Instantly the reek of stewed cabbage redoubled, rooting him to the spot. A lethal claustrophobia overcame him. 'Hornwrack!'he shrieked. He spun round, blundered past the fortune teller (who had got laboriously to her feet and spread her arms in an elephantine gesture of comfort), and tumbled out on to the ice, where his feet slipped from under him. In an attempt to keep his balance he grabbed the brazier by one of its iron legs. This only served to upset it over him. Squealing with pain and fear he slid out of the light, plucking feverishly at the glowing embers in his clothing.
The Fat Main was used to his convulsions. Grumbling hardly at all she righted the table. Queer little scenes glowed up at her from the scattered cards, ancient hieratic conjunctions of tower and insect stimulating her to worn prophecies. A good marriage, she thought, and a bad one: and there a blond-haired man. (Each card was like a small bright doorway at the end of a corridor. She was perhaps too old now to step through and be enshrined in pasteboard with a hermit crab and a flight of swans.) On her way to the back of the booth to see what had upset him this time she stopped to turn one card at random; stare at it for a moment, panting; and nod heavily to herself. Then she parted the curtains and looked out.
For a month or more, agents and emmissaries of the Sign of the Locust – now grown massively in power though its outlook became daily more esoteric, and seeking revenge for (among other things) the bloody confrontation in the Bistro Californium – had sought Ansel Verdigris through the warrens of the Low City. They were oblique but patient. Every clue had pointed to the pleasure canal. Now, their gait curious in the extreme, they raced silently down the slope of All Men's Heath toward the quivering Main. They were wrapped in rags and bandaged about their peculiarly misshapen heads, and as they hopped high in the air over the graves their arms flew out at odd angles and their knives were white in the moonlight.
Verdigris, with one short anticipatory gurgle, squirmed further into the shadowy undergrowth on the far bank of the canal…
Soon after they had entered it the booth began to agitate itself in a violent and eccentric fashion, lifting its skirts and tottering from side to side as if it was trying to remember how to walk – while out of it came a steady rhythmical thumping sound, like two or three axes hitting a wet log. A dreadful astonished wail rose up in accompaniment to this, modulating with each blow. Verdigris bit his lips and drew back further into the weeds. He put his hands over his ears, but this changed nothing. The knives of the Sign rose and fell regularly; and the booth, like some remarkable engine in the night, continued to propel itself with an uncertain shuffling motion this way and that across the ice. After a little while, having reached the centre of the canal (where only lately it had been all boiled chestnuts and skating anemone-boys), it collapsed. Amorphous figures struggled momentarily beneath it; then it gave them up and they poured away through the cemetery in a quiet tattered wave, like the shadow of a cloud crossing a stony field. The booth gurgled and was still. It had somehow become tangled in the legs of the spilt brazier. Fire licked, reluctantly at first, at its grubby skirts. Then it was engulfed in a sudden silent rush of flames.
Ansel Verdigris stood on the ice in the unsteady yellow glow. He drew his knife and, in an access of some emotion he did not quite recognize, went off shouting up the hill and was ambushed and killed among the gravestones.
Not far away from All Men's Heath in the sharp and cabbagey night, Tomb the Dwarf kicked at his pony. His feet were cold. He had recently entered the City through the Gate ofNigg after three or four weeks in the deep wastes with Cellur the Bird Lord. Adventures and privations had attended him there, as they always did: old lizards following his steps, blinking at night in the small light of the fire; the pony quagged perpetually to its elbows in seepage hollows; and a great bird, first hanging high up in the air above them then settling nervously on a rock to inspect them from intelligent puzzled eyes, every feather made of metal! He had a friend buried in every acre of the North – knights of the Methven, sour old prospectors, all the thieves and princes who had traipsed with him at one time or another the useless places of the Empire. They had followed him too, as night drew in across the old battlefields of the Great Brown Waste.
The season now teetered on the cold iron pivot of the solstice, and Viriconium was asleep for once, huddled against the cold; you could hear its catarrhal snores from upper windows. The mosaic of its roofs, whited by moonlight and last week's frozen snow, lay like the demonstration of some equivocal new geometry. The Low City had retreated from him even as he entered it (dogs shivering outside the gatehouse, no other sign of life; the tunnel smelling of pee, black ice and that merciless vegetable), so that he seemed always to view it at a distance. He did not understand its mood. A muted expectancy, a cold glamour resistant to his dwarfish intuition, vibrated in its surfaces: he had for a moment (it was a moment only) a sense of two cities, overlapping in a sprawl of moonlit triangles and tangled thoroughfares. This conceit caused him to smile but remained with him nevertheless, quite distinctly, as if he had seen the future as a composite city uninhabited by human beings.
More beggars were abroad than a single city had a right to, moving quietly about in ones and twos, the deformities that would by day be displayed up on Chamomile Street outside the pot-house doors, now half-hidden, under scalloped rags and strange tight bandages – as if when left to themselves they sought a finer aesthetic of suffering, and a subtler performance of it. Tomb stood up in his stirrups to see over the parapet of a bridge. (Toc toc went the pony's hooves, little and sharp on the cobbles.) 'Someone at least is keeping the night alive,'he observed. Underneath him the Pleasure Canal diminished toward Lowth in an icy curve, its surface tricked out with dim reflections of the Moon. 'The ice is miraculously hard. They've lit a brazier down there on it.'Cellur, though, seemed preoccupied. 'Now it's spilt!'Faint shouts and wails, as of laughter, floated up. 'Look here, Cellur – some fool's set fire to a conjuror's booth!'
'I see nothing.'
'You wish to see nothing. You are a dreary companion, I can tell you that. It's all gone dark now anyway,'said the dwarf disappointedly. He craned his neck. Nothing. His pony drifted to a standstill. When he caught up again the old man was hemming and clucking nervously.
'Those alms-men are following us now. Be ready with your axe. I do not believe they are what they seem.'
'Arms-men! Bloody beggars, more like.'He shifted the axe from one shoulder to the other. 'Black piss!'He had looked back and got a glimpse of the beggars hopping after him, soft-boned and ricketty-kneed, their arms flying out this way and that for balance. It was a horrible sight. 'There are not that many beggars in the entire world!'They were all humps and goitres. Their mis-shapen heads were concealed under crusty swathes of muslin and hats with ragged brims. Up in the Artists'Quarter and all around the derelict observatory at Alves they were gathering in large groups, lurching crazily about in white-breathed circles, watching idly as Tomb and Cellur rode past, joining the quiet procession behind. An occasional soft groan came from amongst them. Cellur's horse slithered and stumbled from rut to frozen rut; and though the pony was surer-footed they still went slowly up the Rivelin Hill between the shuttered booths and empty taverns.
Into the High City they went, but it proved to be no sanctuary. When they quickened their pace, the beggars. quickened theirs, breaking into the parody of a run. Through the elegant deserted plazas ofMinnet-Saba (where the road is made of something that muffles the sound of hooves and the wind has mumbled puzzledly for millenia round the upper peculiarities of the Pastel Towers) they poured, and out on to the great exposed spiral of the Proton Circuit: reeling from side to side, jumping and hopping and tripping themselves up, always out of the power-axe's reach:
maintaining a zone ofquarantine about the old man and the dwarf, sweeping them along by the mere promise of contact. Tomb bit his lip and belaboured the pony's sides. All around him was a sort of dumb rustling noise, punctuated by the gasps and quiet desperate groans of the deformed.
(Above and behind that he thought he heard a parched whisper, as if some enormous insect hovered above the chase on huge thoughtful wings.)
Ahead, lights glimmered. In the gusty winds at the summit of the spiral, the overlapping filigree shells of the palace creaked as if they were part of some flimsier structure. Methven's hall: the Moon hung above it like a daubed head. 'Look!'For a moment its image wavered – two palaces were superimposed, behind it another landscape showed through. Blue particles showered from its upper regions, a rain of tiny luminous insects. They galloped toward it nevertheless. Where else could they go? It trembled like a dragonfly's wing; was refracted like something seen through running water on a sunny day; and accepted them almost reluctantly. New Palace Yard was almost deserted. Tomb's caravan still stood there, its shafts empty and its colours dimmed by the smoke of winter. No guards were there to observe the sparks fly up from the pony's hooves or watch the dwarf- axe in hand and white hair streaming out behind
– tumble to the ground and hurl himself back through the gate they had just come through, determined to hold it at all costs.
The beggars, though, had forgotten about him the moment he entered the palace, and now idled about outside, staring blankly at one another. They were not beggars, he saw: they were bakers and greengrocers, in the remnants of striped aprons; they were dukes and moneylenders: they were butchers. The Sign of the Locust peeped through their curious rags. They stood in the bluish moonlight and they seemed to be waiting for something; he couldn't tell what. (They no longer had any reasons for the things they did, but he wasn't to know that. A white and single instinct had them now, like a thin song in the brain.) He watched them for five or six minutes, feeling the sweat dry on him as the seconds stretched uneventfully out and his body relaxed. Cellur came up behind him and looked over his head. 'You can put up the axe,'he said with a certain morose satisfaction. 'The City is theirs, High and Low.'And he strode rapidly off into the outer corridors, heading for the throne-room. Tomb backed away from the gate with a half-hearted snarl and, stopping to collect the bundle of long silver rods he had carried behind his saddle to the Agdon Roches and back, followed him.
The corridors were full of rubbish, mounds of decaying vegetables and heaps of ashes. Everywhere were the discarded uniforms of the palace guard. Much of the food was spoiled, half-eaten, as if whoever had prepared it was unused to human provisions; or had forgotten what to do with them. Cellur shook his head.
'They have let us in,'he said: 'But they will not let us out again so easily. I wonder what they are waiting for.'
(Methvet Nian, Queen Jane, waited also, in a cold room with five false windows. It had been a long time to wait at the heart of emptiness, nothing human moving in the corridors outside.)
Elsewhere, three figures cross our field of vision like the vanguard of an as-yet-distant refugee column. The deep wastes of Fenlen roll away from them in the weak, variable light of late afternoon, hollow as a fevered cheek. Their faces are haggard but human. They walk – if walk is the word for this slithering, staggering progress through the mud – heads down into the rain and some yards apart. They rarely speak to one another. Madness and pain have divided them and they will not now be brought back together. All day long they have followed a fourth figure (there! – bobbing in the saturated air above them, like some great inflated spectral frog!) through a belt ofderelict factories. Often they halt and stare anxiously about, in case this floating guide has abandoned them: for they are forty days out from the wreckage of Iron Chine, and they have almost forgotten who they are. The moor ahead of them is scattered with interlacing ashpits, chancred with shallow albescent tarns, and strewn as far as the eye can see with broken earthenware pipes – the detritus, it may be, of some ancient ill-fated reclamation project. From the continental marshes and sumps to the north, the wind brings a deadly metallic reek; and mixed with that more often than not comes the faint smell of lemons, to usher in another period of delirium.
The woman imagines she is the spokesman of some alien race. Her cropped hair is daubed with mud, and she makes complicated motions of the fingers to symbolize the actions of wings or antennae. She speaks of a city on the plain. 'We lid not wish to come here,'she says reasonably, 'this is not our place!'There is a cold-sore at the corner of her mouth. For the last half-hour her gait had grown steadily more disconnected. 'Your breath burns us!'she exclaims with a light laugh, as if stating some principle so obvious as to need no demonstration; and she collapses into the mud. Her limbs move feebly then stop. Broken pipes are dislodged and roll down on to her. Her companions continue their ascent of the low ridge before them. At last one of them looks back.
'Fulthor,'he says dully, 'she can't go any further unaided;'and the other replies, 'I see the great-breasted chimerae with their ironic eyes, but I cannot go to them! This morning early I had a vision of Arnac san Tehn – him with the head like a god – sitting in a garden.'
He strikes himself repeatedly about the face and head. 'Dust and hyacinths in my father's library; dust and hyacinths my proud inheritance!'This litany seems to give him doubtful comfort. For some time he runs in erratic circles in the mud, his neck bent and his face pulled over to one side of his skull as if he has suffered a stroke. Eventually he joins the first figure (who has sat down wearily to watch him) and with much fumbling they raise the woman by her legs and shoulders. Their farting guide, meanwhile, hectors them in a language not heard on Earth before or since. He waves a fat, admonitory hand and they must follow; slower than before, up the dip of the long low ridge, sliding into peat groughs and shallow hidden pools, their eyes on their feet and the woman slung between them like a rotting hammock… Imagine that our field of vision is static, and that they have almost moved out of it, creeping across from left to right as the light fades. They crest the ridge. We see only their uncomprehending faces, made tiny and grey by distance; while they see only the city which spreads itself suddenly below them like excavations in a sunken garden.
A mist drifts over the scene – particulate, sullen, smelling of lemons.
The throne-room at Viriconium, on a cold and desultory afternoon three or four days after the death of the Fat Main:
three o'clock, and the night was already closing in, diffusing through the draughty passages where the old machines muttered and drew about themselves their meagre shawls of light. Methvet Nian: nine steel rings glittered cold and grey on her thin stiff fingers. She wore a cloak made from white fur clasped with amber and iron, and took her chocolate from a rare grey china cup. Her eyes were purple and depthless. Cellur the birdmaker sat with her, leaning forward a little, his face beaky and hollow in the weak light admitted by the clerestory windows high above. Their murmurs echoed in the chilly air. 'We know nothing but that the world is invaded.''Our fate in St Elmo Buffin's hands.'
'Nothing seen from the outer wall.''Great insects, marching south. The Queen held out one hand, palm flat, to the small blue flames of the fire, feeling an uncertain, transitory w armth.
Around them the palace was quiet, though not unpopulated. The Queen's guard had, it turned out, destroyed
some weeks before in a series of bloody, motiveless purges and episodic defections to the Sign of the Locust: the day after his arrival, Tomb the Dwarf had brought his caravan in from the courtyard, established himself like a nomadic warlord somewhere in the littered outer corridors, and taken charge of the handful of disorientated survivors he found living rough in the guardrooms and abandoned mess halls. It was a situation which suited both his inclinations and his experience. At night the dull ring of his hammer penetrated the intervening walls; he was rearming his little force. During the morning he made the round of his defences – which consisted mainly in barricades constructed from old machinery – or stared from the judas-hole he had contrived in the main gates at the silent 'beggars'without. In the afternoons he would knock on the throne-room door and allow Methvet Nian to serve him lukewarm chamomile which he compounded with a violent brandy from Cladich.
I expect an attack soon,'he would report, and another day would pass without event. 'It can't be long in coming.'He was happier, he explained, with something to do. Never-theless he dreamed a lot, of the lost excitements of his youth.
Leaving the palace for the city was like entering a dark crystal (especially at night, under the 'white pulpy spectre'the Moon); the shape of things became irregular, refracted; sudden astonishing mirages swallowed the Pastel Towers or engulfed the denizens of the streets beneath them. It was as if Viriconium (the physical city, that is, the millenial artifact which sums up a thousand dead cultures) had suffered some sort of psychic storm, and forgotten itself. Its very molecules seemed to be creeping apart. 'As you walk,'the dwarf tried to explain after a single clandestine excursion to the Artists'Quarter, 'the streets create themselves around you. When you have passed everything slips immediately back into chaos again.'Many of the Reborn had abandoned their houses in Minnet-Saba and were making their way north, a trickle of great horses, big-wheeled carts and vibrantly coloured armour: they carried their strange weapons with care. Down in the Low City the alleys were empty and stuporous – no-one was coming out except for coke or cabbage. Outside the palace waited the devotees of the Sign, becoming more mis-shapen beneath their cloaks and bandages every day…
In the room at the centre of the palace the light had almost gone. Draughts ran about like mice in the corners. White stiff fingers retreated beneath the fur cloak she clasped about her: 'It is so cold this afternoon. On the Rannoch Moor when I was little more than a child, Lord Birkin Grif killed a snow-leopard. It was not so cold then. He spun me round by the arms crying “Hold on, hold tight!” (That was earlier still.) The dwarf is late this afternoon.'
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