Imajica. Clive Barker

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      But the voice that called to them from one of the crowded alleyways off to their right might have been heard on any street in London: a lisping, pompous holler demanding they halt in their tracks. They looked in its direction. The throng had divided to allow the speaker and his party of three easy passage.

      ‘Play dumb,’ Pie muttered to Gentle as the lisper, an overfed gargoyle, bald but for an absurd wreath of oiled kiss-curls, approached.

      He was finely dressed, his high black boots polished and his canary-yellow jacket densely embroidered after what Gentle would come to know as the present Patashoquan fashion. A man much less showily garbed followed, an eye covered by a patch that trailed the tail feathers of a scarlet bird as if echoing the moment of his mutilation. On his shoulders he carried a woman in black, with silvery scales for skin and a cane in her tiny hands with which she tapped her mount’s head to speed him on his way. Still further behind came the oddest of the four.

      ‘A Nullianac,’ Gentle heard Pie murmur. He didn’t need to ask if this was good news or bad. The creature was its own best advertisement, and it was selling harm. Its head resembled nothing so much as praying hands, the thumbs leading and tipped with lobsters’ eyes, the gap between the palms wide enough for the sky to be seen through it, but flickering, as arcs of energy passed from side to side. It was without question the ugliest living thing Gentle had ever seen. If Pie had not suggested they obey the edict, and halt, Gentle would have taken to his heels there and then, rather than let the Nullianac get one stride closer to them.

      The lisper had halted, and now addressed them afresh.

      ‘What business have you in Vanaeph?’ he wanted to know.

      ‘We’re just passing through,’ Pie said, a reply somewhat lacking in invention, Gentle thought.

      ‘Who are you?’ the man demanded.

      ‘Who are you?’ Gentle returned.

      The patch-eyed mount guffawed, and got his head slapped for his troubles.

      ‘Loitus Hammeryock,’ the lisper replied.

      ‘My name’s Zacharias,’ Gentle said, ‘and this is-’

      ‘Casanova,’ Pie said, which earned him a quizzical glance from Gentle.

      ‘Zooical!’ the woman said. ‘D’yee speakat te gloss?’

      ‘Sure,’ said Gentle. ‘I speakat te gloss.’

      ‘Be careful,’ Pie whispered at his side.

      ‘Bone! Bone!’ the woman went on, and proceeded to tell them, in a language which was two parts English, or a variant thereof, one part Latin and one part some Fourth Dominion dialect that consisted of tongue clicks and teeth snappings, that all strangers to this town, Neo Vanaeph, had to register their origins and intentions before they were allowed access; or indeed, the right to depart. For all its ramshackle appearance, Vanaeph was no lawless stew, it appeared, but a tightly policed township, and this woman - who introduced herself in this flurry of lexicons as Pontiff Farrow - was a significant authority here.

      When she’d finished, Gentle cast a confounded look in Pie’s direction. This was proving more difficult terrain by the moment. Unconcealed in the Pontiff’s speech was the threat of summary execution if they failed to answer their enquiries satisfactorily. The executioner amongst this party was not hard to spot: he of the prayerful head -the Nullianac - waiting in the rear for his instructions.

      ‘So,’ said Hammeryock. ‘We need some identification.’

      ‘I don’t have any,’ Gentle said.

      ‘And you?’ he asked Pie, who also shook his head.

      ‘Spies,’ the Pontiff hissed.

      ‘No, we’re just … tourists,’ Gentle said.

      ‘Tourists?’ said Hammeryock.

      ‘We’ve come to see the sights of Patashoqua.’ He turned to Pie for support. ‘Whatever they are.’

      ‘The tombs of the Vehement Loki Lobb …’ Pie said, clearly scratching around for the glories Patashoqua had to offer, ‘… and the Merrow Ti’ Ti’.’

      That sounded pretty to Gentle’s ears. He faked a broad smile of enthusiasm. ‘The Merrow Ti’ Ti’!’ he said. ‘Absolutely! I wouldn’t miss the Merrow Ti’ Ti’ for all the tea in China.’

      ‘China?’ said Hammeryock.

      ‘Did I say China?’

      ‘You did.’

      ‘Fifth Dominion …’ the Pontiff muttered. ‘Spiatits from the Fifth Dominion.’

      ‘I object strongly to that accusation,’ said Pie’oh’pah.

      ‘And so -’ said a voice behind the accused, ‘- do I.’

      Both Pie and Gentle turned to take in the sight of a scabrous, bearded individual, dressed in what might generously have been described as motley, and less generously as rags, standing on one leg scraping shit off the heel of his other foot with a stick.

      ‘It’s the hypocrisy that turns my stomach, Hammeryock,’ he said, his expression a maze of wiles. ‘You two pontificate,’ he went on, eyeing his pun’s target as he spoke, ‘about keeping the streets free from undesirables, but you do nothing about the dog-shite!’

      This isn’t your business, Tick Raw,’ Hammeryock said.

      ‘Oh but it is. These are my friends and you’ve insulted them with your slurs and your suspicions.’

      ‘Friends, sayat?’ the Pontiff murmured.

      ‘Yes, ma’am. Friends. Some of us still know the difference between conversation and diatribe. I have friends, with whom I talk and exchange ideas. Remember ideas? They’re what make life worth living.’

      Hammeryock could not disguise his unease, hearing his mistress thus addressed, but whoever Tick Raw was he wielded sufficient authority to silence any further objection.

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