Imajica by Clive Barker

Author:Clive Barker [Barker, Clive]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3
Tags: Fantasy, Fiction
ISBN: 9780060937263
Publisher: New York : Perennial, 2002.
Published: 2002-07-25T06:00:00+00:00

38

In any other place but this, Gentle might have been frustrated by the sight of so many sealed doors, but as Lazarevich led him closer to the Pivot Tower the atmosphere grew so thick with dread he was glad whatever lay behind those doors was locked away. His guide spoke scarcely at all. When he did it was to suggest that Gentle make the rest of the journey alone.

“It’s a little way now,” he kept saying. “You don’t need me any more.”

“That’s not the deal,” Gentle would remind him, and Lazarevich would curse and whine, then head on some distance in silence, until a shriek down one of the passages, or a glimpse of blood spilled on the polished floor, made him halt and start his little speech afresh.

At no point in this journey were they challenged. If these titanic halls had ever buzzed with activity-and given that small armies could be lost in them, Gentle doubted that they ever had-they were all but deserted now. Those few servants and bureaucrats they did encounter were busy leaving, burdened with hastily gathered belongings as they hurried down the corridors. Survival was their foremost priority. They gave the bleeding soldier and his ill-dressed companion scarcely a look.

At last they came to a door, this one unsealed, which Lazarevich refused point-blank to enter.

“This is the Pivot Tower,” he said, his voice barely audible.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“Can’t you feel it?”

Now it was remarked upon, Gentle did indeed feel a subtle sensation, barely strong enough to be called a tingle, in his fingertips, testicles, and sinuses.

“That’s the tower, I swear,” Lazarevich whispered.

Gentle believed him. “All right,” he said. “You’ve done your duty; you’d better go.”

The man grinned. “You mean it?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, thank you. Whoever you are. Thank you.”

Before he could skip away, Gentle took hold of his arm and drew him close. “Tell your children,” he said, “not to be soldiers. Poets, maybe, or shoe-shiners. But not soldiers. Got it?”

Lazarevich nodded violently, though Gentle doubted he’d comprehended a word. His only thought was of escape, and he took to his heels the moment Gentle let go of him and was out of sight in two or three seconds. Turning to the beaten brass doors, Gentle pushed them a few inches wider and slipped inside. The nerve endings in his scrotum and palms knew that something of significance was nearby-what had been subtle sensation was almost painful now-even though his eyes were denied sight of it by the murk of the room he’d entered. He stood by the door until he was able to grasp some sense of what lay ahead. This was not, it seemed, the Pivot Tower itself but an antechamber of some kind, as stale as a sickroom. Its walls were bare, its only furniture a table upon which a canary cage lay overturned, its door open, its occupant flown. Beyond the table, another doorway, which he took, led him into a corridor, staler still than the room he’d left.

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