Æstival Tide w-2

by Elizabeth Hand

  But as they approached the palace Reive stopped, shaking her head in disbelief. Turning to Ceryl she cried, “What have they done?”

  It seemed that all of Dominations Level had been moved up here. Scores of biotechnicians and aardmen were still at work, dragging huge cages from the freight gravators, swearing and shouting and snarling beneath the dim violet lights of Seraphim’s false evening. Trees—real trees, live trees engineered in the laboratories of Dominations—had been set in concrete tubs to form a sort of forest, palms and oaks and conifers lined up neatly in rows, but so close their limbs had tangled or, in some cases, broken off to fall in heaps on the pavement. Reive and Ceryl passed through them slowly, and drew closer to each other as they walked.

  Because it was one thing to view these things in the brightly lit corridors and workrooms of Dominations, or shoved into the background of one of the dioramas where exhausted jackals and dire wolves panted on the cement floor. But to see them here, beneath the dim purple lamps in the domes above, with the humid breath of the unseen ocean thick in your lungs, the smell of the sea mingling with the ticklish scent of firs and the acrid musk of frightened animals—it suddenly made Seraphim Level seem endless.

  Because, vast as it was, wherever you were inside of Araboth you knew that there was an end to it—that the Domes were there, hidden behind heat fences or murals or refinery smoke, but there, protecting you from the world Outside.

  But the effect of these shrubs and trees and vines crowding the boulevard and the very steps of the Orsinate’s palace was perverse. Rather than make the place appear smaller, the shadows and rustlings and myriad smells made it all seem huge. Ceryl could no longer tell where the domes were, hidden behind tangled branches and leaves. Even the constant undercurrent of hisses from the ventricles, of the whir of servers out on errands, was drowned by a ceaseless soft stirring, as though some errant wind moved among the stolen forest.

  Only the smell of the sea remained the same; and Reive shuddered, imagining it somewhere just out of sight, lapping against the gravator entrance or smashing through the bulwarks surrounding the refineries.

  “This must be what timoring feels like,” she murmured. “If you do it right. Or what it’s really like, Outside…”

  In the shadows they could glimpse other visitors, silent and subdued as Reive and Ceryl themselves, gazing at the eerie menagerie, the black trees shot with gold and violet where the faint light from the domes trickled through their branches. Once Reive stumbled, flailing as she grabbed at Ceryl’s hand—

  “What—!”

  The gynander’s eyes widened and Ceryl steadied herself against a tree. They could hear other voices crying out, and croaks and screams from the imprisoned animals, then ripples of nervous laughter.

  Reive caught her breath, then said, “The ground! Did you feel it—it shook, it all shook —”

  Ceryl bit her lip, waited until her breathing slowed. “It was the gravators,” she said at last. “Bringing all these cages up here—they’re so heavy—”

  Reive stared at her as though she were mad. “The gravators? No, it is the Wind Outside—”

  Ceryl grabbed the gynander and covered her mouth with her hand. “Stop it!” she hissed. “Do you want to cause a panic? Get us killed? ”

  Reive glared at her, pulling at Ceryl’s hand. “We felt it! The storm, what Zalophus warned us of—”

  “Reive,” pleaded Ceryl. She tipped her head to indicate where several members of the Toxins Cabal were talking animatedly and glancing at them. “Please—at least until we get back home this evening—”

  Reive gave her a sulky look, but then she nodded. Ceryl took her hand and they walked more quickly toward the palace.

  They stopped in front of a betulamia, a sentient tree whose slender branches plied the air gently, as though underwater. At its base squatted a square metal tub of mauve Catherine Wheel poppies. When Reive touched one, its gold-tipped petals contracted, then spat out a number of tiny bright red seeds that crackled and fizzed as they flew through the air. From within their cages gibbons howled and mandrills boomed, and somewhere out of sight one of the Children of Mercy shrieked with laughter as a dire wolf howled, a long anguished sound.

  “Have they—have they brought them all here?” wondered Reive. She looked around, too embarrassed to admit what she was afraid of finding—Zalophus caged within one of those steel tanks, the Children of Mercy prodding him with their electrified lances.

  “No,” Ceryl said. She plucked one of the spent poppy blossoms and gazed at it sadly. “Not everything—just some of them, who knows how they choose them—for the festival. I wasn’t up here for the last one, of course, but I’ve heard of things like this. It’s a—like one of the dioramas brought to life. For the Orsinate’s pleasure, and their guests. So they can pretend to cheat Death, and play at being Outside.”

  Reive plucked a bit of tamarack and brushed her cheek with it, its bristles surprisingly soft and pungent. “Outside,” she whispered, and let the tamarack fall through her fingers to the ground. From behind them echoed a recording of the Compassionate Redeemer’s ululating cry.

  “We’d better hurry,” Ceryl said without enthusiasm. As she walked, poppy seeds exploded beneath her feet, releasing their sulfurous smell. Reive followed, gazing wistfully behind them. The noise and scents from the menagerie faded as they approached the palace.

  “What’s that?”

  The gynander pointed to where a smear of white shimmered overhead, like a lantern reflected upon the convex surface of the domes.

  Ceryl glanced up, then shrugged. “I don’t know. The moon?”

  The moon. Reive tried to recall what the moon was: something to do with light. They were quite near the palace now, closer even than she had been at the Investiture. She smoothed her pantaloons, then rubbed her scalp anxiously. She wished she had brought some of her amber pomade when she’d left her own level. Ceryl’s clothes were so drab; but Reive had found a scarf of russet gossamer and tied it around her coiled hair, and dusted herself with silver ash until her skin had a dull gleam like pewter. Beside her Ceryl looked quite splendid. The jade-green tunic set off her pale skin, the brass-and-malachite fillet glinted from beneath her short glossy hair. Despite her fair hair and skin, her plebeian blue eyes, Ceryl was striking-looking. Reive could even imagine that someone might think her beautiful—not the Orsinate, however, whose tastes ran more toward the deliberately bizarre, even deformed. For a moment the gynander regretted not having worn more outlandish makeup, the better to impress the margravines; but now they had reached the very steps of the palace itself, and Ceryl was whispering nervously beside her.

  “The sentries—”

  Overhead several fougas circled lazily, their spotlights lancing the violet air with adamant. Glass bowls lit with rose-scented oil lined the entrance to the palace. The vicar of the Church of Christ Cadillac, resplendent in azure robes and chromium mitre, stood on the lowest step of the palace, a ritual urceole in her hands. As Reive and Ceryl passed she spattered them with seawater from the silver pitcher and murmured a ward against the world Outside. When Reive turned to stare at her she was jerked forward by Ceryl.

  As they walked up the steps they were greeted by several guards in knee-length blousons of yolk-yellow linen, jade-green sashes across their breasts in honor of the festival. “Brave the Healing Wind,” one called out to Ceryl, and another smiled and winked at Reive. All the guards were human save the last, a forbidding scholiast with many-jointed arms and an eyeless face guarding the arch that led into the palace. Ceryl held up the Orsinate’s heraldic eye; the scholiast scanned it, then, “Ceryl Waxwing,” it whispered, and Ceryl passed through the high-arched doorway. Once on the other side she gazed back anxiously at Reive.

  On the steps other guests paused to receive the vicar’s blessing. The fougas’ watchlights swept the boulevard. The gynander hesitated in front of the scholiast, then held out Tatsun Frizer’s card. The scholiast ignored it. Instead it took her h
and and stretched out her palm, pricked it with a tiny needle that shot from its metal claw, humming as one of its optics scanned her face. A moment while it read her retinaprint and biogene.

  “Reive Orsina,” it intoned, dropping her hand. She took one final look at the silent plaza and hurried inside.

  Ceryl waited a few feet down the hall. She looked relieved as Reive ran up to her. “It didn’t question you?”

  “No: it said our name, and then ‘Orsina’—”

  “It must think you’re a special guest—which you are, I suppose. Well, we’ll see. It’s down this way….”

  Inside, the palace was less imposing. The halls they hurried down were simple in appearance, almost utilitarian: faux marble floors and walls of a creamy white, with white arches and columns leading to this wing or another. Busts and holoimages of long-dead Orsinas gleamed or flickered in odd corners, but otherwise the hall was empty. Unseen scholiasts whispered the names of the different chambers—Toxins Cabal Salon, the Uropan Ambassador’s Suite, the Architect Imperator’s Drafting Room. As they passed this last door it opened, and a tall man and a dwarf emerged and followed them down the hall, whispering urgently. Ceryl’s hands went numb as she recognized Sajur Panggang, the Architect Imperator, and the puppeteer Rudyard Planck. Sajur walked slowly, his long legs slicing through the white hallways like well-oiled shears. Beside him Planck bounded like some macabre toy, brick-colored hair tossing, his tiny feet patting against the marble floor. Ceryl started walking faster, but behind her Reive paced oblivious, staring at the smooth arched ceiling and humming tunelessly to herself. When they reached the glass atrium with its garden of crystal orchids Ceryl hurried up the stairs, turning down this corridor and the next. Still Sajur and his grotesque companion followed them, until they all reached a dead end where a tall red-lacquered door stood open.

  Ceryl hesitated, wondering if she and Reive could disappear inside before introductions became necessary. But it was too late.

  “Serena, is it?” the Architect Imperator said kindly, making a steeple of his hands and bowing slightly.

  “Ceryl Waxwing,” she replied, bowing in return. Sajur Panggang smiled and shrugged ruefully.

  “My pardon—I am so very bad with names—my wife was the one who remembered—”

  He grimaced apologetically and adjusted the emerald mourning cuffs on his wrists. Ceryl wished that she had worn something a little more ostentatious. The Architect Imperator had indulged his whimsy for archaic clothing with a plain black suit and narrow tie, a woolen muffler tied around his long neck and his black turban of office. An enormous and no doubt artificial tourmaline of very pale green winked from within the folds of black silk neatly wrapped about his brow. Beside him Rudyard Planck bobbed like one of his own ugly creations. He too had eccentric taste in clothes: beneath a thick wool cape his shirt had been torn to shreds and then repaired with brilliant green silk and green thread, a vulgar shade that did nothing to complement his tallowy complexion. Like Tatsun Frizer he followed the current fashion for exotic shoes, in Rudyard’s case heavy fleece-lined boots that came up to his thighs. Ceryl looked up to see Reive smiling at him and the puppeteer grinning back at her. Hastily she began introductions.

  “Sajur, may I present Reive—”

  She faltered, realizing she had no other name for the gynander. Reive ignored her and continued to gaze at the dwarf. Ceryl grit her teeth and said, “Reive, this is the Architect Imperator.”

  The gynander only looked sideways and nodded. The Architect Imperator laughed, as Ceryl blushed and went on, “Rudyard, this is—”

  “Oh, we’ve met, Waxwing, we’ve met—!”

  “You have?” Ceryl stammered. “How? I mean—”

  Gently Sajur Panggang took her by the elbow, murmuring, “Perhaps we shouldn’t block the doorway, Ceryl. May I escort you inside?”

  Ceryl choked, shaking her head, then nodded furiously and let him lead her into the Four Hundredth Room. Behind her Rudyard Planck murmured what sounded like a suggestive remark, and the gynander giggled. She tried to look back at them, but the Architect Imperator’s grasp upon her arm was quite strong as he led her toward the center of the room.

  She stumbled after him, glancing about discreetly to see who else was there. Tatsun Frizer, of course. The opera star Kai Kaeng. A number of thugs from the Reception Committee, trying to pretend they were guests and not security personnel. A false hermaphrodite with an open-front tunic, preening before the real thing. A tall Aviator wearing a floor-length coat of sable over his scarlet uniform, standing by himself with his back to the crowd. Another Aviator walked up beside him, hesitating before placing his hand on his arm. The first Aviator turned to him, facing Ceryl. His blank metal face reflected Ceryl’s own and his eyes stared out at her, raw and wet and the color of oysters.

  “—didn’t realize Waxwing had such good taste as to adopt this lovely and clever young thing—”

  Dully Ceryl nodded as the dwarf rattled on. The rasa continued to stare at her. She made a small nervous sound, then forced herself to look down at Rudyard Planck laughing as he twiddled one end of Reive’s scarf in his blunt fingers. When she glanced up a moment later, the rasa was walking toward ziz.

  “Excuse me—” murmured Sajur Panggang. “I’ll find you later, Rudyard. Ceryl—”

  He was gone before Ceryl could say goodbye. She looked helplessly at the dwarf.

  “What a charming young friend you have, Ceryl,” he croaked. He tugged at Reive’s scarf. “Although she might be chilly later. I hear Nike’s chosen a wintry theme for this evening. I trust you’ll be scrying for us tonight, my dear?” He reached up to trace Reive’s navel, drew away a finger frosted with silver ash. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of hearing you before.”

  “If we are asked.” Reive dipped her head modestly. Rudyard laughed and started toward the center of the room, taking Reive by the arm.

  “Well, I certainly look forward to hearing you. Ceryl, may I get you a drink?”

  Ceryl shook her head, following them. She inhaled, then sneezed. Lovey’s Prescient Chypre, Nike’s favorite scent this year, its overtones of frangipani and licorice so cloying it always made Cheryl’s head ache. She tried breathing through her mouth and elbowed past another actress, a wraithlike soprano with an eyepatch who was having her first success with the current vogue for sadist opera, with its graphic (and vulgar) depictions of the Third Shining, when the War between the celestial stations of HORUS and the Balkhash Commonwealth erupted into the holocaust that blasted the prairies into black adamant and destroyed the isthmus connecting the continent with its antipode.

  “—then it was like the entire stage tilted, and of course I just went flying, I’ve never felt anything like it in my life, the whole place seemed to be moving, and all week I’ve had the most gruesome headache, and now of course they tell me Shiyung isn’t even going to be here tonight—”

  The soprano turned to greet Ceryl, Lovey’s Prescient Chypre practically dripping from her bare shoulders. Ceryl smiled grimly and plowed on.

  With a crowd inside it, the Four Hundredth Room seemed little different from any other place used for a dream inquisition, except for the wood-paneled walls. Ancient carpets on the floor, walls hung with aluminum tapestries, electric lights shining from within sconces shaped like cupped hands. A duo playing therimin and bass viola sat in a corner, nearly hidden by automotive statuary. In front of them a young galli in indigo robes and grass-green sash sang in a pure child’s voice an immeasurably ancient song—

  “The keeper of the city keys Puts shutters on the dreams. I wait outside the pilgrim’s door with insufficient schemes.”

  Ceryl pinched the bridge of her nose, wondering how Reive had disappeared so quickly. Someone handed the galli a wineglass; without stopping his song he smiled and bowed.

  “The black queen chants the funeral march

  The cracked brass bells will ring

  To summon back the fire witch to the court of the Crims
on King.”

  “Ceryl. You made it.”

  Ceryl started as Tatsun Frizer prowled up behind her, blessedly without her puppet.

  “Y-yes.” She looked past Tatsun and spotted Reive on the other side of the room with Rudyard Planck. “Oh, damn—”

  Tatsun followed her gaze and raised her eyebrows. Her vocoder blinked pale rose as she cooed, “That morph—she is a friend of yours?”

  “The gynander? Yes—Reive, that’s her name— Reive! ”

  From across the room Reive gave Ceryl a tiny wave. Rudyard Planck raised a glass half-full of virent Amity in a mocking toast.

  “She’s very attractive,” said Tatsun. Ceryl looked up, surprised.

  Tatsun sniffed. “Oh, don’t worry, I wouldn’t dream of stealing your little paramour. Excuse me—”

  “She’s not —” Ceryl began heatedly, but Tatsun tossed her head and stalked off. For a few minutes Ceryl just stood there, watching as Rudyard offered Reive more Amity and the morphodite bowed gracefully as she accepted it. The last guests straggled in—two more actors from the pleasure cabinet, a diplomat leading an aardman on a silver chain, the usual hangers-on and uninvited guests, eager for the opportunity to ingratiate themselves with the Orsinate and so inadvertently increase their chances of dying at their hands. In the dim corner where the musical duo piped and droned, the margravine ziz sat and drummed her fingers on her knees, looking uneasy, while at her shoulder the Aviator Imperator Tast’annin stood like a great hooded gyrfalcon, his black-gloved hands caressing the back of her chair.

  At sight of him Ceryl froze. She realized he knew nothing, cared nothing, about her; indeed, knew it should be impossible for a rasa to truly care about anything. If he had seemed to stare before, surely it was because she had been standing next to Sajur Panggang. But still he terrified her. His gaze was more acute than any rasa’s she had ever seen, and his hands twisted menacingly within their leather gloves….

  Ceryl hugged herself, pushing back a fear as strong as the one that came upon her during her nightmares of the Green Country. Of course it meant nothing—the rasa Imperator; this oddly self-composed gynander who had scryed her dream, taken over her life, and within days managed to get invited into the Orsinate’s sanctorum; Reive’s sudden and inappropriate friendship with the rakish Rudyard Planck; the reports of tremors and structural failures throughout the city.