Aestival Tide (23 page)

“I'd like to see her.”

Shiyung raised an eyebrow and finished her drink. The faintest note of something—pleading, maybe, or anger; it was so hard to tell when he had no face—had crept into the
rasa's
nearly uninflected voice. “Âziz?”

“No. The hermaphrodite. The one she's imprisoned.”

“Hmm.”

Shiyung set the tall tumbler on a night table and stood, stretching. Her kimono fell open on a swath of buttery skin and she did not bother to close it as she walked to the window. She was thinking again about the child she had given birth to fifteen years before. Another one of her whims. She and Nasrani had been sharing a bed, and she had decided it might be interesting to have a natural child. Only something had gone wrong—the physicians warned her about it, and with her dabbling in genetics she had known there was a chance of something like this. Too many Orsinas together over too many centuries. When the child was born she couldn't bear to look at it, the tiny penis and behind it the pink vulva, and witch's milk oozing from its breasts. The last report she'd had of it, from the Chambers of Mercy, was that it was a true hermaphrodite, the first to be born of natural parents in many years. She hadn't bothered finding out the details of its final disposition.

Now, thinking of this morphodite who had so upset Âziz, she wondered what had happened to that other one. Perhaps it had been cruel of her to give it to the Chambers of Mercy. Perhaps—her heart beat a little faster at the thought—perhaps there were reparations to be made. Perhaps Blessed Narouz (or Christ Cadillac, or Prophet Rayburn) had sent this other morph just for this purpose, to permit her to make amends. It might be a noble thing for her to do, to save this gynander. Especially at Æstival Tide. Shiyung was very fond of doing noble things under the right, usually public, circumstances.

She pulled the draperies back, displaying a dizzying view of Araboth: the cobalt reaches of the dome above, indigo and rose-pink and viridian sweeps of light below, darkening from level to level, until at the very bottom an inky blue gleamed, as though reflecting back the fastnesses of Seraphim.

She looked up at the domes and pointed. “You can see the stars tonight. There—?”

Tast'annin stood and stepped beside her. He placed one hand on her shoulder. It was warm, warmer than any human hand would be, and vibrated so that her shoulder tensed beneath it. “Yes, those are stars. Some of them, at least. There, and—”

He pointed to the faint light salted across the dark curves of the dome. “There. That is Orion.”

“That star?”

“No. That set of stars. A constellation. The Hunter.”

“And that?” She pointed at a glorious sweep of color trailing from horizon to horizon. “The Milky Way?”

He made a small sound meant to be laughter. “That is the reflection of the palace lights in the dome.”

“Ah.”

Behind them the caracal continued to snore. Shiyung let the curtains fall back across the window and turned to Tast'annin. “Why do you want to see her, this hermaphrodite? Why didn't you go to Âziz?”

The
rasa
shrugged. “I knew she would refuse me, at least tonight while she's still angry. And who knows, tomorrow the hermaphrodite might be dead.”

Shiyung nodded thoughtfully. “Probably. Was she pretty?”

“Childish. But yes, she was attractive.”

Shiyung settled onto the bed and motioned for the
rasa
to join her. “But that's not why you want to see her.”

“No,” he admitted. “It's not. She said something tonight, about Âziz's dream. She said it symbolized the Green Country.”

Shiyung was silent. She bunched up a corner of the woolen comforter and released it, glanced up to see the
rasa
staring at her with those eerie bright eyes.

“Well,” she said after a moment. “Rather careless on her part, I'd say. No wonder Âziz had her locked up.” She nibbled her lip thoughtfully. “I wonder why Âziz didn't tell me. I mean when she called, she said the morph had been detained but she didn't say why. So my sister has dreamed of the Green Country.”

She stood and paced the room, nudging the caracal as she passed it. It sat up, startled, then stretched and slunk beside its mistress.

The Green Country. Of all the superstitions that haunted the city, the most potent. Not even Âziz would have been able to keep from succumbing to some fear when she heard that particular twist given to her dream. It must have been a very stupid morphodite, to just spit out something like that. Very, very stupid.

Or—

And here Shiyung slowed her pace and stared at the mirror that hung across from her bed. A chrome crucifix dangled above it, with a tiny plastic automobile hanging from the cross's horizontal bar. Beside this hung a polyimage of Blessed Narouz and a vial of petroleum, a moujik prayer wheel, and a plastic bas-relief of Nefer-ka' ehlvi.

Or,
thought Shiyung as she flicked the prayer wheel so that it spun with a loud whir,
perhaps the morph has the true Sight.
The Final Ascension had been predicted for centuries now, mostly by those who suffered under the tyranny of the Orsinate Ascendants. Recently there had been Signs that were difficult to ignore, even by an Orsina, and especially if one listened to those on the lower levels. The
rasa
cult, for instance—surely
that
was evidence of something, the dead seeking some kind of revelatory meaning in their hopeless, horrible existence. And these shakings and tremblings of the ground; and last night an explosion in one of the refineries. And of course the usual claims of publicity-seekers that they had heard the Redeemer waking early from its decade-long sleep, or seen the mad geneslave Zalophus flying like a fouga beneath the domes.

Her sisters scoffed at these tales—at least Âziz scoffed; Nike nodded absently and took more morpha—but Shiyung considered it a point of honor to pay attention to such things. No mongrel cult was too rabid for her to partake in its rites at least once; no moujik witch so deranged but that Shiyung wouldn't take a vial of her spittle and carry it back to Seraphim to display on her wall or in one of her curio cabinets.

“Did she have a name, this morphodite? Do you remember what they called her?” She turned back to the
rasa.
Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glistened as she hurried to sit beside him.

Tast'annin nodded. “Reive.”

“Reive? Just that? No other name, no number?”

“Reive, that's all she said. Very young and thin, with very black hair. I think she wore—”

“No, that's all right, I can find her. Reive.” The caracal nudged her knee and Shiyung took its head between her palms and squeezed it absently, until it whined. “Me-suh! Come here, I need you to locate someone for me—”

The snaky-haired server creaked back into the room, its linen covering flapping across its copper torso. Shiyung explained, “A hermaphrodite named Reive, detained by the Reception Committee this evening. By my sister Âziz.”

“What crime, mistress?” Me-suh's voice came out in a low croak.

“I have no idea. Sedition, probably. Or—well, I don't know. There was a disturbance at that dream inquisition in the Four Hundredth Room. Run her name through the main file.”

The server nodded and creaked back out again. Shiyung tapped her foot on the floor and hummed to herself. After a few minutes Me-suh returned.

“She is on Cherubim, mistress. In the Howarth Reception Area.”

Shiyung clapped and plucked at Tast'annin's sleeve excitedly. “Did you hear that? Howarth. That's right below here, it will only take a few minutes—”

Howarth was where political prisoners were received.

She stood and went to the armoire, flung aside coats and robes and lumen-accented tunics until she found matching trousers and blouse of a deep burgundy shade. She dressed quickly, then pulled her dark hair back so that it fell in a shining line past her shoulders. Finally she tugged a dark hood around her face. Watching her the
rasa's
eyes closed for a moment. When they opened again she stood by the door, waiting.

“All right, Margalis, we'll go visit your little friend.”

He slipped beside her and the door hissed shut behind them. For a moment Shiyung looked at him with shining eyes.

“I stayed home this evening to work—everyone else is always sleeping this late. It's nice to have company for a change.”

He stared at her without answering, and then followed her down the hall.

Centuries earlier, the tenth Orsinate dynasty had designed the Howarth Reception Area as quarters for political prisoners, men and women of considerable rank who surrendered or were captured during the unsettled months after the Third Shining.

None of the hostages ever returned to the Balkhash steppes or the jeweled shores of the Archipelago. A few of them eventually married into the Orsinate. Others became tutors, and a few even escaped to the lower levels. But most spent their lives and died in the Reception Area so that now, despite the quite-comfortable accommodations and the attentions of the Reception Committee, it was rumored to be haunted. Several guards claimed to have heard the click of mah-jongg tiles interspersed with soft laughter and the sound of something being poured onto the floor. Reive had only been there a few hours, but already she had seen the blue-tinged silhouette of a young man cross her room and pass through the wall, enter and cross again, as though pacing the outlines of a chamber that had long since been walled off from this one.

The Reception Committee treated her well, since she was a guest of Âziz Orsina. The margravine disdained vulgar privations—they weakened her guests, most of whom were destined for the private torture of timoring. And for successful timoring, one must have some reserve of strength to call upon. So the Reception Committee brought Reive yoghurt and brandied loquats, and a tiny roasted quail, and watched politely while she ate on her bed.

“You can go. We won't kill ourself,” the gynander sniffed.

The two guards shrugged and smiled, opening their mouths to show where their tongues had been removed, then tugging amiably at the long yellow sashes that hung from their waists.

“Fine,” said Reive, and turning back to her quail ignored them.

A minute later the steel door opened and a tall hooded figure strode in, followed by another figure in a black silk robe.

“Thank you, but we'll see to her now,” the first announced. At sight of the
rasa,
the guards nearly fell down in astonishment. When they heard Shiyung's voice they bowed, grunting and pounding the floor with their palms, then fled. The figure in the silk robe closed the door after them, staring out through the metal grate into the hallway. Reive gazed up silently, her mouth full. She choked when she recognized Shiyung Orsina and the
rasa
Imperator.

“Aghh—” The remains of her quail fell onto the mattress. The margravine shook her head and put a finger to her lips. Then, smiling conspiratorially, she carefully removed the empty plates from the bed and sat beside Reive.

“We're your friends, Reive,” said Shiyung. She turned to the
rasa
and beamed, but Tast'annin only stared at Reive with cold blue eyes. Shiyung shrugged and continued, “I understand there was some—confusion—at a dream inquisition this evening. But you can tell us what
really
happened.”

Reive swallowed, stammering, “We can?” She tried not to wince as the margravine put her arm around her and shook her gently. She smelled of nucleic starter and amber. Reive thought she looked less beautiful than she did on the 'files.

“You can,” the Aviator intoned.

Reive's voice quivered as she gazed at the
rasa.
“You—we saw you this morning. The Investiture—and your dream—”

Tast'annin stared down at the morphodite. The Reception Committee had removed the smudged makeup from her face. With her blank, sharp features and her long legs swinging from the edge of the bed, she looked like an effeminate young boy. He had never understood the vogue for hermaphrodites, found them slightly repellant in fact, with their soft round faces and vapid eyes. But this one seemed more alert than most—flippant even, despite her obvious fear. He spoke to her gently enough.

“I am—I was—Margalis Tast'annin. A NASNA Aviator First Class, now Aviator Imperator to the Orsinate.”

Nodding, Reive turned to the margravine. “And you're Shiyung.”

The margravine smiled, tossing her hair back so that Reive could see her earrings, solid gold and so heavy that her lobes had distended a full inch from wearing them. The letter O and the Eye of Horus: the Orsinate's insignia. “That's right.”

The young one,
Reive thought. She wondered if those earrings hurt.
The crazy one.

Shiyung looked at her expectantly, “We'd like to help you, Reive. Is there anything we can do to help you?” She put her finger to the gynander's chin and tilted Reive's face toward her.

“Is there more to eat?”

Surprised, Shiyung drew back. Tast'annin made a small noise that might be laughter. “Those quail aren't very big,” Reive said defensively.

“Ye-es,” said Shiyung. She frowned. “But—well, I was thinking more along the lines of, Could we perhaps make you more comfortable? Somewhere else?” Her voice rose suggestively.

“The margravine would like to rescue you,” explained the
rasa.
“If you remain here her sister is likely to have you executed in the morning.”

“Oh!” Reive sat up very straight. “We didn't know. We thought—” She gestured at the neatly appointed room with its comfortable chairs and oil paintings and elegant china. “We thought she had forgiven us.”

Shiyung narrowed her eyes. “You haven't been among us for very long, have you, Reive?”

“N-no.” She flushed and toyed with her hair.