Against the Unweaving

by D. P. Prior

  He’d given up on Blightey’s grimoire. There was only so much mumbo jumbo he could take, and what he’d read had unsettled his sleep. It was bad enough surrendering to the little death, as he called it, without being frightened out of his wits by nightmares from the Abyss. He patted his breast pocket and plucked out his cigarette case, all shiny silver and engraved with his initials. A parting gift from Mama before he’d set off for Verusia. He frowned and thought of some numbers to drive away the memories. Sixes and sevens mostly, with the odd nine thrown in for good measure.

  He lit a cigarette with his ancient Zippo and relaxed against the leather back-rest of his chair, chunky legs stretched out beneath the desk. He spent a moment eyeing the faded sepia pictures in their tarnished frames. What had happened to the proud young man in the gown and mortar-board clutching the scroll? The boy all in white with the cricket bat kneeling at the front of the team? He knew where the others were—his teammates, his family, his friends. Dust and ashes, like I should be. Back to the elements or lost in the Void. Why did he go through this ritual every morning, clinging onto the memories of the dead? Because I must remember. Because that’s all I am; all that stands between the last wispy threads of my being and oblivion.

  He took a long drag on the cigarette, imagining the smoke burning his lungs. They’d long since rotted along with the rest of him, now no more than emphysemic sacks that made every breath a dying gasp. His chin slumped against his chest. All that remained was a crumbling skeleton housing a shriveled heart and the blackened embers of his spirit, if that’s what you could call it. “Will” was a better word, he fancied. The will to endure at all costs.

  He puffed out his illusory cheeks and turned his attention back to the book: Meditations on Plenitude by Alphonse La Roche. Funny how it came round so quickly. It seemed only yesterday he’d read the pre-Nousian classic and yet, judging by the hundreds of completed books he’d returned to their precise locations on the shelves, it must have been a century. The eternal ritual, cycling through the entire library, re-reading every word in an effort to preserve more memories than the mind could hold.

  It would probably take another century to wade through LaRoche’s turgid prose and metaphysical balderdash. It never got any easier, but it was one of those arduous tasks one simply had to get on with. He just wished the man hadn’t written so much. LaRoche had been writing up until the Reckoning, a sort of last champion of the old superstition that passed for religion until Sektis Gandaw’s technocracy had all but eradicated it. Bloody good job, too, Cadman thought, although the human capacity for self-deception doesn’t die easily. LaRoche had sat out the cataclysm at his Abbey of Pardes in Sahul. His name had vanished over the years, but Cadman had read that he’d reinvented himself as the mysterious Gray Abbot. He’d reputedly helped the Templum drive Otto Blightey back into Verusia, seventy years after the Liche Lord had steered its rebirth from the ashes of the Old World. Blightey had a way of upsetting his allies, it had to be said. Apparently he’d got his claws on some ancient artifact that belonged to the Ipsissimus. It wasn’t the first time he’d clashed with the religious authorities either. The first time they’d burned him for it.

  A rustling noise followed by a clash roused him from his brown-study. A bit early for the morning post, surely. Cadman squeezed out of his chair and plodded down the hallway. Someone had shoved a piece of paper through his letter-box. Bloody junk mail. Of all the things that had to survive the Reckoning. If Governor Gen didn’t put a stop to the damned Merchant’s Guild and their intrusive activities soon, Cadman would be voting for the other side come next election. His knees clicked as he stooped to pick it up, a creased and stained flyer announcing some sorry sounding recital at an even sorrier sounding pub out beyond the black stump, as the locals would no doubt say. He was about to screw it up, when a word caught his eye: “Eingana”.

  Ash dropped off the cigarette hanging limply from his lips as he read the flyer more carefully:

  The Epic of The Reckoning

  by Elias Wolf

  Venue: The Griffin, Broken Bridge

  Hear how the world of the Ancients was destroyed by beasts from the Dreaming. Relive the death of the machines at the hands of the shaman Huntsman wielding the magic of the serpent goddess Eingana.

  Performance starts at sundown.

  No formal dress required.

  Broken Bridge … Broken Bridge… Now where the deuce is that? And Elias Wolf… I’d swear on Mama’s grave I’ve heard that name before? Cadman flicked the flyer with one fat finger and hurried back towards his study—and straight into Shadrak.

  “Awake so soon?”

  “I heal quick.”

  Cadman didn’t doubt it. There was something about the assassin’s appearance that nagged at his overburdened mind. It was in there somewhere; just needed to be dredged up from the depths, filtered out from all the dross and scum of the centuries.

  “What do I owe you?”

  More than you can afford. Cadman tried not to sneer as Shadrak searched through a pouch for some loose change. He was adorned with pouches, replete with them, all the way around his belt, and two strapped over his shoulders, running alongside the twin baldrics with their gleaming blades and razor stars. The pistol was holstered at one hip, a stiletto sheathed at the other. All kitted out for killing and looking just the part with his deathly complexion and eyes like diluted blood.

  “Do you know a place called Broken Bridge?” Cadman made a show of scrutinizing the flyer.

  “Shit hole twenty miles south. Why?” Shadrak gave him a look that could have been mistaken for nonchalance by anyone other than Cadman.

  “You’ve been there?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Quite, quite.” Twenty miles might not have seemed far, but to Cadman that was the end of the Earth. He’d not left Sarum in decades and got into a panic if he had to go further than the city center. Travel was not something he did anymore, if he could help it, and that created something of a dilemma.

  “May I see the wound?” He took a step towards Shadrak but stopped when he caught the look in his eye, the tension in his tiny body.

  “Told you I heal quick. Just needed you to get the…”

  “Bullet.”

  “Whatever. To get the bullet out.”

  It came to Cadman like an aneurysm. “Homunculus!”

  “What?”

  He was sure that was the word. He’d come across it in one of Blightey’s books. The little folk, denizens of Aethir, wasn’t it? The world of the Dreaming. He would have loved to ask questions but doubted Shadrak would be very forthcoming.

  “Just thinking aloud. Put the purse away, there are other ways to settle a debt. Do you have any urgent engagements?”

  He could see Shadrak didn’t like it. His eyes were darting all over the place, fingers stroking the tops of pouches.

  “What you got in mind?”

  “Oh, nothing too strenuous. Wouldn’t want to impede your recovery.” Actually, the albino already looked fully healed, and that wasn’t natural. Whatever Shadrak was, Cadman very much doubted he was human. “How do you fancy a trip to Broken Bridge?”

  “Who d’you want dead?”

  Now there’s a thought. “No one.” At least not right now. “Think of it as more of a reconnaissance; information gathering.” Cadman handed him the flyer. “Go to this recital and come back with everything you can glean about Eingana.”

  “That it?”

  “That’ll pay for your treatment. If it leads to any more work, I’m sure I could rustle up a denarius or two.”

  Shadrak’s pink eyes widened at that.

  Avaricious barbarian. Just like the rest of these Sahulian cow-herders and sheep-shaggers: despising everything about Nousia, except for the value of its currency.

  “Excellent,” Cadman said. “Every last detail about Eingana, remember. I don’t want you to miss a jot.”

  STAGE FRIGHT

  Elias Wolf had never been a nervous
performer. Man, he was too wasted for nerves most of the time. He’d been gigging for so long he reckoned his memories of the old shows must have passed down the crapper of history along with the world of the Ancients.

  “I wouldn’t say it’s nerves, as such.” He flicked ash into the mouth of the Statue of Eingana, a black and toothless snake, staring at him like she would have bitten his hand off for the offense; if she’d had anything to bite with. “Reckon it’s more separation anxiety.”

  Rhiannon was pissed but doing a good job trying to disguise it, face all pale and serious, eyes with that glazed-over look that turned Elias on. Turned him on with any other woman, that’s to say.

  “Do you want a glass with that?”

  “Think I’m right.” She took another swig from the bottle, wine staining her lips, giving her the look of a raven-haired queen of the Abyss. She had a sort of undead-ish quality, freshly risen from the grave to sup on the flesh of men.

  The thought sent sparrows’ claws hopping up and down Elias’s spine. Cold sparrows, that is, the sort you might find in an arctic tundra, feet all frozen in ice. Wow, he was stoned. Stonedy stone stoned. But the vampire tart thing was cool, though. “Chuck us my notepad.” Bloody good image for a song, that. The sort of thing that needed to be jotted down before it faded like a dream on waking.

  Rhiannon swayed as she stood, and for one moment he thought she was going to topple into the rows of instruments standing on display against the peeling, crumbling wall of the studio—his babies.

  She threw him his pad and he scribbled some notes about blood-sucking strumpets.

  “Now don’t go getting too wrecked on me, gal. This is an historic occasion.” He did the regal voice thing and accompanying flourish. “And finally,” he announced to the invisible crowd, “after year upon year of sweat, toil and… Sweat, toil and what?”

  “A ton of bloody weed.” Rhiannon gave him that grin—the broad one that said she was a comedian, and your best friend, and a bitch all at the same time. Elias dug the economy of the girl; reckoned she was a natural. Shame to see her wasted on the Templum. Still, give it time, she’d screw it up. Couldn’t see her cow-towing to Nousian rules of obedience. And chastity—there was just no way.

  “Weed. I like that.” He took another drag to emphasize the point. “Once did a gig—years ago.”Centuries, even. “Geezer chucks me a joint, someone else hands me a beer, and this crazy chick dumps a baby on my lap. Thank Ain for guitar stands, I says. Well, actually I didn’t—don’t thank Ain for much, really. You know my thoughts on that.”

  Rhiannon brushed the hair out of her face and rolled her eyes. “Don’t start.”

  Elias wagged his finger at her. “For you, my darling, I would praise Ain to the heights of Araboth.” But not for anyone else. “Like I was saying, baby, beer and spliff. I says: ‘What am I supposed to do now?’ —meaning, like, how can the gig go on?—when the chick hands me her purse. It’s like she was saying ‘Take the money; it’ll pay for the baby’s keep.’ And no, it wasn’t mine. You have one hell of a smutty mind for a postulant. Anyhow, I open the purse, look inside, turn it upside down and shake it. ‘Empty,’ I says. ‘Like society.’ ”

  Rhiannon didn’t look much like she was listening. He’d probably told that one before. The grin fell off her face.

  “Shit.” She slapped her head, spilling some wine as she set the bottle down. “I bloody swore.”

  “I think, my girl, you might have bitten off more than you can chew with this religious thing.”

  “It’s the drink, I swear it is. You’re a bad influence.”

  “Shit!” Elias jumped up from his stool and stubbed the butt out in Eingana’s mouth. “My scrumpy!”

  He tripped over a guitar stand and hurtled into the door, bowling through and landing in a heap next to the stove. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of cinnamon and cloves.

  “Pan’s boiled dry,” Rhiannon said, lifting it from the heat and scraping around in the ashes with a spoon. “That’s what I meant by gently heat. No mulled cider for you tonight. Still, there’s plenty of wine.”

  “You know me and the ol’ vino.” Elias climbed to his feet and dusted himself down. “Don’t agree with my guts. Bad omen, that—the cider. Doesn’t augur well for the opening night.”

  “You’ll be right. Long as you don’t forget your lines like last time.”

  “That was hardly the same.” He ushered her back into the studio. “This, my dear, is a masterpiece. Centuries in the making, and every last lyric burned into the ol’ noddle like … like…”

  “Like cider into a pan?”

  “Funny that. Cider in a pan. Remind me to hug myself in case my sides split. Bugger, what’s the first frickin’ line? Pass me Old Mr. Spud, will you.”

  Rhiannon reverently lifted the guitar and blew dust from the headstock. Elias rested it on his lap and gave it a quick tune. “The ol’ mother-o’-pearl’s a little lack luster. Bit of spit and polish’ll sort that out. Sounds beautiful, though, with the new strings.” He strummed an open G and looked up expectantly.

  “Lovely.” Rhiannon obviously had no appreciation for the subtle tones of the ol’ phosphor bronzes. She wasn’t alone in that. Backward bleeding world—in a forward sort of a way.

  He struck up an alternating bass line with his thumb and plucked away with his fingers, the notes crisp and ringing with the clarity only new strings had—and then only for a day or two, if you were lucky. He closed his eyes, picked out the melody, took in a breath and sang:

  “A gift of the Void or a fool’s prophecy,

  A tumbling of stars came the Aeonic Three.

  The Archon, his sister and brother…”

  The worst thing that can happen to a bard. His mind was a blank. He tried again, strummed the intro to see if that helped. It didn’t.

  Rhiannon squatted down in front of him. “Is it the weed?”

  Elias was as close to panic as he’d ever been. This was not cool. Not cool at all. “Course it’s not the weed. Might have blamed it if I’d not had any—withdrawals an’ all. No, it’s not the bloody weed. Song’s cursed, that’s what.”

  “Cursed?”

  “Whole frickin’ epic’s cursed. Always has been. Reckon that’s why it took so long to pen.” What had Huntsman said? This one’s not for the world? Something like that, all dressed up with Dreamer heebie jeebies and interspersed with “fellah” and “Sahul says.” Someone might hear, he’d said. Apparently that wasn’t such a good thing. Certainly wasn’t if “someone” was Sektis bleedin’ Gandaw, who the Dreamers seemed to think of as a dark and vengeful god. The last thing Elias wanted was a return to the Global Technocracy that had screwed the world up big time before the Reckoning. Machines telling you when to wake up, spouting shit at you all day long, cooking your dinner, wiping your arse. They even had machines that played guitar, which was the straw that broke the camel’s back, as far as he was concerned. No, the world was better off without Sektis Gandaw and his bloodless utopia. If the shogger hadn’t been killed during the Reckoning, he’d have snuffed it centuries ago in any case, despite what Huntsman seemed to believe. And even if he were still alive, Elias suspected the Technocrat of the Old World had more in common with a cockroach surviving a nuclear winter than with an immortal deity.

  “He’s put the signs on me,” Elias said with mock horror. “Doomed me with stage fright.”

  “Who?”

  “Who do you think? Huntsman, the scary witch doctor geezer. Can’t miss him: bloke with bones and things through his nose and a stinking cloak of feathers. What’s up?”

  Rhiannon had one hand covering her lips as if she were going to be sick. She raised the other hand to say she’d be all right, shook her head and lowered herself to a stool.

  “Need some more to drink?”

  “Yeah.”

  He headed back to the kitchen. “Tea? Sober you up?”

  “You gotta be kidding.” As quickly as it had come, the change was gone. That big c
omplicated grin slid back across her face. “Beer will see me right, then I’m outta here. Got to see someone before the show.”

  “Anyone I know.”

  “Just Gaston. Last chance I’ll get before I go.”

  “Gaston Rayn? The sorry little shit back for another bite of the cherry now Shader’s out of the way?”

  “It’s not like that.” She caught his look. “Didn’t you hear? His dad was killed last night, in the Griffin.”

  “No way.” Now that was a seriously bad omen; worse than the cider. Not to mention it might frighten the crowds away. “What happened?”

  “Sheriff’s just finished up at the pub, by the looks of things. Expect we’ll know soon enough. They’re saying it was the Sicarii. I heard…” Rhiannon closed her eyes and swallowed. “Heard it was like those murders they had in Sarum way back, you know, just a hole in the head and no sign of what made it.”

  “Shadrak the Unseen?” That’s the last thing he needed. The slipperiest, most feared assassin in Western Sahul going about his business just before the debut of the most important performance since Sergeant Sunshine’s gig at the Crypt. On the other hand, there were bound to be hordes of ghoulish thrill-seekers sniffing around the scene of the latest Shadrak murder. Every cloud…

  Rhiannon nodded, and then her eyes snapped open. “And besides, I thought you knew me better.”

  “I’m saying nothing. I’m sure it’s just a sisterly goodbye before you swan off into the riveting world of contemplation and wiping the arses of the sick.”

  They’d been childhood sweethearts. Nothing ever came of it as far as Elias knew, but that wasn’t due to a lack of trying on Gaston’s part. “Is he still playing knights with Barek Thomas and Justin Salace?”

  “What do you think?” Rhiannon sighed and shook the empty bottle at him. “They’ve got the whole Order down at the barn. Been there for a week, practicing like mad.”

  Elias grabbed a couple of beers, opened them with his teeth, gave one to her and sipped on the other.

  “Hoping Shader’ll change his mind?”