Imajica

by Clive Barker

  “The mystif’s gone up to the palace,” the man replied.

  “Why?”

  “That was the judgment upon it.”

  “Just to go?” Gentle said, taking a step towards the man. “There must have been more to it than that.”

  Though the silk sword protected the man, Gentle came with a burden of power that beggared his own, and sensing this he answered less obliquely.

  “The judgment was that it kill the Autarch,” he said.

  “So it’s been sent up there alone?”

  “No. It took some of our tribe with it and left a few of us to guard the Kesparate.”

  “How long ago since they went?”

  “Not very long. But you won’t get into the palace. Neither will they. It’s suicide.”

  Gentle didn’t linger to argue but headed back towards the entrance, leaving the man to guard the blossoms and the empty streets. As he approached the gate, however, he saw that two individuals, a man and a woman, had just entered and were looking his way, Both were naked from the waist up, their throats painted with the blue triple stripe he remembered from the siege at the harbor, marking them as members of the Dearth. At his approach, both acknowledged him by putting palm to palm and inclining their heads. The woman was half as big again as her companion, her body a glorious machine, her head—shaved but for a ponytail—set on a neck wider than her cranium and, like her arms and belly, so elaborately muscled the merest twitch was a spectacle.

  “I said he’d be here!” she told the world.

  “I don’t know what you want,” he said, “but I can’t supply it.”

  “You are John Furie Zacharias?”

  “Yes.”

  “Called Gentle?”

  “Yes. But—”

  “Then you have to come. Please. Father Athanasius sent us to find you. We heard what happened on Lickerish Street, and we knew it had to be you. I’m Nikaetomaas,” the woman said. “This is Floccus Dado. We’ve been waiting for you since Estabrook arrived.”

  “Estabrook?” said Gentle. There was a man he hadn’t given a thought to in many a month. “How do you know him?”

  “We found him in the street. We thought he was the one. But he wasn’t. He knew nothing.”

  “And you think I do?” Gentle said, exasperated. “Let me tell you, I know fuck-all! I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m not your man.”

  “That’s what Father Athanasius said. He said you were in ignorance—”

  “Well, he was right.”

  “But you married the mystif.”

  “So what?” said Gentle. “I love it, and I don’t care who knows it.”

  “We realize that,” Nikaetomaas said, as though nothing could have been plainer. “That’s how we tracked you.”

  “We knew it would come here,” Floccus said. “And wherever it had gone, you would be.”

  “It isn’t here,” Gentle said. “It’s up in the palace.”

  “In the palace?” said Nikaetomaas, turning her gaze up towards the lowering walls. “And you intend to follow it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll come with you,” she said. “Mr. Dado, go back to Athanasius. Tell him who we’ve found and where we’ve gone.”

  “I don’t want company,” Gentle said. “I don’t even trust myself.”

  “How will you get into the palace without someone at your side?” Nikaetomaas said. “I know the gates. I know the courtyards.”

  Gentle turned the options over in his head. Part of him wanted to go as a rogue, carrying the chaos he’d brought to Lickerish Street as his emblem. But his ignorance of palace geography could indeed slow him, and minutes might make the difference between finding the mystif alive or dead. He nodded his consent, and the parties divided at the gate: Floccus Dado back to Father Athanasius, Gentle and Nikaetomaas up towards the Autarch’s fortress.

  The only subject he broached as they traveled was that of Estabrook. How was he, Gentle asked: still crazy?

  “He was almost dead when we found him,” Nikaetomaas said. “His brother left him here for dead. But we took him to our tents on the Erasure, and we healed him there. Or, more properly, his being there healed him.”

  “You did all this, thinking he was me?”

  “We knew that somebody was going to come from the Fifth to begin the Reconciliation again. And of course we knew it had to be soon. We just didn’t know what he looked like.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but that’s twice you’ve got it wrong. I’m no more your man than Estabrook.”

  “Why did you come here, then?” she said.

  That was an inquiry that deserved a serious reply, if not for her sake, then for his own.

  “There were questions I wanted answered, that I couldn’t answer on earth,” he said. “A friend of mine died, very young. A woman I knew was almost murdered—”

  “Judith.”

  “Yes, Judith.”

  “We’ve talked about her a great deal,” Nikaetomaas said. “Estabrook was obsessed with her.”

  “Is he still?”

  “I haven’t spoken to him for a long time. But you know he was trying to bring her to Yzordderrex when his brother intervened.”

  “Did she come?”

  “Apparently not,” Nikaetomaas said. “But Athanasius believes she will eventually. He says she’s part of the story of the Reconciliation.”

  “How does he work that out?”

  “From Estabrook’s obsession with her, I suppose. The way he talked about her, it was though she was something holy, and Athanasius loves holy women.”

  “Let me tell you, I know Judith very well, and she’s no Virgin.”

  “There are other kinds of sanctity among our sex,” Nikaetomaas replied, a little testily.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any offense. But if there’s one thing Jude’s always hated it’s being put on a pedestal.”

  “Then maybe it’s not the idol we should be studying, but the worshiper. Athanasius says obsession is fire to our fortress.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That we have to burn down the walls around us, but it takes a very bright flame to do so.”

  “An obsession, in other words.”

  “That’s one such flame, yes.”

  “Why would we want to burn down these walls in the first place? Don’t they protect us?”

  “Because if we don’t, we die inside, kissing our own reflections,” Nikaetomaas said, the reply too well turned to be improvised.

  “Athanasius again?” Gentle said.

  “No,” said Nikaetomaas. “An aunt of mine. She’s been locked up in the Bastion for years, but in here”—Nikaetomaas pointed to her temple—“she’s free.”

  “And what about the Autarch?” Gentle said, turning his gaze up towards the fortress.

  “What about him?”

  “Is he up there, kissing his reflection?”

  “Who knows? Maybe he’s been dead for years, and the state’s running itself.”

  “Do you seriously believe that?”

  Nikaetomaas shook her head. “No. He’s alive, behind his walls.”

  “What’s he keeping out, I wonder?”

  “Who knows? Whatever he’s afraid of, I don’t think it breathes the same air that we do.”

  Before they left the rubble-strewn thoroughfares of the Kesparate called Hittahitte, which lay between the gates of the Eurhetemec Kesparate and the wide Roman streets of Yzordderrex’s bureaucratic district, Nikaetomaas dug around in the ruins of a garret for some means of disguise. She found a collection of filthy garments which she insisted Gentle don, then found some equally disgusting for herself. Their faces and physiques had to be concealed, she explained, so that they could mingle freely with the wretched they’d find gathered at the gates. Then they headed on, their climb bringing them into streets lined with buildings of classical severity and scale, as yet unscorched by the torches that were being passed from hand to hand, roof to
roof, in the Kesparates below. They would not remain pristine much longer, Nikaetomaas predicted. When the rebels’ fire reached these edifices—the Taxation Courts and the Bureaus of Justice—it would leave no pillar unblackened. But for now the travelersmoved between monoliths as quiet as mausoleums.

  On the other side, the reason for their donning of stinking and louse-ridden clothes became apparent. Nikaetomaas had brought them not to one of the great gates of the palace but to a minor opening, around which a group dressed in motley indistinguishable from their own was gathered. Some of them carried candles. By their fitful light Gentle could see that there was not a single body that was whole among them.

  “Are they waiting to get in?” he asked his guide.

  “No. This is the gate of Saint Creaze and Saint Evendown. Have you not heard of them in the Fifth? I thought that’s where they were martyred.”

  “Very possibly.”

  “They appear everywhere in Yzordderrex. Nursery rhymes, puppet plays—”

  “So what happens here? Do the saints make personal appearances?”

  “After a fashion.”

  “And what are these people hoping for?” Gentle asked, casting a glance among the wretched assembly. “Healing?”

  They were certainly in dire need of such miracles. Crippled and diseased, suppurating and broken, some of them looked so weak they’d not make it till morning.

  “No,” Nikaetomaas replied. “They’re here for sustenance. I only hope the saints aren’t too distracted by the revolution to put in an appearance.”

  She’d no sooner spoken than the sound of an engine chugging into life on the far side of the gates pitched the crowd into frenzy. Crutches became weapons, and diseased spittle flew, as the invalids fought for a place close to the bounty they knew was imminent. Nikaetomaas pushed Gentle forward into the brawl, where he was obliged to fight, though he felt ashamed to do so, or else have his limbs torn from their sockets by those who had fewer than he. Head down, arms flailing, he dug his way forward as the gates began to open.

  What appeared on the other side drew gasps of devotion from all sides and one of incredulity from Gentle. Trundling forward to fill the breadth of the gates was a fifteen-foot study in kitsch: a sculpted representation of Saints Creaze and Evendown, standing shoulder to shoulder, their arms stretched out towards the yearning crowd, while their eyes rolled in their carved sockets like those of carnival dummies, looking down on their flock as if affrighted by them one moment and up to heaven the next. But it was their apparel that drew Gentle’s appalled gaze. They were clothed in their largesse: dressed in food from throat to foot. Coats of meat, still smoking from the ovens, covered their torsos; sausages hung in steaming loops around their necks and wrists; at their groins hung sacks heavy with bread, while the layers of their skirts were of fruit and fish. The crowd instantly surged forward to denude them, the brawlers merciless in their hunger, beating each other as they climbed for their share.

  The saints were not without defense, however; there were penalties for the gluttonous. Hooks and spikes, expressly designed to wound, were set among the bountiful folds of skirts and coats. The devotees seemed not to care, but climbed up over the statues, disdainful of fruit and fish, in order to reach the steaks and sausages above. Some fell, doing themselves bloody mischief on the way down; others—scrambling over the victims—reached their goals with shrieks of glee and set about loading the bags on their backs. Even then, in their triumph, they were not secure. Those behind either dragged them from their perches or pulled the bags from their backs and pitched them to accomplices in the crowd, where they in turn were set upon and robbed.

  Nikaetomaas held on to Gentle’s belt so that they wouldn’t be separated in this mêlée, and after much maneuvering they reached the base of the statues. The machine had been designed to block the gates, but Nikaetomaas now squatted down in front of the plinth, and—her activities concealed from the guards watching from above the gate—tore at the casing that housed the vehicle’s wheels. It was beaten metal, but it came away like cardboard beneath her assault, its rivets flying. Then she ducked into the gap she’d created. Gentle followed. Once below the saints, the din of the crowd became remoter, the thump of bodies punctuating the general hubbub. It was almost completely dark, but they shimmied forward on their stomachs, the engine—huge and hot—dripping its fluids on them as they went. As they reached the other side, and Nikaetomaas began to prize away the casing there, the sound of shouting became louder. Gentle looked around. Others had discovered Nikaetomaas’handiwork and, perhaps thinking there were new treasures to be discovered beneath the idols, were following: not two or three, now, but many. Gentle began to lend Nikaetomaas a hand, as the space filled up with bodies, new brawls erupting as the pursuers fought for access. The whole structure, enormous as it was, began to shudder, the combination of brawlers below and above conspiring to tip it. With the violence of the rocking increasing by the moment, Gentle had sight of escape. A sizable courtyard lay on the other side of the saints, scored by the tracks of the engine and littered with discarded food.

  The instability of the machine had not gone unnoticed, and two guards were presently forsaking their meal of prime steak and raising the alarm with panicked shouts. Their retreat allowed Nikaetomaas to wriggle free unnoticed, then turn to haul Gentle after her. The juggernaut was now close to toppling, and shots were being fired on the other side as the guards above the gate sought to dissuade the crowd from further burrowings. Gentle felt hands grasping at his legs, but he kicked back at them, as Nikaetomaas dragged him forward, and slid out into the open air as several cracks, like sudden thunder, announced that the saints were tired of teetering and ready to fall. Backs bent, Gentle and Nikaetomaas darted across the rind- and crust-littered ground to the safety of the shadows as, with a great din the saints fell backwards like comic drunkards, a mass of their adherents still clinging to arms and coats and skirts. The structure came apart as it hit the ground, pitching pieces of carved, cooked, and crippled fleshin all directions.

  The guards were descending from the ramparts now, to stem with bullets the flow of the crowd. Gentle and Nikaetomaas didn’t linger to watch this fresh horror but took to their heels, up and away from the gates, the pleas and howls of those maimed by the fall following them through the darkness.

  II

  “What’s the din, Rosengarten?”

  “There’s a minor problem at the Gate of Saints, sir.”

  “Are we under siege?”

  “No. It was merely an unfortunate accident.”

  “Fatalities?”

  “Nothing significant. The gate’s now been sealed.”

  “And Quaisoir? How’s she?”

  “I haven’t spoken with Seidux since early evening.”

  “Then find out.”

  “Of course.”

  Rosengarten withdrew, and the Autarch returned his attention to the man transfixed in the chair close by.

  “These Yzordderrexian nights,” he said to the fellow, “they’re so very long. In the Fifth, you know, they’re half this length, and I used to complain they were over too soon. But now”—he sighed—“now I wonder if I wouldn’t be better off going back there and founding a New Yzordderrex. What do you think?”

  The man in the chair didn’t reply. His cries had long since ceased, though the reverberations, more precious than the sound itself, and more tantalizing, continued to shake the air, even to the ceiling of this chamber, where clouds sometimes formed and shed delicate, cleansing rains.

  The Autarch drew his own chair up closer to the man. A sac of living fluid the size of his head was clamped to the victim’s chest, its limbs, fine as thread, puncturing him, and reaching into his body to touch his heart, lungs, liver, and lights. He’d summoned the entity, which was the shreds of a once much more fabulous beast, the renunciance, from the In Ovo, selecting it as a surgeon might choose some instrument from a tray, to perform a delicate and very particular task. Whatever the nature of
such summoned beasts, he had no fear of them. Decades of such rituals had familiarized him with every species that haunted the In Ovo, and while there were certainly some he would never have dared bring into the living world, most had enough base instinct to know their master’s voice and would obey him within the confines of their wit. This creature he’d called Abelove, after a lawyer he’d known briefly in the Fifth, who’d been as leechlike as this scrap of malice, and almost as foulsmelling.

  “How does it feel?” the Autarch asked, straining to catch the merest murmur of a reply. “The pain’s passed, hasn’t it? Didn’t I say it would?”

  The man’s eyes flickered open, and he licked his lips. They made something very close to a smile.

  “You feel a kind of union with Abelove, am I right? It’s worked its way into every little part. Please speak, or I’ll take it from you. You’ll bleed from every hole it’s made, but that pain won’t be anything beside the loss you’ll feel.”

  “Don’t . . .” the man said.

  “Then talk to me,” the Autarch replied, all reason. “Do you know how difficult it is to find a leech like this? They’re almost extinct. But I gave this one to you, didn’t I? And all I’m asking is that you tell me how it feels.”

  “It feels . . . good.”

  “Is that Abelove talking, or you?”

  “We’re the same,” came the reply.

  “Like sex, is it?”

  “No.”

  “Like love, then?”

  “No. Like I’m unborn again.”

  “In the womb?”

  “In the womb.”

  “Oh, God, how I envy you. I don’t have that memory. I never floated in a mother.”

  The Autarch rose from his chair, his hand covering his mouth. It was always like this when the dregs of kreauchee moved in his veins. He became unbearably tender at such times, moved to expressions of grief and rage at the obscurest cue.

  “To be joined with another soul,” he said, “indivisibly. Consumed and made whole in the same moment. What a precious joy.”

  He turned back to his prisoner, whose eyes were closing again. The Autarch didn’t notice.