Glass

by Stephen Palmer

  ‘I’m Subadwan, the Lord Archivist,’ she said.

  The husky pyuter voice replied, ‘I accept that.’

  ‘I must have access to all Rhannan’s secrets.’

  ‘You are Lord Archivist. You have access.’

  Subadwan paused. ‘Are there pass-verses? Secret codes and colours?’

  ‘I recognise your voice,’ said the pyuter, ‘and your image. I see you now, standing puzzled before the stack.’

  ‘Are you the Archive pyuter?’

  ‘I am one of many.’

  Subadwan had never before considered this pyuter. Did it have an identity? Did it run the Archive? ‘So there’s nothing secret for me to learn?’ she asked.

  ‘There is a secret colour. It is green.’

  ‘Green?’

  ‘Green is the colour.’

  Subadwan frowned. This was autumn, the season of green to be destroyed, the season of achloricians. ‘But green isn’t a colour you can show. It’s banned.’

  ‘Green is the ancient colour of Gaya. Rhannan and those before her understood that green is suppressed for a reason. Green is an ancient horror too painful to experience, yet it epitomises what it is to be human. Have you not wondered why there are so many pyutons in Cray and why Gaya alone is the human home? Blue leaves and blue stems are like your blue, the blue you ritually wear, but in ages past they were green.’

  All Subadwan could think of was the Baths. ‘Green is allowed in the Baths,’ she said.

  ‘That is true.’

  ‘Why?’

  The pyuter answered, ‘I do not know. Subadwan, be aware that there are many secrets unknown to me, and some of them exist in this room.’

  A little frightened, Subadwan glanced around the room, regretting now that she had so clumsily moved everything about. ‘In this room?’

  ‘On the pyuter stack.’

  The top of the stack was six feet above the ground. Subadwan could not see the top. Standing on a chair she brushed her arm across it and almost knocked off what seemed to be a plastic sack. It was a greasy mask made of the thinnest neoprene, a full mask that looked as if it would envelop an entire head.

  Initially repelled, for it felt slimy and looked macabre, Subadwan realised how easy it would be to put it on. She ought to try it. The pyuter would not allow her to come to any harm.

  Wincing, she pulled the mask over her head. Something tickled her ears, her temple, the back of her neck, and then something passed over her eyes. When her sight returned she knew that she had put on a different world.

  ~

  In the golden room at the Archive of Safekeeping, Tanglanah and Laspetosyne stood before the image of Greckoh. Tanglanah said to Greckoh, ‘The deed has been done. Subadwan is elevated to Lord Archivist of Gaya.’

  ‘Good,’ Greckoh replied. ‘How tractable do you think she will be?’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to guess,’ Tanglanah replied. ‘Her elevation will change her perception of Cray and everybody in it. For a while there will be shock.’

  ‘Shock,’ Greckoh scoffed. ‘The defence of weaklings.’

  Tanglanah said nothing, as if considering some abstract point. After a considerable silence Laspetosyne said, ‘Our test showed Subadwan to be unusually imaginative. Humans are difficult to work with, Greckoh. Do not expect the plan to run without problems.’

  ‘The plan must succeed! For hundreds of years we have waited for a suitable moment to begin our rescue. We must save ourselves. I will not countenance failure.’

  To this Tanglanah said, ‘We will succeed. But we will need time. I cannot go to Subadwan and continue where I left off after the test. She must settle into her new role and acquire all the accoutrements of her position. Only then will she be ready for the next phase.’

  ‘You sound in awe of her,’ Greckoh said. ‘I trust your embodiment as a pyuton has not dulled your intellect. Do not forget, these foolish humans believe they are on Earth. And our enemy likes humans…’

  Again Tanglanah hesitated, and Laspetosyne looked at her, then back at Greckoh. As if to fill an embarrassing void, Laspetosyne told Greckoh, ‘Living as a body presents certain difficulties, but our intellectual capacities have not been reduced. We understand many of the ways of humans.’

  ‘Our enemy must be defeated,’ Greckoh insisted.

  At last Tanglanah spoke, and with intensity. ‘Greckoh, listen to me. Our enemy is as brilliant as we two. Something exists in the Archive of Gaya that bears the mark of our enemy, and that thing I believe will lead Subadwan, now she has access to all of Gaya, in the direction we wish. But you must have patience. We are in a delicate situation. The gifts Subadwan possesses made her our choice, but they may also work in her favour. I will not have haste ruin everything. I will take my time. I will cajole Subadwan. And then, when she is where we want her, the mark of Gaya will lead her to our enemy. You need not doubt that it will happen. Subadwan will lead and we will follow. And triumph.’

  CHAPTER 10

  Dwllis awoke.

  He did not recognise the room in which he lay. It was small, dark, with one window looking out into the infested sky. The skyline was silhouetted against blood-purple streamers; dawn or dusk, then. Like a meteorological spectre the moon shone pale through grimy air. Dwllis watched that satellite as it rose into the sky, watched it fully fifteen minutes without glancing away, hardly blinking, to see if it would squirm, glimmer, or otherwise transmute, but it did nothing. lt looked bigger however. The window through which he gazed was perspex, possibly with a lensing action, and so Dwllis put the anomaly down as explained.

  This room was stuffy and warm. It was packed with furniture, but there was no pyuter stack. In place of paper, nylon tiles had been glued to the walls, pastel blue, gold and white, each tile a square as big as a plate, with a tiny gouge in the top right corner where the application tool had bit. The room was worn, time-eroded, but clean.

  He lay with his right arm bandaged to the elbow. He remembered his wound. It throbbed, but it was bearable. He noticed a bitter taste in his mouth, and he wondered if it made his breath smell.

  ‘Hello? Is anyone there, please?’

  He heard footsteps ascending a creaky stair, and the door opened. It was Ilquisrey.

  ‘Evening,’ she said. On the tray that she carried was a tankard full of a steaming liquid, which she offered to him.

  ‘What hour is it?’

  ‘Dusk,’ Ilquisrey replied. She stared down at him with something approaching curiosity, though it might have been contempt. ‘You’ve been out of it for almost a day.’

  ‘The Cowhorn Tower,’ Dwllis said. He tried to sit up, but his body was weak. He could just lift the tankard.

  ‘It’s in the capable hands of Etwe.’

  ‘I must order her to remain put,’ Dwllis said. ‘People may bring in memories. Gnosticians, too. I must send out the order.’

  ‘I think you treat her real bad,’ Ilquisrey said. ‘I’ll tell mum you’re awake, though, and you can argue it out with her. Personally I don’t know why mum bothers.’

  Five minutes later Cuensheley was sitting at the foot of his bed. Dwllis said, ‘Your daughter was quite rude to me just now.’

  ‘She’s only speaking her mind. You listen and you might learn something.’

  ‘There is a difference between ill manners and forthrightness.’ Dwllis could see from the amused expression on her face that she thought his point irrelevant. He began to worry about Etwe again. ‘I must send out a message to Etwe at the Cowhorn Tower. She is incapable of running it without me.’

  Cuensheley sighed and began to play with one of her longer fuzzlocks. ‘We’ve been there today, Dwllis. She’s fine.’

  ‘She cannot stand in for me!’

  ‘Well she is. I’m not lying, Dwllis.’

  Dwllis lay back. ‘I am the Keeper of the Cowhorn Tower. I cannot be away for long. The Reeve may have asked for me.’

  ‘You’ve got to stay out of sight,’ Cuensheley pointed out, lifting the wounded h
and. ‘If anybody lunar sees this they’ll suspect, won’t they?’

  ‘What did Etwe say to you?’

  ‘She’s very pretty, isn’t she?’ came the reply. Cuensheley was gazing out of the window as she spoke. ‘What sort of personality does she have? It must be quite something to have attracted you and kept you.’

  Dwllis fidgeted on the bed. ‘She is essentially normal,’ he said, unable to think of any other description.

  Cuensheley laughed, long and loud. Then she bent down and kissed Dwllis on the lips.

  Fighting down his anger, Dwllis said, ‘I am in precisely the position you want, am I not? You only wish to take advantage of me, not help me.’

  Cuensheley, as she walked to the door, said, ‘Position? Do you mean supine?’

  ‘Why not go the whole way?’

  Cuensheley stood at the door. She shook her head.

  ‘Laugh at me then,’ Dwllis said.

  The door shut.

  With no other option, Dwllis tried to analyse what Cuensheley had said. He felt certain that she was taking advantage of the hold she exercised over him. True, she had saved him from a ghastly fate, and she had been brave enough to accompany him in the first place, and shelter him now. She thought he was handsome. Clearly she liked him, that being the only explanation for all this banter. But there seemed to be a deeper layer of motive, one more suspicious, and he began to wonder if she could be working for some agency of the city. Perhaps one of the Archives, or maybe even the Triad itself. He had a sudden mental picture of her stripping off to reveal a skintight orange one-piece.

  Then he realised he had an erection. The shock made it go away. Heart thumping, fearful, he realised that she was invading his mind. That worried him – his subconscious mind was rebelling. What dreadful thoughts. He tried to force himself to become calm. But his heart still pounded.

  Etwe: she was placid, industrious, attractive of course – though that was just a bonus – and she was fond of him. Cuensheley: she was courageous, hardworking, a successful courtyard keeper, but frivolous, demanding, exhibitionist, and a singer to boot.

  Dwllis could not stop a laugh from escaping his lips. The two were alike in many ways. Yet Cuensheley, with her compulsive passions, was not safe, unlike serene Etwe.

  He could not accept that something about Cuensheley attracted him. It must be an aberration, all these drugs, or a result of lying in Cuensheley’s bed.

  Was this her bed? It was double. No, this cluttered chamber could not be her bedroom…

  Dwllis examined the bed. It was steel with a soft mattress and cotton sheets, a sumptuous affair tinted grey and gold, the sort of bed to sink into.

  He caught himself: no more of this idle day-dreaming! He reached underneath and lifted a bundle of pamphlets loose bound with string: The Erotic Exploits of Gaya’s Daughters (Illus.)

  He lay back. He felt soiled by the personal details that he had discovered. It was revolting. He replaced the pamphlets and decided that this must be Ilquisrey’s bedroom, for she was a wastrel, lascivious too, a half-wild devotee of Gaya’s more unruly aspects. Cuensheley could not be susceptible to such nonsense.

  Just to be clear of the facts however, he picked up the pamphlets and riffled through their pages, reading a passage here and there and noting the quality of the pen-and-ink illustrations. He looked for a printer’s mark, and there it was: Grebbequ’s of Ash Lane, in the heart of the Old Quarter. Amazing that such material could be published.

  Dwllis sighed. He felt sleepy. Suspicious, for he had been asleep most of the day, he examined the dregs of his brew, to notice amongst the undissolved mushroom granules a number of red capsules part-dissolved.

  When he woke again the sky was pink as a warm cheek, dark clouds brushed across it, higher up the final shimmers of midnight’s noctiluminescent cirrus.

  Today he felt stronger. Getting up brought the first problem: clothes. Dressed in somebody’s gown and a pair of slippers he encountered the second problem: although he felt stable and his hand only throbbed, the door was of that type requiring two hands to open. This gave him his first glimpse of difficulties to come. His injury was forever.

  With his left hand he knocked at the door, and soon he heard Ilquisrey’s brisk tread approaching. She opened the door. ‘Mercy save us, if you’re not up.’

  Dwllis smiled. ‘You thought of that sentence some time ago, didn’t you?’

  Ilquisrey smiled back. She seemed in a good mood. ‘Don’t you castigate me after all we’ve done to help you. Mum’s downstairs in the kitchen.’

  Dwllis descended the staircase, but turned and said to Ilquisrey’s back, ‘Is that your bedroom I slept in?’

  She turned. Her kohled eyes seemed very full, as if she had endured a thousand secrets. Then she tossed her fuzzlocks and the illusion of mystery was shattered. ‘You think I’d let you in mine? It’s mum’s, of course.’

  Dwllis continued his descent. At the bottom of the stairs he realised that he stood in the rear hall of the Copper Courtyard’s living quarters, to either side lounge rooms, ahead a short corridor leading to the kitchen and the pantries and then out into the courtyard. Entering the kitchen, he discovered Cuensheley alone, flash-frying parsley cakes over a flickering flame. Surrounding her in the crowded kitchen were numerous bottles of cooking alcohol.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, a wide grin brightening her face. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Good morning.’ Dwllis looked down at his bandaged arm. ‘It is well enough. It does not hurt.’

  ‘So it shouldn’t after everything we’ve pumped into your bloodstream.’

  ‘Yes, the drugs,’ Dwllis said tentatively. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Is that my breakfast?’

  ‘It could be. Aren’t you going back to let Etwe cook you a nice meal?’

  Dwllis felt again that familiar knotting sensation in his stomach, and the acid taste at the back of his throat, as if he had indigestion. He bit back harsh words, then said in a quiet voice, ‘What do you want from me, Cuensheley?’

  She tossed the cakes onto a herb griddle, grabbed a bottle and took a swig. ‘I want to know why you live with a pyuton and not a real woman, that’s what I want to know.’

  ‘Have we not had this damnable discussion already?’

  ‘Not to my liking.’

  ‘Etwe and I are very fond of each other.’

  Cuensheley slammed the bottle on a table and returned to her cooking. ‘I’ve seen what she’s like. She’s a husk. She’s all flesh and no bones. She’s a pyuton stack with no innards.’

  ‘And what do you think of me?’

  She could not look him in the eye. ‘I think you’re interesting, friendly. But there’s this constant… emptiness that I’m getting to dislike. I can’t stand it much more. I’ve done so much for you.’

  Dwllis detected a threat. ‘That you have done of your own will. You can claim no reward for services rendered.’

  She turned, eyes flashing, and shook her finger at him. ‘I don’t want any reward!’ Dwllis took two paces backward. ‘Why should I want a reward? This isn’t a game, it’s real life.’

  Dwllis coughed behind his hand to indicate his embarrassment, though Cuensheley ignored him. He said, ‘I am aware of what you think of me–’

  ‘Oh, are you?’

  He paused. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Think some more.’

  Dwllis nodded. ‘Very well. Now, where are my clothes?’

  Cuensheley took a bag hanging from a hook on the kitchen door and handed it over.

  Dwllis returned to his room to change, then left the Copper Courtyard, deciding that etiquette must bow to circumstance. He could not return to bid Cuensheley good day. He wondered from what sickly recess of his mind his insight had come. He knew himself poor with people. He was a man of words: a scholar. Swiftly he walked down to Sphagnum Street, then along to the Cowhorn Tower, all the time thinking these dangerous thoughts.

  T
he tower looked the same. No changes. Nothing had collapsed. He entered and called out, ‘Etwe? Come here at once.’

  There she stood at the upper railing. ‘Dwllis?’ She hurried down the stairwell, hair floating behind her. ‘Are you well?’

  He showed her the bandaged hand. ‘Injured.’

  ‘Is it bad?’

  ‘Never mind that. What have you been doing? I hear rumours that you have taken over.’

  ‘I had no choice,’ Etwe replied.

  ‘What exactly have you done these last two days?’

  ‘Nine memories were brought in by the gnostician,’ she said, ‘and I’ve classified–’

  ‘You classifed them?’

  ‘Yes. They were clear cut.’

  Dwllis paced around her. ‘Your task is to construct interfaces. How can you classify city memories if you are not the Keeper of the Cowhorn Tower?’

  Etwe nodded. ‘That is a point.’

  ‘Indeed it is. What else?’

  ‘I rearranged the upper electronics chambers,’ Etwe said, ‘since they were cluttered. Also I am in the process of altering the tower’s collating services.’

  ‘In the process?’ Dwllis spluttered. ‘You shall stop that process. I relieve you of duties this instant.’

  Etwe, expression bland, looked at him. ‘Relieve me? What do you mean?’

  Dwllis could not stop himself spitting out the words. ‘I mean you are out of this place. You work here no more. You think me fool enough to harbour in my home a pyuton who thinks herself equal to the Keeper of the Cowhorn Tower?’

  ‘But I meant no harm. The work of the Keeper is too important to leave. I had no idea what had happened to you–’

  ‘That is none of your affair. Get out, now.’

  Though Etwe’s face was calm, her twitching hands and dejected posture suggested an unexpressed turmoil. Head bowed, she said, ‘I shall get my power packs and outboard devices, then leave.’

  ‘At once!’

  Five minutes later she was gone, walking down the path to Sphagnum Street. Gone.

  Dwllis watched her go. The moment she disappeared he realised that Cuensheley’s influence had plotted inside his mind. She had made him do it. This was not about Etwe taking over, it was about him living with a pyuton. He knew it, and he cursed himself for knowing it.