Weave World

miles. She tried to take a step on that long road, but the commotion in her head suddenly rose to deafening proportions.

The presence behind her had no intention of letting her escape. It sought a confrontation, and it was a waste of effort to defy it. So she turned and looked.

The mask was melting, though there was ice in the eyes that emerged from behind it, not fire. She knew the face, and though she'd not thought herself ready to brave its fury yet, she was strangely elated by the sight. The last shreds of Mimi evaporated, and Immacolata stood revealed.

‘My sister...' she said, the air around her dancing to her words, ‘... my sister the Hag had me play that part. She thought she saw Mimi in your face. She was right, wasn't she? You're her child.'

‘Grandchild,' Suza

‘Child.' came the certain reply.

Suza

‘How dare you pity me?' she said, as if she'd read Suza

It came too fast for Suza

Suza

It was like plunging her arm into a torrent of ice-water. A torrent in which i

The action had three consequences. One, a cry from Immacolata. Two, the sudden cessation of the din in Suza

suddenly within her. Her body was the flood. Not the body of flesh and bone, but some other anatomy, made more of thought than of substance, and more ancient than either. Somehow it had recognized itself in Immacolata's assault, and thrown off its sleep.

Never in her life had she felt so complete. In the face of this feeling all other ambition - for happiness, for pleasure, for power - all others faded.

She looked back at Immacolata, and her new eyes saw not an enemy but a woman possessed of the same torrent that ran in her own veins. A woman twisted and full of anguish but for all that more like her than not. That was stupid,' said the Incantatrix. ‘Was it?' said Suza

‘Now you'll know more than you wish to know, feel more than you ever wanted to feel.' There seemed to be something approximating pity in Immacolata's voice. ‘So the grief begins,' she said. ‘And it will never end. Believe me. You should have lived and died a Cuckoo.' ‘Is that how Mimi died?' said Suza

‘Seerkind?' So many new words. ‘Are they the Fugue people?'

‘They're dead people.' came the reply. ‘Don't look to them for answers. They're dust soon enough. Gone the way everything in this stinking Kingdom goes. To dirt and mediocrity. We'll see to that. You're alone. Like she was.'

That ‘we' reminded her of the Salesman, and the potency of the coat he wore. ‘Is Shadwell a Seerkind?' she asked.

‘Him?' The thought was apparently preposterous. ‘No. Any power he's got's my gift.'

‘Why?' said Suza

‘He taught me ...' the Incantatrix began, her hand moving up to her face,'... he taught me, the show.' The hand passed across her features, and upon reappearing she was smiling, almost warmly. ‘You'll need that now.'

‘And for that you're his mistress?'

The sound that came from the woman might have been a laugh; but only might. ‘I leave love to the Magdalene, sister. She's an appetite for it. Ask Mooney -'

Cal. She'd forgotten Cal.

‘- if he has the breath to answer.'

Suza

‘Go on ...' said Immacolata, ‘... go find him. I won't stop you.'

The brightness in her, the menstruum, knew the Incantatrix was telling the truth. That flood was part of them both now. It bonded them in ways Suza

‘The battle's already lost, sister.' Immacolata murmured as Suza

Suza

‘Too late ...' said the woman behind her.

‘Cal!'

There was no reply. She started to search for him, calling his name at intervals, her anxiety growing with each unanswered shout. The place was a maze; twice she found herself in a location she'd already searched.

It was the glitter of broken glass that drew her attention; and then, lying face down a little way from it, Cal. Before she got close enough to touch him she sensed the profundity of his stillness.

He was too brittle, the menstruum in her said. You know how these Cuckoos are.

She rejected the thought. It wasn't hers.

‘Don't be dead.'

That was hers. It slipped from her as she knelt down beside him, a plea to his silence.

‘Please God, don't be dead.'

She was frightened to touch him, for fear of discovering the worst, all the while knowing that she was the only help he had. His head was turned towards her, his eyes closed, his mouth open, trailing blood-tinged spittle. Instinctively, her hand went to his hair, as if she might stroke him awake, but pragmatism had not entirely deserted her, and instead her fingers sought the pulse in his neck. It was weak.

So the grief begins, Immacolata had said, mere minutes before. Had she known, even as she offered that prophecy, that Cal was half way to dying already?

Of course she'd known. Known, and welcomed the grief this would bring, because she wanted Suza

Distracted by the realization she focused again on Cal to find that her hand had left his neck and was once again stroking his hair. Why was she doing this? He wasn't a sleeping child. He was hurt; he needed more concrete help. But even as she rebuked herself she felt the menstruum start to rise from her lower abdomen, washing her entrails, and lungs and heart, and moving - without any conscious instruction - down her arm towards Cal. Before, it had been indifferent to his wounding; you know how these Cuckoos are, it had said to her. But her rage, or perhaps her sadness, had chastened it. Now she felt its energies carry her need to wake him, to heal him, through the palm of her hand and into his sealed head.

It was both an extraordinary sensation, and one she felt perfectly at ease with. When, at the last moment, it seemed not to want to go, she pressed it forward and it obeyed her, its stream flowing into him. It was hers to control, she realized, with a rush of exhilaration, which was followed immediately by an ache of loss as the body below her drank the torment down.

He was greedy for healing. Her joints began to jitter as the

menstruum ran from her, and in her skull that alien song rose like a dozen sirens. She tried to take her hand from his head, but her muscles wouldn't obey the imperative. The menstruum had taken charge of her body, it seemed. She'd been too hasty, assuming control would be easy. It was deliberately depleting itself, to teach her not to press it.