The Unweaving

by D. P. Prior

  Shadrak pressed his back into the chimney breast, making a tent of his cloak so that he could study the map he’d taken when they entered the city.

  New Jerusalem was designed along a simple grid, all carved up neat into roads and intersections going north-south or east-west. Didn’t take no genius to find 71st. Soon as he did, Shadrak scrunched up the map and threw it to the street below. No need for it now; he only had to look at something once to have its image burned into his head. After navigating the Maze—the plane ship—New Jerusalem was gonna be a doddle.

  His face tightened at the thought of the plane ship, and his eyes narrowed as he ran through the possibilities for the thousandth time. He couldn’t have just lost it, not with his memory. Either the Sour Marsh took it, or someone had found it. He wouldn’t have put it past the shogging Archon to have hidden it, to make sure the job got done.

  A flash erupted in the sky, way back the way they’d come. Shadrak stood, holding onto the chimney so’s the gusting winds didn’t fling him after the map. Where the light had flared, the purple smudge was speckled with black. Impossible to tell how big the spots were from so far, but whatever was happening over the Perfect Peak, it weren’t good.

  He slid to the edge of the roof on his ass and was reaching for the drainpipe when he saw a dark shape out of the corner of his eye. It was on an adjacent rooftop, standing, no thought for the storm.

  Shadrak rolled from the roof, caught hold of the guttering, and shimmied along till he’d put the building between him and whatever it was watching him. Coz it was watching—so much for the the camouflage cloak he’d taken from the dwarf!—he was sure of that. Heaviness worked its way into his arms, and his fingers felt numb. His heart was slinging around in his chest, and an icy prickle crept up his neck. He hadn’t felt that way since… since he was a kid, when he’d stumbled across them ghouls picking over the corpse of a streetwalker and run for his life. The day he’d found the Maze. Stuff like that didn’t happen to him now. He was Shadrak the Unseen. He watched others; they didn’t watch him.

  He dropped to a window ledge, found fingerholds in the wall beside it, and climbed down.

  The street was deserted. Water spilled from overflowing gutters, and swirls of wind sent leaves and dust dancing into the air.

  Something leapt from the rooftop and glided down to the pavement further along the street. It was black—all black, save for the shimmer of silver on its torso—with slender limbs and a long head. Shadrak caught himself staring, momentarily frozen. It had no eyes, no facial features at all. Quick as a flash, its hand went to its hip and came up firing.

  Shadrak dived and rolled and ran. Air whistled past his ear, and then he flung himself headfirst at a window. His arm came up at the last instant, and glass shattered. He tumbled out of the fall, ignoring the stinging cuts crying out all over his body.

  Scanning the room, he took the stairs up two at a time, barged through a door, and ran across a bed. A woman screamed, and a man swore. Whole place stank of sweat and other stuff, but Shadrak went straight for the sash window, lifted it, and climbed out onto the sill.

  He saw everything larger than life, slow and easy, like he always did when his blood was up. Without a thought, he jumped for the drainpipe and made the roof.

  More screams from below, and two thunder-cracks.

  It’s got a gun. He shut the thought down before it paralyzed him, but it refused to stay buried. A scutting gun. What the shog?

  He sprinted and threw himself to the next roof and kept running without breaking stride. He kept on leaping from rooftop to rooftop until he was sure nothing could have kept up with him. Collapsing against an ornate balustrade, he focused on slowing his ragged breaths. He’d panicked, he knew that, but he also knew that if he hadn’t panicked, he’d most likely be back to the dirt. Whatever that thing was, it was fast. Faster than should have been possible. Question was, why had it come after him? Chance? Bad luck? Or was it something else?

  He looked up at the roiling skies, half-expecting the Archon to appear and tell him what the shog was going on. A few more deep breaths, and his heart stopped its flapping. He checked his pistol, replaced the cartridge with a full one. Saving the near-empty cartridge in a pouch, he re-holstered the pistol and stood, looking around warily. He was seeing shadows everywhere, but that only told him he was still creeped out.

  Settle down, Shadrak, he told himself. Cool head, calm hands, or you’re dead meat.

  He made a couple of practice draws, spinning the pistol before holstering it each time. He couldn’t get over how fast that thing was, how close it had come to hitting him, despite his frantic efforts to get away. With one last look around, he decided there weren’t nothing more he could do. Death, when it came, was as swift and as sudden as a knife in the back, in his experience. Shog all you could do about that, save be sharp and honed, and ready to do whatever it takes. He’d been cheating death most his life; no reason this should be any different.

  He made his way to 71st calmer than he should’ve. If the shogger came for him, weren’t a whole lot he could do, save kill or be killed. Worrying about it was just gonna achieve the latter. Didn’t stop him studying the shadows and listening keenly, all the while treading so soft he wouldn’t miss the slightest rustle, the barest scuff, the most whispering breath.

  Besides the odd patrol of bedraggled and miserable-looking guards, he didn’t see nothing.

  He found his way to the diner with his nose. The sign above the door used to read ‘Dougan’s Diner’, but some scut had half-painted it out and put ‘Queenie’s’ there instead. Can’t have been long ago, neither, coz the paint was still running from the base of the letters. Whatever Aristodeus had said about the food, it sure smelled good from outside, and it set his stomach rumbling. Garlic, if he weren’t mistaken, and the yeasty smell of fresh-baked bread.

  Bells tinkled as he pushed through the door. Looked like they’d come out the other side of a busy patch, what with the tables being stacked with smeared plates and half-empty glasses. Only other entrance was louvered swing doors at the far end, from beyond which came the clatter of pots and pans, and a tuneless whistle that sounded kind of familiar.

  The waiter was over by the bar, between a short, bearded punter with mottled cheeks and Rhiannon, who was out cold, a pint of beer clutched in her hand. The waiter jumped, like he’d just stuck his hand in boiling water. Shadrak narrowed his eyes. Bloke was a weedy looking beggar in outsized clothes. The only thing that set him out as staff was the neat black pinny tied round his waist. What he was doing up so close to the bitch was anyone’s guess, but Shadrak reckoned she’d be more’n a little pissed when she came to.

  “We’re closed,” the whelp said. “Can’t you read?”

  Shadrak stepped closer, eyes pointedly moving to Rhiannon and back.

  “I was checking her pulse,” the waiter said. “Too much to drink, silly cow.”

  “Strange place to look,” Shadrak said.

  “Yeah, well I ain’t no doctor, now, am I? And who do you think you are anyway, telling me my business?” His eyes widened, and he guffawed. “What the shog are you, a dwarf to a dwarf?” He patted the bearded man on the back. “Eh, Rugbeard? You didn’t tell me you had a kid.”

  The bearded man seemed oblivious. He downed his drink, belched, and then tugged Rhiannon’s tankard out of her grasp. Must’ve been roughly the same height as Nameless, though skinny and knotted up with arthritis, by the looks of him.

  “Spirit of a dwarf,” he said to no one in particular, “but not the stomach.” He took a long pull on Rhiannon’s drink and then fell forward, his head smacking against the bar. Within moments, he was snoring.

  “Get me a bucket of water,” Shadrak said.

  “Bucket?” the waiter said. “Don’t you mean glass? Mind, little geezer like you might be better off with a wooden cup, so’s you don’t cut yourself.”

  Shadrak growled and whipped out a knife. “Cut you, you shogging scut, if you don’t shut
your trap and do as you’re told.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes.” Shadrak advanced on him, pressed the tip of his blade against the idiot’s nuts.

  The waiter’s lips trembled, and a tic started up under his eye. He gulped and tried to back away, but Shadrak went with him.

  “Water, you cretin. In a bucket. Understand?”

  The waiter nodded and cocked a thumb over his shoulder toward the kitchen. Shadrak turned him around and booted him up the ass, sending him sprawling through the louvered doors. Someone yelled, and the waiter started blubbing.

  Shadrak lifted Rhiannon’s head by the hair. Her face was smeared with puke, the sight of it making him nearly gag. He dumped her head back down with a thud. Was gonna take more than a bucket of water to rouse her, that was for sure.

  The kitchen doors flew open. “Knife or no knife, I’m not having that kind of carry on in my… oh, my scutting… I mean, shag the Ipsissimus! Shadrak!”

  “Think I’ll leave that to you, Albert.”

  Same as ever, the poisoner was dressed in one of his Gallian suits, but he wore a stained white apron over the top. His bald head was covered by a chef’s toque, which he removed and clutched to his breast.

  “I…” Albert started, chewing his bottom lip. “I suppose you’re wondering how I came to—”

  “Where’s my shogging plane ship?” It didn’t take no genius to make the connection. He should’ve known. Bloody Sour Marsh ate it, my gonads! “I should’ve left you to those corpse things back at Dead Man’s Torch.”

  Albert waved his hat around, the same way he used to flap his hanky when he was nervous. “No, no you shouldn’t have, Shadrak. I can explain about the ship, but just look around. Me coming here has done us both an enormous favor.”

  “Where is it?”

  Albert gave a delicate cough. “Safe. It’s safe. I crash… set down a little way from the city. Hitched myself a lift here.”

  The waiter peered out from behind one of the kitchen doors. “Safe, my ass. Picked him up near some boreworm holes, I did. Stupid sod nearly got himself ate.”

  “Eaten,” Albert said. “And you’re exaggerating. Haven’t you got something useful to do, like fetch that bucket of water?”

  “But you said—”

  Albert slammed the door on him.

  “Ah, my fingers! You squashed my fingers!”

  Albert rolled his eyes and shook his head.

  “Twat,” Shadrak said.

  “That, old friend, is Buck Fargin, soon to be guildmaster of the Night Hawks.”

  “What’s that, flower arrangers’ guild?”

  “Entrepreneurs, Shadrak.”

  “Thieves, then.”

  “And assassins. This city, Shadrak, is incredible. It makes Sarum look like a village. I’ve already made a contact in the senate, and plans are afoot to raise our friend here—”

  Buck shouldered his way through the doors, sloshing water from a bucket all over the floor. He swore and set the bucket down.

  “Mop, cretin. Mop,” Albert said.

  “I know, I know!”

  “You’re going to use him to front up the guild, which, naturally, you’ll control behind the scenes?”

  “I could use some help.”

  Shadrak looked around at the diner. He could see what Albert was up to. He’d seen it all before. “You got a nice place here, Albert. Didn’t exactly waste much time.”

  “None at all. The owner was on oaf, more suited to bricklaying than cooking. He fell ill, and so I stepped into his shoes, with the blessing of my senator friend, I might add. Come on, Shadrak, what do you say? You and me, taking over the guilds one by one. You always used to talk about that in Sarum.”

  Shadrak smiled and shook his head. It was tempting, but what good would it do if the worlds were gonna end?

  “I can’t, Albert. Not right now. You seen the storm outside?”

  “So?”

  “It’s the Unweaving, Albert. It’s started. If we don’t find a way to stop Gandaw, there won’t be no guilds for us to run.”

  “We? Surely you’re not suggesting—”

  “There’s three of us—” Shadrak picked up the bucket. “—and her.” With a heave, he upended it over Rhiannon’s head.

  “Shog!” Rhiannon shot upright, as if she’d been struck by lightning. “Shog, shog, shog.” She tried to stand, but the stool tipped over, and she fell sprawling to the floor.

  Shadrak toed her in the ribs, but she just grunted and rolled onto her side. Within moments, she was snoring as loudly as the dwarf.

  “This is gonna be harder than I thought,” Shadrak said.

  “What the shog?” Buck said, bashing his way through the doors with a mop. “All I spilt’s a little trickle. What you have to go flood the place for?” He tried to hand Shadrak the mop. “You clean it up.”

  “Careful, Buck,” Albert said. “This is Shadrak the Unseen, probably the nastiest bastard I’ve had the pleasure of working with. He must be in a rare good mood. The way you’ve been carrying on, you should be floating down the sewers by now.”

  “Still time for that,” Shadrak said.

  Buck paled and set about mopping up the water with vigor.

  “Don’t worry about her,” Albert said, stepping over Rhiannon on his way back to the kitchen. “I have the perfect remedy for drunkenness. She’ll be right as rain in a couple of hours. Well, not quite right, but she’ll be conscious.”

  “Thanks,” Shadrak muttered under his breath. “I can hardly wait. And Albert…”

  The poisoner paused in the doorway. “Dearest?”

  “I haven’t forgotten about the plane ship.”

  APPEASEMENT

  Shader’s eyes drank in the view, but he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  The avenue opened up onto a vast piazza flanked by colonnaded walkways that formed two halves of a broken circle. A slender obelisk stood at the hub, and at the far end, broad steps led up to the portico of a domed basilica—Luminary Trajen’s Basilica, down to the last detail. Only the Monas was missing from the top of the dome. In its place was a cross, just like the ones from his dreams, the ones he’d seen as a child, smothered in the undergrowth of Friston. Just like the cross on Maldark’s surcoat. Poor, lost Maldark, torn and bloodied, defiant to the end. Even the gigantic statues atop the colonnades looked the same as those in Aeterna. If not for the Cyclopean Walls in the distance, and the red-plumed and kilted soldiers stationed at intervals all the way to the basilica, he’d have thought he was back in Latia, and all that had happened had been a waking nightmare.

  The darkening skies swirled above the city, a maelstrom of purple clouds fractured by jags of unnatural lightning. Far to the west, the black spots had coalesced into a pool of inky blackness that looked for all the world like a dead or dying sun.

  Tugging down his hat against the sheeting rain, he cut a path across the center of the piazza. Soldiers sheltering beneath pillars glanced at him, but for the most part their eyes were on the sky. He splashed through the puddles threatening to flood the mosaic floor and took a moment’s shelter at the base of the obelisk. The basilica dome loomed above him like the head of a curious god, just the same as in Aeterna, and the curving colonnades created the impression of all-embracing arms.

  When he reached the steps, a soldier moved to intercept him.

  “Business?” The man looked miserable, water cascading from his bronze helm, running in rivulets down his spear shaft, spattering his shield.

  “I need to speak with the senate.”

  “Don’t we all?”

  “It’s urgent.”

  The guard puffed out his cheeks, eyes focused beyond Shader’s shoulder on the chaotic skies. “Always is, sir. Always is. Desk on the left as you go in.”

  What should have been the narthex was a reception area with a long counter closing off the entrance to the nave. Behind it were a pair of ornate doors and a couple of guards with crossed spears. A sign hanging by chains f
rom the ceiling marked it as the ‘Senate Chamber’. In front of the counter, smaller signs pointed to a dozen or so doorways, each with its own guard. A rope railing sectioned off the right side of the chamber, beyond which men in white togas mingled. Just inside the entrance, a drenched crowd had gathered, looking out at the rain, mumbling and pointing.

  To the left, there was a disinterested soldier behind a leather-topped desk. His galea sat atop a stack of papers, and a scabbarded sword hung from the back of his chair.

  “Swords, axes, spears, daggers on the table,” he said, without looking up from the book he was reading. “You can hold on to bows, but I’ll have the arrows.”

  “I need to—”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll keep them safe.” He gestured with his thumb to a pile weapons of the floor.

  Getting anything back from that pile would be like finding the proverbial needle in a haystack, but Shader knew it wouldn’t be a problem as far as the gladius was concerned. Hadn’t it come to free him from Hagalle’s chains? It had flown through the air as if held by an invisible hand. He drew it from its scabbard and placed it on the desk.

  “Name?” the soldier said, shutting his book and taking up a quill. He dipped it in an inkwell and looked up expectantly.

  “Shader. Deacon Shader. I need to—”

  “Keep hold of this.” The soldier scrawled on a slip of paper, tore it in half, and gave one piece to Shader. “You’ll need it on the way out. No slip, no sword.” He eyed the gladius hungrily and then fixed a broad smile on his face. “Make your way to the main counter, and they’ll be only too glad to help. Good day, sir.”

  Shader was halfway to the counter when he heard the soldier cry out. He turned round to see the man flapping his hand about like he’d stuck it in a fire.

  “Static,” Shader said. “Happens all the time.”

  The queue at the counter was short but slow-moving. Those being seen to asked the most inane questions, and the clerk listened with practiced interest before hunting through drawers of paperwork, as if there were some kind of virtue in being slow. Shader tapped on the Liber in one pocket, fiddled with his prayer cord in the other, all the while raising himself on tiptoe to see what the hold up was. Last time he’d been in line for any length of time was for confession, and Nous alone knew how long ago that was.