"No Present Like Time" - читать интересную книгу автора (Swainston Steph)CHAPTER TWOI climbed the spiral staircase to my tower room. The murals on its walls became more lurid and grotesque toward the top. I don’t remember painting them; I must have been really stoned. “Hello, lover,” I said, emerging from the doorway. Tern was waiting in the lower part of the round split-level room, her hands on her hips. Anger spiced her voice. “Look at you! All windswept! God, you look like a juggler from the Hacilith festival! Out of those flea-bitten mountain clothes and into a suit…Here, wear this one; it’s elegant.” She gave me a light and unusually demure kiss on the cheek. I looked around our untidy apartment that my wife had colonized with architectural drawings, cosmetics, rolls of fabric and an enormous wardrobe inside which I am sure a Rhydanne couple could live quite happily. My carefully stacked letters slid into each other under Tern’s discarded dresses. All my specific piles of correspondence had formed one mass like the Paperlands and reeked of her expensive perfume. She saw my look of horror and said, “I tidied up your mess.” “That was my filing system! The letters I’ve read go on the table, noteworthy letters on the floor under the desk. The ones I haven’t read are on the fireplace next to the pine cones…Where have they gone?” My alphabetized books were spattered with used matches and sealing wax. Shed feathers littered my collection of old broadsheets. Tern’s gowns covered the chaise longue where I like to lounge; dress patterns were taped on the posts of our bed. Her underclothes were scattered in mounds. She had even disturbed the dusty table on which stood my precious distilling apparatus, although I had reassembled the glass retorts and condenser solely for the production of barley sugars. Tern wore a bustier of chartreuse-green satin; its pleated sleeves wreathed her small black wings. At her throat, her wide jet heirloom necklace looked like a collar. “This is all the rage,” she purred. “Well, I say it is.” “How do I unfasten it?” Her bare shoulders made her all the more tempting. I tried to undo her hair but her usual loose dark waves were pulled back into a complicated chignon. My wife’s town was reduced to brick shards and ashy rubble by the Great Fire of 2015. Of her black stone manor house only one single outside wall still stood. Slug-trail slicks of molten glass hardened from its pointed arched windows; lead roofs lay in solidified pools. The stumps of scrubby trees in her woodland were burned flat to the ground. Every building and foundry in Wrought was destroyed, none of her possessions escaped the flames. Wrought was her birthplace and the scene of our honeymoon; Tern now aspired to rebuild it completely. Luckily, her designer fashions sold well on the Hacilith cat-walks and as far as she was concerned Wrenn joining the Circle was an opportunity for trendsetting. She caressed my wings as I peeled off my tight trousers and changed clothes. Long wings are considered the most attractive, and as feathers need a lot of preening, Awians look after their high-maintenance bodies with care. “I didn’t see the duel,” Tern said. “I needed the time to get ready. I heard from Rayne that the Challenger gave Serein a good nick to remember him by.” “It was a first-blood duel,” I said. “Those were the rules, so Wrenn had to.” “I hear that Wrenn is scrumptious,” she commented. I shrugged. I seated myself in front of the mirror and let her brush my black hair that reaches to my waist, removing all the tangles caused by flying. It was agony. When she finished I crossed feathers through it like windmill sails and underlined my eyes. “Listen.” Tern raised a finger at the clatter of coaches vying for space in the courtyard far below. “I hear some ladies inviting themselves to his reception. Those can’t be reporters or they would never have managed to sneak past Tawny at the gate.” “We have an hour. I’ve been on my own in Scree for weeks. I want you.” Tern pulled away-so as not to ruin the painstaking work of art she has made of herself. I gave her the full benefit of my cat-eyed look that she found so exotic. “We should clear a space to sit down…Perhaps lie down.” “Come and join the clamor,” she said. Tern, you and your diamond self-sufficiency. Unlike the stately homes of Awia, the Castle’s sarsen outer bastions were thick, sturdy and unassailable. The Castle’s purpose was defense of the entire Fourlands; it protected every manor, growing gatehouses and curtain walls while they bloomed balconies and arched dance halls, ornate turrets and painted bartizans. The ground around the Castle was thrown into immense earth-works to ward off Insects. A channel of the Moren River was directed into a double moat around its man-made hill. The twin exterior walls that ran around the Castle’s eight sides were strengthened by huge cylindrical smooth stone-faced towers decorated with crenellations and with shallow pointed roofs. Along the walls flags rustled and furled; the heraldry of the Fourlands’ current sixteen manors and two townships. Fifty pennants flew under the Castle’s sun, each with the sign that an Eszai had chosen for his or her position. The Emperor’s palace fitted inside the Castle like the flesh in a nutshell. Its marble towers stretched up from inside the impenetrable curtain wall. The Throne Room spire was the tallest; farmers who worked the demesne saw the sun glint on its pinnacle and they knew the Emperor occupied his throne beneath. As Tern and I walked from our austere tower we saw only glimpses through the cold fog; its attendant hush muted every sound, drawing all the luster from the palace. We saw lights shining behind sash windows and the oculus ovals made to look like portholes of the Mare’s Run wing where Mist had her rooms. A stone-balustraded balcony ran along the length of its top floor, like the gallery on a ship. The Mare’s Run was built between the outer walls and the palace five hundred years ago; it filled some of the space where gardens used to be. Several other buildings were shaped to fit into the western side of the gap: the dining hall and a theater with its scalloped bronze dome topped by a white wood lantern-turret. I did not take the rooms owing to me as Messenger in the palace’s Carillon Court when I joined the Circle. I preferred to move into the unused apartment at the top of the Northwest Tower on the outer wall because I found it easy to launch myself from its height. My window gave a view for a hundred kilometers of the river, the playing fields and white goalposts; red dock stalks sticking up from the green rough ground of Binnard meadow. Tern has never persuaded me to move back into the palace. Tern shivered and I reached out with a wing to give her a pat on the shoulder. Tern’s wings are much smaller than mine, as are those of all Awians, because although they are the only winged people, they are flightless. I am the sole person ever to be able to fly. As I am half Rhydanne my light, long-limbed build and mountainlander’s fitness, when added to Awian ancestry on my father’s side, gave me my ability. Hand in hand Tern and I walked down an enclosed passage over a flying buttress that spanned from the outside wall to the palace. It was a narrow, vertiginous bridge that soared over the roof of the Great Hall, stretching thin and tenuous in the air. Below us, we could only see the glow of lamps in niches outside the hall and on four stone steps that rose to double doors with opulent paneling. The deeply carved decoration inside its triangular pediment was even more ornate: two flamboyant white Awian eagles flanked the Castle’s sun emblem. Our buttress walkway crossed above the head of the marble statue that topped the pediment, a slender woman bearing a sword and shield, her luxuriously feathered wings outstretched. Sometimes I land on the roof, providing a sudden perspective-she is twice my size. The hall was built by architects from Micawater, and Lightning is the only Eszai who would remember what the statue actually symbolizes. It could be anything: freedom, justice, the wet dreams of a hundred generations of Awian adolescents. As I walked with Tern I thought the whole building seemed smug, as if it had soaked up the atmosphere of too many whispered indiscretions at formal parties and was simply waiting for the next. We descended to a small cloister. A colonnaded corridor ran around the misty lawn; we walked along two sides. Outside the Throne Room its stone ceiling was elaborately carved with fan vaulting; bosses hung down like leafy stalactites. Instead of curtains the drapes that framed the Throne Room portal were sculpted from amber. The Throne Room seemed even more massive after the narrow narthex. Tern and I walked in down the long aisle past the screen and bowed to the Emperor. The Emperor San was first to be present, according to his custom. This was an important occasion, so he wore the tall spired platinum crown that Awia presented to him when the First Circle was formed. San normally wore no crown at all. We settled on one of the front benches, because they were closest to the sunburst throne and I wanted to hear what Wrenn had to say. On this side of the screen, the benches faced each other and were gently stepped as in an auditorium. I watched in silence as the other Eszai walked in and gradually filled the seats. Most of the women gazed at Lightning, but some looked at me. I doubt that I cut a fine figure at court, since the fashion’s long gone for looking pale and disheveled, but there’s no denying the effect I have on them. I may not command the battlefield but I can put the best spin on the outcome. I might not be a keen huntsman but I can gut a weekend newspaper. At sparring, I prefer words to swords, and I used to shoot drugs not arrows, but I’m free of all that now. Wrenn entered the far end of the Throne Room, tiny below the huge rose window. It was symbolically important that he came in alone. He looked all around nervously and jumped as the doors closed behind him with an enormous crash. Then he began to walk, stiffly and obviously aching all over, toward us down the length of the scarlet carpet that was far more terrifying than any fencing piste. The Imperial Fyrd archers on the gallery with their pulley compound bows watched him carefully. “That’s the new Swordsman,” I whispered to Tern. “This ordeal will be worse for him than the duel.” My initiation was an awful trial. “Before this is over, he may well wish he’d died out there.” She leaned forward to watch him. “It depends how much he has to hide.” Wrenn passed us slowly, giving the curious eyes of all the Eszai time to take him in. His short hair was wet from the bath or the steam room. His clothes were clean, but the same dull blue with thread holes on his sleeve where his fyrd patch used to be. He only looked straight ahead to the Emperor’s dais-though not, of course, to the Emperor himself. He reached the platform’s lowest step and knelt. “My lord Emperor,” he announced. His voice gave way. He tried again: “I humbly petition to join the Circle and I claim the title Serein, having beaten Gio Ami Serein in a fair Challenge.” He thought for a second, eyes aside like an actor trying to remember his lines-but also because it meant he didn’t look at San. “I intend to serve you and the Fourlands every minute of my life.” San regarded Wrenn and the members of the Circle in silence. Even at this distance I felt the scrutiny of his incredibly clear and intelligent gaze. San always wore white-a tabard with panels of colorless jewels over a plain robe that reached to the floor. The pointed toes of his flat white shoes projected from under them. The style of San’s clothes had remained the same since the year he created the former Circle, four hundred years after god left. His whole body was covered except for his thin and ringless hands. The sunburst throne also remained a symbol of permanence. An ancient broadsword and circular shield hung from its back. They were a keen reminder that if we Eszai finally fail him in the Fourlands’ struggle against the Insects, San will again direct the battle himself. In the Castle’s stables a destrier is always reserved for him, never ridden, never used. San rose and approached the front of the dais. “You have selected yourself for the Circle. You have humbly placed your talents at the world’s disposal. I thank you. Every successful Challenger must complete one last observance to become immortal. You must tell me everything about your life so far. Relate all that you think is significant from your earliest memory to the events that brought you here. You will not lie. My Circle will hear your testimony but they will neither interrupt nor judge. Nothing you reveal will ever be repeated. Only a refusal to speak will jeopardize your entrance into the Circle, not what you say. You have already won. “The ceremony continues with your reception afterward: for one hour the other members of my Circle may question you as they wish. You will always reply with the truth; they will neither criticize nor condemn. They are not permitted to repeat your words at any time or place. If anyone ever reveals what he or she learns, he or she will be rejected from the Circle. During the following hour you can question the other immortals about themselves. Likewise they are obliged to tell the truth and you must never disclose what they say.” It’s the only chance you’ll ever have, I added to myself. San looked expectant. Wrenn hesitated. He suffered in the intense silence, and so began, “My name is Wrenn Culmish. I’m…I am from Summerday bastide town. Insects killed my mother when I was an infant and my father brought me up. He was a fyrd soldier given land for his service, and he taught me to fence…I surpassed him in skill when I was fifteen…But he proudly organized bouts with the other townsmen. I learned from them and soon I always won. So I had a faint dream of trying for the Circle. “The year after, a soldier turned highwayman picked a duel with my father, who knew his identity. The robber waited on the road for him on the way back from the pub. My father did not return. I searched for him-I never stopped-but three days later the river washed his damaged and dirty body onto the sandy bank right in front of the governor’s house. It was so badly beaten that we could not tell how he died. “I borrowed some rich clothes to disguise myself and I went looking for the highwayman. I rode up and down the Lowespass Road until he held me up. I disarmed the swine in a minute and he knelt, begging for mercy. Before I handed him over to the magistrate-he was hanged-I…I cut him…I took him apart. Until he told what he had done to my poor father. “The first night he buried the body in the woods outside town. He could only scrape a shallow hole because tree roots blocked the soil. The following day he fretted that a passerby might find the grave and unearth his crime. So the second night, in raw weather, he dug it up, carried the body to the Miroir moor and buried it in a deep hole. But then the idea tormented him that the moorland peat would preserve it forever and the disturbed grass would reveal the grave. So the following night he dug it up again. He threw it into the river from the top of a rocky outcrop. The river’s flow brought the broken remains straight to Governor Merganser’s door…I am sorry for what I did to the highwayman…” San made no comment, so Wrenn continued. “Anyway…when I knew that I was alone, I decided to travel south. If I had stayed in Summerday I would still be there now, gradually forgetting everything I dreamed of. I went to Tanager and joined the ranks of the Select Fyrd. I helped clear Insects from Rachiswater and the land around the River Oscen. I conducted myself well, I’m proud to say, and when Skua was killed I was made division captain. Then I saw the future stretching out, always the same. I was thwarted. I sparred with all-comers. I gave the gentry scratches but they came back wanting more, unable to believe they had lost to a smallholder’s son. In the end I beat them all. Well, yes, I resent them…But that doesn’t matter now, does it? I’ve done something they could never do. “My dreams of the Circle returned. Thank god, my skill rather than my background is what matters to the Castle, I reckoned; there’s a way out of this circus. For five years solid I spent all my off-duty time training. I was full of doubt and hope. I thought I was a dupe and a wretch to consider fighting the Swordsman. I nursed the idea for years and did nothing about it, then one night on a mad impulse I sent a letter to him. He chose to fight using rapier and dagger, which is my forte…Um…” Wrenn’s speech filled the hall and it seemed to him that his voice droned on. “I am twenty-five years old,” he whispered, looking at the backs of his hands. He stuttered and fell quiet. He realized that in a few minutes he would be twenty-five forever and their appearance would never change. “Answer my questions,” said the Emperor. “Have you ever fought Insects alone?” “Yes, my lord. I’ve killed Insects one at a time in the Rachiswater amphitheater and hunted a couple found lurking by the town.” “Have you ever felt fear?” Wrenn hesitated, wondering what the best answer was. I knew that doubt well; in my initiation I had to confess all kinds of crimes to the whole Circle. I saw from his panicked expression that we seemed more forbidding and the Throne Room door looked tempting. I thought he was going to make a dash for it. “Yes…” he said eventually. “I have never been as frightened as I am right now. But I master my fear.” San asked, “Do you have a partner to bring into the Circle?” Wrenn shook his head. He tried to smooth over his exhaustion with confidence but it could still be seen like the shape of wings under velvet. “I’ve made no time in my life for girlfriends.” There is no way you can lie with the Emperor’s gaze on you; it’s impossible to hide anything. Wrenn squirmed uncertainly and stared at the floor. “You want me to tell? I spent my nights in the brothels instead. Well, it’s easier. I’ve been planning this Challenge for years; I couldn’t afford the time to have relationships.” We all privately remembered how terrible it is to speak alone in that vast space and felt sympathetic. I had witnessed the ceremony as an Eszai three times before, firstly when Tern joined at my wedding, and most recently when Ata Dei became Mist. I glanced at Mist; she looked shifty, probably recalling how during her initiation she tried to lie but instead found herself confessing that she murdered her husband for his place in the Circle. San stated, “You swear to serve me, in my service to the Fourlands, in god’s name, for as long as I give you life.” “I swear,” said Wrenn, forcefully. The Emperor raised his right hand, bony fingers and prominent joints. “Come forward.” Wrenn climbed the dais steps, wondering at the great transformation about to take place. I could practically hear him thinking: The Emperor extended his hand to Wrenn. Wrenn grasped and pressed his lips to it for a second. The Circle took him in. Wrenn looked up finally to the Emperor’s eyes. San announced, “Now you are the Swordsman. Your name is Serein.” A smile broke slowly over Serein’s face. He dropped to his knees at San’s feet, in silence. Then as if he could not bear such close proximity to the Emperor and aware that the rite was over, Serein quietly backed down from the dais, turned and passed the benches. We all stood as he passed. Lightning and Rayne glanced at each other; they had felt the ripple in the Circle as San made the exchange: one out, one in. After the transfer they’d feel Wrenn’s presence as slightly different from Gio’s, like a new person joining an inhabited room. Serein walked down the aisle, seeming to diminish in size, and left the Throne Room by himself. Lightning would join him outside; he made it his responsibility to greet new immortals and give them some much-needed advice. One by one we bowed to the Emperor, who was always last to leave the court, and followed Serein. As I passed through the door I grabbed two pocketfuls of confetti and glitter, swept up my hands and threw it over our heads. A babble of a hundred conversations hung in the air of the Great Hall. I wanted to climb up to my rafter where I customarily sit, legs dangling, to watch the party. But I couldn’t do that with my arm around Tern. I led her through a dozen conversations. “Is he here yet? I want to meet the boy. I’ve questions to ask him…” “He’s twenty-five, bless. How rare it is to be so adept so young.” “Try the smoked venison, it’s excellent.” “Eleonora? Busy revitalizing the kingdom. She’s good, by god, I only hear praise.” “But the court’s full of scandal. What she does with chambermaids, I-” “‘For an Eszai everything is easy.’ Ha! How can they think that?” “Look! There’s Comet. He’s back! The Emperor was seated at the high table on a raised stage. He did not touch the feast before him. Tern swayed her skirt a little to the music-a young lad slammed away at the piano, lissome women in jasper red played fiddle reels. Confetti on the carpet, candelabra; people leaned on the oak paneling, kissed under the arches. Frost was building a cantilevered bridge out of forks and salt cellars. Rayne and Hayl played chess with marzipan pieces on an enormous pink and yellow cake shaped like a chess board. What platters and plates and bowls of food! There were sugared almonds, edible stars, spiced wine, iced wine, spring water, wheat beer and cream liqueur. There were flambéed swordfish, sliced lengthways on silver trenchers. There were packets of Cobalt cigarillos on the table for those who wanted them. Boar pies-speciality of Cathee, charcoal-roast mushrooms, fat onions, saffron rice from Litanee, steak that juices up your mouth. There was peppered asparagus and kale from the Fescue fields; squash, tomatoes, baked potatoes cracked and oozing butter, Shivel cheeses like crumbly drums with fat blue veins. There was fruit: glazed, glacé, covered in cream. There were warm loaves, soft inside and smelling sensual, lobster claws pickled from the Peregrine coast, poached pike from the river. Northern exotics like pinnacle rabbits spirited in from Carniss, eels from Brandoch, Awndyn salmon and sundry seafood. East into Awia, the spices were wilder-fenugreek and turmeric dhal, moist cake with nutmeg and cinnamon sultanas. The best coffee from Micawater, prime grapes plump with juice, olives like slick jewels, floury chorizo sausages in net bags, artichokes you had to be Awian to understand, pizza, prosciutto, ciabatta and more olives. Tanager crispy duck, all kinds of little birds, larks in pastry, magglepies, dumstruks and starlings caught on lime and cooked on the branch because Awians consider falconry insulting. There were peacocks couchant looking haughty with their skin and fantails replaced. There were crackling hogs with grafted wings and bemused expressions. Bustards were stuffed with turkeys stuffed with pheasant stuffed with partridge stuffed with quails stuffed with chestnut-cutting into it revealed layers of meat like tree rings and was more than I can face. A swan glided up the high table, by gingerbread with silver metallic icing that the Emperor quite ignored. Eat, eat, eat. Immortality in gluttony. Watch out for checkmate on the marzipan cake! Lightning noticed us and remarked to Serein, who was gorging on sliced beef and fruit sauce in a wood bowl. His chest was broad and his arms well-defined muscle. He held himself tensely, trying not to dissipate under the tide of strange things, expressive people. Serein’s regime of training had not prepared him for the duel’s aftermath-he was the center of attention but he still felt alone. If he wished himself back in Summerday now, he would feel much worse when he bore the responsibility of command on the battlefield. Aside from his skill in archery Lightning has cultivated many social talents. It was said of him that if he was in the building no woman would ever have to open a door. He was dapper in black tie and a raised-and-slashed celadon silk shirt, his wings sticking out the back. Some people say that wings have become smaller over millennia because they can’t be used and as Awians, especially non-aristocratic ones, intermarry with humans. Whatever the truth, Lightning’s wings were distinctly larger than Wrenn’s. “Serein Wrenn,” Lightning said, “may I introduce you to our Messenger and Lady Tern? Comet can fly; I think that’s because he takes things too lightly. He will carry your letters anywhere in the Fourlands, and will help if you need translations, so don’t hesitate to ask.” The frontier boy bowed, steering back his sword hanger with his left hand and staring at me. I tolerated the usual scrutiny. People don’t notice the subtleties straight away but they find my leggy proportions jarring. I shook his hand. “I’m impressed-nobody can be taught to fight like that.” “Comet Jant Shira. Lady Tern. It’s an honor to meet you,” he said, looking as if he meant every word of it. His eyes were so wide I could see all the whites around the blue irises. He was wired on anxiety. He could not put a foot outside the narrow sphere of etiquette for fear that he would say or do something dreadful and be rejected from his hard-won place in the Circle, without ever knowing why. His fear was unfounded because only another Challenger could replace him, but he was almost frozen by the manners he imposed on himself. A servant passed by, carrying a salver of champagne flutes. I took the whole tray from her, balanced it on one hand. I swept it low in front of Serein. “Take a drink.” He declined, uncomfortably. “Go on,” said Tern. “I don’t drink,” he said, reddening. “No, really? Tonight of all nights!” I pushed the tray toward him. “One glass of champers to celebrate?” “Sorry, no, Shira-I’m not used to it. If I took a drink now, I could never rise at six to practice.” After a duel like that, who would anyway? “Sleep till midday,” I said. “Your first day as an Eszai. That’s what I did. I sprayed champagne everywhere; I love being soaked to the skin in it.” Lightning was enjoying this. “The Swordsman doesn’t drink alcohol, so leave him alone.” “Shira, if I slip up and lose my edge a Challenger will get the better of me.” Every time he said “Shira” I bit my teeth together and they were starting to hurt. I said, “Call me Jant. The name Shira really signifies I belong in the lower caste among the Rhydanne. It means ‘Born out of wedlock’-I can’t translate it better than that.” Well actually I can, because it means “bastard,” but I’m not putting ideas in his head. Wrenn had caused offense already and he was appalled. His face moved awkwardly; he was overaware of its every feature. “I’m sorry.” “Worry not.” I waved a hand. I make my body language expressive to compensate for the difficulty most people have in reading my cat eyes. Wrenn shuffled his feet as if they took up too much space on the carpet. I wanted to tell him, I understand how daunting this is, but lighten up, you won’t be out on the street tomorrow. You’ll still be here, immortal, staring at the backs of your hands like a fool. He was frantically searching for something to say. Every word sounded loud and momentous to him; he picked them carefully, knowing they would be permanently impressed on his memory. I remember when I was in his position, in my reception when I was surrounded by Eszai-I had heard of every single one before through tales or monuments to their work. They were all here, in one place, and they talked to each other! I had been a novelty to them. I tried to get to know them all in one night, but the Eszai I most wanted to speak to was the Comet I had displaced. I practically pinned Rayne against a column and gabbled to her excitedly about chemistry and the latest research into Insect behavior. I told her far too much about my past, without realizing she understood, and that in describing the slums of Hacilith I had reminded her too much of hers. I could offer Wrenn advice and he might bring something new and interesting to the Castle. I began to understand why Lightning took newcomers rapidly under his wing. I said, “Serein is your stage name; you’ll be grateful for it. You can make Serein whoever you want and Wrenn, your real self, will be safe.” Serein glanced across the hall and suddenly gaped at a gossipy cluster of extremely beautiful girls. They saw him watching and wafted their plumed fans, parading themselves. They were mortals-Zascai-only fleeting names; they stood on the outside smiling, craving to be chosen and drawn in. Tern eyed them stonily. “That’s just the beginning. Next time, when word gets around, there’ll be crowds.” “Look,” said Lightning urgently. “Be careful of those ladies. You need to learn how to discourage them.” “Have fun,” I said vaguely. He could choose a different gold digger every night; no need for whores. Tern snorted. “Seduction’s their job, Wrenn,” she warned. “They’ve studied it. If you give them an opportunity they’ll eat you alive. They will try anything to marry into the Circle.” “They only want immortality,” Lightning added. “Don’t wed the first one you meet just because she shows interest in you. You should wait for one who loves you for yourself.” The eldest girl was about twenty and she had a driven look that no makeup could mask. She was hungry for the chance to peel away from her rivals and address Wrenn alone; a social climber eager to find footholds in the flaws of his character. An expert seductress, Eszai-good, if there had been a place in the Circle for seduction. She had started young and become an expert in her teens. Well, that kind of dedication was necessary to win the ultimate prize. Tern wagged her finger at the Swordsman. “For god’s sake don’t tell them anything. You’ll be reading it in the gossip columns for the next six months.” She smiled and I pulled her closer. She instinctively knows how to flirt with anyone. The problem with having a trophy wife is that you have to keep rewinning the trophy. “There is Tornado,” Lightning said. “Wrenn, come and let me introduce you to the Circle’s Strongman.” Wrenn found himself shepherded expertly between the dancers, who turned to glimpse him at every step, so he was always the center of a space surrounded with people, all smiles and for the most part slightly taller than him. “That golden boy is going to get his orange juice spiked if he’s not careful,” I muttered. Tern giggled and curtsied. “May I have this dance?” We danced. Her hand draped on my whipcord upper arm. My hand clasped below her shoulder blade on the silk, basquewired like a lampshade. My lace shirt cuffs hid my fingerless gloves. She followed my steps in quick time like a snappy reflection. We had practiced this; we felt good. I felt great, only Tern can keep up with me when I go so swiftly. And underneath all her clothes she’s naked. She was giddy already from the room spinning about us. All those faces. Our bodies together, shoulders apart; my hips rubbed just above her waist. “I’ll lead, you can spin.” “Easy!” Her skirt twirled; she was laughing. The music ended; Tern leaned forward, hands on knees, little cleavage in danger of escaping. “Oh, Jant,” she said breathlessly in her carnal voice. I rubbed my cheek on her cheek and kissed her eyelids. I kissed her lips, and deeply her mouth. We were still snogging when Mist Ata appeared and nodded curtly. She carried a candle in a holder and her forehead was creased with worry. “Jant, come with me.” “Later, Mist,” I murmured. “This can’t wait any longer.” I disentangled myself from Tern and placed a finger on her nose. “Soon,” I promised. “Soon,” she repeated, as if from a distance. I followed the Sailor. “You were brave to ask San for leave,” she said. “Mind you, I could tell you needed a holiday.” “I was improving my flying. And besides, no one else ever goes to Darkling so I bring back news for the Emperor.” “Yeah, right. Lucky, lucky; I haven’t had any leave for five hundred years.” At the quiet end of the hall Lightning waited by the camera obscura, leaning against the door with his big arms folded. Mist beckoned us inside. “Oh, so you found a hiding place to avoid Wrenn’s questions?” I said. Mist replied, “Jant, you don’t even know the The camera obscura was a tiny, black-painted room with a pinhole in the door that shone a circular image of the hall onto the far wall. The entire party was pictured inverted there-minutely detailed figures crossing the lit screen. I examined it. There was the tiny piano and musicians upside down. Miniature people waltzed past a section of the long trestle table. A blurred servant trudged behind them with a leather blackjack jug. I squinted to see the Emperor below the sun shield in the center. I spotted Tern; she was talking animatedly to someone whose image stepped forward onto the screen. I contorted trying to view them the right way up. It was Tornado, an unmistakable giant of a man. Tern put her hands up to his chest. He bent down; she kissed him lightly on the cheek. His hands embraced her hips, far too closely in my opinion, and together they danced off the edge of the projection. Oh, no. I wanted to run straight to Tern, but Mist blocked the doorway, setting her candle on the floor. Her shadow hid the screen. “Can we get this over with?” I said, annoyed. I craned to see the figures now dancing on Mist’s blouse and face. My wife was out there, chasséing with a man who had enough muscle in one bicep to make three warriors. Lightning said, “At least choose a more comfortable lair for your conspiracies.” Mist said, “Jant, what would you say if a land existed far out in the sea about which the Empire knows nothing?” “I’d say that if you want philosophical debate in a stuffy cupboard you can ask another Eszai. It’s not like me to miss a party. Especially important parties.” Mist delved in her shoulder bag and brought out a thick book with crinkled pages. Her hands were pockmarked from her pre-Castle life as a milkmaid and butcher’s delivery girl on Grass Isle, rowing her skiff every day to deliver cuts of beef to the islanders and cutting remarks to the sailors who wolf-whistled. She gave me the book. “This is the log of the I said, “Where? Three months? No, that’s not possible; nothing’s that far away.” I glanced at Lightning. “You’re being very quiet.” “I’m not going with you, Ata,” he said. “Going where?” I exclaimed. Mist said, “The Emperor requests that you and Lightning sail with me to the Island of Tris.” “No!…Look, slow down, this is a lot to take in. San knows of this island?” “Yes. I returned from my voyage last month. I kept it very confidential though I wanted to sail in triumph into port. I told San everything and he has ordered a second expedition that you two must join.” “But…I don’t believe you. My duty’s here; I have lots of work to do in Wrought. You won’t need a messenger on a caravel; yes, I could be of more use working for you here. I-” “You hate ships, we know. Tough.” “Ships are fine as long as I don’t have to be aboard them.” I caught a glimpse of the projection, on which numerous Eszai by the long table were asking Wrenn questions, but I couldn’t see Tern. I was sure that I was being made the butt of a practical joke. I tried to give the impression that I was amused but was willing to see how far I could push Mist’s invention. “So what’s it like on this island?” Mist handed me the notebook. It began with the coordinates of the Awndyn coastline, the edge of the chart off which she had sailed. Her round feminine handwriting encircled a sketch map: “The Island named Tris by its inhabitants,” I read, and: “The town drawn from the harbor. The natives say ‘Capharnaum,’ this must be the town’s name? Another settlement due south, name unknown. Triangulated height of mountain approx. 3000m.” “Natives?” I said. “You mean the island is populated?” “Aye.” “Who by? Plainslanders?” “Some are human, some are winged people, living together in the town. As far as I could see there is no Insect infestation whatsoever.” The island was shaped roughly like the head of an Insect, being rounded with short, spiny peninsulae. Mist had recorded the inlets and promontories with customary precision. The land rose up a gentle concave slope, poured off a sizable river, and then soared into a massive peak. No details were marked, and the east coast was just a dotted line. “I didn’t sail that far, it’s only an estimate,” she explained. “I was interested in the natives. I couldn’t understand their language; that’s why I need you, Jant. I wrote some of the words down, see?” “Can I study this?” I said enthusiastically. I would soon learn if it was a practical joke or not. “That’s just what I want you to do! If the knowledge alone doesn’t satisfy you, there’s more than enough rum to wash it down with. Their accent gave me quite a shock. I think the corsairs used some of those words, who infested the Moren delta when I was a girl.” I leafed through the logbook. Mist’s entries for each day were brief: “June 5. Distance traveled, 240 kilometers, lat. 29°S long. 129°E. Fresh gales and cloudy, good visibility. Sounding 100m, black sand with small shells. Ate a number of flying fish.” “Flying fish?” “Yes. And I have seen a place where oysters grow on the branches of trees.” I shrugged. Well, why not? “You left “Aye. Frost’s company raised her. I spent last year refitting her for a deep-sea voyage.” Lightning spoke: “There have been explorations before. They found nothing.” “Saker, the ocean is a big place.” “It’s not possible,” I said finally. “I don’t believe it.” “Where the fuck do you think I’ve been for the last six months?” “Keeping your head down and escaping embarrassment!” Mist gave me a candid look, which was a sure sign not to trust her. “I have but recently rejoined the Circle, and this venture will prove my worth to those who would Challenge me or mutiny. This is not just another Grass Isle project seeking Shearwater’s Treasure. I’m serious! There’s nothing for me on the mainland, is there, since I lost Peregrine?” Lightning looked at her mildly without replying. He opened the door a chink because we were all starting to suffocate, and muted music seeped in from the party outside. I lowered my voice. “How did you know which direction to sail?” Mist said, “By chance. Yes. Well, there might be many-” “No, there are not!” Lightning was quietly furious. “God founded the Castle to protect the world. If the Castle doesn’t know about this island then how could we fulfill our purpose? Insects might run rampant over it and we’d be none the wiser.” “It might not fit with your ideology but all the same it’s there.” I thought, maybe the Fourlands isn’t the only land and maybe we’re not the only guardians god left behind. I examined the scale. It was big-four hundred kilometers in circumference. “It isn’t an island like Grass Isle at all, more like a chunk of Darkling out in the ocean. Tell us, what’s in the town?” “I don’t know. I didn’t leave “Convenient.” “I wanted more than anything to put ashore! We had weathered storms with ten-meter-high waves. “What?” “I’m telling you it’s true. People came out in big canoes and surrounded us. I sketched them, there.” I crouched down in the cramped space on the parquet floor by Mist’s feet. The sea was not my element; boats bring on a phobia that I can never rid myself of completely. My fear was reasonable because if I ever tried to swim, the weight of waterlogged feathers would drown me. I also had a sneaking idea that everybody was acting and deeper lies were readily being believed. “I’m not going. I might be the only Eszai who can crack this language but you can choose mortals from the university who have just as good a chance.” “Don’t mistake me; I hardly want you there, Jant. The last thing I need is dead weight and winged liabilities on my ship. If I had my way, I’d be doing this on my own! But San picked you two from the whole Circle to accompany me and we’re obliged to obey. Here’s his written command.” She passed Lightning and me small envelopes with the familiar crimson insignia. “If you want to appeal, go ahead,” she added. “I will,” said Lightning grimly. “I would love to see the result of my investment and your method of operation. I would like to be the first from the Fourlands to trade with Tris, but I am repairing Micawater and I should be there.” “You knew? Damn,” I moaned, beginning to have the feeling that the conspiracy was against me. “Yes, although I wish otherwise. The Lightning was rebuilding Micawater to look exactly the same as it did before the Insects damaged it five years ago. He obsessed about every detail in the restoration of his palace outside the town, believing it an inviolable duty to his family. He wanted to fulfill the trust they had placed in him to conserve the palace: he matched masonry, sourced silks, kept both its wings as symmetrical as the day it was first completed. I thought the fact he was tinkering with it and not helping Tornado and Queen Eleonora clear the remaining Paperlands that the Insects had built in northern Awia showed he had time to spare. Mist addressed him: “You can’t sulk for a whole generation. Do you want your world view to become obsolete and eccentric like the portraits that hang in your house? Jant, listen to this: Lightning’s family portraits have been repainted many times, about every two hundred years once they start to fade. The artists try to be accurate but scarcely perceptible changes creep in accidentally, flattering trends to the ideal of the era. Next time, those alterations are copied along with the rest and new ones are made. His portraits are as idealized as his memories. Saker, how can you tell what’s real and what isn’t when you rely on the past? If you don’t want to know of new discoveries, how long will you last as an Eszai? Suppose the island has better bows than Awia? A better type of wood?” “Without Insects to inspire them, I doubt it. Let them come with their Challenges.” The camera obscura was growing even stuffier and I was gasping for air. I nudged the door wide, looking for my chance to escape. Serein Wrenn caught sight of us and strolled over with a limber gait. I wondered what he thought, seeing three Eszai in an alcove. When everything else at his party was so perfect, we stood out as a great anomaly. “What are you talking about?” “We beg your pardon,” said Lightning. “This is a private discussion.” Wrenn bowed and was about to leave us to it, but Mist sized him up. “No, wait…What time is it? We have to tell the truth for an hour.” I could virtually hear her mind calculating. She took in his shirt buttoned down the left side showing his strong torso off to the best advantage, his small round stand-up collar and sharp-styled hair, the worn cherry-red leather thigh boots with the tops folded over his knees. Out came her travel-worn notebook again. “You need experience. You’ll find this interesting,” she said, and set her plans on him like wolves. The others blocked my view of the party, so I turned again to the pinhole image. The beam angled by the half-open door illuminated the wall next to me, unfocused and with washed-out contrast. Fuzzy figures rippled over the uneven surface, so small that their activities looked quaint but nonetheless unsettling. I checked them one by one: Gayle exchanging a few words with the Emperor, Frost crammed into a ball gown and wearing steel-toed boots. I couldn’t see Tern. Where was she? Why wouldn’t Mist let me out? I tried to edge away from the stifling corner but Mist stood firm, talking hotly into my face, toes pressing against my toes, only the logbook between me and her ample breasts. Tern’s figure must be in my shadow, but though I inched forward I couldn’t see her waltzing on the wall. The perfume on Mist’s long white hair tickled my sinuses; there was also the pong of Wrenn’s gravy breath. His shoulder was up against mine and the bright love of adventure in his eyes would enthuse the entire fyrd. It was even worse to think I would be on the ship with him. “…so the Empire must explore Tris,” Mist concluded eventually. Lightning glared; he rightly thought that we were making unnecessary problems for ourselves. “Are you worried?” she asked Wrenn. “Nothing worries me,” he said. “Nothing!” I said. “Poor lad, there’s quite a lot of it out there.” He stared at me. “I haven’t even unpacked my rucksack. I’m ready to go.” “Aye, thought so. Gentlemen, you will be discreet and keep this a secret. You must go out into the party with knowledge that no one else in the whole world has. Smile; you’ll find it hard. I will see you at Awndyn by the end of the week; the Lightning beckoned a butler and said, “Go down to the cellars and bring me a bottle of Micawater wine. The oldest you can find.” The party sashayed and shone around me. I walked through it, dead to the heart and scarcely seeing Tern in a clumsy two-step with the Strongman. I ran out to the balcony and jumped to the balustrade, threw myself off. Beating hard and yelling with fury I reached eighty k.p.h. between two spires, just brushing stone with my wingtips. I zigzagged close to tightly packed walls near-missing by a centimeter on every familiar turn. I exploded out of the fog, still climbing to the clear starry sky. The tallest towers poked though the mist’s cotton blanket like black sea stacks; lights flickered deep among them. I reached the top of my trajectory, for a second hung there. Somersaulted. Fell, headfirst, masonry soaring past, the mist’s surface undulating. I splashed through it, silently. I flew circuits of the Castle until I slowed down and my anger wore off, turning into hopelessness. I landed on the sill of the Northwest Tower, bounded down into my room, sprang onto the four-poster bed and ripped its curtains together. In its gloomy, ivy-entwined brocade cave I sat and thought. Drugs, that’s what I need. Drugs. |
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