Phoenix overrode her in mid-sentence. “Hello Captain, this is Shilu. We read multiple incoming jump entries, vector originating from parren space. IDs announce that they’re the Domesh Fleet. Looks like Aristan’s people finally arrived.”
5
Lisbeth was eating ‘loran’, the parren final meal of the day, when the messenger arrived. The Domesh man passed the sentries’ inspection at the door, then went with head bowed in his black robe into the colourful world of Togreth women at their meal. Lisbeth’s maids stared at him in displeasure, and Semaya rose before he could disturb Lisbeth, and demanded something with a single word.
The messenger bowed low to avoid eye contact, and extended a hand. Semaya took the paper sheaf with a frown, and read it. She dismissed the black intruder with a wave, and settled herself at Lisbeth’s side, a graceful coil of slender limbs.
“Semaya, what is it?” Lisbeth asked.
“An invitation from Gesul,” said Semaya. “For an evening event.”
“Event?” Lisbeth had heard several words from Semaya’s lips, yet the translator gave her only one. “What sort of event?”
“A drink, and perhaps a performance. It is an old custom, now mostly followed by the higher classes. The common people have their television.”
The distaste in Semaya’s voice made Lisbeth smile. Her mother had spoken just the same way, of such common entertainments. “Well I think that sounds very nice. Should we send a reply that we will attend?” She glanced after the messenger, but he had already left through the guarded door.
“There is no need. The acting-senior of all the Domesh has given you an invitation. You shall not refuse.”
“Ah,” said Lisbeth, resuming her meal. “I understand.” The meal was pleasant, sitting crosslegged on the low, cushioned chairs, little more than raised platforms, barely off the floor. When she had first arrived in this place, she had eaten mostly alone, perhaps with her own television screen, watching parren entertainments with her translator on, trying to get a sense of these elegant, elaborate people. But lately as her star had risen, she realised that she was technically a ‘pushanar’ — the head of a household, with servants and guards instead of family, it was true, but essentially the same thing. And so she’d begun to take her meals like this, with all her maids together, eating and talking without regard for rank.
Rather than be offended by the informality, her maids had been delighted, and now they talked into the evening on all manner of things, from customs to marriages, to the affairs of great families and the latest scandals and gossip. And they had all been intrigued to hear Lisbeth’s tales of her own family, though of course she told them only the light entertainments, not the serious matters. It nearly made Lisbeth kick herself that she hadn’t thought of this eating arrangement sooner. She had learned more about the parren in just a few days like this than she had in all her previous books and history lessons.
At a suitable time after dinner ended, Semaya clapped her hands for the dishes and low tables to be taken. Lisbeth’s hair was still in good order, so it was a simple matter of donning the flowing outer gown, like a red silk cape off her shoulders, before departing into the hall beyond. This time Semaya accompanied her, walking with a studied elegance amidst the black-robed men of the guard. Lisbeth tried to copy her walking style, slim hands clasped before her and shoulders barely moving, but it was impossible.
About one corner, Lisbeth saw a black-robed parren seated in cross-legged meditation before the statue of a lion-like creature. Before him rested a pole-weapon — a koren, Lisbeth recalled — its deadly half-blade sheathed for now. At his side was a cup of water, full to the brim.
“I’ve seen several Domesh meditating by the statues like this one,” Lisbeth asked curiously. “Surely there are better places to meditate?”
“Easier places,” Semaya agreed. “That is the purpose. They are trainees. He will meditate for days, visited by his instructor. Should he find the level of water in the cup diminished, the student will fail.”
Parren could meditate to a trance-state, Lisbeth knew, even moreso than humans. Achieving it would slow bodily metabolism to such an extent that food and water were unnecessary for long periods. Doing it here, in busy halls with colourful decorations and attention-grabbing statues, only made the task more difficult.
“I’ve read all about the history of this temple,” Lisbeth said to Semaya, with the faint bewilderment that she felt of many parren things. “It’s brand new, there are parts still under construction, but the old Tahrae temple beneath its foundations existed for some centuries before the end of the Machine Age, then the site was left vacant after that destruction for twenty five thousand years. I had thought that Domesh traditions were taken directly from the Tahrae, yet in this replica of the old temple, we see all this colour and decoration.”
“The Tahrae practised Domesh abstinence and deprivation,” Semaya replied calmly. “Yet this temple was for the rulership of all parren. Not all parren practised those ways, then as now. To accommodate the tastes of all, the Tahrae chose a style less subdued than many Domesh today might prefer.”
“I see,” said Lisbeth. “Are all Domesh pleased with the temple’s design?”
Semaya smiled, and gave Lisbeth a knowing look. “All Domesh are pleased with nothing,” she said, with more than a hint of pride at Lisbeth’s progress.
The hall outside Gesul’s quarters were lined with robed Domesh guards, each with koren held tall in one hand, like staffs. Lisbeth tried to keep her posture upright and her breathing calm as her entourage passed through them. So many guards. Was this normal?
The doors were huge and heavy, opened with ceremonial flourish by servants who went down on one knee as Lisbeth, Semaya and Timoshene entered. Within was an atrium, separated from the main room by a screen, upon which was painted the ancient scene of a mountain, with the small figures of parren in terraced villages upon its flanks. Lisbeth wanted to gasp at its beauty, but Semaya tinkled a small bell, then sank to one knee with Timoshene.
Another servant retrieved Lisbeth from the atrium and beckoned her to follow. Beyond the screen was a wide room. The floor was bare stone paving, with shapes chosen for their irregular beauty. Within the room’s centre, a low, square platform of polished boards held a small arrangement of common items. There was a wooden pail, a stiff-bristled whisk, and a lovely white vase, filled with long, dry flowers. In rows against the walls were small, low seats and cushions, behind equally low tables, recently cleared.
At the end of the room, a single occupant remained from the recent meal — Gesul, Lisbeth recognised the tall shape, and wide shoulders within the black robe. She stopped before him, in the place the servant indicated, and sank to one knee as Semaya had taught her. In her own quarters, or in a neutral place, it was not necessary… but this was Gesul’s place, and it required respect.
“Lisbeth Debogande,” said Gesul. “Welcome to my chambers.” As the translator piece in Lisbeth’s ear cut in. “It is not the decorum, perhaps, to entertain a young lady alone. But I have something to show you.”
It was humour, Lisbeth thought. The kind of humour she could not imagine Aristan offering. The notion that any parren man could find a hairy-scalped human attractive was preposterous. Lisbeth smiled politely. “Thank you for your kind invitation. Please excuse my lack of manners, I feel sure I will give some offence. I do not know these customs.”
“Please,” said Gesul, still with humour. He gestured to the seat beside him. “Sit. It is not so difficult, and we are not so treacherous.”
Lisbeth did as he suggested, carefully tucking in her heels to sit crosslegged on the low cushion. Major Thakur had done this so easily, meditating on her bunk. She’d taught Lisbeth a little too, in posture and breathing. “It’s a beautiful room,” she offered. “I saw the rooms in the Doma Strana on Stoya III. They were beautiful too, but I prefer this.”
“There are many Domesh styles. I will not bore you with the lesson, but there are many
pleasing forms to rooms, gardens and other spaces. The Doma Strana was built by those in favour of a stricter style, a total deprivation of light and texture. My preferred style is called ‘Shudaran’, which is this…” He gestured to the room, the bare stone, and the still life display in its centre. “Simple things. Simple relationships between simple objects, that evoke simple memories. For me, these things bring me memories of my childhood, and of my family’s cottage when I was young. It brings me peace, and harmony. Aristan criticises my taste, but I have achieved a far greater depth of mind here than with his ‘Koripar’ style. Minds are not identical. Even in parren of the same phase and denomination, we are all unique.”
Lisbeth nodded slowly, as another servant appeared with a tray of tea. “Aristan does not seem like a man who always appreciates uniqueness,” she ventured. “From all that I hear, it seems that he wants many things to be the same.”
Gesul said nothing, as the servant prepared the tea with elaborate, careful movements. Lisbeth wondered if she’d said the wrong thing. Clearly there was tension here, between Gesul and Aristan. Two different men, with two different styles. Was that why all those guards were in the hall outside? But if she asked that, she’d really be taking a chance.
“Our last conversation sent me to a great library,” Gesul said finally, as the tea was poured. “I have been there for much of the last two days. Perhaps one day I can tell you what I found. But in the meantime, I wish to show you a performance.”
Lisbeth blinked. “What kind of performance?” She’d heard tales of ritual martial arts displays, in private quarters like this. Some parren formalities even involved fights to the death. Whatever her growing fascination of parren ways, she was certain she did not want to see anything like that.
“A performance from a tale known to some parren children, but sadly few. We have old tales, Lisbeth Debogande. Humans are but a few thousand years into their modernity, but parren have been spacefaring nearly back to the age of the Fathers. So many tales are lost, yet there are those artists among us who dedicate their lives to keeping those old tales alive. I have found one such here on Prakasis, performing in the city of Lomen, on the far side of this world. I have invited them to perform for us tonight, and they are here now.”
He gave a gesture, and Lisbeth realised that there must have been numerous eyes upon them from somewhere hidden, for suddenly down an adjoining passage came a thunder of feet. Performers swept into the room — actors and dancers, in the parren style, running in graceful, athletic lines to form two ranks, and bow low before them.
Lisbeth nearly gasped in delight and amazement, for these men, and even some women, were most certainly not Domesh, nor even House Harmony. Many of the men were shirtless, smeared with paint like the scene from some pre-technological museum display. In the bandoleer straps across their chests and over shoulders, they wore weapons, drinking horns, knives and feathers. The women wore short tops but were likewise half-naked, with great crests of feathers and simple jewels on their heads. Gesul, a man of the Domesh who deprived himself of most sensory pleasures, had invited such beautiful, sexual people as this into his private quarters?
Lisbeth glanced quickly at the entrance from which the actors had come, and saw several dark-robed guards turning away, in evident disgust. And a servant, who gave Gesul an indigo glare within his cowl before vanishing.
“What house are these actors?” Lisbeth asked.
“House Fortitude.” The ruling house of all the parren, at present, and the one most threatened by the rise of the Domesh within House Harmony.
Of course, thought Lisbeth. House Fortitude! Favouring strength, bravery and honesty. House Harmony were reserved and sophisticated, whether Domesh or otherwise. House Fortitude, it was said, were nothing of the sort.
“And they were performing on the other side of the world, and you brought them all the way here on no notice?” she asked in disbelief. “To perform for me?”
“For us,” Gesul corrected. “As I said, such historical troupes, performing the old tales, get less attention than they should. A summons such as this will do their reputation well. And they have been well paid for their trouble.” From the evident anxiety on the faces of some of the actors, bowed to the cool stones, Lisbeth could see that this was indeed a huge event for them. And she was struck that she’d never seen an anxious parren before. The houses were not political organisations — they were completely different psychologies. She’d always known it, but now, for the first time, she could actually see it.
Gesul gave a gesture, and the lead actor jumped to his feet, and began proudly, with a loud voice and louder gestures, to proclaim the nature of his play to the small audience. This was not House Harmony style, for this man was strong, bold and… well, Lisbeth had to admit it, more than a little sexy. He moved with the grace and power of a ballet dancer, a trim waist and strong chest, and his manner was everything that those of the Harmony phase would consider vulgar.
The translator missed most of what the man was saying, but Lisbeth was not concerned, for she knew enough of parren plays to know that most began with the ending first. She’d tried to explain to her maids that in human stories, the ending was usually kept a secret until it happened, but the parren had been bewildered. How did one know what the story was about if the ending was not revealed first, they’d asked? How could one appreciate the tension of finding out how things had come to such dramatic ends? And how did one know that the story was worth sitting all the way through in the first place? And Lisbeth had been forced to concede that some humans (a small and rightly persecuted minority) did insist on reading the last page of a book first, for exactly those reasons.
The floor cleared for a brief costume change, and then a few of the actors were back. These were in fact musicians, and sat with drums and string instruments about the walls, while to Lisbeth’s surprise, a woman strode out, the more prominent of the two actors on the floor. The man fell to the floor — in the costume of a king, with a crest that was more of a helm, and a sword that was broken. The woman loomed over him, magnificent in a giant silver headcrest, half-naked beneath her flowing cape, with a giant spear in each hand. The drums and strings began their ominous thunder-and-wail, and the ending began.
The man at the woman’s feet cried out for mercy, and this time, Lisbeth’s translator caught every word. “Halgolam!” the man cried. “I was your brother! I swore to you the souls of my family and kin, and now they are all slain save my wife and child! I beg of you to spare them, in the name of the brotherhood that was once ours!”
“Brotherhood!” hissed the woman, venomously. She advanced on the fallen king, spears poised for a thrust. Halgolam, Lisbeth thought! This was a play about Halgolam, the ancient parren goddess that Styx claimed had once been her name as well! “What are the bonds of family to a phase-shifting parren? But you did not betray me for even House or phase! You betrayed me for jewels, and for that, all your clan shall fall!”
Abruptly the king was on his feet once more, his broken sword brandished with purpose, as he saw his begging would not work. “There is a tide coming, Goddess of Death! A great tide of men… of MEN! Even the gods shall fall before it!”
He lunged at Halgolam, who swept his sword aside with contempt, stepped behind the king to grab him by the hair with effortless power. Her spears dropped, and she held a blade to his throat. “That may be true,” she said. “But if this is to be the last age of gods, it shall for certain be the last age of kings! Your time is ended!”
She cut her blade across his throat, and the king fell slumped to the floor, with a final crash of drums. Actors ran from the side passage, trailing a great veil of silk, behind which Halgolam and the king picked themselves up and dashed offstage, as though the floor had been swept clean by a great wind.
“The versions of this performance are controversial,” said Gesul, in the pause before the first act properly began. “The majority of scholars claim that the tale is so old it dates to parren pre-hist
ory, when we still believed in gods like Halgolam. But a small minority claims that the tale has been changed and influenced many times by more recent parren history. And a few say that it could refer to the downfall of the drysines, and that Halgolam here is a representation of the drysines themselves.”
Lisbeth stared at him. Gesul’s indigo eyes were intense within his hood. “It’s too old to describe what she did,” Lisbeth murmured. “Stories change so much over all that time, it can’t be that simple.”
Gesul made a shrugging gesture, and indicated the floor, where the next group of actors were about to commence. “I wished to see it again, in light of what you told me. We shall see.”
Trace walked fast up the curving deck toward corridor C-2, and Aristan’s quarters. She rewrapped the bandage on her arm, where she’d managed to burn it on a drop of molten steel from a welder. It annoyed her that of all the physical dangers she’d faced lately, she was now getting injured by her field kit.
At the door were Privates Spitzer and Heong, Second Squad, Charlie Platoon, waiting for her. “We’ve got eyes on him now, Major,” said Spitzer. “He’s eating, food was delivered ten minutes ago.”
Trace flipped down her own glasses, blinked on the local feed, and got a picture on the lenses — a dark shape in a robe, crosslegged on the bunk as he had been the past ten days, but now eating from a tray. “And he came out of his meditation twenty minutes ago?”
“Yes Major. Ten minutes after his ships arrived.” Spitzer’s expression suggested he thought she might have answers. She didn’t. “We ran it past the techs, spacer crew’s been looking at it, they say there’s no way he’s got access to scan feed.”
“Hmm,” said Trace. She tapped her ear to indicate she was uplinking, and backed to the wall, staying clear of through-traffic. The icons showed her Lieutenant Rooke, occupied and very busy with ongoing repairs from the hit they’d taken back at Homeworld, which he was taking another pass at with some of their new drysine technology. Lieutenant Shilu was even more preoccupied on the bridge, dealing with the crazy coms traffic generated by the Domesh squadron’s arrival. The Captain himself, not a chance. Sometimes the spacers who ran the ship cared a great deal about the Marine Commander’s concerns, and sometimes she felt like the least significant person on Phoenix.
Defiance: (The Spiral Wars Book 4) Page 7