Against the Unweaving

by D. P. Prior

  A flutter of wings, a gobbling screech, and then bang!

  Shadrak blew smoke from the barrel of his weapon and re-holstered it. Some kind of wild turkey scuttled in a tight circle with blood spurting from where its head had once been. Its wings spread wide, shuddered, and then the thing dropped dead.

  “Shog Nous,” Shadrak said. “Found that one my—”

  A gurgling roar erupted from behind. Thorny tendrils burst through Dave’s chest and ripped him apart in a bloody spray. Shadrak was swatted head over heels by a sinuous limb before he could react. Shader spun, just as a glutinous mass of vegetation loomed over him, creepers and barbed lianas whipping about the living hillock that formed its body. A vine lashed about his wrist before he could draw the gladius, yanked him straight toward a cavernous maw. He yelled and closed his eyes as breath like overripe compost washed over him, and then he hit the ground hard, rolled, and came up on one knee.

  The limbs all went slack together, and the central mass quivered then sloughed away to both sides, revealing a corpse-gray human head with milky eyes and a toothless mouth that drooled greenish slime.

  Rhiannon stepped away from the monster, fighting the black blade clear of its putrid flesh. A shiver passed through her, and she lifted her eyes skyward, raising the sword above her head. Her whole body tensed, and she gasped with what could only have been pleasure. Then she looked down at the thing she had slain, and the color drained from her cheeks.

  Shadrak approached, brushing crud from his cloak and aiming his pistol at the decomposing mess.

  Shader found his feet and fought to hold in the contents of his stomach as he made a slow circle of the thing. There was at least part of a human within the vegetable shell: the grotesque head, a flayed ribcage, the tail end of a spine, all fused with plant matter, and here and there banded with steel or braided with copper wire.

  “What the shog is it?” Rhiannon said, stumbling back.

  Shader licked his lips and shook his head, but he couldn’t speak.

  “Ain’t natural, that’s what,” Shadrak said. “Reeks of tech.”

  “Ancient-tech?” Shader asked. “Here on Aethir?”

  “Gandaw,” Shadrak said. “What the shog’s he done here?”

  It hardly seemed to matter. Whatever vile experiments the Technocrat had conducted on Aethir, they would all cease to exist along with everything else once the Unweaving took place. How could anyone be so warped as to create something like this? And then to want to un-make everything? Gandaw was a lunatic at best. They had to get to the dwarves, had to find a way to put a stop to this. And then Shader’s hope sank into his guts as he remembered. Dave had been cut to ribbons before any of them knew what was happening. Who was going to guide them now?

  “Praise Nous,” the hunchback said, climbing awkwardly to his feet.

  There wasn’t a mark on him. Had Shader imagined it? Imagined the limbs tearing through his chest?

  “What the shog?” Shadrak said, taking aim at Dave’s head.

  “You’re dead,” Rhiannon said, advancing on him with the black sword. “I saw it kill you.”

  Shader narrowed his eyes. What devilry was this? How could Dave be standing there as if nothing had happened?

  “For Nous, all things are possible,” Dave said, and then he looked directly at Shader. “You of all people should know. He is merciful, Deacon Shader. Trust in him. Have the faith that can move mountains.”

  Shader felt Shadrak watching him. Rhiannon, too. There was nothing he could say. He was as dumbfounded as they were.

  “What do we do now?” Rhiannon said.

  “Keep going,” Shader muttered; and then more loudly, “We press on.”

  What other choice did they have?

  “You’re the boss,” Shadrak said in a voice dripping with venom. He rammed his pistol back in its holster. “But the turkey’s coming with us.”

  Rhiannon struggled to re-sheathe her sword and sling it over her back. “Amen to that, but I’m not stopping to eat here, got it?”

  “For once,” Shadrak said, snatching up the dead bird by its legs, “I couldn’t shogging agree more.”

  STARTING AT THE BOTTOM AGAIN

  “Here, catch,” Buck said, flinging something shiny across the kitchen.

  Albert caught it on instinct, turned it over in his hand. “A potato peeler. Why, thanks.”

  Smoke wafted up from the brazier atop the clay oven. Whatever was sautéing (if one could stretch the meaning of the word) in the cast iron pan was charred black on the outside and no doubt completely raw in the center. There was a steaming cauldron beside it, bubbling and spitting with far too much vigor for the sludge congealing inside. The stench was hard to discern—lamb, perhaps, but with more than a hint of tarragon (not right at all) and so much turmeric, the water had turned yellow and ponged like an Ashantan brothel (speaking from hearsay, rather than experience).

  He coughed into his sleeve, wincing at the memory of poor old Papa’s hanky.

  Twisting plumes of dirty smoke were winding their way up the crumbling brick flue, but much of it still wafted out into the kitchen, probably because the four-legged carcass turning on the spit obscured the opening.

  Albert had to admit, though, it was a curious contraption. The spit was connected to a vertical shaft coming down the flue. Where spit met shaft, there was some kind of primitive gear. The shaft seemed to rotate of its own accord, and as it did, the spit turned, too.

  “What makes it turn?” he said out loud, stepping closer and waving steam out of his face so he could crane his neck for a better look.

  “Don’t know and don’t care,” Buck said, thrusting his hand into a pail of carrots and proceeding to butcher them with ham-fisted chops of a blunt knife. Made you wonder at the quality of the cuisine if Buck was the best sous-chef they could come up with. “Spuds are behind you.”

  “Spuds?” Albert turned to look. “Oh, potatoes.”

  “Not much for peeling, eh? Look, I’ll swap you. Come here, I’ll show you how to chop.”

  Oh, please, will you?

  Albert made a show of awed fascination as the cretin hacked away at the carrots like he was quarrying granite.

  “See,” Buck said, handing Albert the knife and relieving him of the potato peeler. “It’s all in the wrist.”

  Yes, I’m sure it is.

  Albert took up position in front of the chopping board, set the knife down like a surgical implement, shrugged off his jacket and handed it to Buck, then delicately took the knife back up again.

  “Don’t be shy, now,” Buck said. “Bit firmer. That’s it, show it who’s—”

  Albert held up a finger for silence. “Now, Master Fargin, wait, watch, and learn. Handshake grip on the knife, index finger to the top and side of the blade, tip down, and rolling chop. Forward and down, forward and down.”

  Buck was looking at him as if he were mad. “But you ain’t cut nothing yet. It ain’t like we got all day for your poncy shenanigans.”

  “Stage two,” Albert said. “Make a claw of your subordinate hand…”

  “Eh?”

  “Claw on carrot.” He started to demonstrate as he spoke. “Slice down the middle; take one half, keep the blade rolling—forward and back—feed it the carrot, root at the top. Chop away from the root, always away. Chop, chop, chop chop chop, chopa-chopa-chop-chop. Aaaand the other half.” He made short work of that one, too. “Rinse and repeat. Cut down the center, chop away from the root…”

  He could tell Buck was gawping, even without looking at him. Years of practice, two years sous-chefing for the great Maurice Mouflet—Ain rest his soul—then a decade as the most acclaimed head chef in Western Sahul, until that business with the boeuf à la mode. Oh, the shame of it. The ignominy. Still, a quick shedding of Mouflet’s borrowed name, a hasty relocation to Sarum, and no one was any the wiser.

  “What’s your game?” Buck said, a wary look coming over him. “You been shitting me?”

  “Not at all,”
Albert said. “You so shrewdly discerned my talents when we met. It is no lie that I was once the finest chef in… well, it doesn’t matter where. Don’t suppose you’ll have heard of it. Suffice it to say that I have many skills with which to serve your ambitions, Master Fargin.”

  Buck bit down on his top lip and nodded. “That’s all right, then. Just like we agreed. You scratch my back…”

  And I’ll ram a knife in yours, you cretinous moron.

  “And I will most definitely scratch yours,” Albert finished for him.

  “Good. I was hoping you’d say that. See, I knew you was gonna turn out a dab hand in the kitchen. Just wanted to see for myself. Thing is, I’m expecting someone: Magwitch the Meddler. Should be here any minute to pick up the scarolite, you know, from the back of the wagon.”

  “How could I forget?” A day’s ride cooped up with that flatulent, snoring, hairy midget was going to be difficult to forget. Rugbeard had slept most of the way, only ever waking to relieve himself and bemoan the lack of booze. Even now, Albert couldn’t shake off the stench of his stale beer belches. “Is the dwarf still…”

  Buck nodded toward the restaurant—if you could call it such. Dougan’s Diner was more of a soup kitchen crossed with a spit-and-sawdust tavern. “Propping up the bar, as usual. Place’d go down the crapper if it wasn’t for ol’ Rugbeard. Silly bleedin’ plonker: gets a soddin’ fortune for setting up trade between the guild and the scarolite mines, then hands all the dosh back to us in return for drink.”

  “So, the guild runs this… establishment?”

  Buck put a finger to the side of his nose and winked. “So, my ol’ mate, you handle the veg, and I’ll hang about by the back door till Magwitch comes, all righty?” He set the peeler on the chopping board and went to peer out the dirty window at the rear of the kitchen.

  Albert sliced up the veg with practiced ease. It had been a long time since he’d performed such menial tasks, but he was actually finding it quite relaxing. “What about the tomatoes? What’s Chef want done with them?”

  Before Buck could answer, the back door opened, and a boy of maybe twelve or thirteen stepped through. He had your typical peasant face, broad and flat, crooked lower teeth, thick eyebrows that nearly met above his stubby nose, and a shock of greasy hair that had probably never seen a brush. His cheeks were ruddy, and he was out of breath.

  “What the shog are you doing here?” Buck rolled his eyes in Albert’s direction and gave an exasperated shrug.

  “Look, Dad, I got the bread, like you said.” The boy produced a stale-looking loaf from his coat pocket. “And some plonk.” He pulled a bottle of wine from the other side.

  Buck clipped him round the ear. “Ain’t I told you not to come here?” He raised his hand for a more substantial blow, and the boy ducked down, shielding his head with the bread and wine. Buck seemed to remember Albert was watching and turned it into a playful ruffle of the boy’s hair. He gave one of those irritating false laughs and snatched the wine. “Good boy, Nils. Good boy. See that, Albert? Chip of the ol’ block. We’ll make a guildsman out of him yet, eh?”

  The boy shoved the bread back in his pocket and puffed out his pigeon chest. “So, I did good, Dad?”

  “Yeah, son, you did fine. Now sod off. I got a customer coming.”

  A huge grin cut the boy’s face in two. He punched the air with delight and then slipped out the way he’d come. As the door slammed shut, the connecting door to the restaurant burst open, and a fat slob in a stained apron and lopsided chef’s hat lumbered through. Greasy ringlets curled down from beneath the hat, and the man’s face was a piebald of angry sores and scaly flakes.

  “Fargin, you little shit, I got Senator Rollingfield in tonight, so you better get a shogging move on with my…” His rheumy eyes alighted on the perfectly cubed carrots on the chopping board, then lifted to stare Albert straight in the face. “… veg. Who the shog’s this?”

  Albert gave his most sheepish smile, but he was already trying to process what he’d just heard. Why on earth would a senator eat in a dump like this? Silly he should need to ask, he realized. The guild. It was a gratifying thought. Despite the two suns and three moons, this place he’d landed in was just the same as home: ladder-climbing crooks and bent politicians. He mentally rubbed his hands together. He was going to like it here, once he’d done a bit of ladder-climbing of his own, of course.

  “His name’s Albert, Chef,” Buck said, tearing himself away from the door, but still straining to see out the window. “He’s our new kitchen-hand.”

  “Oh, so you’re doing the hiring now, are you?” The chef snatched up a pan and flung it at Buck with such force it would have brained him, if he’d not squealed and ducked out of the way. “And why ain’t you diced my tomatoes? What the shog do I pay you for, you useless clump of dung?”

  “There’s a deal going down, Chef.” Buck jabbed a finger toward the back door. “Big Jake set it up. Put me in charge. That’s why I brought Albert in. Make sure everything got done right. Thought you’d be pleased.”

  The chef advanced on him a step then whirled on Albert. “You worked kitchens afore?”

  “The finest in all Gallia.”

  “Shog’s that?”

  “Near the Farfalls,” Buck said, opening the backdoor and stepping outside.

  Chef turned his nose up. “Real kitchens, I meant. We got an important guest tonight. You do good, and you’ll do all right by me. Shog things up, though, and you’ll be floating down the shogging canal, got it? Now peel some spuds.”

  Albert forced a smile so false it nearly split his cheeks. As he set about the potatoes, the chef stirred the muck bubbling in his cauldron and dipped his finger in to taste it. “You wanna get on in the world, fat boy, then pay close attention to everything I do.”

  Oh, I will, Albert thought, feigning interest while the chef slurped the gruel off his fingertip and rubbed his chin, as if considering how to improve its near perfect flavor.

  “Course I got it,” Buck’s voice came from outside. “Here, have a gander.”

  “Know what a terrine is, fat boy?” Chef asked.

  Nothing like that stinking pot of diarrhea.

  “I don’t, Chef,” Albert said. “Is that one?”

  “Leave the spuds,” Chef said. “Idiot boy can do them when he’s finished his business.”

  Buck could still be heard talking with someone outside. Haggling, by the sound of it, and he seemed to be coming off worst.

  “Chop them tomatoes and sling ’em in. See, we don’t need no fancy recipes here. It’s all about taste and experience. Punters love it.”

  Buck’s muffled voice grew momentarily louder. “Take it or leave it! See if I care.”

  Chef frowned toward the back door and shook his head.

  “Solanum lycopersicum,” Albert said, picking up a string of tomatoes on the vine.

  “What?”

  Buck’s voice cut across their conversation once more. “All right, all right, I didn’t mean it. Take the sodding scarolite, but the guild ain’t gonna be happy. Daylight bleedin’ robbery is what it is.”

  “Tomatoes,” Albert said. “From the nightshade family.” With stems and leaves that contain enough tomatine to keep you on the loo for a week, or even kill you if you boil enough of them up into a tisane. “Curative,” he muttered, stroking a stem. “Quite the miracle plant.”

  “Just get on with the chopping, right?”

  “Certainly, Chef.” Albert set about dicing the tomatoes with his usual efficiency.

  Chef’s mouth dropped open. “You know a thing or two about cooking?”

  “I’ve picked up a little from some of the greats,” Albert said. “But no one who’d hold a candle to you, Chef…”

  “Dougan,” Chef said. “Faryll Dougan.”

  “Provincial cooks, all of them,” Albert went on. “Whereas the standards of a big city like this are somewhat more exacting. They cater for pigs at the trough, whereas your illustrious customers—” He
nodded toward the restaurant door. “—are veritable gourmands.”

  Dougan nodded and narrowed his eyes. “Aye, that’s right. Still, you can learn from anyone, I always say. “We’ll have to talk, you know, share secrets.”

  “Sounds fabulous,” Albert said, chopping away with abandon.

  Dougan watched on, scratching at his face, flakes drifting down like snow and settling on top of his broth.

  “Nasty sores you’ve got there.”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I know a remedy that can sort that out, if you’re interested.” Albert held up the discarded leafy greens from the tomatoes. “My little gift to you.”

  “Oh, aye?”

  “Tea of tomato leaves and stems,” Albert said. “Tastes awful, but you’ll have the skin of a sixteen year-old-virgin in no time at all.”

  “I will?”

  “Change your life.”

  Dougan smiled, a big, brown, stub-toothed smile. “You and me are gonna get along just fine, fat—what did Fargin say your name was again?”

  “Albert.”

  “Well, Albert, you scratch my back…”

  “Indeed,” Albert said.

  “So what you waiting for?” Dougan snapped. “Let’s be having it, then.”

  Albert gathered up all the greens and looked about for a pan to boil them in. “Trust me, Chef, after this, you’ll never be the same again.”

  The back door opened, and Buck came in holding up a drawstring purse. “Now that’s how to do business,” he said with a grin. “Put him in his place, I did. Wanker.”

  “Oh,” Albert said. “So, he paid up, did he?”

  “Oh yeah,” Buck said. “Too bloody right, he did. Fleeced the shogger good an’ proper.”

  “Well, ’spose you won’t be peeling my spuds now you’re a made man,” Dougan said.

  Buck’s mouth was working, but no sounds came out. Finally, he thrust the purse into his pocket and grabbed the peeler. “Don’t worry, I’ll do the spuds, Chef. I ain’t proud or nothing. And anyhow, we got appearances to keep up, ain’t we? Don’t wanna blow our cover just coz I’m minted.”