by Clive Barker
"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 unblack-ened. But for now the travelers moved 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 melee, 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 Nikaetomaas1 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 flesh in 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.
"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 foul smelling.
"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.
"It's times like this," he said, "I wish I were a poet. I wish I had the words to express my yearning. I think that if I knew that one day—I don't care how many years from now, centuries even, I don't care—if I knew that one day I was going to be united, indivisibly, with another soul, I could begin to be a good man."
He sat down again beside the captive, whose eyes were completely closed.
"But it won't happen," he said, tears beginning to come. "We're too much ourselves. Afraid of letting go of what we are in case we're nothing, and holding on so tight we lose everything else." Agitation was shaking the tears out of his eyes now. "Are you listening to me?" he said.
He shook the man, whose mouth fell open, a trickle of saliva dribbling from one corner.
''Listen!" he raged. "I'm giving you my pain here!"
Receiving no response, he stood up and struck his captive across the face so hard the man toppled over, the chair to which he was bound falling with him. The creature clamped to his chest convulsed in sympathy with its host.
"I didn't bring you here to sleep!" the Autarch said. "I want you to share your pain with me."
He put his hands on the leech and began to tear it from the man's chest. The creature's panic flooded its host, and instantly the man began to writhe, the cords drawing blood as he fought to keep the leech from being stolen. Less than an hour before, when Abelove had been brought out of the shadows and displayed to the prisoner, he'd begged to be spared its touch. Now, finding his tongue again, he pleaded twice as hard not to be separated from it, his pleas swooping into screams when the parasite's filaments, barbed so as to prevent their removal, were wrenched from the organs they'd pierced. As soon as they broke surface they began to flail wildly, seeking to return to their host or find a new one. But the Autarch was unmoved by the panic of either lover and divided them like death itself, pitching Abelove across the chamber and taking the man's face in fingers sticky with his infatuate's blood.
"Now," he said. "How does it feel?"
"Give it back... please .,. give it back."
"Is this like being born?" the Autarch said.
"Whatever you say! Yes! Yes! Just give it back!"
The Autarch left the man's side and crossed the chamber to the spot where he'd made the summoning. He picked his way through the spirals of human gut he'd arranged on the floor as bait and snatched up the knife still lying in the blood beside the blindfolded head, returning at no more than an amble to where the victim was lying. There he cut the prisoner's bonds and stood back to watch the rest of the show. Though he was grievously wounded, his punctured lungs barely able to draw breath, the man fixed his eyes on the object of his desire and began to crawl towards it. Ashen, the Autarch let him crawl, knowing as he went that the distance was too great, and the scene must end in tragedy.
The lover had advanced no more than a couple of yards when there was a rapping on the door.
"Go away!" the Autarch said, but the rapping came again, this time accompanied by Rosengarten's voice.
"Quaisoir's gone, sir," he said.
The Autarch watched the crawling man's despair and despaired himself. Despite all his indulgences, the woman had deserted him for the Man of Sorrows.
"Come in!" he called.
Rosengarten entered and made his report. Seidux was dead, stabbed and thrown from a window. Quaisoir's quarters were empty, her servant vanished, her dressing room overturned. A search for her abductors was already under way.
"Abductors?" the Autarch said. "No, Rosengarten. There are no abductors. She's gone of her own accord."
Not once as he spoke did he take his eyes off the lover, who had cov
ered a third of the distance between his chair and his darling but was weakening fast.
"It's over," the Autarch said. "She's gone to find her Redeemer, the poor bitch."
"Then shouldn't I dispatch troops to find her?" Rosengarten said. "The city's dangerous."
"So's she when she wants to be. The women in the Bastion taught her some unholy stuff."
"I hope that cesspit's been burned to the ground," Rosengarten said, with a rare passion.
"I doubt it is," the Autarch replied. "They've got ways of protecting themselves."
"Not from me, they haven't," Rosengarten boasted.
"Yes, even from you," the Autarch told him. "Even from me. The power of women can't be scoured away, however hard we try. The Unbeheld attempted it, but he didn't succeed. There's always some corner—"
"Just say the word," the commander broke in, "and I'll go down there now. Hang the bitches in the streets."
"No, you don't understand," the Autarch said, his voice almost monotonous, but all the more sorrowful for that. "The corner isn't out there, it's in here." He pointed to his skull. "It's in our minds. Their mysteries obsess us, even though we put them out of sight. Even me. God knows, I should be free of it. I wasn't cast out like the rest of you were. How can I yearn for something I never had? But I do." He sighed. "Oh, I do."
He looked around at Rosengarten, whose expression was uncomprehending.
"Look at him." The Autarch glanced back at the captive as he spoke. "He's got seconds left to live. But the leech gave him a taste and he wants it back again."
"A taste of what?"
"Of the womb, Rosengarten. He said it was like being in the womb. We're all cast out. Whatever we build, wherever we hide, we're cast out."
As he spoke the prisoner gave a last exhausted moan and lay still. The Autarch watched the body awhile, the only sound in the vastness of the chamber the weakening motions of the leech on the cold floor.
"Lock the doors and seal them up," the Autarch said, turning to leave without looking back at Rosengarten. "I'm going to the Pivot Tower."
"Yes, sir."
