Gloriana's Masque

by Eleanor Burns

  “Just used to long watches, sir,” she answered, with a shrug. “Mind you, I’ll be grateful enough to get my feet on solid ground again. Shall we?”

  Kasimir nodded wearily, and rapped upon the side door, which signalled the driver to dismount, unfold the steps, and open the door for them. The immediate effect of this was to invite a ferocious blast of chilly air into the cabin, instantly restoring much of Kasimir’s alertness if not his morale. Both he and Maradith quickly donned their cloaks and headgear, fastened them up as securely as possible, and stepped out onto the main square of the Alvere capital. The capital? Teeth of the Abysm … Did we take a wrong turning?

  At first sight, Kasimir was almost convinced that they had stopped in the wilderness for repairs, or possibly to be robbed, as there were a lot of Alvere standing around the coach, looking at him with grim faces. However, none of them were armed and they were keeping their distance from the outriders. Nevertheless, the scenery did not exactly scream ‘civilisation’ at him, but the more he looked the more he realised that the random piles of rocks all around them were actually the remains of buildings, and the plants seemingly growing over them had in fact been placed there by Alvere trying to mimic or revive the organic style of the ancient temples. The results so far looked more like a large garden rockery than the palace of an earth god, but he supposed they were learning this art from scratch again.

  The few intact buildings he could see were all poor imitations of Lucinian architecture. That tied in with what he knew about the regime of the late Prince Rowan, who had seen himself as an ardent progressive, although even the Senate had seen him as a selfish and servile copycat, albeit a useful one. Clearly, his people were now keen to bury that past under their more ancient past. Kasimir could also see a few new structures made out of coarse wood, woven branches, and uncut stones, primitive in comparison to the Lucinian-style tenements yet definitely easier on the eye. Looks kind of draughty, though. Let’s just hope our guest quarters are a little more solid, he thought, pulling his cloak even more tightly around himself while his teeth performed drum rolls. The surrounding Alvere, few of whom were wearing more than what would have been considered undergarments in Lucinian society, observed his discomfort with quizzical nonchalance, but they were quickly losing interest in the new arrivals and going about their business.

  “How come they aren’t all freezing to death, sir?” asked Maridith, as she watched the passers-by in amazement. “They’ve hardly got a stitch on, or is that black shiny stuff not even cloth at all? Perhaps they just dip themselves in boiling pitch to keep the cold off. I’d be half minded to try it myself.”

  “It’s noctys spider silk,” explained Kasimir, patiently. Though Maradith’s tone was less than tactful, it had drawn no notice from the Alvere and, to be fair, their nauseating ride followed by this bitter climate was enough to dent the diplomacy of a saint. “It’s actually not as delicate as it looks. They say the fibres are stronger than tempered steel, and that the webs never wear out nor decay unless the spiders themselves eat them. Still, it’s not the warmest material to wear in these conditions, but the Alvere don’t feel the cold as much as we do … which is just as well for them. It’s not as if they have access to much else,” he added, looking around the devastated town with a troubled, almost guilty eye. He saw a few market stalls around the square, but they were only selling rough produce such as wild fruits, bundles of branches, dried herbs, and some cutting tools with serrated, sickle-like blades that looked like black iron, but were almost certainly varg mandibles. Aside from reels of noctys silk, the only other clothing material he saw were some tufts of silver-grey, wiry-looking wool, probably shed in the wild by centicores, but this seemed to be a scarce commodity. “Look around you, Delator. Do you see any livestock or cotton mills about the place?”

  “No, Lord Citizen, but what’s all this about noctys spiders? I always heard tell that they were extinct.”

  “That sounds like wishful thinking to me, Delator. They’re no more or less numerous than they ever were. Possibly, you might be thinking of noctys spider hunters. You certainly don’t see many of them anymore … although there was this craze a few years ago, come to think of it: the Lyceum got the idea of cultivating the silk for industrial uses, but they’d have needed it in huge quantities, so they hired some professional hunters to come up here and catch live spiders for study and breeding. It didn’t exactly work out … I believe only one of the hunters made it back, completely spider-less, but at least we did find out that noctys spiders have an impressive degree of eusocial intelligence.”

  “That’s a bit beyond my education, Lord Citizen.”

  “Simply put, you mess with one, you mess with the whole colony. Oh, and we also found out that they pack enough venom to take down a wyvern, never mind some hapless mercenary. The volunteers didn’t exactly crowd up after that.”

  “Well, if you can’t hunt the poisonous little bastards, how is it the Alvere harvest the silk?” asked Maridith, perplexed. “Not that they seem to be able to get very much of it, to judge from what little they’re wearing, although it is very–”

  “Yes, a trifle showy, I suppose,” Kasimir cut in, lest his undiplomatic aide had been intending to say something along the lines of ‘slutty’ or ‘whorish.’ “Still that’s just from our cultural perspective, Delator. You must understand–”

  “With respect, Lord Citizen, I was going to say beautiful,” she interrupted, with mild reproach, pleasantly surprising him. “I won’t lie, though: before we came here I was imagining they’d all be something like the Alvere street-walkers and rent-boys down the East Wharves and Ropewalk Alley: all painted faces, bare breasts, cheap ‘exotic’ jewellery, simpering airs, and fake accents you could slice margarine with. But this … is just so simple, and it’s not showy. Not really. I suppose they’re not hiding much, but they’re not flaunting themselves, if you get what I mean. These lot just don’t care. They look comfortable with themselves, they don’t mind what we think of them, and just look at all the different ways they wear it,” she declared, admiringly, her gaze wondering from one Alvere to another.

  Following her example, Kasimir did indeed see a myriad of unique styles. The strictly limited choice and colour of fabric seemed to have inspired a lot of creative expression. Although all of the women and most of the men wore at least some form of close-fitting body covering, hardly any of them looked the same: there were low and high necklines; bare and covered shoulders; long and short sleeves and legs, or none at all; some garments with decorative cutouts, and see-through panels of gauzy silk cleverly worked into the design; and all manner of drapes, cloaks, and veils layered on top. The only Alvere who seemed to follow a uniform style were a few who were completely covered in silk even to their fingers and heads, except for their faces. The Shadow Guard. Nice to see our new queen keeping up tradition, he thought, insincerely. The only other exceptions were the young children, who seemed happy to run about entirely naked, and the elders, who were mostly clad in loose, coarse tunics of centicore wool. He saw all too few of the latter, though. A grim testimony to Lucinia’s influence here: we’ve made old age a minority privilege. That was a depressing train of thought, and he was not ungrateful that Maridith interrupted it with her undaunted fascination of the local fashions.

  “How do they manage it?” she asked, genuinely astounded. “I mean, just look at this place. I doubt it was much to write home about even before the Brythons wrecked it. No factories or machines anywhere, but these clothes … There’s no seams, no lacing, no buttons on any of them, but they all fit perfectly. How can they craft them so well by hand, under these conditions?”

  “A lot of practice, I would imagine, or would you like the colourful version?”

  “There’s a story to it, Lord Citizen?”

  “Oh yes,” replied Kasimir, with deep scepticism, “but put as much credence into this as you like. The way I’ve heard it, noctys spiders are omnivorous. That much at least is true. The rumour fu
rthermore has it that they are particularly partial to eyraberries. Are you following this so far, Delator?”

  “The spiders love eyraberries. Yes sir. They make them more productive?”

  “Not exactly. Apparently, when an Alvere needs new clothes, they make a paste out of the berries, then they decide just how much coverage they want, they smear the paste over the relevant areas of their naked body, and finally they pay a friendly visit to a spider colony. They stand stock-still for a couple of hours, and the grateful little spiders do the honours from thereon. Quaint, isn’t it?”

  “Sweet Alyssa, that was more than I wanted to picture,” said Maradith, suddenly appearing far more nauseous than she had for the entire coach ride. “Assuming there’s anything in that story, sir, what’s the drill around here if you need new clothes and you really, really, and I mean really do not hit it off with spiders?”

  “In that highly unlikely event, you or I would be screwed anyway, Delator. The legend goes that it only works with Alvere. As far as the spiders are concerned, you or I would just look like a juicy steak with a nice berry garnish.”

  “Place just gets better and better,” quipped Maradith, dryly. “Avalanches, vargs, serial killers, flesh-eating spiders … They seem happy enough, though,” she added, thoughtfully, as her gaze took in the busy traders, the curious children, and the talkative elders. “I dunno. These lot don’t exactly look as if they’re gearing up to invade us, and what do we want this place for, anyway? It obviously doesn’t want us. If this queen of theirs is happy to return the hostages and sign a peace treaty, is there any reason we can’t just leave them be here?”

  “A charming notion, but you’re probably forgetting that,” said Kasimir, grimly, pointing to the fearsome shape that had just emerged from behind a half-ruined tower. He had seen it before, albeit in shades of grey ink, but in three dimensions and full colour it was immeasurably more unnerving. The plates of iron bolted all over its hull looked like silver scales from this distance, coordinating all too well with its leering, serpentine figurehead. However, its profile was still unmistakably ship-like, even with the twelve metallic cylinders that jutted from its underside. Around the spherical tips of these ‘legs’ was a shimmering haze, giving the bizarre effect of the vessel floating on a rippling, phantom sea at least thirty metres above ground level. Its cannon-ports were closed, not that it needed to flaunt its destructive power: it was quite threatening enough without needing to make any special efforts. A little flyby for our benefit? thought Kasimir, suspiciously. The only slightly encouraging detail he noticed was that several of the Alvere were regarding the thing with the same apprehension he felt, although he doubted their opinion would hold any sway with its builders.

  “There’s your answer, Maradith,” he explained, as the hateful engine drifted overhead, casting a monstrous shadow while the downward force of its repellers whipped up a dust storm in the unpaved square, much to the chagrin of the stallholders. “The Alvere were promised their independence from the very founding of the Republic, but we kept holding back on that promise. Not because we wanted this place – we don’t – but because we knew that with all the bad blood between us, there was a chance that an independent Alvenheim would ally itself to one of our enemies. So, one way or another, we kept cheating them out of full independence and full citizenship. People like me have spent years trying to argue that this policy was unjust and paranoid, and recently it’s been starting to look as if things would finally turn around … then this Gloriana turns up and, lo and behold, the Alvere ally themselves to one of our enemies. Almost poetic, isn’t it?”

  “I see. That must have been a blow to you, sir,” said Maradith, with a sympathetic tone that only managed to exacerbate his sense of frustration.

  “Really? Being made to look like a complete fool because I believed in doing something right and just, only for some rabble-rousing madwoman to rub all my efforts in the dirt, and my face along with them? Yes, you could say it was a blow, Delator, indeed you … What now?” he snapped, as Maradith coughed gently and made subtle gestures. Following the direction of her indications, he turned his gaze and found himself face to face with an Alvere woman whose approach, amidst the turbulence of the passing ship, had been silent. She was one of the elders, dressed in long woollen robes, with hair so white and shining it almost seemed like threads of glass. Otherwise, her age was only apparent in that her face was slightly more drawn and lined than the faces of the younger Alvere, although her skin was as clear and pale as theirs, and her eyes as bright and piercing, albeit loaded with disdain. Not the Queen, thank Alyssa, although I do seem to have put my foot in it, thought Kasimir, hastily composing himself and making a respectful bow to the woman, whose immediate reaction was a disgusted little facial twitch before she deigned to reply.

  “Ah. The fabled Lucinian courtesy,” she commented, with the sort of tone that might have been better employed in analysing a sewage sample. “So, you are these peacemakers we’ve been expecting. I don’t know your names, not that it matters. I am Hierarch Saskia, ranking priestess of Kadar Ydril.”

  “Ranking priestess? Then you must forgive my ignorance, Your Sanctitude, but I was told that Archon Lycia–”

  “Your ignorance is well noted, and Archon Lycia is no longer with us. I did warn her about ingratiating herself with your puppet prince, and told her she’d have done well to stay out of his affairs, to say nothing of his bed. Much good my advice did her. Her feigned support for Gloriana did not help her much after the Shadow Guards searched her apartments, and discovered how much wealth she had managed to accumulate while her flock was starving around her. If you need her, I suggest you have a sift through that big heap of stinking ashes down on the valley floor. Senseless pollution, I thought. They should have just thrown the remains to the vargs. The poor things must have felt very cheated of carrion after that battle. Was there anything else you wanted to know, or do you just enjoy gawping like a moron?”

  If this is the welcoming committee, I guess I should be grateful we didn’t arrive in the middle of a public demonstration, thought Kasimir, but sucked it up like a good diplomat as he replied, tentatively:

  “Err, no, thank you. If someone could perhaps show us to our quarters. It’s been a long, tiring journey, and I’m sure we could all use–”

  “Do I look like a damn serving-wench to you, or is that just how you feel entitled to address all Alvere? No matter. I didn’t come here to wait on your kind. I was merely curious to see what manner of creatures your Senate would send to convey their insults. I see your friend is a delator, and already in armour,” she pointed out, Maradith having donned her helmet, although only to combat the cold. “My, what a friendly message that sends, but if you hope that will be enough to intimidate Gloriana, never mind these Brythons, you’d be well advised to–”

  “Thank you for greeting our guests, Saskia,” shouted a commanding voice. Turning in its direction, Kasimir saw a man marching across the square towards them. Ah, the real welcoming committee, and not before time. He was an older man, although tall and straight, with striking blue eyes and a vigorous step. Career military, noble birth. With his smart, severe grey uniform; his clean-shaven face; and his ridged silver helmet, he could have almost passed for a Lucinian officer, except for the abundance of iron-grey hair that fell in thick braids from the sides of said helmet. The golden runes he wore on his chainmail epaulettes were also a giveaway. Two upward arrows, slanted. Stands for ‘T.’ Could mean Thalassa, the sea goddess. Also signifies victory, strength, lordship … Looks as if we have a Brython sealord, although he seems to have left his bloodstained axe at home. The officer’s voice and expression were as dignified and as severe as his uniform, as he strode up to them and exchanged stares with Saskia, who returned his forbidding look with one of pure indifference, although Kasimir sensed she was more wary of him than she would care to admit. Risking a little telepathy, he caught a few of the images passing through her mind: of Alvere, maimed, burning alive,
or being tortured with crude blades like those on the market stalls, and always with this officer present, observing or supervising the carnage with cold, merciless apathy. A dangerous man.

  Yes, he is, but stay the fuck out of my mind, you prying little amateur, came a disturbing reply, and a rapid warning glance from Saskia. Too late, Kasimir remembered that Alvere priests, centuries ago, had introduced the supernatural arts to Lucinia, and they continued to study them even though the Lyceum had all but abandoned them as inefficient and unprofitable. Even the few Alvere priests who had no natural talent for telepathy were trained to understand the theory, and to recognise the signs if someone attempted to use the art against them. Having transmitted a hasty, awkward apology, Kasimir relaxed his focus and turned his attention back to the officer, who was looming over Saskia with an icy, expectant look, which she was quick to interpret, irritably but nervously:

  “Someone had to meet them. Your boys seem more concerned with flashing their new toys about than playing host,” she added, throwing a distasteful look at the passing lofdreki. “Still, if you’ve no need of me–”

  “I haven’t. No doubt you have important pastoral duties elsewhere. I wouldn’t dream of detaining you.”

  “As you wish,” she muttered, with ill-natured resignation, and walked away, still grumbling as she did so. “Amen to sweet liberation … Foreigners all over the damn place, ordering me about … Now this bloody farce of a peace mission … Do not trust him, Milord,” she called back.

  “Thank you for your advice, Saskia,” replied the officer, impatiently, “but I would prefer to make my own judgements.”