“'The World,” whispered Benedict Paucemanly, “is desperately trying to remember itself… blork… nomadacris septemfasciata!. .. what a lovely bit of meat…
Embers settled in the hearth. The doors of the throne-room rattled suddenly, their brass motifs of coelacanths and mermen shifting uneasily in the bluish gloom, and were still. It was the wind, perhaps; or perhaps something had fallen against them. From the passage outside was heard briefly an indistinct groaning; a dull clamour far off; silence. Something was happening out there, but those within were captivated by the wavering pentadic spectre of the old airman, his voice faint and his flesh tortured by the mask which, he explained, was now his sole means of perceiving the 'real', the human world. Methvet Nian said nothing, but only watched in horror and compassion the nodding of that wounded, debased head; and gently shook her own, while Cellur the birdmaker tugged his robe tighter round his thin chest and shivered. His head ached with the cold, and with the effort of following that faded cloacal whisper. He had recognized in the spectre's antics a certain self-consciousness. There was an archness in its winks and gross nods; the narcissism of the confessional informed its breakings of wind.
'What must we do, then?'he asked, a little impatiently.
Paucemanly gave a loud belch. His image swam, retreated, and was replaced by something quite new: great dragonflies, jewelled and crippled, dragged themselves across the shivering panes while behind them the landscape heaved and humped itself into shapes nascent and organic. 'They mutate and die in the new vapours of Earth: but their breeding cells are full.'Wingless and melting, the insects were swallowed by the curious hills about them. These in turn folded back to reveal a face, brown and bony-looking like the stripped and varnished skull of a horse into which had been inserted two half-pomegranates for eyes. It stared into the throne-room. 'Oops,'it said. 'Green, brown, testing. Hello?'Paucemanly reappeared in a glutinous yellow fog, looking puzzled. 'Whatever emerges from them,'he went on, 'will wrest the world to its own purposes… testing…
Septemfasciata .…'A high fluting sound came out of the windows. One of them shattered. Glass fell into the room. Nothing was revealed except a dusty hole which later proved to contain only some gold filaments and a few small bones. (Cellur, though, winced away as if he expected some alien limb to reach out of it.)
In the remaining panes a tarry smoke obscured intermittently the greenish image of the airman. A clump of fat sinister fingers – his own – appeared, feeling their way over his face as if trying to remember it from some previous encounter. They rested thoughtfully on the mask; then with a quick, predatory motion clutched it by the straps and tugged it oW Vomit sprayed from the defaced features beneath. Paucemanly vanished instantly.
'Is the world ending, then?'asked Cellur.
'I want only death,'came the answer, a distant whisper clogged with self-pity and guilt. 'A hundred years in the Moon! Only death.'
In the windows appeared a series of faded pictures of ordinary insects, the dry husks ofwasps crushed underfoot in an attic long ago, and hawkmoths like flower-pressings in an old book. A wind stirred them. They darkened one by one until there was nothing left at all. Cellur stood for a long time in the gloom, thinking of nothing. He could not make himself say anything to the Queen.
The dwarf came in with his axe in one hand and a bundle of thin shiny steel rods in the other. He was out of breath and there was blood in his hair. He drank his lukewarm chamomile with a grimace. When he noticed the dark windows and broken glass he nodded grimly. 'They had the signal to pass the gates half an hour ago,'he said. 'We're done for in here.'
He dropped the steel rods on the floor and, with a packet of tools he took from under his jerkin, set about assembling them. It was quick work. Soon he had in front of him a half-human skeleton ten or eleven feet tall – his famous 'mechanical wife', grubbed up long ago from some frigid desert in the far North. It was quiet in the room as he coupled its metal bones. Nevertheless he paused every so often to tilt his head on one side and listen; and at one point said casually: 'Someone will have to bolt the doors. I can't reach them, and the lads out there won't last much longer.'(Cellur did not answer. Little motes of blue light like luminous beetles had begun to spill from the shattered window. They fell faster and faster, like rain. They filled the room with a queer glow which lit the white cheek of Methvet Nian as she sat staring silently at nothing.)
A distant shout filtered through from the beleagured outer corridors. The whole palace seemed to shudder. The dwarf scratched his head. After a long life his understanding of such situations was preternatural. Steel scraped on steel, on stone, as he hurriedly spread the mechanical wife on the floor so that its legs stuck straight out and its arms were set close to its sides. He did something to it until it hummed and sent up motes of its own. Then he lowered himself down so that he lay limb for limb on its cold bones. A harness fastened his upper body into its flaring ribcage; its jawless skull he hinged forward to fit over his head like a helmet. 'It is my cold companion, that I thought I would never embrace again,'he murmured. Certain levers enabled him to control it, but for the moment he lay still in the curious blue light, performing some act of memory. Ozone, and a low buzzing, filled the air. The skeleton snapped its fingers inadroitly. It shivered and stretched, and of its own accord made grasping motions; but when he moved the levers at last, it failed to respond.
Something threw itself with a crash against the throne-room doors.
The dwarf was stuck in the harness. He writhed about. 'Bolt the doors one of you, or it's the end of us!'He got free and addressed himself feverishly to the machine. Sparks came up from it; it gave up slow yellow fireflies to join the flow of blue light from the broken window. A smell like burnt horsehair filled the air. As for Cellur and the Queen:
neither of them seemed to be able to move. Their faces were waxy with despair, their eyes like lemurs'. For Tomb it was only a physical disaster, it was only another war; for them it was a disaster of meaning. They murmured in low, slurred voices to one another, like old intelligent animals – 'Saint Elmo Buffin'; 'a fatal chance'. Tomb broke his nails on the ancient machinery. He was a dwarf not a philosopher; it was just another war: and he thought he still had time to win it…
He strapped himself back into the harness. The mechanical wife lifted itself from the flagstones with a groan and an ungainly lurch, like an overloaded camel. It was worn out, like all the other machinery in Viriconium. No-one knew what it had been used for all those centuries ago in the doomed Afternoon Kingdoms. It flailed clumsily about, smashing pieces of furniture in its efforts to stay upright. It fumbled on the floor until it came up with the dwarf's power-axe, which it proceeded to swing in dangerous, humming arcs. 'Ha ha,'laughed the dwarf. He pulled the skull-piece down over his head. His old eyes blinked redly. He felt alive. He only had to stamp his feet and the walls shook. He moved his levers. Trailing creamy white motes like cabbage moths, the mechanical wife shambled over to the doors, one enormous hand reaching triumphantly for the upper bolts…
Outside in a victorious gloom, the remnants of the palace guard bubbling to death at their feet, were gathered the devotees of the Sign. Since the murder on the Pleasure Canal they had lost touch with their ruling echelon in the fluorescing windy mazes of the Artists'Quarter; their ideological priorities had become unfathomable, even to themselves; and their very flesh had suffered violent and useless evolutions. In their endless quartering of the Low City they had uprooted railings, constructed wooden clubs studded with bits of broken glass, helped themselves to butchers'cleavers and old kitchen knives black with corrosion; gathering an army fit for the mutated, the motivationally-bankrupt and the burst. The pain of their transformation had caused them to loosen or unwind the bandages which had previously disguised their humps and tumours, and these now flapped about them in crusty strips as they hopped and sprang erratically along the palace corridors on their strong, bent legs.