Obstacles infuriated her. The journey was a nightmare. Rag-shrouded outers begged for alms, cables and hissing pipes filled the streets as though they were growing from buildings, and everywhere there were churning crowds of lunar students, as if the waist of the city, from the Swamps down to the southern quarters, was inflamed with Selene’s fever, infected by shouting clerks and hypnotised converts. Yellow crescents on sticks littered the streets. Noctechnes prowled. Glass shards lay everywhere, crunching underfoot. And the noise, it almost drove her to scream for silence: that hammering din, the unholy symphony of engines, electronics, roaring engines above, thundering heat exchangers and factory machines below.
When she came to Print Street and the winking lamps of the Indigo Courtyard, she was filthy. Her hands were black. Doubtless her face was too.
The Baths were but a block away. Walking along a passage, she halted at its end to peer out, shrinking back when she saw that the street was busy with lunar traffic. Not far away, on the other side of the Old Quarter, stood the Archive of Selene itself, the source of this chaos. Subadwan spat in its direction then slipped into the street, head bowed, merging with the throng until she could dart through the polythene doors of the Baths.
She was safe. She could relax.
Subadwan disrobed at the first available chamber and walked, body pale but limbs sooty, to the pools themselves. After the ritual question regarding water temperature, she sank into bliss. The water steamed and she felt that her ordeal was, for the moment, over.
~
Awaiting the Westcity visitor, Umia strode around his chamber, the metal of his replacement leg clanging against the grille floor. His right hand he balled into a fist, which, in time to his stride, he smacked into his metal hand. He was frowning.
At last the door announced, ‘The Keeper of the Cowhorn Tower is here to see you, Reeve.’
‘Send him in, send him in, don’t wait around.’
The fop wore a maroon velvet jacket, black boots enclosing tight cream britches, and a curious hat that looked like a cake. He glanced at the digital fob on his lapel, struck a nonchalant pose, and drawled, ‘My Lord, your esteemed servant is here.’
‘Dwllis,’ Umia said without hesitation, ‘it’s time you did some work to earn your keep. The gnostician creatures, we’re thinking of purging them from the city. First, I want you to check for past purges. If any have been made, I want to learn from them. What’s that look on your face?’
‘My Lord, you mean a purge of all gnosticians? From Cray? Impossible.’
‘Don’t tell me what’s impossible,’ Umia replied. He felt anger rising at this insolence. ‘Your duty is to serve me with historical data, and I expect only the best service. Is that clear?’
Dwllis looked aside, as if to gather his thoughts, then said, ‘My Lord, I fear you do not understand the significance of this. The gnosticians are kindly creatures, and it is only the xenophobic who fear them. They are harmless. What reason could there be for a purge?’
‘Reason?’ Umia shouted. ‘I’m Reeve, you bloody fool! Your reason is that I said so!’
Dwllis stepped back. Again he paused, before saying, ‘My Lord, it is my sworn duty to advise you, and my advice is to heed the lesson of history. There have been no purges–’
‘How do you know? You haven’t looked yet. These loping beasts invaded the Earth. Isn’t that reason enough to banish them from Cray?’
‘Well, let us not be hasty. That word “invasion” is emotive, and we must at all costs keep our emotions out of this discussion. No, it seems to me, my Lord, that–’
Walking to his chair and sitting, Umia spluttered, ‘What are you blathering about? If I say I want information, I get it. Now are you Keeper of the Cowhorn Tower or aren’t you?’
‘You know I have that honour, my Lord.’
‘Then do as I say!’
Dwllis stood still. Incredibly, he seemed to be hesitating. Umia stared.
‘Are you deaf, man?’
Dwllis coughed, hand in front of mouth. ‘My hearing is first class.’
‘You could have fooled me. Keeper, you are wasting time. I want that report sent to me the day after tomorrow. Is that clear?’
‘I suppose it is.’
‘Good. And don’t go telling anybody. There will be a campaign of misinformation set up to control public opinion.’
‘Lying, my Lord? Is that wise?’
He was doing it again! ‘I’ll decide what’s wise and what’s not,’ Umia said. ‘How dare you lecture me.’
‘But lying, my Lord,’ Dwllis protested. ‘It… it always rebounds upon the perpetrator in the end.’
‘Oh, get out, man. Just go and do what I ordered. Now!’
Dwllis bowed and retreated. ‘My Lord.’
CHAPTER 12
During the night after Subadwan’s flight from the Rusty Quarter, Liguilifrey the blind masseuse returned from a walk around the Baths, meeting Subadwan at the Osprey Chamber, a small room tiled with sea-blue porcelain and with a very high roof. Light was provided by a single bag of glow-beans hung centrally. The circular form of the room and its complete lack of furniture meant that it was not a popular meeting place, but it was perfect for Subadwan’s needs. The pair leaned against a wall, lying on their sides with legs stretched out, facing one another. Subadwan wore a black gown provided by Liguilifrey, who wore a similar gown dyed green and embroidered with blue chevrons.
‘What did your eyes see?’ Subadwan asked.
Liguilifrey patted the black avian pyuter perched on her shoulder. ‘A bat hovers above the Baths. They have guessed already, I’m afraid.’
Subadwan shook her head. ‘Umia’s agents long ago told him how much time I spend here.’
‘The bat has no pilot slung underneath.’
To this news Subadwan had no reply. Autonomous hang-gliders were rare beasts and indicated anxiety in Noct’s highest echelons. Umia may not have seen her enter the Baths, but he knew she was here. She was trapped. ‘What else did your eyes see?’
‘The sky is full of aericians carrying customers, full of flying carpets taking rich folk from west to east, and back again. The aeromorphs hover low tonight. The stink of their engines actually made me sneeze. If only we had noseplugs that work. You’d think my Archive would be able to make them, but their factories are too busy churning out noses on sticks to rival the lunar mob.’
‘Did your eyes see any spies lurking around the Baths?’
‘No.’
Subadwan sighed. ‘They won’t be long in appearing. Thank Gaya they won’t dare come inside.’
Liguilifrey touched Subadwan’s shoulder. ‘You’re safe here. This chamber can be your headquarters. Feel free to spread papers and pyuters around.’
‘Thanks, Liguilifrey. Has your messenger taken that message to Aquaitra?’
‘Yes. I’ll go and see if she’s returned.’
Subadwan stood and stretched. ‘I think I’ll go and have a soak. What time is it?’
‘Gone midnight.’
Subadwan followed Liguilifrey out of the Osprey Chamber and around the nearer pool. When she took off her gown and stepped into the water she smiled, before submerging herself until she could hold her breath no longer. Then she lay upon the crumbling steps, shallow water lapping around her body. The late hour meant she was the only woman bathing. Somehow, the tranquillity of the water and the warmth of the steamy atmosphere reduced every knot of tension within her. Even Umia’s bat seemed a surmountable obstacle. Subadwan liked time alone, and only here in all Cray did she find peace.
She felt her eyelids become heavy. Rippling water surrounded her. It was quiet, no city noise damaging her ears. No press of people.
‘Subadwan of Gaya,’ said a voice.
Subadwan jumped, uttering a cry. She turned. Above her stood the imposing figure of Laspetosyne, cloaked, barefoot, her hair greased and spiky, her violet eyes piercing. ‘You frightened me,’ she said, trying to stand – and painfully aware of her shining sc
alp.
Laspetosyne crouched down. ‘I am here to tell you that the graceful Tanglanah wishes to speak with you.’
‘I’m staying here tonight,’ Subadwan replied sharply.
‘The graceful pyuton awaits. The Baths are empty. You can stay here.’
‘Um… is it important?’
Laspetosyne replied, ‘The hour is very late and graceful Tanglanah has travelled across half the city. I would guess that the matter is–’
‘Oh, send her in then.’
Bothered by her nakedness, Subadwan clambered out of the pool, towelled herself dry, and put on her gown and the floppy hat that Liguilifrey had provided. When Tanglanah appeared at the other pool, she sat with her legs in the water. Tanglanah swiftly approached. Apprehension started to make Subadwan fret, and she splashed her feet in the water.
She had forgotten how compelling was Tanglanah’s appearance. Her great height, her poise, the perfect dark skin and rainbow eyes, the rich grey clothes: all these features combined to produce a noble figure. In contrast Subadwan felt like a child, pale and tiny, paddling in the pool.
Tanglanah sat on the damp marble. ‘You will be wondering why I am here,’ she began.
‘Of course.’
The pyuton’s gaze swept her up and down. ‘What has happened to your hair?’
Subadwan chose not to answer.
‘You seem ill at ease, Subadwan.’
‘After what happened with the abstract aeromorph, is it surprising?’
Tanglanah replied, ‘That was an accident for which I have apologised, and for which I apologise again. I must also apologise for Laspetosyne’s aberrant behaviour with the late Rhannan, for which there is no excuse. You must understand that we pyutons are not human. We have our own mores.’
‘You certainly do,’ Subadwan said with some bitterness. ‘So why are you here?’
Tanglanah reached into the folds of her serape to produce a copper box, which she opened, revealing on a bed of black silk a glass shell the size of her palm. It twinkled amber and green in the glow-bean light.
‘This is a token of my goodwill,’ she told Subadwan, ‘a present from me to you. Here, take it. It is harmless.’
Subadwan took the shell. She did not want to thank the pyuton, but the words trickled out of her mouth. Reluctantly she glanced up at Tanglanah’s impassive face.
‘Keep it safe,’ said Tanglanah. ‘Glass smashes.’
There was silence for a few moments.
Eventually Tanglanah said, ‘I would still have you help me with my problem.’
‘I don’t think that’s very likely.’
‘Come, Subadwan, it can be a bargain of equals. There are seven Archives in Cray, each a store of memories. In my abstract country a similar situation exists. Gaya lies inside it. I can offer you aspects of Gaya, and you can offer me your unique vision. We both gain and trust does not enter the equation.’
Irritated, Subadwan said, ‘Don’t talk to me about Gaya as if you know something. Your Archive is only a few years old. Gaya is as old as Cray.’
This remark produced an extraordinary response. Tanglanah seemed to be wheezing, head bowed, the transducers along her neck cords spasming. Her eyes closed. For a minute she remained in this position, an occasional gasp escaping her lips. Then she raised her head to glare at Subadwan and say, ‘As old as Cray? And what do you know of Cray? I knew Gaya five thousand, seven hundred and thirty-two years ago, when Gaya was already twenty thousand years old–’
‘Tanglanah!’ It was Laspetosyne, sprinting over from the side of the other pool.
Tanglanah’s head jerked up. Subadwan, as frightened as she had ever been, scrambled to her feet. Tanglanah stood to meet Laspetosyne, ‘Do not leave me,’ she told Subadwan. ‘We are akin, you and I.’
‘Graceful Tanglanah,’ said Laspetosyne, ‘it is time to depart this place.’
‘Yes, my adjutant, that time approaches.’
Tanglanah turned to Subadwan, who stood trembling some yards away. ‘Do not fear, Subadwan.’
Subadwan could not stop herself trembling. She said, ‘You spoke in a fit. I know you pyutons pretend to have few emotions, but I said something to upset you.’
Laspetosyne interrupted, ‘Graceful Tanglanah–’
But Tanglanah raised one hand, and her adjutant was silenced. Then she told Subadwan, ‘I spoke in haste. Indeed I am old. But what of that? Pyuter power internals can last centuries. These heating-pyutons around the pool are extremely old. The truth is that most of my life has been spent in the timeless void of my abstract country, and it is for that reason that I need a young mind to enter it with me and see it afresh.’
‘And that young mind would be mine?’
‘If you are willing.’
Subadwan shook her head. ‘I’m not willing.’
‘You may be when you have considered the matter more deeply. Think on it. Remember it will be a bargain of equals.’
‘And how would we enter?’
Tanglanah glanced at Laspetosyne, then replied, ‘The country is here about us, and yet it is not here. It exists hidden amongst the teeming memories of the city, controlled by an arcane rhythm buried deep in the city’s soul, waiting to impose itself upon reality. I have seen much of this country… perhaps too much. That is my dilemma. You, on the other hand, are a fresh pair of eyes, and you have a mind possessed of considerable wisdom. You would be the perfect person.’
‘You haven’t answered my question.’
‘But I have. The country imposes itself upon the reality of the city. One enters simply by not denying its existence.’
Again Laspetosyne interrupted. ‘It is time to leave, Lord Archivist.’
Tanglanah nodded, then said, ‘You need not decide now, Subadwan. I shall return in a few days.’
The pair departed with no further word, leaving Subadwan cold and confused.
~
The next morning Subadwan set up a pyuter in the room next to the Osprey Chamber and tried to connect it to the Archive of Gaya. At first the secret codes allowing her a secure line would not respond, but after ten minutes they came to life. Subadwan was left with a feeling of unease. It felt as though somebody at the Archive was making alterations, perhaps emboldened by her absence.
The network systems reported no clerks available, then returned the same result for Aquaitra and Gwythey. Subadwan cursed with frustration. Was she being ignored?
Two hours ensued during which Subadwan found herself bounced around the Archive networks, until Aquaitra was located and a line established. But Aquaitra was in a foul mood, for Umia had called her.
‘He said not to appoint any assassination investigators,’ she tearfully reported. ‘How am I supposed to do my job if I can’t appoint any investigators?’
‘It’s none of his business,’ Subadwan replied. ‘Simply appoint Archive scribes.’
‘Don’t you understand? He said not to appoint anybody. I can’t investigate anything.’
‘He’s bullying you to see how far he can go. Follow my orders. Now, Aquaitra, I want you to come to the Baths–’
Aquaitra was shaking her head. ‘Oh, no, I’m not giving you away that easily. It is too dangerous.’
‘Come to the Baths,’ Subadwan repeated.
‘No. We can talk by pyuter.’
‘Aquaitra, you’re ignoring me. I’m still Lord Archivist.’
Again Aquaitra shook her head. Subadwan had never seen her tear-streaked face so determined. ‘Things have changed, ’Dwan. Two Archivists assassinated and now the Lord Archivist has run away. People here are terrified. I have to stay here.’
‘I can imagine what it’s like,’ Subadwan said, ‘but you must follow my orders.’
‘I’m not leaving this building.’
Subadwan felt battered and betrayed. The hopelessness of her situation had now sunk in to its most profound depth. Her power was but a fraction of its former state. Isolation was her lot. She had no option but to give in.
; ‘Stay then,’ she muttered. ‘But I’m still Lord Archivist. I’ll make tonight’s speech by pyuter. Set up some screens in the public hall.’
‘I will do that.’
The link was closed and Subadwan sat back. Was it possible that Aquaitra, embittered perhaps, had turned against her? At this moment she could be preparing to overthrow her. In the eyes of many Subadwan would appear a failure, not Gaya’s chosen. Worried, Subadwan found herself stroking the glass shell, which was smooth as oyster skin yet hard as diamond; she put it to her ear and heard the soughing of trees, the wind over moors, and the distant rippling of many streams. Another country…
During the afternoon Subadwan had Calminthan and Liguilifrey wash and massage her, so that by early evening she was relaxed and ready for the telecast ritual. The speech passed tolerably well. She noticed that her students were numerous but that their concentration was poor, as if they were looking at events off screen. Paranoia set in. It was difficult not to imagine Aquaitra – sitting nonchalantly perhaps – making dismissive gestures, or even laughing at the words of her superior, stolid Gwythey nearby in support. Perhaps they were chuckling at the contrast between her diminutive self and giant screen image.
Later, she confided in Liguilifrey, and that made her feel better. Liguilifrey’s eyes had been out in the city, reporting vast crowds on the steps of the Archive of Selene, blocking Onion Street and Pine Street. There were two thousand people at least, all waiting for the speech of Pikeface. Subadwan had instructed the avian pyuter to record any such declamation. They listened to its cracked voice in horror. Subadwan cringed at the references to great change, to the Spacefish, as the moon was now called, and to the primacy of Selene.
Shaking her head, she told Liguilifrey, ‘No good will come of this. Pikeface is enamoured of the mob and the power they give him.’
‘Tanglanah has a similar power over those who wish for safekeeping. Crayans are frightened of sudden change. They want easy answers.’
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