cb.imajica1-第8章

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　are　always　consequences。　You've　begun　something　with　this　Estabrook　business；　for　instance；　and　I'll　need　to　watch　it　closely；　or　before　we　know　it　there'll　be　ripples　spreading　through　the　Imajica。〃
　〃The　Imajica　。　。　。〃
　〃That's　right。　From　here　to　the　margin　of　the　First　Dominion。　To　the　region　of　the　Unbeheld　Himself。〃
　Chant　began　to　gasp；　and　Dowd…realizing　he'd　hit　a　nerve…leaned　towards　his　victim。
　〃Do　1　detect　a　little　anxiety？〃　he　said。　〃Are　you　afraid　of　going　into　the　glory　of　our　Lord　Hapexamendios？〃
　Chant's　voice　was　frail　now。　〃Yes　。　。　。〃　he　murmured。
　〃Why？〃　Dowd　wanted　to　know。　〃Because　of　your　crimes？〃
　〃Yes。〃
　〃What　are　your　crimes？　Do　tell　me。　We　needn't　bother　with　the　little　things。　Just　the　really　shameful　stuff'll　do。〃
　〃I've　had　dealings　with　a　Eurhetemec。〃
　〃Have　you　indeed？〃　Dowd　said。　〃However　did　you　get　back　to　Yzordderrex　to　do　that？〃
　〃I　didn't；〃　Chant　replied。　〃My　dealings　。　。　。　were　here；　in　the　Fifth。〃
　〃Really；〃　said　Dowd　softly。　〃I　didn't　know　there　were　Eurhetemecs　here。　You　learn　something　new　every　day。　But；　lovey；　that's　no　great　crime。　The　Unbeheld's　going　to　forgive　a　poxy　little　trespass　like　that。　Unless　。　。　。〃　He　stopped　for　a　moment；　turning　over　a　new　possibility。　〃Unless；　the　Eurhetemec　was　a　mystif。　。　。　。〃　He　trailed　the　thought；　but　Chant　remained　silent。　〃Oh；　my　dove；〃　Dowd　said。　〃It　wasn't；　was　it？〃　Another　pause。　〃Oh；　it　was。　It　was。〃　He　sounded　almost　enchanted。　〃There's　a　mystif　in　the　Fifth　and…what？　You're　in　love　with　it？　You'd　better　tell　me　before　you　run　out　of　breath；　lovey。　In　a　few　minutes　your　eternal　soul　will　be　waiting　at　Hapexamendios'　door。〃
　Chant　shuddered。　〃The　assassin　。　。　。〃　he　said。
　〃What　about　the　assassin？〃　came　the　reply。　Then；　realizing　what　he'd　just　heard；　Dowd　drew　a　long；　slow　breath。　〃The　assassin　is　a　mystif？〃　he　said。
　〃Yes。〃
　〃Oh；　my　sweet　Hyo！〃　he　exclaimed。　〃A　mystif！〃　The　enchantment　had　vanished　from　his　voice　now。　He　was　hard　and　dry。　〃Do　you　know　what　they　can　do？　The　deceits　they've　got　at　their　disposal？　This　was　supposed　to　be　an　anonymous　piece　of　shit…stirring；　and　look　what　you've　done！〃　His　voice　softened　again。　〃Was　it　beautiful？〃　he　asked。　〃No；　no。　Don't　tell　me。　Let　me　have　the　surprise；　when　I　see　it　face　to　face。〃　He　turned　to　the　voiders。　〃Pick　the　fucker　up；〃　he　said。
　They　stepped　forward　and　raised　Chant　by　his　broken　arms。　There　was　no　strength　left　in　his　neck；　and　his　head　lolled　forward；　a　solid　stream　of　bilious　fluid　running　from　his　mouth　and　nostrils。　〃How　often　does　the　Eurhetemec　tribe　produce　a　mystif？〃　Dowd　mused；　half　to　himself。　〃Every　ten　years？　Every　fifty？　They're　certainly　rare。　And　there　you　are；　blithely　hiring　one　of　these　little　divinities　as　an　assassin。　Imagine！　How　pitiful；　that　it　had　fallen　so　low。　I　must　ask　it　how　that　came　about。〃　He　stepped　towards　Chant；　and　at　Dowd's　order　one　of　the　voiders　raised　Chant's　head　by　the　hair。　〃I　need　the　mystifs　whereabouts；〃　Dowd　said。　〃And　its　name。〃
　Chant　sobbed　through　his　bile。　〃Please；〃　he　said。　〃I　meant。　。　。　I。　。　。　meant…〃
　〃Yes；　yes。　No　harm。　You　were　just　doing　your　duty。　The　Unbeheld　will　forgive　you；　I　guarantee　it。　But　the　mystif；　lovey；　I　need　you　to　tell　me　about　the　mystif。　Where　can　I　find　it？　Just　speak　the　words；　and　you　won't　ever　have　to　think　about　it　again。　You'll　go　into　the　presence　of　the　Unbeheld　like　a　babe。〃
　〃1　will？〃
　〃You　will。　Trust　me。　Just　give　me　its　name　and　tell　me　the　place　where　I　can　find　it。〃
　〃Name　。　。　。　and　。　。　。　place。〃
　〃That's　right。　But　get　to　it；　lovey；　before　it's　too　late！〃
　Chant　took　as　deep　a　breath　as　his　collapsing　lungs　allowed。　〃It's　called　Pie　'oh'　pah；〃　he　said。
　Dowd　stepped　back　from　the　dying　man　as　if　slapped。　〃Pie　'oh'　pah？　Are　you　sure？〃
　〃I'm　sure。　。　。。〃
　〃Pie　'oh'　pah　is　alive？　And　Estabrook　hired　it？〃
　〃Yes。〃
　Dowd　threw　off　his　imitation　of　a　Father　Confessor　and　murmured　a　fretful　question　of　himself。　〃What　does　this　mean？〃　he　said。
　Chant　made　a　pained　little　moan；　his　system　racked　by　further　waves　of　dissolution。　Realizing　that　time　was　now　very　short；　Dowd　pressed　the　man　afresh。
　〃Where　is　this　mystif？　Quickly；　now！　Quickly！〃
　Chant's　face　was　decaying；　cobs　of　withered　flesh　sliding　off　the　slickened　bone。　When　he　answered；　it　was　with　half　a　mouth。　But　answer　he　did；　to　be　unburdened。
　〃I　thank　you；〃　Dowd　said　to　him；　when　all　the　information　had　been　supplied。　〃I　thank　you。〃　Then；　to　the　voiders；　〃Let　him　go。〃
　They　dropped　Chant　without　ceremony。　When　he　hit　the　floor　his　face　broke；　pieces　spattering　Dowd's　shoe。　He　viewed　the　mess　with　disgust。
　〃Clean　it　off；〃　he　said。
　The　voiders　were　at　his　feet　in　moments；　dutifully　removing　the　scraps　of　matter　from　Dowd's　handmade　shoes。
　〃What　does　this　mean？〃　Dowd　murmured　again。　There　was　surely　synchronicity　in　this　turn　of　events。　In　a　little　over　half　a　year's　time　the　anniversary　of　the　Reconciliation　would　be　upon　the　Imajica。　Two　hundred　years　would　have　passed　since　the　Maestro　Sartori　had　attempted；　and　failed；　to　perform　the　greatest　act　of　magic　known　to　this　or　any　other　Dominion。　The　plans　for　that　ceremony　had　been　laid　here；　at　number　28　Gamut　Street；　and　the　mystif；　among　others；　had　been　there　to　witness　the　preparations。
　The　ambition　of　those　heady　days　had　ended　in　tragedy；　of　course。　Rites　intended　to　heal　the　rift　in　the　Imajica；　and　reconcile　the　Fifth　Dominion　with　the　other　four；　had　gone　disastrously　awry。　Many　great　theurgists；　shamans；　and　theologians　had　been　killed。　Determined　that　such　a　calamity　never　be　repeated；　several　of　the　survivors　had　banded　together　in　order　to　cleanse　the　Fifth　of　all　magical　knowledge。　But　however　much　they　scrubbed　to　erase　the　past；　the　slate　could　never　be　entirely　cleansed。　Traces　of　what　had　been　dreamed　and　hoped　for　remained；　fragments　of　poems　to　Union；　written　by　men　whose　names　had　been　systematically　removed　from　all　record。　And　as　long　as　such　scraps　remained；　the　spirit　of　the　Reconciliation　would　survive。
　But　spirit　was　not　enough。　A　Maestro　was　needed；　a　magician　arrogant　enough　to　believe　that　he　could　succeed　where　Christos　and　innumerable　other　sorcerers；　most　lost　to　history；　had　failed。　Though　these　were　blissless　times；　Dowd　didn't　discount　the　possibility　of　such　a　soul　appearing。　He　still　encountered　in　his　daily　life　a　few　who　looked　past　the　empty　gaud　that　distracted　lesser　minds　and　longed　for　a　revelation　that　would　burn　the　tinsel　away；　an　Apocalypse　that　would　show　the　Fifth　the　glories　it　yearned　for　in　its　sleep。
　If　a　Maestro　was　going　to　appear；　however；　he　would　need　to　be　swift。　Another　attempt　at　Reconciliation　couldn't　be　planned　overnight；　and　if　the　next　midsummer　went　unused；　the　Imajica　would　pass　another　two　centuries　divided：　time　enough　for　the　Fifth　Dominion　to　destroy　itself　out　of　boredom　or　frustration　and　prevent　the　Reconciliation　from　ever　taking　place。
　Dowd　perused　his　newly　polished　shoes。　〃Perfect；〃　he　said。　〃Which　is　more　than　I　can　say　for　the　rest　of　this　wretched　world。〃
　He　crossed　to　the　door。　The　voiders　lingered　by　the　body；　however；　bright　enough　to　know　they　still　had　some　duty　to　perform　with　it。　But　Dowd　called　them　away。
　〃We'll　leave　it　here；〃　he　said。　〃Who　knows？　It　may　stir　a　few　ghosts。〃
　
　
　5
　
　Two　days　after　the　predawn　call　from　Judith…days　in　which　the　water　heater　in　the　studio　had　failed；　leaving　Gentle　the　option　of　bathing　in　polar　waters　or　not　at　all　（he　chose　the　latter）…Klein　summoned　him　to　the　house。　He　had　good　news。　He'd　heard　of　a　buyer　with　a　hunger　that　was　not　being　satisfied　through　conventional　markets；　and　Klein　had　allowed　it　to　be　known　that　he　might　be　able　to　lay　his　hands　on　something　attractive。　Gentle　had　successfully　re…created　one　Gauguin　previously；　a　small　picture　which　had　gone　onto　the　open　market　and　been　consumed　without　any　questions　being　asked。　Could　he　do　it　again？　Gentle　replied　that　he　would　make　a　Gauguin　so　fine　the　artist　himself　would　have　wept　to　see　it。　Klein　advanced　Gentle　five　hundred　pounds　to　pay　the　rent　on　the　studio　and　left　him　to　it；　remarking　only　that　Gentle　was　looking　a　good　deal　better　than　he'd　looked　previously；　though　he　smelled　a　good　deal　worse。
　Gentle　didn't　much　care。　Not　bathing　for　two　days　was　no　great　inconvenience　when　he　only　had　himself　for　pany；　not　shaving　suited　him　fine　when　there　was　no　woman　to　plain　of　beard　burns。　And　he'd　rediscovered　the　old　private　erotics：　spit；　palm；　and　fantasy。　It　sufficed。　A　man　might　get　used　to　living　this　way；　might　get　to　like　his　gut　a　little　ample；　his　armpits　sweaty；　his　balls　the　same。　It　wasn't　until　the　weekend　that　he　started　to　pine　for　some　entertainment　other　than　the　sight　of　himself　in　the　bathroom　mirror。　There　hadn't　been　a　Friday　or　Saturday　in　the　last　year　which　hadn't　been　occupied　by　some　social　gathering；　where　he'd　mingled　with　Vanessa's　friends。　Their　numbers　were　still　listed　in　his　address　book；　just　a　phone　call　away；　but　he　felt　squeamish　about　making　contact。　However　much　he　may　have　charmed　them；　they　were　her　friends；　not　his；　and　they'd　have　inevitably　sided　with　her　in　this　fiasco。
　As　for　his　own　peers…the　friends　he'd　had　before　Vanessa…most　had　faded。　They　were　a　part　of　his　past　and；　like　so　many　other　memories；　slippery。　While　people　like　Klein　recalled　events　thirty　years　old　in　crystalline　detail；　Gentle　had　difficulty　remembering　where　he　was　and　with　whom　even　ten　years　before。　Earlier　than　that　still；　and　his　memory　banks　were　empty。　It　was　as　though　his　mind　was　disposed　only　to　preserve　enough　details　of　his　history　to　make　the　present　plausible。　The　rest　it　disregarded。　He　kept　this　strange　fallibility　from　almost　everybody　he　knew；　concocting　details　if　pressed　hard。　It　didn't　much　bother　him。　Not　knowing　what　it　meant　to　have　a　past；　he　didn't　miss　it。　And　he　construed　from　exchanges　with　others　that　though　they　might　talk　confidentially　about　their　childhood　and　adolescence；　much　of　it　was　rumor　and　conjecture；　some　of　it　pure　fabrication。
　Nor　was　he　alone　in　his　ignorance。　Judith　had　once　confided　that　she　too　had　an　uncertain　grasp　of　the　past；　though　she'd　been　drunk　at　the　time　and　had　denied　it　vehemently　when　he'd　raised　the　subject　again。　So；　between　friends　lost　and　friends　forgotten；　he　was　very　much　alone　this　Saturday　night；　and　he　picked　up　the　phone　when　it　rang　with　some　gratitude。
　〃Furie　here；〃　he　said。　He　felt　like　a　Furie　tonight。　The　line　was　live；　but　there　was　no　answer。　〃Who's　there？〃　he　said。　Still；　silence。　Irritated；　he　put　down　the　receiver。　Seconds　later；　the　phone　rang　again。　〃Who　the　hell　is　this？〃　he　demanded；　and　this　time　an　impeccably　spoken　man　replied；　albeit　with　another　question。
　〃Am　I　speaking　to　John　Zacharias？〃
　Gentle　didn't　hear　himself　called　that　too　often。　〃Who　is　this？〃　he　said　again。
　〃We've　only　met　once。　You　probably　don't　remember　me。　Charles　Estabrook？〃
　Some　people　lingered　longer　in　the　memory　than　others。　Estabrook　was　one。　The　man　who'd　caught　Jude　when　she'd　dropped　from　the　high　wire。　A　classic　inbred　Englishman；　member　of　the　minor　aristocracy；　pompous；　condescending　and…
　〃I'd　like　very　much　to　meet　with　you；　if　that's　possible。〃
　〃1　don't　think　we've　got　anything　to　say　to　each　o