The Weaver Fish (26 page)

Feng's last movement was to raise his second hand to grasp the rail beside the first. He was leaning over, staring at the land. Worse felt personally transfixed, as if some superhuman vision had locked their gaze once more. This, it seemed, was the bringing to account, and the
coup de grâce
would be Worse's favourite—incomprehension.

‘Zheng,' he mouthed beneath the binoculars, ‘Zheng met certain death.'

Feng's countenance instantly changed, to hatred fixed on Worse. His mouth opened to form a curse. Before it could be voiced, the topmost weaver fish pushed higher, interlocking rapidly at their apex to envelop him entirely.

The genius of the structure was now more evident, how it was propagated upward, how it could be stable two metres above the water. To Worse, it was more intriguing than the sculpture in the Kardia. This was not assembled over months in a precision foundry, this was not the patient labour of a master craftsman. Here, the geometry was living, dynamic and imperfect, and its artistry and cleverness and orchestration belonged to the weaver fish alone.

And Feng, that figure fixed within, motionless, diffuse and indistinct as if set in aspic or imprisoned in Fitrina's casting, continued looking at the land. The tapestry around his face first swelled with reinforcement, then tightened like a wringer. The man inside diminished, becoming faint and shrunken as his substance seemed to dissipate. Seconds later, the aspic curtain fell away, peeling downwards as the weaver fish retreated and slipped beneath the water.

For a moment Feng still stood, still grasped the rail, still stared at Worse. Then he toppled forward,
rinlin
face,
rinlin
hands, and crumpled Admiral's suit, into the bay.

The carpet on the sea was gone, the former swell and chop returned, the deck and gunwale regained their natural sharpness, the bow lifted, and the hull set properly in the water. The sailor at the stern was spared.

The restaurant was deathly quiet. They had witnessed two grotesque, mythically charged attacks that, for the Ferende people, were surely not random. Mr Felicity began to speak, in Ferent, his voice picking up in volume and emotion.

‘It is a Ferende prayer, the
Enorem;
very ancient, catechismal,' advised Tøssentern quietly. ‘Now he is asking Rep'husela to show mercy on Madregalo, to cleanse,' he hesitated in translation,
‘more to bless, this bay. He is asking that the spirits of the Prince and the foreigner not inhabit the bay. And, believe it or not, that his business not suffer. Now he is asking everyone to leave. He is apologizing.'

Worse was the first to stand up, collecting his things, and leave payment. The others followed. As they made their way between the tables, Tøssentern approached Mr Felicity, who looked stricken, and quite solemnly offered his hand, speaking to him in Ferent. In return, Mr Felicity briefly hugged Tøssentern, and cried.

They felt rather stricken themselves. Worse glanced back at the pier as he led the way up Ahorte. The royal carriage, symbol of absolute rule only minutes before, looked shabby from this distance, like a fairground replica, its silks and canopy fluttering for attention. And that magnificent throne, more desolate than empty, lay fallow in its pointless ostentation, now projecting excess, absurdity, and downfall.

Worse wanted to find somewhere to regroup, away from the bay, where they could consult and process what they had seen. In the Kardia, he secured the same café table that Nicholas and he had occupied the previous day.

Customers were few, and waiters seemed reluctant to serve outside. Many shops, normally crowded with tourists, had hastily closed, and the Kardia was almost vacant, offering an uninterrupted view to the fountain. There were many more military uniforms in evidence than was usual. The ceremonial Palace guards in their brilliant blue capes, who had earlier lined the tramway, appeared to have lost all discipline and were standing around in agitated, talkative groups, their automatic weapons shouldered carelessly. News that there was no longer a monarch to protect seemed to have left them purposeless.

‘What do you think will happen, Nicholas?' It was Anna who asked. She was looking up at the façade of the Palace, already flaunting its cosmetic radiance stolen from the afternoon light.

Nicholas had spent the walk up Ahorte considering that question, particularly the implications for their LDI station. He was optimistic.

‘I expect there will be a mixture of shock and celebration. The
Prime Minister will declare a period of mourning. The constitution will require that Crown Prince Arnaba return from wherever he is. The induction of Secretaries is for the life of the monarch, so they should lose power. That means there is an opportunity, which won't be lost on my Madregalo friends, to reassert the authority of Parliament. La Ferste will carry on as usual. And the Entente? Sunk without trace along with the Admiral, I would have thought. Feng Tong is decapitated; that will seriously impact on the northern exploitation. Remember, these were not ordinary deaths. These were totemic deaths. They're loaded with significance that will work against Chinese interests for generations. You can be sure that any part the People's Republic officially or unofficially played in the bogus pact will be hastily expunged from the record, the associations are so negative now.'

‘Quite the Entente Fatale, as it turned out,' observed Tøssentern, who had otherwise been silent.

‘I think there's something else we should talk about,' continued Nicholas. ‘Our condor paper.'

‘Go on, Nicholas,' said Tøssentern.

‘Well, after seeing what happened today, that apparent intentionality, its sentience as a bird, it seems to me that we know a lot about the aggregation of
Phulex
but nothing about the coherence, the emergent nature, of the condor that results. I just wonder, particularly given its cultural significance, how responsible it is to publish the first with no understanding of the second.'

‘You're right, of course,' said Tøssentern. ‘Anna? If Paulo and Walter agree, are we all happy for an indefinite stay of publication?'

While she was listening to Nicholas, Anna had been looking at Edvard. He had come back to the Ferendes with a purpose, in search of release and reintegration that no amount of therapy in Mingle Lane could provide. She had come to realize that the idea of locating
Abel
was only partly a quest for the weaver fish, about validating a passion that had nearly taken his life and left his psyche damaged.

There was another meaning. For the Resurrect from Copio sitting beside her,
Abel
was the point of departure, and his quest
was very different. It was a going back to be well, to being at peace again in silence, to being the Edvard Tøssentern of before.

This day had changed everything. And miraculously, they had been there. All the tenuous history, mythology, conjecture and imagination investing the weaver fish had been summarily shaken and resettled into witnessed fact.

Of course, notwithstanding its drama, the event would bring no scientific advance, no taxonomic triumph, no fame to naturalists. But for the Ferende people there was something far more important. The weaver fish, visitant protector and keeper of conscience for their nation, had accorded them not a sighting but a benediction, received by every individual as their word.

And now, perhaps, Edvard would remember, and be free to deconflate the word and thing, the idea and the act. Then, finally, he might abandon
Abel
and return to his first love, which was language, and that would complete his healing.

For Anna, too, there had been a blessing taken from this place, though not today; and nor was it a word. It was a secret, held in trust, and carried on her person all these months.

She felt inside her pocket for Edvard's watch, and held it out before him. Edvard took it slowly from her hand—it was a token and an act of returning for them both. Yet to Anna there was more: a communion of their strengths, which in its solemness and touch was like renewing a betrothal.

Those lines of rite from Satroit, once dangerous and distancing, seemed now to belong. She placed an arm around Edvard's shoulder, and drew him closer. Yes, she too was optimistic.

Worse and Millie had been consulting a map and talking quietly on their side of the table. At this point Worse stood up abruptly, saying, ‘Excuse us for a few minutes.' Nicholas supposed they were going to the fountain, and was slightly surprised to see them cross the square and disappear into a narrow street. He had wondered a few times if a romantic connection might be developing. He
wouldn't mind. He liked Worse, of course. And a Magnacart– Misgivingston union would be nicely apposite; historical, in fact.

They had been planning how to get to the LDI station without inconveniencing Paulo to collect them. Nicholas offered to charter a four-wheel drive bus and driver for the transfer from La Ferste the following day. He had taken his mobile from a pocket to make arrangements when he received a text message from Worse.

Look at palace.

He passed his phone to the others, saying quietly, ‘It's from Worse.' From where they were sitting, it was easy to turn in their chairs for a view of the overbearing walls of L'Orphania, unobstructed by the café awning sheltering their table. They watched expectantly for a minute or so. Tøssentern and Anna, who were not yet well acquainted with Worse, had no idea of what might happen. Nicholas, knowing Worse, thought it could be anything.

Suddenly, above the Palace, there appeared a dense black cloud that billowed and spread, expanding rapidly to momentarily half darken the sun, and seemingly fed from a choking black geyser erupting from the roof. Nicholas was shocked.
Jesus, Worse,
he was thinking,
what have you done?
His eyes fell to the lower walls, anticipating flames and explosions to account for the smoke.
Jesus, Worse, we're in big trouble.

But when he looked back to the roof, the geyser had ceased, and what he had thought was a cloud of smoke had separated into discrete, floating cinders.

‘Swints,' he almost shouted. ‘The swints are free!'

And as they watched, those graced and gilding birds circled the Palace once for orientation and once for salutation, then set their tidings course north-west to a haven most had never seen: a consecrated English belfry in a hidden-away village called Postlepilty.

I have deceived; how so am I rational?

That my faith is come by the misery of swints, and my Evensong a raven call? That my testimony is clothed in a Parsan word, or the sayings of a mute man, or the silence between them?

Reason and unreason are one, as are truth and deception one, like glass beneath water and above.

If I speak of two things, prayer and pestilence, these are made of one voice and borne on one breath.

Both are sounds on the wind. They are equal-blinded in the sun; nor by my hand do they differ in darkness.

Each is a vessel, sent forth, but the two are a fleet. Together they hold meaning or together they founder.

When one is pure the other is pure, for then is my voice pure. But if I am mute in one, I am mute in the other.

Wherefore my words are one word, as my silence is one silence.

Then also my word and my silence are one.

For each is the other's keeper, as two watchmen of the fleet are watchful for both, and call aloud the sounding, or strike their bells at night-sea figmentations.

My word and my silence are like the warp and the weft. Without one, there is not the other, and I am unclothed; but when I have both, my garment is woven, as your testimony also is woven.

My word and my silence are each embraced, one in the other, as lovers in arms are both holding and held.

My word and my silence cannot be parted. Where the parchment is bare we see what is written, and by all that is covered we see what is not.

Even then, the two will come forward in taken turn, as do ships in the weather, or lovers repose, or the parchment is lighted, or the threads of the weaving are brought into view.

Now what I sent forth is a vessel of word and a vessel of silence, and you have received them.

So too is the prophecy of the Syllabine this word and this silence, yet the Roman listens in wonderment.