Aestival Tide (19 page)

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 Âziz.

“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 Crimson 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 Âziz 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.

And then there was her dream; and all of this on the eve of Æstival Tide itself. Even as she stood, her bare arms prickled with cold and fear, she could sense it all Out There, whatever
It
was—poisoned ocean, devouring sunlight, monstrous typhoon—gnawing at the Quincunx Domes, or else circling Araboth like one of the Orsinate's regenerated thecodonts grown to massive size, seeking a way to grind the city between its Luciferian teeth.

I'm going mad,
thought Ceryl.
I should consult a seer;
but then she recalled that the present bizarre confluence of events derived from her doing just that.

She bit her finger. Maybe she should leave, go back to her chambers, lock the doors and refuse to come out until Æstival Tide was over. Just leave, like that, and let Reive flounder through the evening as best she could.

But then from down the hall she heard Nike's booming
hoo-ha
laugh. A moment later she listed into the room, followed by a rather worried-looking serving girl. Âziz started in her chair; the
rasa
withdrew his hands and stepped back silently, drawing his sable coat around him. Âziz stood and went to greet her sister. Ceryl took a deep breath, then quickly made her way to where a trio of young boys were pouring wine from glass kraters. She drank hers too fast, scanning the room for Reive and shivering. The dwarf had been right. It was starting to get cold—another chance for the margravines to show off. All around the room guests ostentatiously tugged at capes and mufflers, garments made from the pelts of suricatas and martens and lynx specially bred on Dominations for the pleasure cabinet. The smell of the sea, ever-present even in this sanctum, was overlaid with a sudden burst of scent—the odor of fir trees, so thick and so obviously chemical in origin that Ceryl's throat burned. She swore beneath her breath and rubbed her bare arms. Now that Nike had arrived it would be ill-considered to be seen leaving the room, especially if one wasn't properly dressed. She grit her teeth and wished she could find the gynander.

Too late she glimpsed Reive on a divan on the far side of the room, sitting between two other morphodites. One had painted her face in complex pyramidical patterns; the other had small darting piggish eyes within a geisha's mask and wore a towering blond wig of corkscrew curls. Ceryl recognized her as a former favorite of Nike's, now gone to fat.”

The blond morph lifted her head, the wig teetering on her brow, and stared at Ceryl. Echion, that was her name. As Ceryl watched, she leaned over Reive and whispered to her, still looking back at Ceryl, while Reive sipped at her wine and stared about the room with her long green eyes. Whatever Echion was saying seemed to dismay her somewhat. When Nike bounced past with Âziz, the two hermaphrodites looked up. After a long moment, Reive tore her gaze from the margravines and stared across the room at Ceryl. Ceryl motioned frantically for the gynander to join her, but instead Reive looked back at Echion. She glanced up once more at Nike and Âziz, then nodded slowly. Beside her Echion smiled.

That smile turned the wine to vinegar in Ceryl's mouth. She put down her glass, and had started toward Reive when Âziz clapped her hands.

“Well! This
is
an exciting group—Kai Kaeng, you look so dashing!—”

The soprano with the eyepatch bowed and blushed.

“—and I know we are all honored to have our new Aviator Imperator with us this evening—”

Strained yet enthusiastic applause. The
rasa
bowed stiffly, ruddy light spilling from his face. Then Âziz was beckoning them all to come close, to form the customary circle so that the inquest could begin.

Ceryl made one last effort to get across the room to Reive. She pushed through the crowd, nodding coldly at Tatsun Frizer, when a small strong hand grabbed hers—

“Sit here with me, Ceryl,” Rudyard Planck rasped cheerfully. His blue eyes guttered as he tugged her toward the middle of the room. “Here, Tatsun, you too.”

“Oh, but—”

Tatsun Frizer laughed, her vocoder sparking green and yellow. “I know just how you feel,” she oozed, shaking a finger at Ceryl. “Morphodites are
so
fickle. Best surrender gracefully and scold her when you get home.” She settled beside Ceryl, pulling a heavy silken throw from a divan and draping it over her knees. “Isn't this
enchanting?
I can't imagine why Shiyung isn't here. Nike said they were going to have it chilly here tonight, but I never
dreamed…
”

Tatsun Frizer prattled on. Ceryl thought of snatching the throw from her lap. It was freezing now. On the other side of the circle, Nike sat resplendent in a fox-fur coat, the thick pelts flaming about her pallid face. Every few minutes she leaned over the serving girl, who would hand her a morpha tube or a small agate kef pipe. Next to her Âziz sat stiffly, two brilliant splotches, like crimson thumbprints, on her cheeks. The Aviator had removed his long sable coat and draped it about her shoulders. There was a spurting sound as more of the pine scent was pumped from hidden vents. The lights dimmed to a cool blue, and from the ceiling snow began to fall.