Imajica

by Clive Barker

  Seeing the way Pie gazed at these sights, Lu ‘chur’ chem said, “Never again, eh?”

  “Never again what?”

  “Out in a street, seeing the way the world is some morning.”

  “No?”

  “No,” Lu ‘chur’ chem said. “We’re not coming back this way, and we both know it.”

  “I don’t mind,” Pie replied. “I’ve seen a lot of things. I’ve felt even more. I’ve got no regrets.”

  “You’ve had a long life?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “And your Maestro? He had a long life too?”

  “Yes, he did,” Pie said, looking again at the scenes on the walls.

  Though the renderings were relatively unsophisticated, they touched the mystif’s memories awake, evoking the bustle and din of the crowded thoroughfares it and its Maestro had walked in the bright, hopeful days before the Reconciliation. Here were the fashionable streets of Mayfair, lined with fine shops and paraded by finer women, abroad to buy lavender water and mantua silk and snow-white muslin. Here was the throng of Oxford Street, where half a hundred vendors clamored for custom: purveyors of slippers, wildfowl, cherries, and gingerbread, all vying for a niche on the pavement and a space in the air to raise their cries. Here too was a fair, St. Bartholomew’s most likely, where there was more sin to be had by daylight than Babylon ever boasted by dark.

  “Who made these?” Pie wondered aloud as they proceeded.

  “Diverse hands, by the look of ‘em,” Lu ‘chur’ chem replied. “You can see where one style stops and another starts.”

  “But somebody directed these painters, gave them the details, the colors. Unless the Autarch just stole artists from the Fifth Dominion.”

  “Perfectly possible,” Lu ‘chur’ chem said. “He stole architects. He put tribes in chains to build the place.”

  “And nobody ever challenged him?”

  “People tried to stir up revolutions over and over again, but he suppressed them. Burnt down the universities, hanged the theologians and the radicals. He had a stranglehold. And he had the Pivot, and most people believe that’s the Unbeheld’s seal of approval. If Hapexamendios didn’t want the Autarch to rule Yzordderrex, why did He allow the Pivot to be moved here? That’s what they said. And I don’t—”

  Lu ‘chur’ chem stopped in his tracks, seeing that Pie had already done so.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  The mystif stared up at the picture they had come abreast of, its breath quickened by shock.

  “Is something wrong?” Lu ‘chur’ chem said.

  It took a few moments to find the words. “I don’t think we should go any further,” it said.

  “Why not?”

  “Not together, at least. The judgment fell on me, and I should finish this alone.”

  “What’s wrong with you? I’ve come this far. I want to have the satisfaction.”

  “What’s more important?” the mystif asked him, turning from the painting it had been so fixated by. “Your satisfaction, or succeeding in what we came here to do?”

  “You know my answer to that.”

  “Then trust me. I have to go on alone. Wait for me here if you like.”

  Lu ‘chur’ chem made a phlegm-hawking growl, like Culus’ growl, only coarser. “I came here to kill the Autarch,” he said.

  “No. You came here to help me, and you’ve done that. It’s my hands that have to dispatch him, not yours. That’s the judgment.”

  “Suddenly it’s the judgment, the judgment! I shit on the judgment! I want to see the Autarch dead. I want to look on his face.”

  “I’ll bring you his eyes,” Pie said. “That’s the best I can do. I mean it, Lu ‘chur’ chem. We have to part here.”

  Lu ‘chur’ chem spat on the ground between them.

  “You don’t trust me, do you?” he said.

  “If that’s what you want to believe.”

  “Mystif shite!” he exploded. “If you come out of this alive, I’ll kill you, I swear, I’ll kill you!”

  There was no further argument. He simply spat again and turned his back, stalking off down the gallery, leaving the mystif to return its gaze to the picture which had quickened its pulse and breath.

  Though it was curious to see a rendering of Oxford Street and St. Bartholomew’s Fair in this setting, so far in years and Dominions from the scene that had inspired them, Pie might have suppressed the suspicion—growing in its belly while Lu ‘chur’ chem talked of revolution—that this was no coincidence, had the final image in the cycle not been so unlike those that had preceded it. The rest had been public spectacles, rendered countless times in satirical prints and paintings. This last was not. The rest had been well-known sites and streets, famous across the world. This last was not. It was an unremarkable thoroughfare in Clerkenwell, almost a backwater, which Pie doubted any artist of the Fifth had ever turned his pen or brush to depicting. But here it was, represented in meticulous detail: Gamut Street, to the brick, to the leaf. And taking pride of place in the center of the picture, number 28, the Maestro Sartori’s house.

  It had been lovingly re-created. Birds courted on its roof; on its step, dogs fought. And in between the fighters and wooers stood the house itself, blessed by a dappled sunlight denied the others in the row. The front door was closed, but the upper windows were flung wide, and the artist had painted somebody watching from one of them, his face too deeply shadowed to be recognized. The object of his scrutiny was not in doubt, however: the girl in the window across the street, sitting at her mirror with her dog on her lap, her fingers teasing from its bow the ribbon that would presently unlace her bodice. In the street between this beauty and her doting voyeur were a dozen details that could only have come from firsthand experience. On the pavement beneath the girl’s window a small procession of charity children passed, wards of the parish, dressed all in white and carrying their wands. They marched raggedly behind their beadle, a brute of a man called Willis, whom Sartori had once beaten senseless on thatvery spot for cruelty to his charges. Around the far corner came Roxborough’s carriage, drawn by his favorite bay, Bellamarre, named in honor of the Comte de St. Germain, who had swindled half the women of Venice under that alias a few years before. A dragoon was being ushered out of number 32 by the mistress of that house, who entertained officers of the Prince of Wales regiment—the Tenth, and no other—whenever her husband was away. The widow opposite watched enviously from her step.

  All these and a dozen other little dramas were being played out in the picture, and there wasn’t one Pie didn’t remember seeing enacted countless times. But who was the unseen spectator who’d instructed the painters in their craft, so that carriage, girl, soldier, widow, dogs, birds, voyeurs, and all could be set down with such verisimilitude?

  Having no solution to the puzzle, the mystif plucked its gaze from the picture and looked back along the immense length of the gallery. Lu ‘chur’ chem had disappeared, spitting as he went. The mystif was alone, the routes ahead and behind similarly deserted. It would miss Lu ‘chur’ chem’s companionship and bitterly regretted that it had lacked the wit to persuade its comrade that it had to go on alone, without causing such offense. But the picture on the wall was proof of secrets here it had not yet fathomed, and when it did so it wanted no witnesses. They too easily became accusers, and Pie was weighed down with enough reproaches already. If the tyrannies of Yzordderrex were in some fashion linked with the house on Gamut Street—and if Pie, by extension, was an unwitting collaborator in those tyrannies—it was important to learn of this guilt unaccompanied.

  As prepared as possible for such revelations, the mystif left its place in front of the painting, reminding itself as it went of the promise made to Lu ‘chur’ chem. If it survived this enterprise, it had to return with the eyes of the Autarch. Eyes which it now didn’t doubt had once been laid on Gamut Street, studying it as obsessively as the watcher at the painted window studied his lady love, sitting across the street in thr
all to her reflection.

  One

  LIKE THE THEATER DISTRICTS of so many great cities across the Imajica, whether in Reconciled Dominions or in the Fifth, the neighborhood in which the Ipse stood had been a place of some notoriety in earlier times, when actors of both sexes had supplemented their wages with the old five-acter—hiring, retiring, seduction, conjunction, and remittance—all played hourly, night and day. The center of these activities had moved away, however, to the other side of the city, where the burgeoning numbers of middle-class clients felt less exposed to the gaze of their peers out seeking more respectable entertainment. Lickerish Street and its environs had sprung up in a matter of months and quickly became the third richest Kesparate in the city, leaving the theater district to decline into legitimacy.

  Perhaps because it was of so little interest to people, it had survived the traumas of the last few hours better than most Kesparates its size. It had seen some action. General Mattalaus’ battalions had passed through its streets going south to the causeway, where rebels were attempting to build a makeshift bridge across the delta; and later a party of families from the Caramess had taken refuge in Koppocovi’s Rialto. But no barricades had been erected, and none of the buildings burned. The Deliquium would meet the morning intact. Its survival, however, would not be accorded to general disinterest; rather to the presence at its perimeter of Pale Hill, a site which was neither a hill nor pale, but a circle of remembrance in the center of which lay a well, used from time immemorial as a repository for the corpses of executed men, suicides, paupers, and, on occasion, romantics who favored rotting in such company. Tomorrow’s rumors would whisper that the ghosts of these forsaken souls had risen todefend their terrain, preventing the vandals and the barricade builders from destroying the Kesparate by haunting the steps of the Ipse and the Rialto and howling in the streets like dogs maddened from chasing the comet’s tail.

  With her clothes in rags and her throat uttering one seamless supplication, Quaisoir went through the heart of several battles quite unscathed. There were many such grief-stricken women on the streets of Yzordderrex tonight, all begging Hapexamendios to return children or husbands into their arms, and they were for the most part given passage through the lines, their sobs password enough.

  The battles themselves didn’t distress her; she’d organized and viewed mass executions in her time. But when the heads had rolled she’d always made a swift departure, leaving the aftermath for somebody else to shovel up. Now she had to tread barefoot in streets that were like abattoirs, and her legendary indifference to the spectacle of death was overtaken by a horror so profound she had several times changed her direction to avoid a street that stank too strongly of innards and burned blood. She knew she would have to confess this cowardice when she finally found the Man of Sorrows, but she was so laden with guilt that one more fault or less would scarcely matter.

  Then, as she came to the corner of the street at the end of which lay Pluthero Quexos’ playhouse, somebody called her name. She stopped and looked for her summoner. A man dressed in blue was rising from a doorstep, the fruit he’d been peeling in one hand, the peeling blade in the other. He seemed to be in no doubt as to her identity.

  “You’re his woman,” he said.

  Was this the Lord? she wondered. The man she’d seen on the rooftops at the harbor had been silhouetted against a bright sky; his features had been difficult to see. Could this be him?

  He was calling someone from the interior of the house on the steps of which he’d been sitting, a sometime bordello to judge by its lewdly carved portico. The disciple, an Oethac, emerged with a bottle in one hand, the other ruffling the hair of a cretinous boy child, naked and glistening. She began to doubt her first judgment, but she didn’t dare leave until she had her hopes confirmed or dashed.

  “Are you the Man of Sorrows?” she said.

  The fruit peeler shrugged. “Isn’t everybody tonight?” he said, tossing the uneaten fruit away.

  The cretin leapt down the steps and snatched it up, pushing the entire thing into his mouth so that his face bulged and the juice ran from his lips.

  “You’re the cause of this,” the peeler said, jabbing his knife in Quaisoir’s direction. He glanced around at the Oethac. “She was at the harbor. I saw her.”

  “Who is she?” the Oethac said.

  “The Autarch’s woman,” came the reply. “Quaisoir.” He took a step towards her. “You are, aren’t you?”

  She could no more deny this than she could take flight. If this man was indeed Jesu, she couldn’t begin her pleas for forgiveness with a lie.

  “Yes,” she told him, “I’m Quaisoir. I was the Autarch’s woman.”

  “She’s fucking beautiful,” the Oethac said.

  “What she looks like doesn’t matter,” the fruit peeler told him. “It’s what she’s done that’s important.”

  “Yes,” Quaisoir said, daring to believe now that this was indeed the Son of David. “That’s what’s important. What I’ve done.”

  “The executions . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “The purges . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve lost a lot of friends, and you’re the reason.”

  “Oh, Lord, forgive me,” she said, and dropped to her knees.

  “I saw you at the harbor this morning,” Jesu said, approaching her as she knelt. “You were smiling.”

  “Forgive me.”

  “Looking around and smiling. And I thought, when I saw you—”

  He was three paces away from her now.

  “—your eyes glittering—”

  His sticky hand took hold of her head.

  “—I thought, those eyes—”

  He raised the knife—

  “—have to go.”

  —and brought it down again, quick and sharp, sharp and quick, pricking out his disciple’s sight before she could start to scream.

  The tears that suddenly filled Jude’s eyes stung like no tears she’d ever shed before. She let out a sob, more of pain than of grief, pushing the heels of her hands against her eye sockets to stem the flow. But it wouldn’t cease. The tears kept coming, hot and harsh, making her whole head throb. She felt Dowd’s arm take hold of hers and was glad of it. Without his support, she was certain she would have fallen.

  “What’s wrong?” he said.

  The answer—that she was sharing some agony with Quaisoir—was not one she could voice to Dowd. “It must be the smoke,” she said. “I can barely see.”

  “We’re almost at the Ipse,” he replied. “But we have to keep moving for a little while longer. It’s not safe in the open air.”

  That was true enough. Her eyes—which at present could only see pulsing red—had been laid on enough atrocities in the last hour to fuel a lifetime of nightmares. The Yzordderrex of her longings, the city whose spicy wind, blowing from the Retreat months before, had summoned her like the call of a lover to bed, was virtually in ruins. Perhaps that was why Quaisoir wept these burning tears.

  They dried after a time, but the pain lingered. Though she despised the man she was leaning upon, without his support she would have dropped to the ground and remained there. He coaxed her on, step by step. The Ipse was close now, he said: just a street or two away. She could rest there, while he soaked up the echoes of past glories. She barely attended to his monologue. It was her sister who filled her thoughts, her anticipation of their meeting now tinged with unease. She’d imagined Quaisoir would have come into these streets protected, and that at the sight of her Dowd would simply retreat, leaving them to their reunion. But what if Dowd was not overtaken by superstitious awe? What if, instead, he attacked one or both of them? Would Quaisoir have any defense against his mites? She began to wipe at her streaming eyes as she stumbled on, determined to be clear-sighted when the moment came, and primed to escape Dowd’s leash.

  His monologue, when it ceased, did so abruptly. He halted, drawing Jude to a stop at his side. She raised her head. The
street ahead was not well lit, but the glow of distant fires found its way between the buildings, and there, crawling into one such flickering shaft, she saw her sister. Jude let out a sob. Quaisoir’s eyes had been stabbed out, and her torturers were coming in pursuit of her. One was a child, one an Oethac. The third, the most blood-spattered, was also the most nearly human, but his features were twisted out of true by the pleasure he was taking in Quaisoir’s torment. The blinding knife was still in his hand, and now he raised it above his victim’s naked back.

  Before Dowd could move to stop her, Jude screamed, “Stop!”

  The knife was arrested in mid-descent, and all three of Quaisoir’s pursuers looked around at Jude. The child registered nothing; its face was an imbecilic blank. The knife wielder was equally silent, though his expression was one of disbelief. It was the Oethac that spoke, the words he uttered slurred but ripe with panic.

  “You . . . keep . . . your distance,” he said, his fearful glance going back and forth between the wounded woman and this echo of her, whole and strong.

  The blinder found his voice now, and began to hush him, but the Oethac rattled on.

  “Look at her!” he said. “What the fuck is this, eh? Look at her.”

  “Just shut your trap,” the blinder said. “She’s not going to touch us.”