CENTURIES AND SOCIAL SYSTEMS GO, AND IMMIGRATION TO THAT afterland slows and ceases, and piece by piece and without complaint the shabti and those human souls who had made their peace with the rough democracy of the shabti deadland farmers fade, go out, move on, un-be, pass over, are no longer there. There is not much sadness. It is history, is all. afterland slows and ceases, and piece by piece and without complaint the shabti and those human souls who had made their peace with the rough democracy of the shabti deadland farmers fade, go out, move on, un-be, pass over, are no longer there. There is not much sadness. It is history, is all.

Wati will have none of that.

Here I am. I shall not do it.

He moved too, at last, but he moved not beyond nor to any dark or light but sideways, through borders between belief-worlds.

An epic trek, that curious passage through foreign afterlifes. Always toward the source of the river or the beginning of the road. Swimming up up through Murimuria, passing through Murimuria, passing up up through the caverns of Naraka and the shade of Yomi, crossing the rivers Tuoni and Styx through the caverns of Naraka and the shade of Yomi, crossing the rivers Tuoni and Styx from the farthest shore back from the farthest shore back, to the ferrymen's consternation, through a kaleidoscope flutter of lands, passing psychopomps of all traditions who had to pause with the new dead they were escorting and whisper to Wati, You're going the wrong way You're going the wrong way.

Northers in bearskins, women in saris and kimonos, funerary glad-rags, bronze-armoured mercenaries, the axes that had killed them bouncing bloody and politely ignored in their pretend-flesh like giant skin tags, all astonished by the militant inhuman statue-shade ascending, astonished by this contrary wayfarer of whom bugger-all bugger-all was written in any of the reams of pantheon-specific wittering about what the dead would face, all staring frankly at this intruder, this unplaced class-guerrilla in the myth, or glancing from under brows and introducing themselves politely or not, depending on the cultural norms they had not yet learned were for the living. was written in any of the reams of pantheon-specific wittering about what the dead would face, all staring frankly at this intruder, this unplaced class-guerrilla in the myth, or glancing from under brows and introducing themselves politely or not, depending on the cultural norms they had not yet learned were for the living.

Wati the rebel did not reply. Continued up from the underlands. It's a long way, whichever death you take. Occasionally Wati the retro-eschatonaut might look at those approaching and, hearing a name, or seeing a remembered resemblance, say to the new-deads' surprise, Oh I met your father Oh I met your father (or whomever) (or whomever) miles back miles back, until generations of the dead told stories of the wrong-walker trudging out of a redundant heaven, and debated what sort of seer or whatever he was and considered it good luck to bump into him on their final journey. Wati was a fable told by the long- to the new-dead. Until, until, out he came, through the door to Annwn or the pearly gates or the entrance to Mictlan (he wasn't paying attention), and here. Where the air is, where the living live.

In a place where there was more to do than journey, Wati looked and saw relations he remembered.

With some somatic nostalgia for his first form he entered the bodies of statues. He saw orders given and received, and it fired him up again. There was too much to do, too much to rectify. Wati sought out those like he had been. Those constructed, enchanted, enhanced by magic to do what humans told them. He became their organiser.

He started with the most egregious cases: magicked slaves; brooms forced to carry water buckets; clay men made to fight and die; little figures made of blood and choiceless about what they did. Wati fomented rebellions. He persuaded knack-formed assistants and servants to stand up, to insist to themselves that they were not defined by their creators or empowerers or the magic scribbles stuck under their tongues, to demand compensation, payment, freedom.

There was an art. He watched organisers of peasant revolts and communard monks, machine-wreckers and Chartists, and learned their methods. Insurrection was not always suitable. Though he retained a hankering for it, he was pragmatist enough to know when reforms were right for the moment.

Wati organised among golems, homunculi, robotish things made by alchemists and made slaves. The mandrakes born and bonded under gallows and treated like discardable weeds. Phantom rickshaw drivers, their hours and pay mysterious and pitiful. Those created creations were treated like tools that talked, their sentience an annoying product of magic noise, by those little mortal demiurges who thought dominion a natural by-product of expertise or creation.

Wati spread his word among brutalised familiars. That old droit de prestidigitateur droit de prestidigitateur was poison. With the help of Wati's rage and the self-organised uncanny, was poison. With the help of Wati's rage and the self-organised uncanny, quids pro quo quids pro quo were demanded and often won. Minimums of recompense, in energy, specie, kind or something. Magicians, anxious at the unprecedented rebellions, agreed. were demanded and often won. Minimums of recompense, in energy, specie, kind or something. Magicians, anxious at the unprecedented rebellions, agreed.

As the last but one century died, the New Unionism took London and changed it, and inspired Wati in his unseen side of the city. In their dolls and toby jugs, he learned from and collaborated with Tillett and Mann and Miss Eleanor Marx. With a fervour that resonated hard in the strange parts of the city, the hidden layers, Wati declared the formation of the UMA, the Union of Magicked Assistants.

Chapter Twenty-Six

"SO W WATI'S PISSED OFF WITH YOU."

"There's a strike on," Dane said. "Total knack stoppage. That's why they're picketing places where conditions are bad."

"And they are at the BL?"

Dane nodded. "You would not believe it."

"What's it all about?"

"It started small," Dane said. "These things always do. Something about the hours some magus was making his ravens work. It didn't look like it would kick off, but then he tries to play hardball, so there's a sympathy strike at a box factory where the robots are unionised-they got minds in a mageslick, few years ago-and the next thing you know ..." He slapped the dashboard. "Whole city's out.

"It's the first big thing since Thatcher. And nothing gets the knack-smiths more antsy. Everyone in the UMA's out, it's solid. And then I had an emergency. I knew you was being watched. I knew knew you were, and I you were, and I had had to track you, because I didn't know what you had to do with the whole to track you, because I didn't know what you had to do with the whole god god thing. The kraken being took. I didn't even know what your deal was, I didn't know if you were in on anything, or had some plan or what. But I knew you were tied up with it. And I couldn't keep an eye on you twenty-four/seven, so I had to organise a short-term binding with that little sod." thing. The kraken being took. I didn't even know what your deal was, I didn't know if you were in on anything, or had some plan or what. But I knew you were tied up with it. And I couldn't keep an eye on you twenty-four/seven, so I had to organise a short-term binding with that little sod."

"The squirrel?"

"The familiar." Dane winced. "I been strikebreaking. And Wati got word. I don't blame him being pissed off. If he can't trust his friends, you know? There's all dirty tricks. People are getting hurt. Someone got killed. A journo writing about it. No one knows for sure it's connected, but of course course it's connected. You know? So Wati's edgy. We have to sort this. I want him on our side. We do it's connected. You know? So Wati's edgy. We have to sort this. I want him on our side. We do not not want to be on the shitlist of all the pissed-off UMA in London." want to be on the shitlist of all the pissed-off UMA in London."

Billy looked at him. "It's not just that, though." He took off and put back on his glasses.

"No it ain't," Dane said. "I'm not a scab. I didn't have time ..." He slumped in his seat. "Alright. It wasn't just that. I was worried if I went and asked for dispensation, the union wouldn't say yes. They might not think it was serious enough. And I needed needed it. I had to have more eyes, and something that could get places fast. And you should be happy I did or you'd have been took to Tattoo's workshop. it. I had to have more eyes, and something that could get places fast. And you should be happy I did or you'd have been took to Tattoo's workshop.

"The bastard is I never never use familiars." He shook his head, repeatedly. "It was just crap luck. It was just crap, crap luck, the timing." use familiars." He shook his head, repeatedly. "It was just crap luck. It was just crap, crap luck, the timing."

WATI MOVED IN ELDRITCH LEAPFROGGING, STATUE TO STATUE, figure to figurine, consciousness momentarily in each. Just long enough to see through the stone eyes in a horse rider in a park; wooden eyes on a Jesus outside a church; plastic eyes in a discarded clothes model; taking bearings, feeling to the limits of his range, some scores of metres, briefly considering each potential figure within his arc, choosing the most suitable according to criteria, transferring his thinks-node into that next human-made head. figure to figurine, consciousness momentarily in each. Just long enough to see through the stone eyes in a horse rider in a park; wooden eyes on a Jesus outside a church; plastic eyes in a discarded clothes model; taking bearings, feeling to the limits of his range, some scores of metres, briefly considering each potential figure within his arc, choosing the most suitable according to criteria, transferring his thinks-node into that next human-made head.

He met Dane and Billy in the cafe in the back streets near Holborn, where for years the plaster mannequin of a fat chef had held up fingers in an "O" meaning delicious right next to an outside table, so where, if Dane and Billy put up with the chill, huddling over coffees, Wati could en-statue close enough to converse with them. They hunkered against the cold and the possibility of being seen. Dane looked repeatedly around them.

"Like I say, Dane, this better be good," the Wati-chef said through a motionless openmouthed smile. Its accent remained-Cockney plus the New Kingdom?-but the voice was choky, now, and clogged-sounding.

"Wati, this is Billy," said Dane. Billy greeted the statue. He greeted a statue and disguised his awe. "He's what this is all about." Dane cleared his throat. "You can feel it, right, Wati? The sky, the air, all this shit. History ain't working. Something's coming up. That's what this is about. I bet you can feel it. Between statues."

There was silence. "Maybe," said Wati. Was it gusting he sensed? Billy wondered. A dislocation? Something foreboding in that inter-effigial unspace? "Maybe."

"Alright. Well then. You heard ... the kraken got took?"

"'Course I did. The angels can't shut up about it. I even went to the museum," Wati said. No lack there of the bodies in which he could be. He could rush around the interior of the hall in a whirlwind of entities, skimming, skipping from animal to stone animal. "The phylax is screaming in the corridors. It's walking, you know. It's looking for something, it's on a trail. You can hear it at night."

"What's this?" Billy said.

"The angels of memory," Dane said.

"What are ...?" said Billy, then stopped at Dane's shaken head. Alright Alright, he thought, we'll get back to that we'll get back to that.

"It's all screwed up," Wati said.

"It is," Dane said. "We need to find the kraken, Wati. No one knows who took it. I thought it was the Tattoo, but then ... He took Billy. Was going to do him. And the way he was talking ... Most people think it was us." us." He paused. "The church. But it weren't. They ain't even He paused. "The church. But it weren't. They ain't even looking looking for it. When the kraken went, this thing underneath it all started rising." for it. When the kraken went, this thing underneath it all started rising."

"Talk to me about scabbing, Dane," Wati said. "Do I need to talk to your Teuthex about this?"

"No!" Dane shouted. People looked. He slid down, spoke quietly again. "You can't. Can't tell them where I am. I'm out, Wati." He looked into the statue's unmoving face. "Shunned."

The plaster of the chef, unchanging, took on shock. "Oh my gods, Dane," Wati said at last. "I heard something, someone said something, I thought it was garbled bullshit, though ..."

"They're not going to do anything," Dane said. "Nothing "Nothing. I needed help, Wati, and I needed it fast. They were going to kill Billy. And whoever's took it's doing something with the kraken that's bringing up this badness. That's when it started. That's the only reason only reason I did what I did. You know me. I'll do whatever I have to to fix this. What I'm saying is I'm sorry." I did what I did. You know me. I'll do whatever I have to to fix this. What I'm saying is I'm sorry."

DANE TOLD W WATI THE STORY. "IT WAS BAD ENOUGH WHEN THIS LOT brought it up, put it in their tank." Billy was shocked at the anger with which Dane stared at him, suddenly. He had never seen that before. brought it up, put it in their tank." Billy was shocked at the anger with which Dane stared at him, suddenly. He had never seen that before. I thought you liked the tank I thought you liked the tank, he thought. The Teuthex said ... The Teuthex said ... "But since it's gone it's got worse. We have to find it. Billy knows things. I needed to get him out. Wati, it was Goss and Subby." "But since it's gone it's got worse. We have to find it. Billy knows things. I needed to get him out. Wati, it was Goss and Subby."

There was a long silence. "I heard that," the statue said. "Someone said he was back. I didn't know if it was true."

"Goss and Subby are back," Dane said. "And they're working for the Tattoo. They're on the move. They're doing their work. They were taking Billy to the workshop."

"Who is he? Who are you?" Wati said to Billy. "Why are they after you?"

"I'm no one," Billy said. He saw himself talking to a plastic or plaster pizza man. Could almost have smiled.

"It was him who preserved the kraken," Dane said. "Put it behind glass."

"I'm no one," Billy said. "Up until a couple of days ago I ..." How to even start.

"He likes to say he's no one," Dane said. "Tattoo and Goss and Subby don't think so. He knows things."

There was quiet for seconds. Billy played with his coffee.

"A squirrel, though?" Wati said.

Dane stared at the frozen delighted face of the chef, risked a snorting laugh. "I was desperate, bro," he said.

"You couldn't have got, like, an adder or a jackdaw or something?"

"I was looking for a part-timer," Dane said. "All the best familiars are union, I didn't have much choice. You should be pleased. You're solid. I had to go with whatever dregs were around."

"Did you think I wouldn't find out?"

"I'm sorry. I was desperate. I shouldn't have done it. I should've asked."

"Yeah you should," said Wati. Dane breathed out. "You only get one fuckup like that. And that only because I known you since time." Dane nodded. "Why did you come see me?" Wati said. "You didn't just come to apologise, did you?"

"Not only that," said Dane.

"Cheeky bugger," said Wati. "You're going to ask for help." He started to laugh, but Dane interrupted.

"Yeah," he said without humour. "You know what, I am, and I ain't going to apologise. I do need your help. We do. And I don't just mean me and Billy, I mean everyone. If we don't find the god, whatever's coming's going to get here. Someone's doing something with that kraken they really shouldn't oughter."

"We're out out, Dane," Wati said. "What do you even want from me?"

"I understand," Dane said. "But you have to understand too. Whatever it is ... If we don't stop it it won't matter if you win your strike. I'm not saying call it off. I would never tell you that. I'm saying you can't afford to ignore this. We have to find God. We ain't the only ones looking. The longer it's out there it's meaning meaning more and more, and that means it's more and more powerful. So more and more people are after it. Imagine if Tattoo gets his hands on it." On the corpse, corpus, of an emergent baby god, traveller from below to above." more and more, and that means it's more and more powerful. So more and more people are after it. Imagine if Tattoo gets his hands on it." On the corpse, corpus, of an emergent baby god, traveller from below to above."

"What's your plan?" Wati said.

Dane brought out his list. "I reckon this is all the people in London could port something as big as the kraken. We can track down who got it out."

"Hold it up," Wati said. Dane, making sure he was not watched, held the list in the statue's eyeline. "There's, what ... twenty people here?" Wati said.

"Twenty-three."

"Going to take you a while." Dane said nothing. "Have you got a copy of that? Wait."

There was a gust, a palpable leaving. Dane began to smile. After a minute a sparrow flew down and landed on Billy's hand. He started. Even his jump did not dislodge the bird. It looked him and Dane up and down.

"Go on then, give her the list," said Wati in the statue again. "She's not your familiar, you get it? Not even temporarily. She's my my friend, and she's doing friend, and she's doing me me a favour. Let's see what we can find out." a favour. Let's see what we can find out."

Chapter Twenty-Seven

HER BOSS WAS SYMPATHETIC BUT COULD NOT HOLD THINGS forever. Marge had to return to work. forever. Marge had to return to work.

Leon's mother said she was coming to London. She and Marge had never met, nor even spoken until the awkward phone call Marge had made to tell her about Leon's disappearance. The woman obviously neither knew nor wanted to know details of Leon's life. She thanked Marge for "keeping her up to date."

"I'm not sure that's the best way to do it," she had said when Marge suggested they work together to try to find out what had happened.

"I don't feel like the police ..." Marge had said. "I mean I'm sure they're doing what they can, but, you know, they're busy and we might be able to think of stuff that they can't. We could keep on looking, you know?" His mother had said she would contact Marge if she found anything out, but neither of them thought she would. So Marge did not mention Leon's last message.

When she said, "I'll let you know if I find anything out, too," she was aware abruptly that she was not making a promise to the woman as much as to herself, to the universe, to Leon, to something, to not leave this, to not stop. Marge went through anger, panic, resignation, sadness. Sometimes-how could she not?-she tried out the thought that she had been very wrong about him, that Leon had just deserted her and his entire life. Maybe he had been involved in a scam gone wrong, was mentally ill, baying somewhere on a Cornish coast or Dundee, was no longer who he had been. The ideas did not stick.

She sent Leon's mother the keys to his flat that she had had cut, but cut more copies first. She sneaked in and went from room to room, as if she might soak up some clue. For some time each room was as she remembered it, down to the mess, even. She turned up one day and the flat was a shell: his family had taken Leon's things away.

The police to whom Marge spoke, those to whom she could could speak, still implied that there was little to worry about, or, as time went on, little they could do. What Marge wanted was to speak to those other, odder police visitors. Repeated calls to the Scotland Yard would not yield any confirmation that they existed. The Barons whose numbers she was given were none of them the right man. There were no Collingswoods. speak, still implied that there was little to worry about, or, as time went on, little they could do. What Marge wanted was to speak to those other, odder police visitors. Repeated calls to the Scotland Yard would not yield any confirmation that they existed. The Barons whose numbers she was given were none of them the right man. There were no Collingswoods.

Were they who they had claimed? Were they a gang of miscreants hunting Leon for some infraction? Was it from them that he was in hiding?

Her first day back her coworkers were sympathetic. The paperwork she dealt with was easy and not important, and though the hesitancy of her colleagues' greetings was wearing it was also touching, and she put up with it. She returned to her flat in the same reverie that had taken over as her default mood since Leon disappeared.

Something troubled her. Some part of the city's afternoon noise, the car grumbling, the children shouting, the mobile phones singing polyphonic grots of song. Repeatedly whispered, getting louder until she could no longer mistake it, someone was saying her name.

"Marginalia."

A man and boy had arrived, appeared silently before she had her keys out. One was to either side of her front door, leaning with a shoulder to the bricks, facing each other with the door in between them so they boxed her in. The young staring boy in a suit; a shabbier, weatherbeaten man. The man spoke.

"Marjorie, Marjorie, it's a disaster, the record company's been on the blower, no one likes the album. Get down to the studio, we're going to have to remaster."

"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't ..." She stepped back. Neither boy nor man touched her, but they walked with her, in perfect time with each other and with her, so she remained corralled by them. "What are you, what are you ...?" she said.

The man said, "We was particularly hoping you might be able to persuade that guitarist to stop by again, lay down some licks. What was his moniker? Billy?"

Marge stopped moving, and started again. The man breathed out smoke. She staggered backward. She wanted to run, but she was hobbled by normality. It was daylight. Three feet away people were walking; there were vehicles and dogs and trees, newsagents. She tried to back away from the man, but he and his boy walked with her, and kept her between them.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" she said. "Where's Leon?"

"Well that's just it, isn't it? We'd posalutely adore to know. Technically I grant you it's less Leon that we're chasing than his old mucker Billy Harrow. Leon I've a sense of where he might be-lose some weight, Subby says; I can't help it I says, little morsels like that-" He licked his lips. "But Billy and we was just catching up and then it all went fiddly. So. Where'd he get off to?"

Marge ran. She made for the main road. The two stayed with her. They kept up with her, moving crabwise, the boy on one side, the man on the other. They did not touch her but stayed close.

"Where is he? Where is he?" the man said. The boy moaned. "You must excuse my loquacious friend-never bleeding shuts up, does he? Though I love him and he has his uses. But he's not wrong also; he raises an excellent point-where is Billy Harrow? Was it you spirited the lad away?"