THE FLESH IS WEAK.

1.

Though Shadwell had set his sights on occupying the Firmament - the only building in the Fugue worthy of one teetering on Godhood - once ensconced there he found it an unsettling residence. Each of the monarchs and matriarchs who'd occupied the place over the centuries had brought their own vision to its halls and ante-chambers, their one purpose to expand upon the previous occupant's mysteries. The result was part labyrinth, part mystical ghost-train ride.

He was not the first Cuckoo to explore the Firmament's miraculous corridors. Several members of Humankind had found their way into the palace down the years, and wandered there unchallenged by its makers, who had no desire to sour its tranquillity with hard words. Lost in its depths these lucky few had seen sights that they would take to their graves. A chamber in which the tiles on the walls had twice as many sides as a dice, and flipped forever over and over, each facet having its place in a fresco that never came to rest long enough for the eye to entirely comprehend it. Another room in which rain constantly fell, a warm spring night rain, and the floor gave off the smell of cooling pavements; and another which seemed at first quite plain, but was built with such sense-beguiling geometries a man might think his head swelled to fill it one moment, and the next be shrunk to the size of a beetle. And after an hour, or a day, of trespassing amongst these wonders, some invisible guide would lead them to the door, and they'd emerge as if from a dream. Later they'd try to speak of what they'd seen, but a failure of memory and tongue usually conspired to reduce their attempts to babble. In desperation, many went back in search of that delirium. But the Firmament was a movable feast, and it had always flitted away.

Shadwell was the first Cuckoo, therefore, who walked those rapturous corridors and called them his own. It gave him no pleasure, however. That was perhaps its most elegant revenge on its unwelcome occupant.

2.

In the late afternoon, before the light dwindled too much, the Prophet made his way up to the top of the Firmament's watchtower, to survey his territories. Despite the demands of recent weeks - the masquerading, the rallies, the constant politicking - he didn't feel weary. All he'd promised his followers and himself had come true. It was as if his performance as a Prophet had lent him prophetic powers. He'd found the Weave, as he'd said he would, and claimed it from its guardians; he'd led his crusaders into the very heart of the Fugue, silencing with almost supernatural speed any and all who'd defied him. From his present elevated status there was no route to rise but towards Godhood, and the means to that advancement was visible from where he now stood.

The Gyre.

Its Mantle roiled and thundered, veiling its secrets from all eyes, even his. No matter. Tomorrow, when Hobart's battalion had finished its suppression of the natives, they would escort the Prophet to the doorway of the Gyre, the place the Kind called the Narrow Bright, and he would step inside.

Then? ah, then . . .

A chill on his nape stirred him from speculation.

Immacolata was standing at the viewing-room door. The light did not indulge her. It showed her wounds in all their suppurating glory; showed her frailty too; and her rancour. It repulsed him to look at her.

'What do you want?' he demanded.

'I came to join you,' she said. 'I don't like this place. It stinks of the Old Science.'

He shrugged, and turned his back on her.

'I know what you're thinking, Shadwell,' she said. 'And believe me, it wouldn't be wise.'

He hadn't heard his name uttered in a long while, and he didn't like the way it sounded. It was a throwback to a biography he'd almost ceased to believe was his.

'What wouldn't be wise?' he said.

'Trying to breach the Gyre.'

He made no reply.

'That is what you intend isn't it?'

She could read him still, all too easily.

'Maybe,' he said.

'That'd be a cataclysmic mistake.'

'Oh, indeed?' he said, not taking his eyes off the Mantle. 'And why's that?'

'Even the Families don't understand what they created when they set the Loom to work,' she said. 'It's unknowable.'

'Nothing's unknowable,' he growled. 'Not to me. Not any more.'

'You're still a man, Shadwell,' she reminded him. 'You're vulnerable.'

'Shut up,' he said.

'Shadwell -'

'Shut up!' he repeated, and turned on her. 'I don't want to hear your defeatism any longer. I'm here, aren't I? I won the Fugue.'

'We won it.'

'All right, we. What do you want for that little service?'

'You know what I want,' she said. 'What I've always wanted. Slow genocide.'

He smiled. His reply was a long time coming, and when it came was spoken slowly.

'No,' he said. 'No, I don't think so.'

'Why did we follow them all those years?' she asked. 'It was so you could have profit, and I could be avenged.'

'Things have changed,' he said. 'You must see that.'

'You want to rule them. That's it, isn't it?'

'I want more than that,' he said. 'I want to know what creation tastes like. I want what's in the Gyre.'

'It'll tear you apart.'

'I doubt that,' he said. 'I've never been stronger.'

'At the Shrine,' she replied, 'you said we'd destroy them together.'

'I lied,' Shadwell said lightly. 'I told you what you wanted to hear, because I needed you. Now you disgust me. I'll have new women, when I'm a God.'

'A God now is it?' She seemed genuinely amused by the thought. 'You're a salesman, Shadwell. You're a shabby little salesman. I'm the one they worship.'

'Oh yes,' Shadwell replied. 'I've seen your Cult. A boneyard, and a handful of eunuchs.'

'I won't be cheated, Shadwell,' she said, moving towards him. 'Not by you, of all men.'

He'd known for many months that this time would come, when she finally understood how he'd manipulated her. He'd prepared himself for the consequences, quietly and systematically divesting her of her allies, and increasing his own store of defences. But she still had the menstruum - of that she could never be dispossessed - and it was formidable. He saw it burgeoning in her eyes even now, and couldn't help but want to flinch before it.