when it died down and making a run when a gust gave them cover. By this means they crept within thirty yards of the flank of the hill unseen, and it seemed the most dangerous part of the route was over, when the wind suddenly dropped, and in the lull Cal heard Shadwell’s triumphant voice.

‘You!’
he said, pointing down at them.
‘I see you!’

He stepped down the side of the hill a few yards, then went back up to alert Uriel, who was still gazing at the sky.

‘Run for it!’ Cal yelled to Nimrod, and giving up any attempt at concealment they both ploughed on through the snow, Cal leading now as he went in search of what he’d lost. A glance up at the summit showed him that Shadwell had roused Hobart, who had stood up. The man was stark naked –
indifferent to the blizzard – his body blackened by fire and smoke. Any moment. Cal knew, that same fire would find Nimrod and himself.

He began to run again, expecting the flame at any moment. Three stumbling steps, and still it didn’t come. Now four, and five; six, seven. Still there was no avenging flame.

Bafflement made him look once more towards the hill. Shadwell was still at the summit, imploring the Angel to do its damnedest. But in the window between one gust of snow and the next Cal saw that Uriel had other business, distracting it from its role as executioner.

He started to run again, knowing that he and Nimrod had been granted a precious chance at life, but unable to stop himself mourning the sight of Suzanna, climbing the hill to meet the Angel’s gaze.

III

ON THE HILL

1

he had no plan in mind. But as she’d watched Numrod and Cal creeping towards the hill it had become perfectly apparent that unless there was some diversion they’d be sighted and killed. She was not about to ask for volunteers. If anyone was going to distract the Angel’s fire it surely had to be her; after all, she and Hobart had played this game of Dragons before; or a variation upon it.

Rather than step directly out through the screen, and so give Shadwell his target, she slipped through the trees and out at the flank, moving from drift to drift until she was some distance from the wood. Only then did she move out into full view of the Dragon.

Had she been faster she might have prevented Shadwell from seeing Cal and Nimrod at all; as it was she heard his accusing cry moments before she emerged from hiding. Twenty seconds later and Shadwell would have succeeded in rousing Hobart, and the death inside him, to action. But when the Salesman climbed back up the hill Hobart’s eyes were already on her, and wouldn’t be dislodged.

Before making this appearance she’d watched the two figures at the summit intently, to see if she could make any sense of the politics between them. But their behaviour – or more particularly Uriel’s – confounded her. Surely the Scourge had as much appetite for the chase as Shadwell; but it seemed utterly distracted from the matter in hand, staring up at the
sky as if mesmerized. Only once was it moved to show its fire, when – without any apparent cue – the body of the man it occupied spontaneously combusted, flames cocooning him until his clothes were burned from his back, and his flesh seared. He’d not moved an inch as the fire did its work, but had stood in the midst of his pyre like a martyr, gazing over the empty landscape until – again, without any apparent reason – the fire died.

Now, as she climbed to meet him, she saw just how traumatized Hobart’s body was. The flames that had enveloped him were only the most recent of countless assaults his flesh had endured. He’d been wounded several times, some of the holes ineptly sealed; his hands were horribly maimed; his face – hair and brows burned away – was barely recognizable. But seeing the way his eyes stared from his blistered features one impression was confirmed: he, and perhaps the force within him, was somehow mesmerized. There was no sign that he felt pain from his wounds, nor shame that he stood naked before her, not the glorious victim of his dreams but a column of wretchedness, stinking of death and cooked meat.

Meeting that blank stare the fear necessity had kept at bay so far rose up in her. Was it possible she could get beyond this trance, to the Hobart with whom she’d shared that story of Maiden, Knight and Dragon? If she could, perhaps she might survive this confrontation; or at least waylay the enemy long enough for the Kind to prepare new defences.

Shadwell had seen her now. Beside Hobart the man looked positively dapper, but his face told another story. His features, which had pretended so much in their time, were manic now, the sham of courtesy he produced for her more pitiful than ironic.

‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘And where did you appear from?’

His hands were plunged deep into his pockets to keep them warm, and they stayed there. He made no attempt to take hold of her, or even approach her. He knew, presumably, she could not escape the summit alive.

‘I came to see Hobart,’ she told him.

‘I’m afraid he isn’t here,’ Shadwell replied.

‘Liar,’ she said.

Hobart’s eyes were still on her. Was there a flicker of response in them?

‘I’m telling you the truth,’ Shadwell protested. ‘Hobart’s gone. This
thing …
it’s just a shell. You know what’s inside. And it isn’t Hobart.’

‘That’s a pity,’ she said, playing his civilized game while it gave her time to think.

‘No loss,’ said Shadwell.

‘But we had unfinished business.’

‘You and Hobart?’

‘Oh yes.’ She was looking straight at the burned man as she spoke. ‘I was hoping he’d remember me.’

At this, Hobart’s head sagged a little, then rose again: a primitive nod.

‘You
do
remember,’ she said.

The eyes didn’t leave her for an instant.

‘Are you the Dragon –’ she asked him.

‘Shut up,’ said Shadwell.

‘Or the Knight?’

‘I told you to be quiet!’ He made a move towards her, but before he could get within striking distance Hobart raised his arm and put the black stump of his hand on Shadwell’s chest. The Salesman stepped back from it.

He’s frightened.
Suzanna thought. The stain of fear she saw around his head only confirmed what his face already admitted. There was more power here than he knew to handle, and he was afraid. But he wasn’t so cowed as to keep his silence.

‘Burn her,’ he said to Hobart. ‘Make her tell us where they are.’

Her gut convulsed. She hadn’t taken that possibility into account: that they’d torture her to make her tell. But it was too late for flight. Besides, Hobart showed no sign of obeying Shadwell’s instructions. He simply watched her, the way the Knight in the book had watched her: a wounded creature at the end of his story. And she in her turn felt as she’d felt then: both afraid, and strong. The body before her was a receptacle for devestating power, but if she could just reach into it – oh
so gently – and speak with the Hobart whose secret heart she knew, perhaps, just
perhaps
, she could coax him into siding with her against the Scourge. Dragons had weaknesses; maybe Angels did too. Could she make him raise its throat to her?