Читать книгу Imajica - Clive Barker, Clive Barker - Страница 20

Oscar Esmond Godolphin always recited a little prayer in praise of democracy when, after one of his trips to the Dominions, he stepped back on to English soil. Extraordinary as those visits were - and as warmly welcomed as he found himself in the diverse Kesparates of Yzordderrex - the city state was an autocracy of the most extreme kind, its excesses dwarfing the repressions of the country he’d been born in. Especially of late. Even his great friend and business partner in the Second Dominion, Hebbert Nuits-St-Georges, called Peccable by those who knew him well, a merchant who had made substantial profit from the superstitious and the woebegone in the Second Dominion, regularly remarked that the order of Yzordderrex was less stable by the day, and he would soon take his family out of the city, indeed out of the Dominion entirely, and find a new home where he would not have to smell burning bodies when he opened his windows in the morning. So far, it was only talk. Godolphin knew Peccable well enough to be certain that until he’d exhausted his supply of idols, relics and jujus from the Fifth, and could make no more profit, he’d stay put. And given that it was Godolphin himself who supplied these items -most were simply terrestrial trivia, revered in the Dominions because of their place of origin - and given that he would not cease to do so as long as the fever of collection was upon him and he could exchange such items for artifacts from the Imajica, Peccable’s business would flourish. It was a trade in talismans, and neither man was likely to tire of it soon.

Nor did Godolphon tire of being an Englishman in that most unEnglish of cities. He was instantly recognizable in the small but influential circle he kept. A large man in every way, he was tall and big-bellied; bellicose when fondest, hearty when not. At fifty-two he had long ago found his style, and was more than comfortable with it. True, he concealed his second and third chins beneath a grey-brown beard that only got an efficient trimming at the hands of Peccable’s eldest daughter Hoi-Polloi. True, he attempted to look a little more learned by wearing silver-rimmed spectacles that were dwarfed by his large face but were, he thought, all the more pedagoguish because they didn’t flatter. But these were little deceits. They helped to make him unmistakable, which he liked. He wore his thinning hair short, and his collars long, preferring for dress a clash of tweeds and a striped shirt; always a tie; invariably a waistcoat. All in all, a difficult sight to ignore, which suited him fine. Nothing was more likely to bring a smile to his face than being told he was talked about. It was usually with affection.

There was no smile on his face now, however, as he stepped out of the site of the Reconciliation - known euphemistically as the Retreat - to find Dowd sitting perched on a shooting-stick a few yards from the door. It was early afternoon but the sun was already low in the sky, the air as chilly as Dowd’s welcome. It was almost enough to make him turn round and go back to Yzordderrex, revolution or no.

‘Why do I think you haven’t come here with sparkling news?’ he said.

Dowd rose with his usual theatricality. ‘I’m afraid you’re absolutely correct,’ he said.

‘Let me guess: the government fell! The house burned down.’ His face dropped. ‘Not my brother?’ he said. ‘Not Charlie?’ He tried to read Dowd’s face. ‘What: dead? A massive coronary. When was the funeral?’

‘No, he’s alive. But the problem lies with him.’

‘Always has. Always has. Will you fetch my goods and chattels out of the Folly? We’ll talk as we walk. Go on in, will you? There’s nothing in there that’s going to bite.’

Dowd had stayed out of the Retreat all the time he’d waited for Godolphin (a wearisome three days) even though it would have given him some measure of protection against the bitter cold. Not that his system was susceptible to such discomforts, but he fancied himself an empathic soul, and his time on Earth had taught him to feel cold as an intellectual concept, if not a physical one, and he might have wished to take shelter. Anywhere other than the Retreat. Not only had many esoterics died there (and he didn’t enjoy the proximity of death unless he’d been its bringer), but the Retreat was a passing place between the Fifth Dominion and the other four, including, of course, the home from which he was in permanent exile. To be so close to the door through which his home lay, and be prevented by the conjurations of his first keeper, Joshua Godolphin, from opening that door, was painful. The cold was preferable.

He stepped inside now, however, having no choice in the matter. The Retreat had been built in neo-classical style: twelve marble pillars rising to support a dome that called for decoration, but had none. The plainness of the whole lent it gravity, and a certain functionalism which was not inappropriate. It was, after all, no more than a station, built to serve countless passengers and now used by only one. On the floor, set in the middle of the elaborate mosaic that appeared to be the building’s sole concession to prettification but was in fact the evidence of its true purpose, were the bundles of artifacts Godolphin brought back from his travels, neatly tied up by Hoi-Polloi Nuits-St-Georges, the knots encrusted with scarlet sealing wax. It was her present delight, this business with the wax, and Dowd cursed it, given that it fell to him to unpack these treasures. He crossed to the centre of the mosaic, light on his heels. This was tremulous terrain, and he didn’t trust it. But moments later, he emerged with his freight, to find that Godolphin was already marching out of the copse that screened the Retreat from both the house (empty, of course; in ruins) and any casual spy who peered over the wall. He took a deep breath and went after his master, knowing the explanation ahead would not be easy.