Glass

by Stephen Palmer

  ‘We’ll see,’ Subadwan replied.

  ~

  When Dwllis departed the Baths, he began to walk west. Only minutes had passed before a knot of chanting, jumping, flailing Selenites barred his way. ‘The moon is gone! The Spacefish is here! Selene to the fore! Come down pale Selene and cover us all with light! Oh, ecstasy! Oh, ecstasy!’ But from the centre of this mob a more sinister figure emerged.

  Pikeface. Gulping convulsively, Dwllis looked up at the towering man. Truly he was a hideous sight. It was easy to ignore the steely muscles, the shimmering blue-black cloak and the armour, and instead gaze at the fish face emerging bent over from the cloak’s neck. Those baleful eyes, the toothed maw, the slick skin reflecting light storms in the plastic street below. Dwllis stood frozen as a bathkin before a carnivorous pedician, waiting for the pounce.

  ‘Who are you?’ Pikeface demanded in an astonishingly loud voice.

  ‘I am the Keeper of the Cowhorn Tower.’

  Pikeface laughed. ‘Have you come to challenge me or aid me? Speak quickly.’

  Petrified, Dwllis found one iota of courage. He replied, ‘I am just a man of Cray, and I demand right of passage!’ And with that he ran.

  They did not stop him, but Pikeface laughed again and Dwllis heard him call out, ‘We are kin against authority!’

  He ran all the way along Peppermint Street, his composure lost, until at the junction with Culverkeys Street he paused to look back, to see that no pursuit had been made. Gasping for breath he made at a more sedate pace to the Cowhorn Tower, where he locked himself in.

  Crimson Boney and the translator sat in a side room. Dwllis ignored them and made for his own chamber, where he changed all his clothes and perfumed his sweating body with peach-scented talc. Then he sat and considered the afternoon’s events.

  When evening arrived he left the Cowhorn Tower, leaving Crimson Boney to talk as much as he could with the translator, for he wanted urgently to speak with the gnostician. He made for the Copper Courtyard, cool, calmed, but carrying unease among his thoughts. There Cuensheley sympathetically received him, and offered him free drinks, and accommodation for the night should he require it.

  He told her of the day’s events, omitting only his encounter with Pikeface. She was more concerned at what she called his suicidal defence of gnosticians. Dwllis, irritated by her prejudice, stood up as if to leave.

  Cuensheley said, ‘I’m going to bed. You coming?’

  Dwllis attempted a casual laugh. ‘No. I must return to the Cowhorn Tower. Soon, Crimson Boney will be conversing with me.’

  Cuensheley kissed him, and he left. Outside, gnosticians were making merry, following a jaunty procession down the street. At the head one group carried a yellow disk, while another carried a giant kissleaf. Dwllis had seen the ritual before – soon the kissleaf would be punctured, and the clay fishes that the gnosticians carried would joyfully be cracked into two. He shrugged to himself, uneasy with such symbolism. What exactly did the ritual represent?

  But as he approached the Cowhorn Tower his thoughts turned to Pikeface. Kin, he had been called. Why? He knew not. At the door of the Cowhorn Tower he paused, turning to look out over the city, Subadwan’s words in his mind: ‘It’s a horrible city. Often I hate it…’

  Dwllis both loved and hated it. He felt part of it. Yet its odious alleys, deafening din, its shameful regime and decadent morals were aspects that he loathed. He slammed the door shut.

  ~

  Aquaitra pondered long over whether she should follow the instructions just sent by Subadwan. The Archive was losing its coherence as if Gaya was fading, and it seemed to her that her Lord Archivist was the cause of this problem. Subadwan was remote and, if she admitted it to herself, ineffectual. The Archive could only last a short time if its leader was exiled.

  Yet they had been friends for years. Since the young Subadwan had escaped the ethical clutches of Noct’s pyutons, she and Aquaitra had found pleasure and solace in each other’s company. It was not an especially close friendship, but it was steadfast, and both, without saying it, had thought it could last until the end of their days.

  Not so. Now all was changed. Subadwan had gone, had accused her of absurd misdemeanors, had become involved in a deadly affair. Still, Aquaitra felt bonds. She would do as Subadwan had instructed and collect shells from the beach.

  Dawn was approaching. She walked south to the edge of the city, then descended to the beach by way of a wriggling column of bronze plates, worn and dented over the years by many boots. Around her grew sharp plants, leafless now, their scarlet stems slick with tiny razors, while between these globular black masses expanded – the aerial roots of deeper plants that drew sustenance from geological sources.

  The beach lay all around her. For a few moments she studied its dead surface. Few people ventured here since the sands were considered unsafe, the haunt of agnosticians ejected from their tribal homes, of suicidal gnosticians who ended their lives in the surf, slashing their throats with shards of glass, and of unspecified sea monsters that on occasion rose up from the depths to lay single eggs the size of a cart.

  Not the place for an Archivist. Aquaitra, glancing this way and that, walked away from the cliff face and began to search for glass shells.

  There did not appear to be many about. Because they seemed to serve no purpose they were ignored by most, but some with an eye for beauty collected them, displaying them like trophies on bookshelves or hanging them from wire to make prettily tinkling mobiles.

  For a moment Aquaitra stood straight and cursed Subadwan for asking this ridiculous favour. She could see the advantage of comparing Tanglanah’s gift with another, but why ask her? Sighing, she continued the search.

  After half an hour she thought there really must be no shells on the beach, but as she turned to gaze over the sea at rosy dawn clouds she saw half buried in ochre sand what looked like glittering fingers, curved as if part of a buried corpse. It was a shell. Aquaitra plucked it from the sand and brushed off the debris. It was the size and shape of her own hand, perfectly transparent, with flaws at its hinge that sparkled like opals. She put it to one ear and, when she turned to minimise the noise of the crashing sea, heard a babbling brook that seemed to leap down over clacking stones. Suddenly inspired, she dug again and found the other half of the shell.

  She turned to face the beach, placing a shell over each ear.

  Ghostly apparitions clouded her vision as the strength of the sonic disturbance mesmerised her mind. It was as if an alternate world had imposed itself upon her consciousness. For a while she stood swaying, as the half-hallucinations flickered and shimmered across her senses, manifesting as colours, brief smells of perfume and blossom, and then a taste at the back of her tongue like bitter lemons. And after a few seconds there was heat on her back, something brushing the fine hairs on her arms, and then a hand stroking her head.

  She pulled the shells away. Reality shocked her, and she staggered as if rudely shaken from a dream. In her hands the shells seemed innocent.

  Yet as she looked a miracle happened. Hundreds of shells appeared out of the air and, as one, thunked a few inches to the yielding sand, precisely as the sun rose above the horizon and through a rent in the gloom sent amber rays to make the beach glitter. To Aquaitra the vision was a cosmic strip of diamonds. Frightened, she climbed to the top of the cliffs. Turning again, she saw that already many of the shells were sinking into the sand or being muddied by surf.

  CHAPTER 16

  Was that Liguilifrey’s eyes in the bathkin’s pink, wet mouth? The creature slunk along a corridor, stomach to the floor and eyes wide, its orange fur bristling. Subadwan stopped. It was the avian pyuter, ripped and shredded by tiny teeth.

  Subadwan made to catch the creature, but, agile as an insect in flight, the bathkin darted around her hand, slipped by, and disappeared into the maze of tunnels around the Osprey Chamber, giving a mewling cry as if in triumph.

  Subadwan was suddenly frightened. She ran to
the front of the Baths, where she found Liguilifrey sitting calm, bath towels in her lap, a stick of perfumed plastic poked into a lapel hole. But her pyuter eyes were perched upon her shoulder.

  Relaxing, Subadwan approached. ‘I thought I saw your eyes, caught like vermin by one of the bathkins.’

  ‘My eyes are fine,’ Liguilifrey said, smiling.

  Absent-mindedly, her train of thought broken, Subadwan gazed at the avian pyuter. With something of a stern gaze it turned to her. It just stared. Subadwan shivered. The eyes were beady bright, the beak sharp as a needle, and when it opened its mouth to squawk its tongue was… black?

  Her muscles acted with reflexive speed. She slapped the thing off Liguilifrey’s shoulder, causing the masseuse to shriek, clasp her face and fall to the floor. The eyes’ wings were raised, as if for flight. Yelling, Subadwan tried to kick it aside, to disable it, break it, but it jumped, flapped, then rose. It seemed huge.

  Subadwan knew instinctively that it was a beast of Noct. Now it was three feet high and growing, expanding, hissing, eyes fiery, its beak a foot long like the serrated scimitars of the Triaders. Its taloned wings created evil-smelling gusts of air, and its feet clawed with glinting steel and flexed with spasmodic fury. Subadwan retreated. Liguilifrey lay on the floor, rolling about with her face in her hands, groaning.

  Subadwan had never seen a shape changer. Deadly spirits they were, pyuter-driven carbon and silicon, their brains wired to know only greed. Some were too wild to tame: they were shoved into the pyuter networks like banshees forced into Cemetery mud.

  Subadwan carried no weapon. She did not know how to defend herself. The beast screeched and began a diving attack.

  ‘Gaya save me!’ she cried.

  From out of the marble wall a white creature leaped as if spring-loaded, with fangs of aluminium and eyes of beryl.

  ‘Gaya save me,’ Subadwan repeated.

  The two beasts fought. The Noct spirit shed black blood that spurted like hot wax, solidifying where it hit cool marble. The Baths creature seemed hard as titanium, but it was slower. It hunched down and lashed out, whereas the Noct beast attacked with chaotic fury, with talons, razor beak and wings. When the opposing bodies clashed, sparks fountained into the air, sparks that soon gave the atmosphere a smoky, fetid cast, so that after some minutes of screaming battle there was little Subadwan could see except turbulent smoke.

  Then there was only silence. Liguilifrey appeared, pulling herself blind along the corridor. Subadwan took her by the hands and dragged her away. ‘What happened?’ Liguilifrey gasped. ‘I’m blinded.’

  ‘Gaya love me, you can’t see anything?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Subadwan groaned as she pulled her friend away. The smoke was clearing, allowing her a view of a body strewn like rags on the tunnel floor, surrounded by sooty debris. The Baths creature was gone.

  Liguilifrey was clearly in shock, and Subadwan sat her up against a wall. ‘Your eyes must have been substituted by the spirit of Noct,’ she said, glancing back at the damaged corridor. ‘No doubt the thing would have pounced on me when it was ordered to. I told you Umia would do his utmost to capture me.’

  ‘But I’m blind, Subadwan, I’m blind.’

  Subadwan hugged her friend. ‘I know. We’ll have to evolve another pyuter for you as soon as possible. In my Archive there are nano-machine tanks that can create the bodies of pyuters from DNA recipes. I control them, even though I’m stuck here. We’ll get you eyes, Liguilifrey.’

  ‘But they were connected to me.’

  Subadwan glanced at the face of her friend, and wondered just what the link had been. ‘If eyes can be made once,’ she said, ‘they can be made twice.’

  Liguilifrey seemed unhappy, but she made no further comment. Subadwan left her and returned to the scene of the battle. The rags had sublimated, leaving only a dark stain in the shape of a pedician. Shuddering, Subadwan returned to Liguilifrey and guided the masseuse to the Osprey Chamber, where they both sat.

  Liguilifrey said, ‘What will you do now?’

  ‘What will you do?’ Subadwan countered.

  Liguilifrey was passing through shock. But she had no tear ducts. Her voice was thick with emotion and she waved her head from side to side, as if trying to sense the room around her by means of echoes. ‘I’ll have to call in Calminthan,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to arrange new procedures.’

  ‘l’ll try to help,’ said Subadwan. ‘I’ll call Gwythey now.’

  But her second deputy was not answering, and the Archive help screen seemed different somehow, as if it has been tampered with. For some time Subadwan ricocheted around the city networks trying to contact her Archive, but every system looked scrambled, and some of it was meaningless static.

  Returning to the distressed Liguilifrey upset her further. If something had happened at her Archive, she ought to be there. A quick visit should be safe, so long as she left the Baths in disguise…

  But she possessed the headmerger, and it contained vital information. She could not risk losing it. She decided to put it on.

  Comforting Liguilifrey, she robed herself, taking a hood from stock, and light shoes in which she could run if need be. There were no weapons inside the Baths, but she took an epidermal scraper which could be used as a blunt dagger. Thus equipped she made for the front doors.

  The streets outside were crowded despite it being early, and they overflowed with lunar jetsam.

  A tall figure stood on the opposite side of the street.

  Tanglanah.

  She was waiting with pyuton patience, arms folded. Subadwan pulled her hood down, but she had been spotted.

  Tanglanah approached. Angrily, Subadwan said, ‘What are you doing here? Didn’t I tell you we wanted nothing to do with you?’

  ‘I must have misheard,’ Tanglanah answered.

  Subadwan, lost for words, just wanted to lash out. ‘I want you to leave me alone. I’m not interested in your Archive. What is safekeeping, anyway? Have you bothered to explain it to your followers, or do they just listen with deaf ears?’

  Tanglanah paused long enough for Subadwan’s alert senses to capture and record the hesitation. ‘Safekeeping is important.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘We preach the wisdom of safety.’

  ‘You’re floundering,’ Subadwan accused, mocking Tanglanah in words and in tone.

  ‘No,’ Tanglanah insisted. Again the pyuton paused, before saying in a quiet voice, ‘Why be so harsh? Are we not both of an exalted order? We should work together, you and I.’

  Subadwan managed a laugh, though she felt only apprehension. ‘So you’re not going to tell me why the safety of Crayans is so important to you?’

  ‘I will if you want me to, but I do not think you really want to know.’

  ‘I do want to know, but it can wait.’

  ‘That smacks of contrition,’ Tanglanah remarked.

  ‘It might do had I sinned. But I think I’m entitled to enquire about your little library of fantasies.’

  ‘It was the timing that stood out.’

  Subadwan shrugged. She was almost enjoying the tussle. ‘It would stand out to one whose plans were coming to fruition,’ she remarked.

  ‘If you still do not trust me, do not joust with me.’

  ‘So now you’re trying to make me feel inadequate. I have many powers, Tanglanah.’

  This remark, casually uttered, made Tanglanah again hesitate for some time. Then she said, ‘Do you have the shell I gave you?’

  ‘Not on me.’

  ‘It matters not. You do possess it though.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Tanglanah is afraid of me, Subadwan realised. Into her mind came other tiny clues to the dark, yet conscious being inside Tanglanah’s alloy skull. She understood that, despite the pyuton’s social poise and intelligence, she, small Subadwan, had influence. Yes, Tanglanah was old and she was only twenty-five, but she possessed qualities that the pyuton did not.

  ‘I
don’t trust you,’ she told Tanglanah. ‘As we speak my deputy is looking for glass shells, so I can test yours against real ones.’

  And then…

  Subadwan slid into a Crayan landscape, as if into a pool of water. Behind her the Baths shimmered into nothingness, leaving a plastic field covered with darkness. Above, a blue, green and white disk sailed high. All around stood the familiar buildings of Peppermint Street and, a little way off, Arrowmint Street: dark streets, not flashing with motes at the speed of light, though some were marked with signs glowing like fluorescent paint under an ultraviolet lamp. Most disconcerting was the quiet, as if her amplifiers had broken. Silence unnerved her. All she could hear was the soughing of the wind, and far off the sea, ghostly and discomfitting enough to make her shiver.

  She waited for something to happen.

  Nothing did, and there was no sign of Tanglanah.

  After a minute she noticed that nearby a ball of air was flexing, glittering red, then transforming – and Tanglanah appeared from it, seated and with eyes closed, like a coal from a fire. She rose in one balletic movement. ‘We are here,’ she told Subadwan.

  Subadwan answered, ‘It looks like Cray.’

  ‘Does that surprise you?’

  ‘Can’t you tell I’m surprised? What have you done? What’s happened to Cray?’

  Tanglanah said, ‘This was not of my doing. Gwmru has imposed itself upon the city.’

  ‘But what’s happened?’

  ‘Cray is a city composed of memory. These memories are organised in subtle ways, following their own rhythms, some of which are ancient. Every now and again two sundered halves interfere constructively, and this is the result. A new Cray has temporarily appeared.’