by Susan Price
They drove past the inflatable and into a shantytown of huts built around it—the sort of hut that the Sterkarms could build in a morning from thin timber and mud, thatched with heather. Many 16th siders—mostly women and children, but some men—were bustling around these huts, and from the smell of roasting meat and the sight of fires and pits, Andrea soon realized what they were doing. A feast was being prepared. She looked at their faces, hoping to recognize someone, and failing in that looked for some sign—some flag or badge—that would tell her whether they were Sterkarms or Grannams. There was nothing. Reluctantly she asked Windsor, “Who are they?”
“God knows,” he said. “Who cares? Little people.”
Gritting her teeth, Andrea asked, “Little Sterkarm people, or little Grannam people?”
“One or the other. The Sterkarms have sent people to set up this shantytown on one side of us, and the Grannams are camping on the other side—all because they won’t eat our filthy Elvish food.”
Andrea looked out at the people busying themselves around the cooking huts. “Has there been any trouble?”
“I really don’t know. I have other things to think of.”
One of the security guards leaned forward from the back and said, grinning, “Hell an’ all from the kiddies—running around, knocking lumps off one another. Bit of hair pulling from the women, but the men have just been strutting around and glowering at each other.”
“Happy now, Andrea?” Windsor asked.
Andrea ignored him and looked out the window. Behind the first inflatable building was another. In fact, as Andrea soon realized, there were several, a small town of them. Lots of 21st siders, in jeans, fleeces, and sneakers, were hurrying in and out. Windsor drew up the MPV in front of a long, low, prefabricated office.
As they got out, a young man came toward them from the doorway. He was dressed in jeans, sneakers, and, over his shirt, a casual jacket emblazoned with the emblem of FUP. He carried a clipboard and, on his head, wore a tiny, fragile headset, with a wire-thin arm holding a tiny mike in front of his mouth. Andrea thought he looked faintly familiar. She’d seen his thin, worried face with its wire-frame spectacles and scattering of red pimples somewhere before, but couldn’t place where.
“Gareth!” Windsor said, greeting the young man with outstretched hand. “I’ve brought you some help. This is Andrea Mitchell.”
As he shook hands with Andrea, Gareth said, in a decidedly cool manner, “Pleased to meet you.”
“Any sign of either party?” Windsor asked.
“They won’t take us by surprise,” Gareth said. “We’ve got people watching for them. Do you want to look over what’s been done?”
“Lead on,” Windsor said, and followed as Gareth walked toward the first and largest inflatable. The bodyguards fell in behind them. Andrea took a quick look around at the blue moorland sky and at the cooking fires burning outside the 16th-century kitchen huts, then hurriedly followed the bodyguards.
The inflatable building, with its shimmering, silvery sides, dwarfed them as they walked beside it. In its sides were set round windows, and arched windows, with real, shining glass. Those windows would deeply impress the 16th siders with the Elves’ wealth.
The entrance, when they reached it, was arched and screened by a curtain of shimmering silver beads. As they pushed through them, there was a musical chiming. Very eldritch, Andrea thought.
Inside, the building was far bigger than she’d expected, and its domed roof much higher—it was hard not to be reminded of a cathedral. The biggest, central dome was translucent, letting in a soft, pearly light, which made the building’s silvery fabric shine and gleam.
A floor of polished wooden planking had been laid. Overhead hung circular frames smothered and dripping with artificial greenery and flowers—white and pink roses. More trellises and frames, decorated with flowers and leaves, hid much of the wall area. White and pink roses everywhere, with an occasional touch of yellow or pale blue. Andrea reached out and touched the petals and leaves of the nearest garland. She had to rub them between her fingers several times before she could decide that they were, as she’d suspected, artificial, though highly realistic. The very artificiality of the flowers would strike the 16th siders as wonderful. Who but the Elves could make such things, or supply them so lavishly?
In one of the corner domes a bar had been set up, and in another a sound system. Down either side of the main floor were long tables, covered with white cloths. The tables were decked with more flowers—real flowers, because their scent hung in the air—and set with shining glass, china, and cutlery. At the tables were long rows of chairs. It was all very pretty, but not particularly grand to 21st-century eyes. The chairs, for instance, were cheap ones of white molded plastic.
But here, 16th side, all but the richest stood to eat. An individual chair was a status symbol. Table coverings were a rarity, and people ate and drank from wooden plates and cups, or even slices of stale bread, though the better off might have plates of pewter or heavy earthenware. Smooth, glazed china was unheard of, and most of the 16th siders would never have seen a glass or a fork. Or a spoon made of anything except wood or horn. They carried their own sharp eating knives at their belts. These tables, with their cloths, china, glasses, metal knives and forks, with a chair for everyone—they were unspeakably lavish and luxurious.
Beyond the long tables, at the far end of the inflatable, stood something almost like an altar, decked with more flowers and supporting a large silver cross. Behind the table was a floral picture, showing two coats of arms. Andrea recognized them both. There was the Sterkarm badge: a red arm holding in its fist a dagger, on a black shield. The shield was made of dark-blue, almost black irises and the red arm of roses. Beside it was the Grannam badge: a red bull on a green shield. More roses for the bull, and a variety of green flowers and leaves for the background.
None of this would have come cheap in the 21st, so for once FUP weren’t taking the 16th siders’ goods and rewarding them with something that had cost them virtually nothing. But who exactly were the couple being married? Perhaps she’d met the Sterkarm during her previous stay in the 16th. She’d been told that she’d be sent a file to study, bringing her up-to-date on everything that FUP had been doing 16th side, but despite phone calls and e-mails, the file had never arrived. It had always been “in the post, with you tomorrow.” Now she was going to have to rely on her previous experience to wing it.
It should be a memorable occasion. Ordinary weddings were bad enough, notoriously descending into rows between the families, but the Sterkarms and the Grannams had been feuding for generations, and their hatred for each other wasn’t usually expressed by snubbing one another in the street or refusing to let their children play together.
Gareth was nervously eyeing Windsor, waiting for his approval. Andrea felt sorry for him. “It all looks beautiful,” she said truthfully. It looked beautiful even if you were used to such things. To 16th siders, she could only imagine that it would seem beyond beautiful. Unearthly. Magical.
“What about when they arrive?” Windsor asked. “Are we all set to make them welcome?”
“Over here,” Gareth said, and led them back down the hall to the entrance. A table had been set up just inside the door, crammed with many shiny little gift bags in brilliant metallic purples, reds, greens, and golds. “I thought wine and nibbles would be a waste of time,” Gareth explained nervously, “since most of them won’t touch our food. So I’ve made up these goodie bags instead. They’ve all got a packet of aspirins, and then things like a book of needles, bar of fancy soap, lacy hanky, little bottle of scent, a shiny brooch … Things like that.”
“How do you tell which are for men and which for women?” Windsor asked, since the bags seemed to be arranged in no order.
“Doesn’t matter,” Gareth said. “Everybody likes scent and lacy hankies over here.”
“E
xcellent,” Windsor said. “Andrea should play hostess. It’ll help to introduce her. Okay, Andrea?”
Andrea’s heart speeded up. “Oh! Yes! No problem.” She caught another annoyed look from Gareth. What was his problem? She had enough of her own. She still didn’t know quite what was going on. Should her greeting be lighthearted or solemn? “Er—whom, exactly, shall I be greeting?”
They both looked at her.
“Oh dear, fancy Miss Swotty-Drawers not doing her homework,” Windsor said. “Didn’t you read your file?”
Andrea opened her mouth to apologize, then changed her mind and was about to explain that the file had never arrived, and then realized that, whatever she said, Windsor would only twist it. Never apologize, never explain. She stared at Windsor but said nothing.
Gareth smiled. “I can take Miss Mitchell around, if you like, and bring her up to speed.”
Windsor said, “Oh fine, go on, go on.” He turned and left on business of his own.
Alone with Andrea, Gareth gave her another look over. He had been quick to bid for Brownie points with Windsor by offering to baby-sit her, but it wasn’t a job he really wanted. She was on the large side, and all that long, loose hair made her untidy. There was too much of her in every way for Gareth’s liking. He hadn’t liked the crack Windsor had made as he’d introduced her either. “I’ve brought you some help.” As if he needed help, especially from an ex-barmaid. And future concubine. “I’ll show you around the complex,” he said.
There was a lot to see. A second inflatable, just as large, had been erected behind the first. Music chimed as they pushed through the screen of silver beads. Inside was another wooden floor, and more bowers of artificial flowers, but all the seats were around the walls. “This is just for the dancing,” Gareth said.
Behind this inflatable were two blocks of chemical toilets. “For us. The 16th siders make their own arrangements.” Here, too, was the prefab office, the catering van for the 21st-side workers, and the prefab that housed Security. The cooking huts of the 16th siders had been put up at the edges of the encampment. At the back of the camp, on either side, were two more, smaller inflatables, standing apart from all the other buildings, and from each other.
“They’re the dormitories,” Gareth said. “One for the Sterkarms and one for the Grannams. We thought it would be pushing our luck to ask them to share. Where will you be staying?”
“Where I’m put, I suppose,” Andrea said, surprised.
“There are a few beds for 21st people,” Gareth said, “but I’m sleeping in the Grannam dormitory—I’ve been working with them. Would it be okay if you went in with the Sterkarms?”
“Of course. That’s what I was expecting.”
“Come on, then. I’ll show you where it is.” He led the way toward one of the inflatable dormitories, threading through parked vans and slight timber shacks. Sixteenth-siders stared at them, the Elves, as they went by.
The dormitory had a door. Inside was another wooden floor, and curtains in bright brocades, hung to make small private areas. Mattresses and sleeping bags lay on the floor. There were even beds. Gareth led the way all the way through the building to a door at the far end—a white door, its paneling picked out in gold. Andrea followed him through it.
On the other side was a domed room, all white, pink, pale blue, and silver. There were candles, and roses, and ribbons, and wreaths and garlands. On the floor were white fluffy rugs and white cushions decorated with silver fringes. There were couches and armchairs, with lots of curves and gilding, and white-and-rose cushions. Little white tables were scattered about, supporting small bowls of chocolates and bonbons wrapped in blue, silver, and pink foil. Since the 16th siders wouldn’t touch Elvish food, Andrea supposed the sweets were just there for interior decoration. She helped herself to a chocolate so they wouldn’t be wasted.
“This is only the anteroom,” Gareth said with a touch of pride, and led her to the back of the room, where they mounted three shallow white steps and drew back a brocaded curtain of rose and silver.
Behind the curtain was a huge double bed with rose-colored covers. Garlands of roses twined the bed’s posts, and it dripped with lace and was heaped with heart-shaped pink cushions and white pillows. Hung around it were diaphanous white curtains—which wouldn’t be appreciated by the 16th siders, Andrea thought, who liked their bed curtains thick enough to keep out drafts. “Of course,” she said, looking around. “This is the bridal suite.”
Gareth allowed himself a small smile. “Like it?” Obviously he thought that all women went gaga for a few posies and bows.
“Beautiful,” she said, though she thought it overfussy and a little ridiculous, especially for the Sterkarms, whose taste was more robust. She imagined Toorkild or Sweet Milk wiping their noses—or worse—on the gauzy drapes. “Who is it who’s getting married?” She might know the couple, from her former stay in the 16th.
Gareth opened his mouth to answer, but his headset crackled, and he started for the door at a run. “Come on! They’re here!” Andrea followed eagerly, bridal suites forgotten. The Sterkarms were here. Soon she would see Per.
Outside, the paths between the inflatables were full of people, all heading in the same direction. There were men in the uniform of FUP security and people from catering; there were 16th sider women and children, and people in Elvish clothes with headsets.
They reached the edge of the encampment, the shantytown of wooden huts and cooking fires. The air was thick with the smell of roasting meat. And now they could hear the sound of horses’ hooves and music. Someone was playing a jig on the pipes. They passed between the kitchen shacks, and then they could see, coming along a moorland path, a long procession.
A string of horses and riders. The horses were all the strong, barrel-bodied, thick-necked little hobs of the border, all of them black or dark brown, with manes and tails trailing the ground. Ribbons were plaited into the manes and tails; garlands of leaves and flowers were hung around the horses’ necks. All the riders wore bright clothes, with plumed hats and flashing brooches.
On the leading horse sat a bagpiper, pumping his elbow and blowing for all he was worth. The rider beside him carried a spear from which flew a green-and-red banner. Andrea’s heart dropped with disappointment. The device on the banner couldn’t easily be seen, but if the colors were green and red, then this party must be the Grannams, not the Sterkarms. Around her, people cheered, 21st siders and 16th siders together, in welcome and appreciation of the fine sight the riders made. Andrea joined in, but her cheer was half-hearted.
Following the banner were men carrying lances, holding them upright, steadied on the toes of their right boots. From the heads of the lances fluttered little pennants of red and green. Behind them came men and women in finery, each woman riding sidesaddle, or pillion, behind a man. Even Andrea started to smile with the old sense of privilege—how lucky she was to see this! Then she remembered that she had to form part of the welcoming committee. She looked around for Gareth and, moving to his side, shouted in his ear. “Fill me in! Who are they?”
The procession swept past them, hooves thumping on the ground, and the crowd followed it, running alongside. Gareth waved to Andrea to follow him, and they fell back from the crowd and made their way, through by now almost deserted alleyways between the shacks, back to the biggest of the inflatables, the dining hall.
“The head man is Richard Grannam,” Gareth instructed her as they hurried along. “He lives at Brackenhill Tower, so call him Lord Brackenhill if you want to get in his good books.”
“Richard Grannam, Lord Brackenhill,” Andrea repeated, trying to drive it into her memory.
“His sister’ll be with him—he’s a widower and she’s a widow, so she keeps house for him. Her name’s Christina Crosar, but you’d better call her Mistress Crosar—even her brother does. And she calls him Master Grannam and Lord Brackenhill.”
The Grannams, so far, didn’t sound much like the Sterkarms.
“You should know the bride, of course!” Gareth said. “Joan Grannam, old Richard’s daughter. She’s the best of them.”
Oh, really? Andrea thought, as she hurried, panting a little, to keep up with him. She concluded that Joan Grannam was attractive. “And who’s the groom?” she asked. But they’d reached the inflatable, and Gareth wasn’t listening. The wedding ride was drawing rein in front of the building, and the crowd was gathering on either side to watch. Following Gareth, Andrea dived through the chiming silver beads that hung across the doorway.
Windsor was waiting just inside, his bodyguards discreetly in the background, among the artificial flowers. “The Skye Boat Song” was playing over the speakers, sung by a woman with an upper-crust English accent and a soprano so sharp it made Andrea wince. Presumably whoever was in charge of the music thought that was what the Grannams would like, despite the fact that the song had been written long after their time.
Gareth drew back the chiming curtain of beads and fastened it in place. Looking through the doorway, Andrea saw the Grannams dismounting and grooms leading away the horses. A man and a woman detached themselves from the bustle and came toward the inflatable, stopping at a little distance from it and gazing at it, while the rest of the procession formed up behind them.