Worldshaker 01; Worldshaker

by Richard Harland

  “Just let me explain.”

  “Oh yeah. Explanations are what you’re good at. Your kind can always explain.”

  “My family arranged it. It’s only an alliance between the Porpentines and Turbots. It’s not important.”

  “Not important! You get partnered with her, you live with her, right?”

  “I suppose.”

  “You talk together, eat together, share the same bed. And that’s not important?”

  “It doesn’t change anything. I don’t love her.”

  “You don’t care for her?”

  “No.”

  “Not even a little?”

  “Not at all.”

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  He stepped back away from her clenched fists. “Uh?”

  “If you’re goin’ to get partnered, you oughter care for her.”

  Col was completely at a loss. “What do you want me to say?”

  “I don’t want you to say nothing. Just shut up. I thought you were different, but you’re the same as the rest of your lot. You don’t feel anything for anyone.”

  “I do. You don’t know what – ”

  “You’re all screwed up in the head. There’s a bit missing. No Filthy would ever let someone else arrange partners for them. We’re not dead inside like you.”

  She was quivering with rage. Col prepared to dodge the first blow, watching in her eyes for the telltale indication, quite certain she was going to hit him.

  Instead, she swung away and whacked the wall with her fist. “Sephaltina!” She turned the name into a mockery. “Seph-al-teen-aaah!”

  “Why does she matter so much to you?”

  “Doesn’t. Not if you don’t see it.”

  “Okay, then.”

  “Okay. Go and get partnered with your pretty-pretty doll.” She lowered her fists and glared at him eyeball to eyeball.

  “But…I still want to see you,” he said.

  “Too bad.”

  “Won’t you – ”

  “Next time you see me, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “You’ll find out.”

  “What?”

  “A surprise.” She smiled maliciously, spun on her heel and marched off.

  “Wait!”

  He followed her as far as the main corridor. A senior Signals Officer was approaching and she changed her gait to a slow Menial shuffle.

  Col dropped back into the passage out of sight. By the time the Signals Officer had gone past, Riff was nowhere to be seen.

  ∨ Worldshaker ∧

  Fifty-Eight

  There was no visit from Riff in the middle of the night. Col couldn’t believe that everything had plummeted so suddenly from high to low. Next day, the wedding preparations continued to advance, as inexorably as the great juggernaut itself. He wanted to say Stop! Not yet! Too fast! But he was swept along in the grip of an irresistible current.

  It was mid-morning when his mother summoned him to her dressing room. His father was there too, along with Mr Prounce and three Menials from the tailor’s workshop. The room was littered with caskets and knick-knacks, draped with items of discarded clothing.

  Mr Prounce bowed with an obsequious smirk and held up a tailcoat and matching breeches in charcoal grey. “I made them from your previous measurements, Master Porpentine. Also four shirts, hand-sewn, finest quality. Who would have thought a wedding suit would be needed so soon after a school uniform?” He gestured towards a screen in the corner of the room. “If you would care to try on your outfit, Master Porpentine…”

  Col tried on the suit and all four shirts. He let Mr Prounce decide which shirt was the best fit. The tailor declared that only the smallest alterations were needed, and set his Menials to work with needles and thread.

  Meanwhile, Quinnea dithered over her own ensemble. She sat on a velvet stool in front of her dressing-table mirror, wearing a loose protective wrapper over a sumptuous dress of green watered silk. Co-ordination was her particular worry. She experimented with countless gloves and necklaces, eardrops and brooches, haircombs and bracelets.

  “This necklace doesn’t match my eyes,” she fretted. Or “My ears don’t go with my hair.” Or “Oh no! My face is all wrong with my bracelets!”

  Several times she shook everything off in despair, turned her hair back into a bird’s nest and started all over again.

  Mr Prounce stroked his pencil moustache and offered compliments. “Most harmonious, my lady’. ‘A symphony of synthesis, ma’am.” He kissed the tips of his fingertips to emphasise his sincerity.

  Quinnea only became more and more agitated. “It’s no use! Look at the state of me! I’m all askew! I’m falling apart!”

  Orris patted her gently on the shoulder. “Don’t upset yourself, my dear.” He turned to Col. “Your mother is upset because you’ll be leaving us. She’ll miss you, you know.”

  “So young! So young!” Quinnea wailed. “I can’t help it! It’s too sudden! I can’t cope! Nobody can cope!”

  “We’ll cope because we must, my dear.” Orris found her bottle of smelling salts and held it briefly under her nose. He re-corked the bottle and turned again to Col. “I shall miss you too, Colbert. We haven’t been the best of parents, not as strong and firm as we should have been. I know I haven’t. But we have always cared for you a great deal.”

  There was a gleam of wetness in Orris’s eyes. A mass of muddled emotion welled up in Col until he felt like crying too. It might have been for what his father had lost, it might have been for what he had lost himself…

  “I wish I could have been the one to stand beside you and hand you the ring,” Orris went on. “But I forfeited that right long ago. Now it’s more appropriate for your grandfather to act in my place. But I shall be beside you in spirit, Colbert. Beside you in spirit.”

  For one crazy moment, Col wanted to go across and give his father a hug. But that was impossible, of course. The only person he’d ever actually hugged was Riff…

  After a while, his mother calmed down and went on with her toilette. The Menials finished the alterations to Mr Prounce’s satisfaction, and Col dressed in his new wedding clothes.

  A little later, a male Menial entered bearing a selection of pink corsages and buttonholes in a basket. With fluttering fingers, Quinnea fixed a single buttonhole in the lapel of Col’s tailcoat.

  “Sephaltina chose the colour,” she told him. “All the flowers and ribbons in the chapel are pink.”

  “And the decoration of your bridal suite,” Orris added. “Pink carpet and pink curtains.”

  Col emerged from his mood of distraction. “Bridal suite?”

  “Where you’ll go with Sephaltina on your wedding night. It’s on Forty-Third Deck.”

  “Nobody told me…”

  “Oh, childl” His mother flung up her hands. “What did I say? Too young! Too young!”

  Orris patted her shoulder and spoke to Col. “You won’t be going back to your old cabin, Colbert. Not when you’re a husband with a wife. Didn’t you realise?”

  Col’s heart sank. No, he hadn’t realised. It was blindingly obvious, but he’d never given it a thought. So when Riff came looking for him in his old cabin, he wouldn’t be there. If she came looking for him…

  He had the sense of his path separating irrevocably from hers. It brought a tightness to his chest to think how alone he would be without her. He remembered the smell of her hair, the curve of her neck, her funny expressions. It wasn’t just that she was exciting to be with, it was that no one else was even alive compared to her. His world would be unutterably flat and dull if she wasn’t in it.

  The wedding preparations rolled on regardless. An hour later, the door of Quinnea’s dressing room opened and Grandmother Ebnolia looked in.

  “Is everyone ready?” She clapped her hands. “It’s time to begin.”

  ∨ Worldshaker ∧

  Fifty-Nine

  For Col, the whole wedding ceremon
y went past in a kind of dream. His body was involved, but his mind was a long, long way away.

  First there was the procession up to the Imperial Chapel on Forty-Fifth Deck. Col walked with his grandfather and grandmother at the head. Ebnolia wore a strawberry-coloured dress, pinched in so tight at the waist that it seemed impossible for blood to circulate between her upper and lower halves. Sir Mormus was resplendent in a figured blue waistcoat, over which hung the inevitable gold chain and keys of office.

  Orris and Quinnea came next in the procession, then Gillabeth with Antrobus. Antrobus looked like a miniaturised adult in a tiny tailcoat with pink buttonhole. Behind them marched the Porpentine Menials, with trumpets and drums. Wearing braided tunics over their grey uniforms, they beat out a solemn rhythm and played a fanfare on just two notes.

  When they came to Forty-Fifth Deck, they passed through a crowd of well-wishers and spectators. There were wedding guests too, those who were important enough to be invited to the reception but not the actual service. Col noticed Dr Blessamy, smiling benevolently, and Flarrow and Lumbridge, not at all benevolent. The higher-ranking Squellinghams would have seats inside the chapel.

  The entrance to the chapel was a relic from the Old Country, a carved arch similar to the one outside the Academy. At the top of the arch was the Imperial family’s coat of arms: a shield bearing the letters V and A, with a lion on the right and a cannon on the left.

  “Drummers and trumpeters, halt,” Sir Mormus ordered.

  As the drumming and trumpeting came to an end, the sound of organ music could be heard filtering out from the chapel. The wedding party marched on under the entrance arch.

  Inside, it was suddenly dark and dim. The chapel was small, and every pew was packed. Stained-glass windows cast a red and purple light over the congregation. Col had a vague impression of stone pillars and stone statues – more relics from the Old Country. Many of the pillars were broken at the top, and none reached all the way to the ceiling.

  Grandmother Ebnolia fell back a pace as they walked down the aisle towards the Queen and her Consort, seated on their Imperial thrones. Queen Victoria wore a robe that Col had never seen before: creamy-white, with long loose sleeves, embroidered with religious symbols.

  Sir Mormus’s every stride was a statement of success and domination. The front rows were occupied by the Porpentines on one side and the Turbots on the other. All the men wore formal suits and waistcoats, all the ladies wore lace-trimmed gowns and jewellery. While the groom’s party took their places, Sir Mormus and Col advanced to stand facing the Queen.

  “Chest out,” Sir Mormus rumbled. “Remember who you are.”

  While they waited for the bride’s party to arrive, Col’s mind wandered off into daydreams. If only he could be the revolutionary Riff wanted him to be! He imagined creeping down to Bottom Deck with her, unlocking the door and lowering the rope. Then welcoming the Filthies as they appeared…leading them up through the Upper Decks. With Riff at his side, he would make a great speech against tyranny…and the officers would be ashamed of their cruelty…the elite would recognise the Filthies as human beings…everything would change…with Riff at his side…

  A murmur rippled through the congregation and jerked him back to the present. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that the bride’s party had entered the chapel.

  Sephaltina advanced on the arm of her father. In pearl choker, pearl tiara and pearl-beaded dress, she had never looked prettier. She was both modest and radiant, her cheeks glowing with the same shade of pink as her bouquet. She took up position beside him.

  Col bit his lip and looked away. Inside his head was a voice saying, If you’re goin’ to get partnered, you oughter care for her.

  He didn’t hear the first part of the service. Queen Victoria spoke, Prince Albert read out passages from a book, then Queen Victoria spoke about the duties of holy matrimony. Something about a husband loving and honouring his wife, a wife loving and obeying her husband.

  It was all impossible, all a mistake. He couldn’t love and honour Sephaltina. His feelings were taken up with someone else. He ought to stop this wedding right now. He ought to turn around and walk out of the chapel.

  Still the service progressed exactly as the Honourable Hommelia Turbot had said. Queen Victoria looked straight at Col and asked the fateful question. “Do you, Colbert Porpentine, take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife?”

  He knew he ought to say I do not, he ought to face the consequences. But he couldn’t even begin to imagine the consequences.

  The Queen smiled at him, awaiting his reply. Col felt as if he were tearing apart. I do not, I do not, I do not…

  “I do.”

  Even as he said it, he seemed to hear the clang of a door slamming shut.

  “And do you, Sephaltina Turbot, take this man to be your lawful wedded husband?”

  “I do,” said Sephaltina in a whisper.

  “Then, by the authority vested in me as Head of the Imperial Church, I declare you man and wife. Now you may exchange rings.”

  Sir Mormus held out a gold ring in the palm of his hand. Col stared at it as if it belonged in some other reality. Then he took it and turned to face Sephaltina, as she turned to face him.

  If only it had been someone else. If only it had been blonde-and-black hair, sharp cheekbones, large eyes. But Sephaltina was fair and rosy-pink. She was a complete stranger.

  She held out her trembling finger and Col slipped the ring onto it.

  ∨ Worldshaker ∧

  Sixty

  The reception took place an hour later in the Grand Assembly Hall. With over four hundred guests, the domed oval space was a sea of faces. Sprays of pink flowers adorned the marble pillars, while banners strung between the central chandelier and walls bore the motto Porpentines & Turbots. Around the sides of the hall were tables of food and drink, discreetly hidden under snow-white linen. An army of Menial servants and supervising officers stood lined up behind the tables.

  The Queen and her Consort made a formal entrance, followed by the newly-weds. Col made a conscious effort to slow his steps to a dignified gait.

  The Imperial thrones had been carried in from the chapel and set up on a dais at the side. When Queen Victoria and Prince Albert took their seats, a brass band struck up at the back of the hall.

  Victoria leaned towards her Consort. “I do love a wedding. Do you remember our nuptials, dear?”

  “How could I forget!” Prince Albert twirled his moustaches. “What a day! And what a night!”

  Victoria coughed behind her hand so vigorously that she almost lost her crown. Prince Albert helped readjust it.

  With shining eyes, Victoria turned to Col and Sephaltina. “Go and dance, my dears. The dancing can’t begin until you start it off.”

  Sephaltina took Col’s arm and they moved across to the dance floor. The band struck up a well-known dance tune, very stately and respectable.

  This particular dance involved a great deal of promenading back and forth, and bowing or curtseying to one’s partner. Col remembered the steps from his dance practice with Mrs Landry. After the first dance, a score of other couples joined them on the floor.

  “Are you happy?” asked Sephaltina with a blush.

  Col answered automatically. “Very happy.”

  “And excited?”

  “Yes. Are you?”

  “Of course. But not as excited as you.”

  “You’re not?”

  “The man always has to be more excited. It wouldn’t be right for the bride to be as excited as the groom.”

  “Oh.”

  More bowing and curtseying. Then Sephaltina asked, “How long should we stay at the reception?”

  “I don’t know. Before what?”

  “Before we go to the bridal suite.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Mama thinks we should stay about two hours.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think about two hours. It’s all in pink, y
ou know.”

  “What?”

  “The bridal suite. My favourite colour. Are you imagining it now?”

  “Er, no. Yes. No.” Col had no idea of the correct answer. “Are you?”

  She shook her head. “No, that would be forward of me. I want it to be a surprise.”

  Another round of bowing and curtseying. Col found it hard to concentrate and kept putting his feet in the wrong places.

  “I expect I’ll faint,” Sephaltina told him.

  “You’ll faint?”

  “When I see the bedroom.”

  “Why?”

  “I faint very easily. I’m very good at it.”

  “But…”

  “I don’t mind. I want to be the perfect wife for you.”

  Col gave up trying to understand. Communicating with an Upper Decks girl was like communicating in a foreign language.

  They danced another three dances together and Col continued to put his feet in all the wrong places.

  “You’re not getting any better, are you?” said Sephaltina with a hint of sharpness. “I can say that, now I’m your wife.”

  Col shrugged. “Would you like to dance with someone else?”

  As if on cue, Leath Porpentine came forward to ask if he might have the honour of a dance with the bride. Col backed out willingly.

  By now, the tables had been uncovered and food was being served. Groups stood around with plates or glasses, talking as they ate. Col drifted from the dance floor and mingled with other guests. Everyone wanted to shake his hand, congratulate him and admire the ring on his finger. He had to listen to words of praise for Sephaltina and utter the same polite replies a hundred times over.

  For thirty minutes, he was passed on from group to group, not so much circulating as being circulated. Then, out of the blue, he spotted Professor Twillip. Detaching himself from a group of Bridge officers and their wives, he went to talk to his old tutor.

  Professor Twillip seemed to be having a good time, though he was completely out of place in a social gathering such as this. He floated between groups, beaming vaguely in all directions.