Labyrinth Gate

by Kate Elliott

Halting at last, her fist sore, Chryse grabbed a fold of skirts into her hand and clenched it tight, as if its thick texture gave her strength. “This isn’t possible, Sanjay.”

  As if a hint of fear in her tone had penetrated his anger, he turned and held out his hands to her. She let go of her skirts and their overnight bag and gripped his hands.

  “Maybe it’s not possible,” he replied, “but we’re here.”

  She took in a deep breath, let it out, released his hands. “And we’re together.” She picked up the bag. “I guess there’s no choice but forward now.”

  “Is there ever?” he murmured. He got a good grip on the hamper with one hand. “I suggest the alley over the riot.” They looked at each other, and walked together out of the room and up the alley.

  It gave out onto a wider street, snow swept off the cobbled surface by the passage of small groups of people hurrying all in one direction, toward the swelling noise of agitation. A wagon drawn by two oxen passed, carving its path through the scattered traffic. Faces fled by them, many commonplace in their humanity, others altered but still strangely familiar. Men in overcoats and top hats made their way down the street, women in long skirts, shoulders draped with shawls. Glass windows shot warped glimpses of lamplight reflecting back on the streets, unshadowing the surfaces of shop signs: Haberman’s Lock and Key Emporium; Master Bitterbrew Hearth Spells and Gates Tellings; Mistress Penty’s Bookshop and Seeing Eye; Meriwisp & Daughter Tobacconist. A child stood huddled against a lamppost, barefoot, clothes in tatters, a little cap forlornly askew on a wealth of dark hair that framed a pointed face. Truly pointed—ending in a whisker-tipped snout.

  Sanjay and Chryse were still staring when the flow of traffic, like the tide’s reflex, suddenly reversed and began to pour back in the other direction. They were pressed back against a shop window as the flood increased. Inchoate shouts and warnings swept through the press:

  “Troops out.”

  “Damn the Regent for her bloody ways.”

  “Old Devina’s gang broke in at the goldsmith’s—”

  A trio rushed past bearing a tattered cloth sign that folded itself just as they came through enough light to illuminate the letters: Universal Suffrage. More shouts and a sudden explosion from away down the street.

  “To the Daughter with the damn landlords and the House of Nobles with ’em!” shouted a man as he ran.

  “Votes for all!” cried a woman, hidden in the crowd. “Free and equal!”

  Closer, incongruous by its nearness and its complete opposition to the rising hysteria and flight, came laughter, light and slightly uncontrolled. An instant later a man collided with Sanjay.

  “Forgive me, sir!”

  Torn from their hypnotic appraisal of the street, both Sanjay and Chryse turned to stare at a well-dressed gentleman. He doffed his hat. “Monsieur, I am clumsy. Please, again, forgive me.” His eyes strayed to Chryse. “Madame!” he said appreciatively, and bowed.

  “Bloody hell, Julian, can’t you hold your liquor?” A second, slighter gentleman collided with the first, stumbled, and straightened to reveal a woman rather than a man. She was dressed in the same dark coat and trousers, waistcoat and white shirt and cravat set off against the darker colors. Several muffled reports sounded from farther up the street, punctuated by a scream and the shattering of glass. “Come on,” she said, sounding abruptly more sober. Her gaze took in Sanjay’s dark coat and trousers and Chryse’s rich gown. “Slummers like us?” she asked good-naturedly. “Troops are coming. They’ve got quite a lather up from the riot in the square—there’ll be a few heads broken tonight.”

  The man called Julian, with a smooth maneuver unhampered by the obvious smell of spirits, took Chryse’s arm and steered her along the walkway. “Really, Kate,” he said over his shoulder, “how are we to remove ourselves from this charming neighborhood? I fear that I am not as well acquainted as you are with such haunts and am therefore utterly lost.”

  “Like bloody hell you are.” Kate laughed again as the crush of the traffic grew worse and cast an eye, as obviously appreciative as Julian’s, on Sanjay. “You must have connections with the East Seas Trading Company. Turn down this alley, Julian.”

  Chryse looked once at Sanjay; by unspoken consent they let themselves be led through a maze of small streets until at last their companions came to a stop by a carriage in a deserted square.

  At their approach, the figure walking the horses pulled the animals to a halt and bowed briefly. “My lord. Miss Cathcart.” He moved to open the door into the carriage. “An uneventful trip, may I hope?”

  “You may hope, Abbott,” said Julian. “But as usual Miss Cathcart does not live by such uneventful rules. Madame.” He turned to face Chryse. “If you will allow me to hand you and your companion into the carriage, I would be honored to deliver you to anywhere in the city.”

  Chryse and Sanjay looked at each other.

  “We thank you for the trouble—” began Sanjay.

  “No trouble at all,” interposed Julian smoothly.

  “—but unfortunately,” said Chryse, with a small lift to her hand that she hoped would signal Sanjay to silence, “not only do we not know where we are, but we shouldn’t even be here.”

  There was a short silence. Julian and Kate regarded each other. Sanjay coughed slightly. The groom Abbott made himself busy with the horses.

  “That didn’t come out quite as I meant it to, did it,” said Chryse.

  Kate began to laugh. “Are you runaways or refugees?” he asked. “I smell an adventure here.”

  “Kate,” cried Julian as if in despair, but he surveyed Chryse and Sanjay with a new light in his eyes. “Are you in trouble?” he asked. “Perhaps we can assist you.”

  “We can’t ask you to go to so much trouble for us,” said Sanjay quickly. He moved to put an arm around Chryse, realizing that she was beginning to shiver.

  “I think Julian has put our case incorrectly,” said Kate. We’re not saints. We’re just bored.”

  “No, Kate. Not just bored. Excruciatingly, numbingly bored. Indeed, your troubles would undoubtedly provide us with a much-needed diversion. Why else would you have found us in the least savory area of town? I fear that we had simply run out of anything else to do.”

  “Now, Julian, that isn’t quite true. I did want to visit Master Cardspinner, but how was I to know that he’d left the city after reading the coming riot?”

  “In any case,” finished Julian, “it will be warmer at Vole House. Permit me to introduce myself.” He bowed slightly. “Julian Haldane, Lord Vole. This is Miss Sophia Cathcart.”

  “Sanjay Mukerji.” Sanjay put out his hand. After the barest hesitation, Lord Vole shook it, followed by Miss Cathcart, who was still smiling.

  “I’m Chryse Lissagaray,” said Chryse, repeating this ritual.

  Lord Vole handed her up into the carriage, and the rest followed after.

  It was a quiet ride. Chryse attempted an explanation. Julian assured her that morning would be soon enough. The carriage clattered over the streets, the steady rhythm of the horses blending with a second set as they met up with another carriage, then a third as the thoroughfare grew wider and better lit.

  That they had reached the wealthier districts was apparent by the many fine carriages and broad, clean, and well-lit house entrances. At last the carriage halted in a quiet square and they walked up the steps of a large, well-proportioned house, set in a line of others like it.

  The door opened before them as if by magic.

  “My lord. Miss Cathcart.” The individual responsible for this sleight of hand was evidently the butler. His eyes registered Chryse and Sanjay, but the rest of his face showed no reaction whatsoever.

  As they came into the grand entrance hall, a rustling sounded from above. An apparition descended the gilt staircase. In one hand she held a lamp; the other held on to the curved railing.

  “She is lovely, Julian,” said this figure, resolving into an aged lady of small stature and f
ormidable presence. “And he—well, were I but forty years younger—” She halted at the second-to-bottom step and regarded them with an aristocrat’s hauteur, dignified by an ornate purple dressing gown that could easily, to Chryse’s eye, have passed for a ball gown. “But I am surprised that you now bring your trifling pleasures openly to your respectable home. Are there not other places for this sort of activity?”

  “You mistake the matter, Aunt Laetitia,” said Julian without any sign of deference to her sharp tone. “Madame et Monsieur are foreigners, lost and robbed. Miss Cathcart and I saved them from unfortunate circumstances and now I offer them the hospitality of Vole House.”

  “Hmph,” stated Aunt Laetitia categorically. “You forget that I am your sainted grandmother’s sister, not some married-in poor relation. If your mother and father were still alive—

  “Alas,” said Julian, “but they are not.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Sanjay automatically.

  Julian bowed in acknowledgement. In the light of his aunt’s lamp, Chryse could see a slight smile on his face and she realized that he was enjoying himself. Miss Cathcart was silent. “I thank you for your concern,” he said, “but it isn’t necessary. My mother died some years ago. I believe she expired of exhaustion after delivering her twelfth child. And my father—died of a fever.”

  “He died of drink,” said Aunt Laetitia.

  “How uncharitable of you to say so, Aunt.”

  She made a sound indicating her disdain. “How my niece married herself to such a wastrel neither your sainted grandmother nor I could ever understand. And I must say that you are following well in his footsteps. Though I daresay your Miss Cathcart outdoes you in that department.” She cast a disparaging look at Kate, who simply offered her an elaborate bow in response.

  “Kate is not my Miss Cathcart,” said Julian. “And I must protest that her capacity for drink certainly does not exceed mine.”

  “Bloody hell it don’t,” muttered Kate.

  “And what sort of language is this, young woman? In my day a woman knew her place. And it was certainly not drinking to all hours of the night in this rakish and dissipated manner.”

  Chryse, unable to help herself, laughed. “Where was her place?” she asked. “Ma’am.”

  “Between the sheets, I expect,” muttered Aunt Laetitia’s great-nephew ungraciously.

  “You are drunk, Julian,” Aunt Laetitia said without heat. She regarded Chryse with a penetrating but distinctly non-hostile eye. “A young woman of good birth and manners was taught to manage her estates and to hunt. These days, of course, such accomplishments as embroidery, sketching, and trivial conversation are considered sufficient. It is no wonder that Miss Cathcart has taken to drink.”

  “Fortunately,” said Chryse, beginning to like Aunt Laetitia quite well, “I’m not good at sketching, but my husband is.”

  “Ah,” said Aunt Laetitia, lifting her lamp a trifle higher to examine the couple more closely. “You are married. Julian!” This in a voice long accustomed to command. “Introduce me. And then call Mistress Housekeeper and have her show them to the Gold Suite. We can discuss their predicament in the morning, when we are rested and you and Miss Cathcart are sober.”

  “Yes, Aunt,” said Julian meekly.

  Chapter 3:

  The Empress Of Bounty

  SHE DREAMED OF MUSIC. She often did, and woke pensive at having lost it or laughing at its awfulness. But here she dreamt of music as she never had before—a purity and simplicity of line that was so close to the truth she felt she should be seeking that she ached.

  And woke pressing herself close to her husband in an unfamiliar bed in a strange room.

  “Sanjay?” she said, sitting up startled and a little frightened before she remembered with a kind of vague unclarity the events of the night before. “Where are we?”

  Sanjay stirred and pulled her back down against him in a movement made smooth by much practice. “In bed on our honeymoon.”

  “This is not our hotel.”

  “No,” he agreed. He smiled, caressing her. “Although that didn’t seem to bother you last night.”

  She kissed him, lingering, finally disengaged herself. “I was too shocked to protest last night. I needed some kind of reassurance.” She paused. “I had the strangest dream,” she continued. “And beautiful.”

  Now he sat up. “So did I. I was on an exploratory expedition of some kind and we came on a—not quite a ruin—it was a forest with a city so perfectly intertwined with it that—I almost hate remembering it.”

  “As if,” she said slowly, “all those classes you took in archaeology and ecology and art and culture fit together perfectly.”

  “Yes.” He regarded her for a moment. “How did you know?”

  “Because I had the same dream, I think—except of music—and it had a forest in it, too. Sanjay, where are we?”

  The soft light of morning had penetrated the curtains, scattering beams across the bed. The room was furnished as if from an antique store, but the pieces had a look of well-polished newness about them. Above the fireplace hung a painting, a rather studied, sentimental pose of a mother and child, each with a halo. A fire burned in the hearth, but it was mostly coals, and dying.

  Chryse tested the floor with a foot and found rug. On a beautifully carved chair next to the bed lay draped a fine woven dressing gown. She slipped it on.

  “It’s cold,” she said, padding across the wood floor to the window. She leaned forward to look out. “This is not our hotel,” she repeated at last. “If I had to make a guess, based on these rooftops, and what I can see of the streets, and the carriages, I’d say a century or more ago. Well?” She turned to regard Sanjay a little belligerently, as if daring him to come up with some explanation.

  He was now sitting up, examining first the dressing gown of white lace and frills that lay on the chair on his side of the bed, then the dressing table beyond. “Whatever do they use all those drawers for?” he said to no one. He turned to look at his wife. “I don’t know, sweetheart. And I’m not going to make a guess until I’ve got more evidence.”

  “Said just like your father,” said Chryse, but with humor. “I know we’re not dreaming, but it’s impossible—isn’t it? Last night I thought we would wake up and discover that your sister had played an elaborate practical joke on us. I think that’s the only reason I was able to act with any degree of outward rationality. My other choice was catatonia.”

  “An unusual state for you.”

  She made a face at him.

  “I do know one thing, though,” he added.

  “Which is?”

  He lifted up the lace dressing gown. “You put the wrong one on.”

  They both began to laugh, cut off when a knock sounded on the door. Sanjay sat back under the covers. The door opened silently and a girl’s face appeared.

  “Begging pardon, Madame—Oh!” She looked surprised. “And Monsieur. I brought your chocolate. An’ Betty’s here to stoke the fire up.”

  Sanjay grabbed the bed curtains and quickly pulled them shut.

  “Please come in,” said Chryse, feeling at a loss. The first girl entered bearing a tray with cups and two steaming pitchers. A second girl, younger and just as neatly dressed, followed and went directly to the fire after offering a brief curtsey to Chryse.

  “Shall I pour for you and Monsieur, Madame?” asked the first girl.

  “Oh, ah, thank you,” replied Chryse. She walked over to the door to her dressing room, half recalled from the night before. Opening it, she found a huge space. Her gown had been hung up, and her suitcase’s contents unpacked and hung up as well. In the vast space, the few outfits looked meagre. Sanjay’s clothes were, she presumed, beyond the door on the other side of the bedroom.

  “If you’re wishing to dress, Madame,” said the first girl tentatively, “I can help you, or Lady Trent’s dresser, Miss Botherwell, can be called. She’s ever so good. Oh, and Lord Vole’s valet for Monsieur.”

/>   Chryse turned around rather quickly. “No, thank you. I think we can manage for ourselves, if—all—” She faltered. “Thank you.”

  The girl curtsied, a slight smile on her face as she glanced once quickly at the closed bed curtains, and she hurried the other maid out in front of her.

  “Are they gone?” asked Sanjay from behind the drapes as the door clicked to.

  “Coward,” said Chryse.

  The curtains opened slowly. “Perhaps I’ve just woken up in one of my previous lives, as a rajah.” He offered Chryse the elegant lace dressing gown in exchange for the one she was wearing. “Imagine needing someone to help you dress.”

  “I had to have help getting into my wedding dress. Good lord, this is almost obscene, with all this lace. I’m afraid to sit down.” She did so anyway, next to the tray of hot chocolate. “Do you want a cup? It’s very good. Do you know, somehow I don’t suppose they have showers here. But they’ve left us a pitcher of hot water and some towels, and there’s a basin over there. Oh well. I’m just glad I only drank one glass of champagne last night.”

  “Why?” Sanjay had gotten up and was now examining the contents of his dressing room.

  “What are those hallucinations you get when you drink too much? Delirium something?” She gave a slight laugh and poured herself another cup of cocoa. “Worse, imagine having to face this with a massive hangover.”

  “Chryse,” said Sanjay rather plaintively from the closet, “do you think I can wear my jeans?” There was a brief silence, broken by his voice coming from farther away. “There’s a whole second bedroom in here.”

  “Aunt Laetitia did call it the Gold Suite, didn’t she? Maybe we’re supposed to sleep in separate beds. And I don’t see what choice you have but to wear your jeans.” He wandered back in, clothes in hand, looking bemused. “What I don’t understand,” she continued, “is if we went back in time why are there people who don’t look human, like that old woman—”

  “She might have been in an industrial accident. Scar tissue.”

  “But I saw other people like her, even a child. And if we went somewhere else entirely, why does everyone speak English?”