Glorious Angels

by Justina Robson

  She struggled to make it back herself, landing at last on the final choke of the engine as the fuel pump coughed and died on the lees of the emergency reserve tank. Another minute or two and she would have had to crash land outside the city, but she didn’t have time to think about that. It was already past nine and she had her rendezvous to take care of below. Wet and cold she had to struggle against her own body’s stiffness as she climbed out of the pilot’s seat and turned to put the charged crystals into their padded carry bag. There was one spare. She kept that for herself, slipping it into her jacket, and then worked to fold the Flit’s wings. Until she tried pushing it to the shed she didn’t realise how exhausted she was – fighting the storm had taken a lot more out of her than she’d thought. It was nearly all she could do to close the doors and stand against the fuselage, resting. She made the disconnections and final checks on her own autopilot and then took the bag down the stairs, not stopping to go into the house proper or to change but going directly out the back, through the tangled overgrowth of the brambles infesting the orchard garden, and into the narrow service street.

  The carriage did not hold Alide, of course, but a minion this time, who received the bag in silence and merely nodded before signalling the driver. It had turned the corner in a hurry and vanished before she found the energy to turn back and go inside. A light rain was falling and dusk was nearly dark. She trailed into the workshop and undressed there, thinking she’d leave it all until tomorrow, had to leave it. She put the crystal down under her jacket and checked the locks, the covers, the machines and the gun. On an impulse she picked the gun up at the last moment and took it with her to her room. The house was quiet and smelled of flowers, perfume, long baths, recently abandoned rooms. She saw that Minna had left her a note pinned to her door.

  ‘Gone at 6.30 with Best,’ it read. ‘Bo gone to Night’s. Dress on bed. Shoes in box on bed. Underwear in other box.’

  Tralane looked at the time. It was nine forty. She went into her room, stashed the gun in the dress box and ran for a shower. By the time she got out and had wrestled her way into the fancy underwear it was nine fifty-five. At this point she discovered one fatal flaw in the dynamite dress plans. The red dress was a nifty mermaid style with a bodice that laced up the back. There was no way to get into it successfully alone.

  She yanked it up to the correct height, reached around, pulled and heaved at the laces herself until it felt like it wasn’t about to fall off, rammed her feet into the high, ornate shoes and, still standing on one spot, tried to put the gun into the matching bag. A quarter of it would have been too large. There was a roll of engineering tape on the floor near the window. She strode out to reach it and found herself flat on her face on the rug. By the time she had picked herself up, minced to the window, crouched daintily for the tape, returned to the bed at agonising turtle speeds and sat down to tape the gun to the outside of her lower leg where it would be successfully concealed by the huge amount of excess fabric train in the mermaid ‘tail’ it was ten past ten, she hadn’t touched her hair or face and was sweating with a combination of frustration and fury. She grabbed everything she could lay her hands on from where she sat and set off for the door, stuffing the tiny evening bag mercilessly with makeup and a comb.

  When she opened the door the road was empty. The rain had turned from a misty drip to a steady patter. Her feet already hurt from the shoes. She thought about calling a cab with the distant understanding that there would be none – everyone was going to the palace or was already there. It was over a mile on foot. She had to go. Just as she was bracing herself to go back inside, find some flat boots and prepare to hike it a carriage drawn by a single black horse came around the corner. It stopped, the door swinging open to a lit interior as the driver pulled it to a halt. She heard Mazhd’s languid drawl curl towards her.

  ‘Hurry up.’

  She picked up the skirt train, finding a tab on it apparently for the purpose. Hooking it around her wrist she teetered out. Had the driver not flipped a footstool out for her to climb up she would have been foiled, but he did. She got into the warm, softly lit space and met the raised brow and wide eyes of her immaculate and fashionable date.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said as the door crimped shut and the carriage rocked with the driver’s climb to his post.

  Tralane opened her mouth to apologise and found herself spun around by his strong hands, then pushed forward over the seat opposite him with her face to the damasked interior wall. She could do no more than catch her balance with her hands as the horse set off at a smart trot. She wondered if he was going to fling her skirts up and have her there and then but with disappointment felt his hands work fast at the knot in the laces instead. He corrected the line of the dress and pulled the cordage back into position twice as hard as she considered right or bearable. Her objection was lost along with her breath as it shot out of her lungs.

  ‘Everyone left before you, huh?’ He finished with startling ease, knotting everything precisely and tidying the bows, then turned her around by her waist and sat her firmly down on the seat. Their knees knocked together. Before she could speak he had already opened and was inspecting the contents of her bag. He shook it out beside him.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, objecting to his casual appropriation of her belongings but took the comb he held out and began to work on her damp hair with it. ‘Why did you come back?’

  ‘I’d circled around six times before you came out,’ he said, eyeing the cosmetics and putting all back except her rouge stick. ‘You can put this on your lips but whatever you’ve been doing has been more than enough to put a sparkle in your eye.’

  ‘I hope you’re not getting domineering.’

  ‘I’m merely pointing out the facts. You could only ruin the effect.’

  She looked at him. He was wearing dark eyeliner, perfectly applied to give his already large eyes emphasis and length, his skin had the unnatural finish of a masterwork painting and there was a hint of gloss about his mouth. ‘Did you put lube on your teeth?’

  ‘Of course, and you should. You’ll have to smile all night.’ He reached into his pocket and showed her a tiny pot of clear glaze she recognised from Minnabar’s trunk-sized collection of unguents.

  Lane just looked at him, amazed. Her daughters had told her this trick during the makeup class they had foisted on her but she thought it sounded stupid. One thing she had not brought was a mirror. She knew he must have one but she found she didn’t want to ask for it. Instead she pulled hair out of the comb and threw it out the small slot of the open side window panel, thankfully facing backwards so no rain came in. ‘Are we safe to talk in here?’

  He tilted his burnished head and looked at her with narrower eyes. ‘I couldn’t guarantee it.’

  He was right, it was an infomancer carriage. Tralane considered her options and nodded slowly. ‘I see. When we get there you’ll have your meetings…’

  ‘I will escort you to whomever you need to speak with before I attend those,’ he said and smiled at her. ‘Introductions first.’

  She nodded and tried to catch a glance of herself reflected in the window glass to see what her hair looked like.

  ‘Let me,’ he said and, before she could object, leant across and put his hands into the yanked-straight, part curl-ended heavy weight that was stubbornly not drying. He lifted it, shook it and then coiled and curled parts of it with his fingers. She felt ridiculous but the window had already proved it would hardly make matters worse. His warm breath and the cold tips of her hair fell down over her breasts what felt like all the way and she looked down in shock to find she had a significant cleavage on show with the dress neckline – if you could call it that – at least three inches lower than it had been before. Alarmed, she hooked her thumbs into it and tried to haul it up.

  ‘Acchhh,’ he said and batted her hands away. ‘It’s meant to be like that.’

  ‘I’m just not this kind of woman!’ Lane snapped at him.

  ‘Well why
did you choose this dress then?’

  ‘It looked a lot more elegant on the model!’

  He sat back and nodded. ‘You’ll have to live with it now. We’re here.’

  Lane grabbed her bag, insulted by not being contradicted and furious with herself for letting her get into this mess. She felt keenly that her dishevelled silliness was about to make him embarrassed, if not for him for her, which was infinitely worse. ‘If you want to go in separately—’

  ‘Oh for hell’s sake!’ He waited until the driver had applied the brake and then opened the door before she could get to it, blocking the way with his leg. ‘Rouge,’ he said, holding the stick out.

  She was tempted to draw on his face but she didn’t, used her fingertip instead to apply dabs to her mouth until he took it off her. ‘What, no whiter-than-white greasy tooth paste?’ she snapped, seeing him looking at her with amusement as the driver came around with his footstool and put it in place.

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ he said. ‘I sense you’re not the kind of woman who smiles that much.’

  She would rather have faced Alide than this, she thought as his leg slid back and he preceded her into the damp night beneath the driver’s smartly snapped-up umbrella. Moving with the caution she would have given dealing with live wires, she found the wristloop for her train, applied it on the left with her bag and used her right hand on the doorframe to steady herself, only then seeing that her hands were pink from scrubbing and that the short, broken nails were lined in the inevitable black. Dimly she recalled gloves in the bottom of the dress box – they had been the things in the tissue paper she thought were handkerchiefs, although on reflection handkerchiefs made no sense.

  Mazhd gave her his hand and she stepped down. They walked the few metres to the awning and the rich purple carpet laid out, squashy with water and the marks of hundreds of past feet. Guards saluted and the last hardy papermen took pictures, of Mazhd at least. Usher girls in brightly coloured sarongs, garlanded with flowers to match the event came to lead them to the correct doorway with a murmured, ‘Professor, Infomancer, please, you are welcome and expected.’ Fortunately it was the same door for both of them and if Lane looked at all amiss nobody’s face betrayed it. She found that almost as comforting as the snug fit of the gun on her right leg.

  The interior of the palace, both outer and inner courts was filled with people. Everyone, even beggars, had been let into the gates, and had some provision made for them. Since the start time had been seven o’clock either side of the processional carpets were filled with people already drunk or dancing and high. Many wore fancy dress and masks. The entire galleries of the Manifold Court, usually empty save for a few walking lawyers, were a carpeted and pillowed bordello, shrouded in drifting veils of coloured fabric where they provided a dry and relatively private space for intimate exchanges. Some of them very intimate Tralane noted, feeling almost overdressed as she saw the younger girls and men cavorting about in rain and wine-soaked translucent – well, handkerchiefs really. She was pleased to note that amid the festivity and erotic charges of incense, music and the presence of the Empress, there was no sense of violence in the air, only excitement, sensual repose and pleasure. Whatever her girls were getting up to it felt safe and the many guards present, women and men both, seemed alert and in good spirits.

  ‘The air is enough to get you high,’ Tralane said as they covered the mile of carpet between them and their destination steadily, one hand hidden in Mazhd’s arm helping to balance her on the foolish shoes, the other disguised by the golden braid and velvet sash that made her bag’s handle. She was, even though she knew it would be a massive event, utterly flabbergasted at how enormous, how lavish, how decadent it was. ‘Did something special happen, aside from the Empress’s birthday?’

  ‘I fear so,’ Mazhd murmured to her.

  ‘Fear?’

  ‘I must meet with Night,’ he said, ‘and several others. I will tell you what I can later. Rumours will not do.’

  Tralane frowned but she already had enough to think about. Somehow she had to pack and leave tomorrow after this was over. ‘Mazhd,’ she said quietly, following their ushers, hearing others behind them on the long walk. She feared she might not get another moment. ‘While I’m gone please would you look in on the girls?’ Normally she would have had Carlyn move in but Carlyn was lost and had sent no word back yet, not that she would have had time to do so perhaps.

  ‘Yes of course,’ he replied, equally softly, a note of pride in his voice, she fancied.

  ‘My will and other legal documents that are important are in my workshop in the main bench in the bottom drawer.’

  He seemed about to object but then he looked at her solemnly and nodded. She was grateful that he didn’t say ‘you’ll be back’ or anything like that; he took it like an adult and he didn’t sugar things. Beneath the banter there was no hiding some awful undertow, moving through the city and their lives. She knew it and he did too. She kept looking away and praying for angels, but saw now only monsters, concealed in corners; a jowl, a foot, a claw, a hand, a curled lip baring teeth. Mazhd’s sudden squeeze on her hand jolted her from the foolish vision. She looked into his dark, acute gaze.

  ‘Stay awake,’ he said with a smile and leaned down to kiss her. It was only brief but the jolt she got from it was electric. She should absolutely not allow this man to charm her. But it was too late.

  The rest of the carpet parade could never have been long enough. All too soon they reached the bronzed doors of the inner palace and were ushered to the royal presence atop her dais of gold and purple glory at the centre of the massive ballroom with all its lights and banners. Thankfully, the event was already in full swing and nobody much paid attention, save a few turned faces and voices she heard exclaiming – but their interest was in Mazhd and his choice of date, not in her except as an object of envy. She tried hard to stuff imaginary wool in her ears in case this turned to ridicule but before that could happen she was before the throne and looking at the pale, fragile girl perched on its edge.

  The white dress she wore made her look sallow and strained although the purple flowers garlanded on her head and around her neck lifted her a little. Pink roses added reflected colour to cheeks that had none of their own. The shock of her youth hit Tralane hard. This girl was no older than Isabeau, and had the same backbone – a cold iron spine that held her up and radiated its curious power through her grey eyes as she smiled and greeted. ‘Professor Huntingore, we are delighted to meet you. We understand you will be travelling to the dig in the morning and are so grateful to be able to wish you luck on your expedition.’ That smile and those eyes – they turned the illusion of youthful innocence and vulnerability on its head. The presence, which she had always thought of only as the natural influence of the Empress’ personal charisma, was a very different thing at this range and equally at odds with the girl’s physical appearance; touching the royal hand was like being touched by divine grace that ran up her nerves as surely as any aetheric current. It filled her being with a sense of pleasure and sensual, erotic power, enhancing her natural possession. Her scattered feelings and thoughts became immediately centred. It lasted only a second, but by the time Tralane was released she felt transformed and serene, as if this, and not the pale sensations of ten minutes ago, were what being a woman was really all about. If this was what the Empress felt all the time… But she had no idea.

  ‘Thank you, your Majesty,’ she said, fumbling for the right words. ‘I will do my best.’ And then she looked up, her attention given leave to wander by Torada’s shift to Mazhd, and found herself looking into the amber/orange eyes of the Karoo. At the same moment she heard Mazhd’s sharp intake of breath and the smooth tones that the Empress was using on him subtly altered.

  The Karoo was a shock at close hand, his physicality and size more than intimidating enough beside most Imperial humans although the Empress’ guard Hakka gave him a good run for his money. But it was his coloration and the sheer co
nfusing similarity/alien contrast going on all over him that made her stop and stare helplessly like an idiot. His face was incredibly human although pushed to a masculine extreme so much that it seemed naturally to run into the heavy mane and horsy ears from sheer overload. After a second she realised he was smiling at her, slightly, her reaction amusing him and his head was bowing in a way that suggested he was greeting her though he did not put out his hand and she made no effort to put out hers, feeling very much grateful because her instincts were telling her she would get it bitten off.

  ‘Professor,’ he said, his deep, growling tones making her jump. She heard a titter of female contempt from behind her somewhere in the crowd and her awareness of the room came flooding back in a rush of gossipy noise so that she almost missed his next line. ‘We will depart at nine bells tomorrow, I understand. I will await your party at the southernmost gatehouse.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, trying to bow and curtsey and agree at the same time before giving up and standing straight, which obscurely seemed to please him. Her scientific interest was screaming to ask, to look, but she yanked it back with promises there would be opportunity in the future. The idea of spending any length of time alone with this creature was, on the heels of the Empress’ gift, astonishingly disturbing. She stumbled along the carpet at the touch of the usher girl on her hand, making room for Mazhd and the people behind them, and staggered somehow down into a space in the circling crowds without mishap, finding wine given to her and trays of tiny foods offered before she was permitted total escape.