So Kytanquil lived in the still and depthless world between animal consciousness and plant consciousness, an aesthete of nature with a human base, yet beholden to the slow kingdom of botany. And in the end, as with everyone, her body was returned to the soil.
TALES FROM THE SPIRED INN
GRANNY
Translator’s note: Because of the difficulty outsiders have understanding reveller speech and writing I have translated this story, the Third Tale From The Spired Inn, from the original bio-rec audio files. The story was told to me during the annual Evening of Cemetery Culture, held on Vert Day in this, the final year of Kray.
It is my sincere hope that something of reveller mores can here be conveyed to you, the reader. Revellers of course are by their nature unpredictable, even chaotic. The tribes of the Cemetery on the other hand stand out as being the most stable social group in all Kray. To many this is an incomprehensible contradiction. But my tale shows how their fierce pride – their narcissistic desire to shape the world in their own image – creates from a filthy rabble the sort of social cohesion that our rulers in the Citadel only dream of.
Such cohesion brings life, long life, but it also deals out death, because it is so uncompromising. There is no contradiction here, rather the reverse.
Qmeela of the Spired Inn.
~
In a glade of tombstones and yews three people stand. One is Dieffery, of medium height and build, noticeable because of the yellow tattoos on her scalp; opposite her Kyne, tall, imposing, wearing black clothes to match her dark expression. Third is the grandmother reveller, wearing gown and slippers and a brimmed rain-hat.
Drizzle drifts down as granny coughs to clear the phlegm from her throat, spits, swallows a pastille, then speaks. ‘This is a duel to the death. I accept no alternatives.’ Here, she glances at Dieffery, and the look in her eye is not kind. ‘By the end of today I want a result one way or the other. It’s about midday, now. You can do what you like as long as you stay inside the Cemetery. If you leave, you lose, and your life is forfeit. I’ve got trackers all along the Cemetery wall ready to follow a coward. Got it? Apart from that, no rules.’
Granny looks to them both.
Kyne nods. But Dieffery is frightened, looking nervous, and she tries to peer into the mist swirling around the edge of the glade, as if for other enemies. ‘As long as it is a fair fight,’ she says.
Granny croaks a laugh. ‘Ain’t no such thing as a fair fight.’ She points to the east. ‘Off you go. I’ll send Kyne the opposite way. Ten minutes and the duel is on.’
‘Wait a moment,’ Dieffery says, ‘are we allowed to use any weapons?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Any weapons at all? Including anything we find lying around in the Cemetery?’
‘As I said,’ the reply comes, ‘ain’t no rules. If you don’t see that now, it’s too late. Now off you go.’
Kyne sneers. ‘You’re dead,’ she tells Dieffery. It is the first time she has spoken. Dieffery, pale, makes no reply and Kyne turns to walk away. Dieffery shrugs then walks in the opposite direction.
And granny grins.
~
When Geleshen and Dieffery took their daughter to the Spired Inn they were unprepared for its welcoming atmosphere. Its location in the north of the city and its proximity to the Cemetery meant all the rumours they had heard were bad, tales of strife and violence, raid and counter-raid.
It was early evening. Through rain, the lamps of the Inn were hazy aquamarine orbs, its roof hidden in low cloud. Geleshen glanced at his wife and said, ‘This must be the place.’
No reply.
He walked up to one of the windows and peered in. Three fires roared, there was a bar and many alcoves set with tables and chairs; only a few people drinking, but that did not imply danger. Geleshen returned to his wife and said, ‘Follow me in. It seems quite cosy.’
Dieffery muttered, ‘A coffin is cosy to a dead woman.’
‘Now, now, there’s no need to be glum. We’ve made our decision and we are sticking to it. We can’t call it off the night before, can we?’
Dieffery looked elsewhere.
‘Besides,’ Geleshen added, ‘our daughter comes first. Don’t you, Marashary?’
‘It’s what I want,’ came the reply, in a small voice. ‘I love him and I must be with him.’
‘Then follow me inside.’
Geleshen opened the front door and walked into a hall. Indicating the green zone, he let them take off their boots and place them in the antiseptic buckets provided, following suit, then waiting for them to hang up their coats and inflate their slippers before opening the door into the common room and striding in. He put a big grin on his face, though it felt like enemy territory. He wondered if he ought to make an effort to speak like the locals. No. They would feel patronised.
Behind the bar stood an old woman, hunched over gleaming tankards; dusty vest and thinning hair. This might be the owner. A dozen other locals raised their gazes to satisfy their curiosity, then returned to their drinks and games of chess.
Geleshen walked forward. At the bar he said, ‘You must be Dhow-lin.’
She nodded once.
‘I am Geleshen.’ He indicated his wife and daughter, introduced them, then said, ‘You are expecting us?’
Understanding changed the expression on Dhow-lin’s face to one of pleasure. ‘Ah, got you.’ She looked at Marashary. ‘This is the lady, then?’
Geleshen nodded. ‘My daughter.’
‘Then welcome to the Spired Inn.’
The atmosphere relaxed. Dhow-lin prepared hot drinks, told a serving lad to show them to their rooms, even introduced them to some of the locals. One, a dark-skinned girl called Qmeela, made conspicuous efforts to befriend Marashary. Geleshen was pleased. In this place they would need friends.
They passed a quiet, if difficult night. Sleeping was not easy. Though the inn was peaceful – none of the fights they had expected – all three of them felt on edge, aware that tomorrow would be the most perilous day of their lives. At least, of Dieffery’s life. But Geleshen, sitting alone at the window while his wife and daughter dozed in their chairs under woollen blankets, recalled the effort he had put into preparing weapons for the duel. Hope was strong. Where there was cunning, there was always hope. Alas that tribal code necessitated the duel.
Dhow-lin cooked a proper breakfast when morning arrived, courgettes and potatoes in a butter sauce, garnished with parsley; tea and honey biscuits to follow. The Goddess only knew where she found such luxuries.
And so they turned to their own preparations. Geleshen wore a one-piece jumpsuit of grey cotton, black boots and an antiseptic hat, Marashary white breeches and a white tunic. Dieffery, in recognition of the forthcoming duel, wore body armour under a leather jerkin, cotton breeches and lace-up boots. Two holsters on a belt, each home to a black weapon.
Dhow-lin had been left a map by the grandmother reveller. They departed the Inn, following Morte Street to the Cemetery wall, passing underneath a gate, then making for the cluster of tents marked on the map. Geleshen could not be sure, but it looked as if they had been drawn with green algae. A symbol for death.
~
Kyne decides her plan will be to strike as soon as possible, killing Dieffery quick so that everyone can have as much time as possible in the Spired Inn afterwards. She likes the dooch there. She likes the baqa and she likes the mootsflosser. Besides, she has an important speech to make and she will need courage out of the bottle.
Rain is falling hard from dark clouds leaning in from the south. That means Dieffery will be confused.
Because Kyne knows the Cemetery like the back of her hand she expects an easy task, but just in case – she did not like the look of the two hand-guns slung from that belt – she readies her laser rifle. Clunk. Snap. It is energised and ready to fire.
She stands with the Cemetery wall to her back. She can see the dark shadows of yews, a mausoleum; mist and rain all grey and smelly. Perfect condition
s.
And she knows what Dieffery will do. Because Dieffery is in an environment never encountered before she will first want to find a hide, somewhere safe where she can watch for a while. Granny sent her east for a good reason; not fifty yards away from the starting point lies a ruined mausoleum. Dieffery will be there, scared, watching.
Easy.
Kyne moves down the Cemetery wall until she sees a single holly bush. She strikes out west, following a green glass path into the heart of the Cemetery, then heading around in a circle so that she approaches the ruined mausoleum from the unexpected eastern side. Laser rifle pointing ahead of her. Still raining hard.
The ruins loom up before her, a single hulk of green-grey set in curtains of rain, and she grins, knowing the time is close. At the back of the ruin is a hole where recently a window collapsed, and through it she will sneak.
Something small and black passes across her face. She looks to her right.
Dieffery!
Dieffery is stalking her.
Another shot, and this time it rips through one sleeve; fractional miss. Kyne runs forward, slips on wet grass, and so saves her life as a cloud of autonomous bullets fall out of the sky and slap like so many beetles into the ground.
Luck has saved her.
She runs like mad. Got to get away!
~
From the tent encampment a reveller usher led the trio to the Shrine of Eskhthonatos, the shovel-headed harridan of the underlands held sacred by the Cemetery revellers. It consisted of a green grove, holly trees to one side, laburnam to the other, between them two sets of wooden seats separated by an aisle. At the far end of this aisle Geleshen saw the grandmother, dressed in a black raincoat, behind her a twenty-foot effigy of Eskhthonatos: square head, clawed hands, hunched over like an old woman. Hideous, bulging eyes that gleamed like rubies.
Revellers sat relaxed on the right side of the aisle, two score or more, many drinking mugs of tea. Dieffery was led to one of the seats on the other side. These were empty.
Geleshen waited at the rear of the Shrine with Marashary at his side. What tore his heart was the sight of his wife sitting alone on her seat, head bowed, not looking at the grandmother or the revellers, as if steeling herself for the task ahead. Geleshen felt his guts churn in sympathy. Was his daughter worth all this? He glanced aside to see her expectant face, and he knew he must go on, for she was his only surviving child and she had to have what she wanted, at this time of all times.
Damn her, though, in the name of the Goddess, and damn Bansusen too.
A trio of grimy women began to play music, fiddle and zither and flute, that bounced jolly from one melody to another, causing the revellers to put down their mugs and sit up straight. Geleshen took the arm of his daughter and led her between the seats, looking straight ahead to where the grandmother stood hunched as if exhausted, lighting a stick of incense and poking it into her coat lapel. He tried to keep his bearing as noble as possible, but it was difficult in the presence of these rapacious low-lifes.
He stopped before the grandmother. To his right Bansusen stood up, and Kyne, the supporter. He found himself grinding his teeth. Now he was here he did not want to go on, not even for Marashary’s sake.
The grandmother began her pronouncements. She held no book or screen before her, the formulary clear in her memory. Dhow-lin had told Geleshen that the grandmother boasted of enforcing many ceremonies in her time. Enforcing: he did not like the sound of that word.
‘In the sight of Eskhthonatos I bring you, Marashary of southerly parts, and you, Bansusen son of our dear Korydiya, together before me, that a deed irreversible be performed.’
Geleshen closed his eyes. The rain stank of rotten fish and he felt sick. Standing up was all he could concentrate on.
‘Being a ceremony blessed by the Lady of the Underworld, who made us all from clay and sea-water and bodily fluids, molding us in her mouth and spitting us into the city of Kray. Being a pact agreed by both parties. All hail. This morning I say you, Marashary, though you be an outsider, and you, Bansusen, do you both swear to do reveller right before the sight of the other?’
A faint ‘I do,’ from Marashary.
One stronger from Bansusen, who was smiling.
‘And are there any here who know anything that might stop me from joining these two–’
Geleshen heard himself shout, ‘Yes!’
For a moment he did not realise he had spoken, so sudden was the feeling, so loud the cry. Then he opened his eyes and saw the venomous gaze of the grandmother locked into him.
‘Yes,’ he repeated.
‘But you are the father,’ she said.
Marashary disengaged herself from him. He ignored her as he replied, ‘There is something you do not know, something that means this ceremony can’t continue.’ He paused. He had no idea what to say next. All he could think of was the vileness of the revellers, their pillage, the murderous street-gangs, the constant battles. ‘The Temple of Youth,’ he said.
That was it! The way out. Everyone knew the depth of the enmity between revellers and the girls of Youth. Now everybody looked at him, the revellers muttering curses at this mention of their foe.
‘There is something you must know,’ he said in a firm voice. ‘Marashary was once a convert to the Temple of Youth. You must know this in case it is revealed later, and we are all shamed–’
‘Father, no!’ Marashary cried. She ran behind him and took Bansusen’s hands in her own. ‘Bansusen,’ she wailed, ‘he’s lying, honestly, it isn’t true–’
Bansusen said, ‘Quiet.’
Silence fell.
Bansusen glanced at the grandmother then told Geleshen, ‘Do you really think we didn’t check that out first? Do you think we would risk even a sniff of Youth in our precious Cemetery? You are a fool, Geleshen. You mock us with your false claim, you shame us. You are nothing more than a worm. Nothing more.’ And he looked away, hugging Marashary.
Geleshen bowed his head, shutting his eyes once again. The ceremony was going to be completed. His moment of madness had made it worse.
~
Kyne does not expect to lose, nor does she expect to be offered chances by the unpredictable woman from the south. The duel is taking an unexpected turn. She has two choices. Either she can continue alone and keep pure her reputation and her honour, or she can accept a small diminution of honour in order to send the woman to the worms.
It is time to call on help.
She runs due south for five minutes.
The mobile shrine has been placed between a pair of tombstones so tall they seem like holes through the mist into the chthonic world. Inside the mini-yurt Kyne finds her two aides, the sisters Bzajia and Aqadizia, crouching low, armed with laser pistols, their eyes glinting in the light of a steel glow-worm. She hunkers down beside them and describes what has happened so far. She has to tell them twice because they refuse to believe her.
Then they make plans.
‘We have to set a trap,’ says Kyne. ‘Is that twin grave still open by the white marble steps?’
They know where she means. ‘Yes!’ they reply, glee animating their faces.
Kyne pulls out a second set of clothes from the slim-pack on her back. Turning to Bzajia – not as strong as her sister, but more cunning and more courageous – she hands over a black sack dress, a pair of pull-on boots, and leggings similar to those she is wearing.
‘Disguise yourself as me,’ she tells Bzajia, shrugging off her own dress and pulling a grey coat from the slim-pack. ‘We’ll lead the woman down the steps.’ She turns to the other and says, ‘You prepare a natural cover for the grave. The woman will walk over it as she follows us two. She’ll fall in and then we’ll blast her, all three of us so there’s no chance of return fire.’
‘Blast her!’
‘Kill her!’
‘Right,’ Kyne affirms, spitting and grinding the mucus into the earth to show her contempt for the enemy. ‘One of you’s got the Felis optical?’
Aqadizia reaches inside her tunic while Kyne buttons up her coat. A green hat is the final touch. Taking the IR monocular, Kyne indicates its front lens, telling Bzajia, ‘I’ll use this to track her in the mist, and when I find her we’ll begin the trap. You follow me. Make sure the woman can spot you, but keep out of range. You know the score. Soon as we’re down the steps, I’ll run off and you follow. The woman will have to cross the grave to enter the western zones because of the fallen yew blocking the path. Soon as she’s dropped, fire.’
‘Fire!’
Kyne turns to Aqadizia. This sister is the better shot. ‘You’ll be behind the woman,’ she says, ‘so you fire soon as you can. We’ll add.’ She nods once. ‘Right. Time to go. Soon as this southern no-brain is dead we’ll call granny on the radio.’
~
Now it was time for symbolic exchanges to be made.
Kyne rummaged around in her black sack of a dress and produced a varnished eyeball. Geleshen had been warned about this by Dhow-lin, but he still felt the return of nausea the moment he saw it. The eyeball was fixed to a ring of coiled pubic hair taken from Bansusen, made – he had been assured – with loving care over a period of three days. The eyeball had been taken from one of the Cemetery totem poles. Revellers, who tore the dead from their graves, did not bury kith and kin, they coagulated the heads into immense columns and left the bodies to be eaten by vermin.
Geleshen had tried to imagine what it would be like in the Cemetery. Now he was here, just the word made his stomach turn. He felt like sobbing and running away.
But he could not. If the revellers took offence, his life was in peril.
From his pocket he took a ring of simple silver, which he gave to his daughter.
The exchange was made.
Duel time.
The grandmother coughed, spat, then with a forefinger gestured at Dieffery and Kyne, indicating that they should follow her. Geleshen watched his wife pass before him. She glanced up once, her expression one of both fear and hope; fear because of their circumstances, hope because of the preparations they had made, because of their strategy. It took all Geleshen’s self-restraint to stop himself reaching out and pulling her back.
Memory Seed Page 38