Reive crouched into her chair, looking more like a child than ever. For a horrible moment Ceryl thought she would refuse. And Ceryl couldn’t risk that; couldn’t risk letting the gynander return to her own level, where she might betray them both. The thought of killing Reive sickened her; but she would have no choice. She looked at the gynander beseechingly.
Reive lowered her head, drew her hands to her ears. She wished she’d never come here; wished she’d not been so greedy for food and a new patron. But it was done, now.
And Ceryl’s quarters were on the upper levels. There would be no other hermaphrodites there to snigger at Reive behind her back. She would be well fed, and, if she could trust Ceryl, well cared for. Very slowly, Reive nodded.
Ceryl let her breath out in a long whoo of relief. “Good,” she said, and paced to the door. “I think we should go now—”
Before you change your mind, she thought—
“Before it gets any later. I’ve got everything we’ll need up there, the kitchen’s full, I’ve never even spent the night—”
She practically dragged Reive after her, the two of them hurrying down the corridor to the gravator that would bring them to the pleasure cabinet’s level. It wasn’t until they reached Ceryl’s chambers and locked the door behind them that Reive realized that she had forgotten the mysid in its globe.
Hobi grew increasingly nervous as they waited for the gravator to arrive in the Undercity and bear them back to the upper levels. His eyes ached, striving to give sharp edges and angles to this shapeless night. Phantom pyramids and cubicles appeared before his eyes, ghostly well-ordered images that begged for substance; but Hobi knew there was only this inchoate blackness, this dank and primal air, this soft earth beneath his boots. He shuddered, longing for the cool blues and whites of Cherubim, the sterile and vivifying scents from the air ducts.
“Because of the Architects,” Nasrani was saying. Hobi started. He hadn’t been listening; a soft labored sound, like something breathing, had diverted his attention to a heap of rags near the gravator entrance.
“…back then they were training me to be the next Architect Imperator—”
Hobi looked up in surprise as Nasrani continued, “Before you were born. I had the finest tutors. The Kray Nine Thousand and Natambu Bellairs. I’m the oldest in the family, you know. ziz comes next, but she’s three years younger and…”
Hobi nodded, fidgeting. Far above the gravator could barely be discerned, a square of violet light floating down, cables wrapping it like black velvet ropes.
Nasrani continued, “…and really she’s the least intelligent of all of us. That’s why she relies so utterly on the Architects; why for generations they have all enslaved themselves to the Architects. Because they were stupid; because no one had the education or temperament to question the machines.”
“But you did.” Hobi nodded. It seemed the right thing to say.
“That’s right. I did. I was researching the western storm system, what the moujiks call Ucalegon. Did you know there was another city here once, before Araboth?”
Hobi shook his head.
“There was. It was called Indianola.”
With a grating noise the gravator finally stopped in front of them. They stepped inside and sat down. Hobi practically groaned with relief as the doors closed and the machine began to rise once more, but Nasrani went on as though nothing had changed.
“We’ve found evidence that this site was settled nearly a thousand years ago. It was a port then, feeding into the Gulf—”
“The Gulf?”
“Yes, the Gulf! All that water out there? The sea? ” Nasrani glared at him. “You’ve been out at Æstival Tide?”
Hobi looked offended. “I just never heard anyone call it that.”
Nasrani raised his eyebrows triumphantly. “My point exactly. That’s because nobody knows anymore. The Architects clean their files periodically and purge them of old data, and then no one remembers the original names of things. But there was a city here, quite a large one. Indianola. The Gateway to Texas, they called it. It was a trade center for petroleum and metals and other things. Cattle, in the very beginning when there were farmlands here. A pleasure city for a while. Then a port again, for trade with HORUS and the Commonwealth, before the Long Night destroyed most of the cities and there was no one left to trade with: Then when things were restored somewhat after the Third Ascension, it became a port for the slave trade.”
Hobi tilted his head. “So was this city destroyed by the Commonwealth or the Emirate?”
“It was destroyed by a storm. By several storms. Hurricanes, tidal waves, typhoons. The first time—the first time we have records—was in the nineteenth century. Then again in the twentieth, and again in the twenty-first. Each time they rebuilt the city, and each time it was wiped away as though it had never existed. The last time was the worst—by then the storm systems had grown terrifically—the weather had mutated like everything else. Afterward the Long Night came before they had a chance to rebuild it. When the Prophets of the Two Faiths finally joined forces a hundred years later, they raised the Quincunx Domes atop the ruins of those earlier cities, and named the new city Araboth. Seventh Heaven.”
Hobi glanced out the window. Outside the glow of the refineries faded as they rose another level. “Is it a secret, then? That this was Indianola once?”
Nasrani took a snuffbox from his greatcoat and did a pinch, sneezed, then tucked his long legs under him. “No. No secret; just forgotten history.
“I learned other things, too. Especially later, when I started to try and find out about the nemosynes. I told you that the weather has been changing outside—the Shinings did that, and then some of the HORUS projects had an unanticipated effect. In the last few years it’s gotten worse—the Aviators bring back reports of storms in the Archipelago that wipe out entire islands in a single night. I myself have seen images from the HORUS satellites that show that the very shape of some of the continents has changed. There is a new storm system that builds in the seas to the east of Araboth. Every year for the last six or seven years at least one of these storms has come near enough to alter the topography of the coast a hundred miles south of here.”
Hobi stared openmouthed, but before he could say anything the exile cut him off.
“But did the Architects see this? They did not! Storms like these—if one of them were to strike here it could destroy us—”
Hobi protested, “But it would never break through. The domes…”
“The domes are hundreds of years old! And the Architects are even older. I believe they are starting to fail us—they are not as reliable as they once were. In the last year they have been giving the wrong data. Nothing anyone would notice during routine use; but as I told you, I was trained to be the Architect Imperator, so I noticed. Little things, like that hole we saw in the Undercity….”
Hobi cried, “But—but what does it mean?”
Nasrani took a deep breath. “It means, either the Architects are malfunctioning or—or they’re malfunctioning, that’s all.”
Suddenly he looked tired, not the margravin in exile but a haggard man no longer young. He looked at Hobi almost desperately. “That is why I’m trying to wake the nemosyne, to see if she can access others Outside. Perhaps there is a master diagnostic that could repair the Architects. Or one of the meteorological nemosynes that could track the storm systems accurately. Because otherwise…”
He spread his hands, shrugging, and said nothing more.
Hobi looked away, brushing his long hair from his face. Periwinkle light filled the gravator, and the smell of lemons. They were approaching Cherubim. He thought of his father sitting up all night, talking to the Architects. He thought of all those other nights since his mother had been murdered, his sleepless father bleary-eyed and grim in his study. He thought of the fissure in the Undercity, and of a clear voice intoning The rift at Pier Forty-three is spreading.
“How do you know all this?” he as
ked at last, his voice cracking. “Why haven’t the Architects said anything? Why doesn’t my father know?”
Nasrani threw up his hands, falling against the wall as the gravator lurched to a stop. “Because the Architects are wrong, that’s why! They’ve been relying on old data, the lines from HORUS have been skewed, I don’t know! But they’re wrong, there is a new storm system. And I know, because I’ve seen it.”
Hobi swallowed. He remembered what the exile had said earlier, about the tunnel that had led him to the replicants. “You’ve been Outside?”
Nasrani nodded. Without looking at the boy he stood and started for the door. Hobi followed, shaking his head.
“But you’re alive. They say you can’t go Outside, except at Æstival Tide. They say you’ll go mad. They say you’ll die.”
With a grinding clang the doors slid open. “Well,” said Nasrani as he looked down at Hobi with his clear pale eyes. “It’s like I told you:
“ They’re wrong. ”
Chapter 3
THE INVESTITURE
IT HAD BEEN SOME time since Ceryl had been to her chambers on Thrones. When she opened the door a musky smell greeted them, amber essence and patchouli, but everything was neat and considerably more luxurious than what Reive was accustomed to.
“You can sleep here.” Ceryl pointed to a long divan plumped with yellow velvet pillows. “I’ll be in the next room if you need me—help yourself to anything you can find.” She was exhausted. Not even the threat of more nightmares could keep her from sleeping. She drew a bolt on the door, then retired to the bedroom.
Reive collapsed on the divan and stared at the ceiling. She found herself listening for the sound of gynanders whispering or running down the corridors. But it was quiet here, quieter than any level she had ever visited. None of the growlings or splashes of the vivariums; no chatter of recording equipment as on Powers. With a sigh she fingered a plait of her hair, chewing the end wistfully. She had none of her own clothes with her, of course. Worse, she didn’t have her cosmetics. She would have to make do with whatever she found here, which (she had peeked in a closet) looked to be mostly somber blue and brown catsuits and heavy leather boots. But Ceryl’s quarters were large and comfortable. There were stacks of ’files along one wall, a huge viewing monitor on another; and the promise of parties to attend. Sinking into the divan’s plush cushions with the rich smell of amber wafting over her, the soft warm glow of a night-light nearby, it seemed to Reive impossible that anything could go wrong here on the upper levels. Ceryl’s dream was probably just that, a dream; the tremor she’d felt earlier some minor disturbance—maybe one of the Architects’ grinding machines at work somewhere below. And everyone knew Zalophus was mad. The gynander quickly fell asleep, her own dreams peaceful and utterly forgettable.
Until without warning she was tearing at the coverlet, her heart thudding as she staggered from the divan, crying out softly as she tried to recall where she was.
The woman with the dream. The upper levels. Reive grabbed the edge of a table, breathing deeply until she felt calmer, and then she recalled what had awakened her.
The mysid. She had given it no thought until now, but suddenly she was torn with visions of the frail thing floating dead and gray in its bowl. Left alone in her chambers it would die; might already be dead, if another tremor had shaken Virtues Level and sent some bit of rubbish falling onto its fragile globe. Or—and this would be worse—someone might find it, a snooping guardian or the awful Drusilla, and then it would be traced back to Reive, or else tossed with the day’s slops into one of the level’s septic tanks.
Tears burned at the gynander’s eyes. How could she have forgotten it? Her prized possession, the secret living thing she had hidden and protected all these months. Before she could think better of it she was at the door, sliding back the bolt with a soft whicker and padding into the hallway, headed for the gravator that would bring her back to Virtues.
She met no one on the way. It was too early for shift-change, and there was seldom much traffic between her own level and Ceryl’s, especially at this hour. Once in the pale blue and pink corridors of the hermaphrodites’ quarters she raced silently to her room, scarcely waiting for the sentry to bid her enter. Then she was inside.
All was as it had been, the same tangle of clothes and cosmetics, the same thick smell of unwashed bedcovers. A few flecks of plastic had peeled from the ceiling, and the dim lighting flickered as though the current had wavered in the last few hours. Otherwise there was no sign but that this was any other evening, with Reive returning late from an inquisition. She stepped breathlessly to where she had hidden the mysid’s globe behind her narrow bed, reached down and withdrew it.
Inside the orb of dusty glass the little creature floated, its translucent skin almost silvery in the uneven light. When Reive touched the globe with one eager finger the mysid stirred, darted to the bottom of its tiny cage with legs beating fiercely.
“It’s all right,” Reive whispered, hugging the globe to her breast. “We didn’t forget you, we came back….”
In a pile by the door she found a long scarf of iridescent blue cloth. Carefully she wrapped the globe in this, then gave a last look about her room. Her cosmetics box lay on the floor where she had left it, and there were her favorite gold chains, the little tin where she kept rings and earrings and odd bits of cloth for binding up her hair. She had a strange certainty that she would not be back here, but if she carried the mysid in its globe she would have room for nothing else. Finally she headed for the door, trying to hold the glass bowl tightly but casually, as though she carried nothing but a wad of cloth.
The hallway was still empty, but as she rounded the corner where the gravator waited she heard voices, shrill laughter, and Drusilla’s nasal squeal—
“—must have found somebody! Let’s bang on her door and find out—”
With a smothered cry Reive ran the last few feet to the gravator, moaning softly as precious water spilled from the globe to soak her chest. Then the doors were opening, nearly blinding light poured from the conveyance as she stumbled inside and, gasping, bade the gravator return to Ceryl’s level.
“Where the hell have you been?”
Ceryl stood inside the doorway, her eyes wild, smelling strongly of cheap brandy. “I’ve been up for an hour, I—”
Only of course she couldn’t admit just what had terrified her—the thought that the gynander had left to betray her and her treasonous dreams to the Orsinate. But here was Reive, disheveled as Ceryl herself, clutching a sodden knot of blue cloth and panting.
“We—we are sorry, we forgot something—”
She stepped into the room. Ceryl closed the door behind her and reached for a tiny glass of some bronze liquid. She took a sip, staring at the bundle in Reive’s hands, then asked, “Well, what is it? You know you could have been detained if you’d been stopped—”
“We saw no one,” Reive replied sullenly. She had thought she could return and find a new hiding place for her treasure. That would be impossible, now.
“Well?” Ceryl shook her glass impatiently, sending the spirits inside whirling in a diminutive vortex. Reive sighed, defeated, then slowly unwrapped the globe and set it on a table.
“What the hell is that?” Ceryl bent over the bowl, her tone more bemused than angry. Moisture pooled down the sides; it seemed to be half-full of cloudy water, and something like a bluish tear hung suspended in its center.
“It’s a—our—it’s a mysid. A shrimp.”
“A shrimp,” Ceryl repeated. She glanced at the gynander, her childish face pale and nearly tearful, then back at the globe. “Is it—wherever did you get it?”
“The vivariums,” Reive said miserably. “A patron gave it to us, as payment for a reading.”
Ceryl stooped so that she could peer more closely into the small bowl. Inside the frail creature darted about, its feathery fins beating the water to a reddish blur. “You’ve kept it? As a—as a pet?” When she looked
up the gynander was staring at her, terrified. With a pang Ceryl realized that Reive thought she would get rid of the thing—toss it down the septic line or turn Reive in for illegal possession of vivarium property.
Reive nodded, rubbing her eyes. “It needs more water. Some spilled on the way here.” She pointed at the scarf leaving a sodden blot on the floor at her feet.
“Yes—well, there’s water in the kitchen reservoir, let’s refill it.”
“No.” The gynander shook her head. “That would kill it—the water has to stand for a few days. That’s what the woman told me.”
Ceryl sipped thoughtfully at her brandy. “Of course. Well, I can get you the right kind of water,” she said at last. “From my workchambers on the vivarium level. How long have you had it?”
“A few months. It’s going to have babies—see? That’s an egg-sac.” She stuck a grubby finger on the edge of the globe, then said shyly, “Its name is Gato.”
Ceryl gazed at the clot of tiny pearls beneath the mysid’s thorax, then back at the gynander. Sudden pity washed over her—to think of anyone, even a hermaphrodite, keeping such a pathetic thing for a pet! and completely forbidden, as well. Unaccountably she thought of Giton, the trouble he took with his few belongings, his prized holo showing himself and Ceryl outside the Cathedral of Christ Cadillac one festival day.
After a moment she said, “We’ll have to find someplace to keep it. Where it won’t be seen. What does it eat?”
Reive looked up at her, her pale eyes wide with relief. “Anything. Rice crackers, mostly. Sometimes krill paste.”
“It would probably prefer some kind of fish nutriment.” Ceryl stood, a little unsteadily, and placed her empty brandy glass back on a shelf. “Tomorrow, I’ll bring some water back, and something for it to eat.”
At the door to her bedroom she paused. The gynander still knelt beside the globe, looking more childlike than ever with her thin dark hair unbound, her white face pressed close to the glass. Ceryl nodded, once, to herself, then said, “Would you—would you like to sleep in here, with me? There’s more room, I mean you could probably sleep better—”
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