The Ice House

by Tim Clare

  She reached the kitchen and recoiled at a blast of noise and wet heat. Cooks bellowed at assistants who peeled vegetables, turned meat on spits and thickened sauces. She wove between them, the head cook’s screamed orders ringing out over the clatter of spoons and knives.

  She cut through the scullery, where an army of under-servants scrubbed and scoured mountains of pots and dishes. The air had a sharp, alkaline tinge that made her breath catch. The door to the cleaning cupboard was ajar. She tutted and tried to close it, but it wouldn’t shut. Someone had dumped several empty sacks of Ado’s Salts on the floor on the other side. Hagar sighed. Were he here, Mitta would have rounded on the staff, yelling, breaking things. He said it was the only way to make them pay attention – anything less was futile, because by the time they learned, they had been replaced by the next generation and the lessons needed teaching all over again. She wished she had half his passion, his decisiveness.

  She kicked the empty sacks under the shelves and left. Such carelessness was a safety issue. The crystals were useful for unblocking drains clogged with fat, but just a sprinkling could give you a nasty burn if it mixed with your sweat.

  As she followed another passage, the sound of flussmusik grew louder. She touched her fingers to the comb in her hair, checking it hadn’t fallen out.

  She stepped out into the northeastern courtyard. Slender neren trees (imported at great cost) dipped shocks of branches into the canal. A tunnel led to the steps of the pavilion, made of archways wrapped in lianas. The pavilion’s grey stone roof tapered to a silver shaft pointing skyward, a spear thrust towards heaven. The palace spire had always looked rather martial to her, a symbol of aggression, but today, at the birth of this strange new era, the tower in all its improbable grandeur seemed to represent something quite different: hope.

  She crossed the polished white flagstones, ducking under fragrant tresses of narrymere and sea poppy. A group of guests squealed delightedly, jumping back from a cage. Inside, a simarak beat upon the steel mesh with all four of its powerful fists, hissing and flaring its spinnerets in a show of dominance. Its luxuriant mane of flame-orange hair spilled down its back to the leathery sack of its abdomen. For the ball, Morgellon had insisted on having cages placed all round the palace. Simaraks were his latest obsession; he had had dozens imported from the northern jungles, and a whole enclosure constructed, with trees draped in rigging from a scuttled clipper. Hagar had watched them descend on gossamer cables to consume live prey at feeding time, extending venom-filled spines from their wrists, parcelling paralysed, half-eaten creatures in sticky silk and stowing them in bushes for later. Once again, Morgellon’s instinct for spectacle served him well; simaraks were a thrilling hint of the brutality that lay beyond civilisation.

  Gondolas emerged from the tunnels that ran beneath the palace, passengers blinking in the sunlight. The pavilion’s huge doors were flanked by glass statues of Okap, the fish god. Serving maids in hoods held out trenchers piled with liquorice sticks and little sugared cheeses.

  Within the pavilion, conversation and music echoed up towards the distant vaulted ceiling, where murals depicted savage beasts enthralled by Orpheus playing his lyre. The rendition of Orpheus looked very like Morgellon, from the beard down to the telltale kink in his smile. A dazzling abstract mosaic spread across the floor, depicting spirals rendered in red and black and gold. At the northern end, a balcony sat on helical columns striped with golden fluting, while in the centre of the room, steps led down into a huge swimming pool, which had been emptied to serve as a sunken ballroom.

  In one corner, three lanta musicians with green-gold carapaces stood surrounded by black webs of godstuff, their domed eyes glowing as they manipulated it into unsettling matrices that tricked the eye into perceiving three-dimensional shapes when viewed from certain angles. Strands linking the shapes vibrated, producing shivering, spectral notes. It was a characteristically daring choice of entertainment by Morgellon, given the rising threat from Hilanta. Perhaps he sought to remind his guests that they were at war with a nation, not a species, and that not all lanta served the dark battalions of the mycocorps. On the other hand, perhaps their presence served the same purpose as the simaraks; a tactical disruption of the pampered calm, a demonstration that the world outside the palace walls – beyond the ramparts of mutual preservation – was alien and disturbing.

  She hung at the edge of the vast room, conscious of her peculiar clothes, casting about for Mitta. Three big sluice gates were set into the southern wall, allowing the pool to be filled rapidly and dramatically via grille-covered channels that ran across the floor. And ah, there was Mortifer Bechstein, 1st Lord Cambridge, resplendent in a flowing diaphanous gown from which his wings spread, decorated with iridescent feathers and supported by a crosspiece of lacquered bamboo. About his ears he wore a ringleted copper wig that came down to the fat golden links of his necklace. His hands sparkled with gemmed rings – two or three to a finger. A retinue of cowed vesperi maids followed in his wake, while his retainer Kizo – a grey-furred vesperi with keen, lupine features from one of the long-defunct noble families – walked at his side in full ceremonial cuirass of hardened leather scales, one hand on the hooked pommel of a sword in a mammoth-bone scabbard that hung from a ring at his hip, the other clad in a gauntlet from which a sleek taldin launched and wheeled through the air, provoking gasps from the balcony.

  Bechstein watched and nodded approvingly. Hard to believe this was the same person under whose command thousands of suspected rossi-ka militia had been taken out to sea and drowned. The fellow who fought for the vesperi liberation forces then turned on his own people in return for endless life and a seat at the perpetuum ganzplena. Skinning, disembowelment, decades of confinement in dark, cramped cells – the cruelties he stood accused of inflicting upon his enemies were stark in their lack of imagination. Notwithstanding his dress sense and legendary appetites, there was no theatre in his wickedness. It was brutish and functional. He intimidated, he tortured, he killed and he wasted no time inventing bogus justifications before he did so. In such a way, he had managed to bring the long defiant continent of Thelusia to heel, crushing incipient uprisings by turning dissident factions’ paranoia upon one another.

  As he breezily engaged with various guests of lesser status, she saw how Kizo’s gaze was constantly roving, his weight shifting from foot to foot. Surely he could not suspect an assault here, at her master’s ball, during a celebration of peace? A substantial coalition of elite soldiers from across the perpetuum stood on watch outside the palace walls, with more patrolling the city. Within the palace, many of the soldiers were from Lord Cambridge’s personal guard. All guests here were safe. With Morgellon’s powers, how could they not be?

  A group of high-caste harka were talking to Lord Alderberen of Avalonia, their horns etched with intricate clan insignias. Servants stood by with tithing bowls into which the heavy-set dignitaries could ostentatiously tip a measure of local wine before imbibing. Lord Alderberen himself was a mild, whelpish sort of man with a thin nose and rounded back who looked perpetually as if he were trying to recall the second half of an adage. He had not long been in the position, having travelled, so they said, from the old world. If this was England’s best she was glad she had never set foot there. He appeared unassuming to the point of feeble-mindedness. Apparently his arising had granted him the ability to make plants grow, a knack which brought him great pleasure but hardly bespoke authority. He seemed constitutionally unsuited to leadership and Hagar worried that, despite his pliability, Morgellon would have to replace him if he wanted to bring stability to this region.

  No sign of Mitta. No sign of Morgellon, either. She fiddled with her silk peony. A big gong hung at the deep end of the emptied pool. Morgellon had hinted he planned to make a grand speech at some point during the evening – perhaps he meant to do it here, in the pavilion.

  She was jolted from her reverie by a group of stunningly beautiful, richly attired young human girls standing bes
ide a giant hourglass. They wore glossy silk pantaloons that stopped just below the knee, covered in gilt or silver filigree, their hair cut short or shaved to just above the ears, the rest swept forward in a dramatic wave that framed the face. They did not quite fill out their blouses – Hagar was poor at guessing ages, but she put them at around fifteen or sixteen. Dust poured through the huge hourglass in a silver cascade. A clockwork mechanism cunningly concealed within the frame drew the dust back into the upper bulb, so it never ran out. The girls stood with their backs to it, glancing round while holding their faces in looks of studied boredom.

  As Hagar walked past, one of them looked at her askance.

  ‘Where’s the skroon fight?’

  Hagar blinked. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know.’

  The girl gasped, snapping her paper fan shut. She was tall, with a wide, mobile mouth and gold cufflinks finished with two colossal pearls.

  ‘What do you mean, “I don’t know”? Look at me when I’m talking to you. What’s your name?’

  ‘Hagar.’

  The girls laughed into their fans. The tall girl smirked.

  ‘Isn’t that a man’s name?’

  ‘No.’ Hagar’s throat felt tight.

  The girl looked her up and down with cool derision. ‘Well, Hay-garr, I want a drink.’

  Oh no. They thought her a servant. Hagar glanced around the room, mortified. Where was Mitta?

  ‘Are you simple, child?’ The girl clapped out syllables. ‘Get. Me. A. Drink.’

  Hagar clapped once. ‘No.’

  The girls all stared in stunned silence. The ringleader lunged for Hagar’s hair. She grabbed it and wrenched Hagar’s head side to side.

  ‘Yes . . . yes . . . yes.’ With each syllable she yanked Hagar back and forth. ‘Don’t you ever talk to me like that, you nasty . . . vulgar . . . little . . . beast.’

  Hagar tried to grab her wrist but the girl yanked her head left and right. She felt the comb slip loose, heard it clatter against the floor.

  The girl pulled her hand back. ‘Ugh! She’s infected.’

  Warm air tickled Hagar’s bald spot. She tried to drag the matted lump of her hair back into place.

  The girl scowled. ‘Moths have eaten your wig.’

  Hagar looked around for the comb. She spotted it on the polished tiles. She stooped to pick it up. The girl stepped on it. It cracked with a singing report.

  Hagar felt a chill wash through her. The girl gazed down, the embroidered toe cap of her boot pressing on the comb. Hagar looked up, trembling. The girl smiled, as if daring her to take it. Hagar looked into the girl’s eyes, and saw cold triumph.

  An instant later, she lost interest. A friend exclaimed: ‘Ah, Sabine!’ The group moved off.

  The flussmusik rose to a piercing, glassy crescendo. Hagar scooped up the pieces of her comb and fled.

  Hagar found a storage space far from the main hallways – an awkward void between two rooms that few staff knew about. It was full of ladders and old garden ornaments under dust sheets. She lit a candle, cleared a space on top of a crate, and laid out the pieces of her comb.

  It had split and several teeth had fallen out. She had to keep wiping away tears. Her fingers were trembling. No good, no good. She studied her reflection in the belly of a big glass vase, piling her hair up, trying to make it look like it had before, but without the comb it would not stay. Her appearance was no longer pleasing – just hopelessly ugly.

  God, she wished she could slam that girl’s face into the floor until it came up busted and bloody. What use were all her years of education if she couldn’t defend herself? She would make physical training part of her daily regime. She would seek out instructors. She would never let herself be humiliated again.

  Hagar pictured the girl ageing, her skin slackening and mottling, her hazel eyes turning milky, her limbs becoming infirm. All our vanities shall dissolve in the tide. The fantasy was strangely unsatisfying – it made Hagar pity her, not hate her. The girl was destined to rot, surrounded by people who would despise her for it. Perhaps cruelty was inevitable when life was so short.

  How silly she had been, to think anything could come of this evening. It was a celebration of peace, not a pageant for her impossible fantasies. What had she ever done to make her think she deserved Mitta?

  Morgellon had always said she was greedy, wretched. However much he had given her, she always wanted more. She was lucky he continued to tolerate her.

  She squeezed between sheeted stacks of iron lawn chairs and sat against the wall. It was caked with dust but she no longer cared. She would never preen and fuss again. Today marked an end to all that. Let today be about peace.

  An empty sack rucked under her heel. Underneath, the floor was covered in blue crystals. A caustic scent hit her nostrils – Ado’s Salts. There was another sack beside it, and more piled up beside that. Ugh! Such laziness! Someone had clearly been dumping their rubbish in a little-used room rather than walk all the way across the palace. She grabbed a sack from the pile, ready to march to the head butler and excoriate him the way she imagined Mitta would.

  A dust sheet slipped. In the corner of the room was a man. He was stripped to his underclothes, his windpipe neatly slit.

  The copper band on his left wrist marked him out as a member of Morgellon’s elite garde du corps. Dark blood on his undershirt was still wet and scintillating. She felt for a pulse. Nothing. She touched his cheek. Warm, clammy. She manipulated his wrist, his arm. Loose. No rigor mortis yet.

  She stood, not wanting to move. Any reaction felt like it would make the situation more real.

  Crashes rang through the palace. Servants were striking the gongs in the pavilion. It was almost time for Morgellon to give his grand speech.

  Hagar sprinted through the palace, jinking round hooded maids and drunk dignitaries. Guests frowned and tutted. She had to warn Morgellon. She ran down a long hallway, while overhead lean vesperi acrobats painted silver and decked with ribbons and bells hung upside-down from metal hoops, very slowly opening and closing their wings.

  When she reached the pavilion guests were loitering beneath the marble architrave, smoking pipes with long curved stems. She found a gap in the crowd and barged through it, wincing as she clipped an elbow and heard someone curse.

  The pavilion was not yet full – guests were evidently still making their way from various diversions around the palace, moving at the stately pace appropriate to those with one eye on eternity. She slowed to a purposeful march. She did not want to embarrass Morgellon, or cause a panic. Servants moved from group to group, offering vivid berry liqueurs and golden nests of spun sugar set on little biscuits topped with soft sweetened cheese. Harka peer Parmaran Koi of the Balada Dynasty stood in purple robes amongst her entourage of priests, attendants and professional greeters who performed deep, ritual bows to any guests who drew near, offering gifts of cherries, votive dice and little scrolls bound with silk ribbons, containing extracts of Koi’s poetry.

  She felt Morgellon an instant before she saw him. Some valets and handmaidens claimed a bond with their master or mistress that went beyond pain. Some claimed to share emotions, even thoughts. Hagar could not boast of such a rapport with Morgellon, save for a sharp premonition, almost a shock, whenever she was about to encounter him.

  Their eyes met. He was immaculate. He was dressed entirely in white – white robe, white cross-belt, white trousers and white boots. His dark hair was threaded with pearls. He was talking to a man in a colourful shawl and a tall woman in a sheer gown finished with golden chains. He raised a palm and smiled.

  ‘Ah, bichette! You’ve come! I thought we’d never drag you away from your books.’ He gestured around the room with a glass of port. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I need to speak to you.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ He handed his glass to a waiting maid and placed a palm on Hagar’s shoulder. ‘You know . . . I couldn’t have done any of this without you.’

  ‘Uncle.’ She u
sed the Low Thelusian term oomkah – it emphasised the warmth of the relationship while jettisoning the semantic cargo associated with literal family. She disliked hypocoristic terms of affection but they were useful for getting his attention. ‘I know this will sound rash, but—’

  ‘Did something happen to your hair?’

  ‘Please, I—’

  ‘Would you like ten minutes with one of our hairdressers? Honestly, carbuncle, you’re a perfect dream but you don’t help yourself.’ He glanced down. ‘And whatever’s that in your hand?’

  Hagar hid the shattered comb behind her back. ‘I need to speak with you in confidence.’

  ‘Can it wait until after my speech?’

  She moved in closer than anyone except Mitta would be publicly allowed and whispered in his ear: ‘I’ve found a body.’

  The grin vanished from his face. ‘Now’s not the time for pranks.’

  ‘I’m serious, I—’

  He flashed a beaming smile at a passing guest, then said in a firm, clear voice: ‘After. The. Speech.’

  ‘My lord.’ They both turned to see Mitta. He wore a mantle of dark grey cloth that came down to his calves, closed at the breastbone with two circular silver clasps. His hair was swept to one side, revealing a spiked silver ear cuff.

  Morgellon cleared his throat. ‘Is all well?’

  Mitta blinked. ‘Of course. I simply came to wish you good luck before your address.’ Though his expression was neutral, his tone was calm, almost serene. ‘Perhaps you should listen to Hagar. You said yourself you wouldn’t be here without her.’

  Morgellon raised his hand until it was an inch from Mitta’s cheek. He stroked the backs of his knuckles down an imaginary aura.

  ‘Ah, you’re right.’ He turned to Hagar. ‘I’m sorry, bichette. The weight of the occasion has made me short-tempered. Come close. Whisper to me.’ He beckoned, then went down on one knee with a practised ostentation, bowing his head as if capitulating.