Winterlong (22 page)

“Well, come on,” I said crossly, cuffing the jackal’s head. I now had to admit to myself that my plan for vengeance (such as it was) had, in theory, scarcely even taken me this far. I had imagined some sort of confrontation upon High Brazil’s outer steps, with Roland called in to arbitrate, and myself lunging at his throat to destroy him with my sagittal. That, or a reconciliation between us, which seemed so unlikely that it remained in my mind a vague impression of parted thighs and murmured endearments. To find myself suddenly back among the Paphians’ Court, invisibly armed and under the protection of a sentient beast, made me feel more foolish than otherwise. I sighed and leaned against the marble baluster.

A polyphemus moth drifted by my face. I watched it sail above the crowd, dipping and rising on eddies of laughter and music until a finch not much larger than itself shot from the shadows to spear the hapless insect. I thought of Francesca, who would never see the aviaries of the Zoologists; who would never look upon the fabled beauties of the Hill Magdalena Ardent. Closing my eyes, I tried to draw up the image of her standing beside me in the Hall of Dead Kings, invoked the brush of her hand against mine.

Then her image shivered. The frail wraith I’d conjured broke into a thousand bits, insubstantial as the butterflies brightening the air. A sudden sharp odor , as if a censure below had overturned to scorch some rich fabric. My wrist burned as though clamped by red-hot metal. The fluttering afterimage of the polyphemus moth arrayed itself into livid eyes writhing across white breasts and arms, its twitching antennae worming from a gasping mouth. I cried out; and opened my eyes to find myself clutching the balustrade as though to leap into the crowd.

“Impetuous boy,” a voice said behind me. I glanced back at a tall black man striped like a tiger swallowtail. He carried a small boy not more than six years old, a pretty child with enormous cocoa eyes and skin like watered milk. From his feverishly bright eyes I guessed it was the child’s first masque.

“Hello, sweetheart,” I murmured. I reached to stroke the wisps of brown hair that curled about his face. But as I did so the boy’s eyes grew wide with horror. The rosy cheeks ballooned and burst like an overripe love apple. I staggered back against the balustrade, splaying my hands against the haze of blood; and looked down to see my legs spattered with peony petals and dried crescents of orris.

“Moth bit!” shrieked the little boy, his face crimson with laughter. The black man laughed too, but with a sideways glance, first at my face and then at my feet, as if he too half-expected to see blood.

“Pretty thing.” He nodded at Anku. His dark black eyes met mine. “Are you all right, cousin?”

I swallowed and tried to smile. Anku growled, his tail swishing against the floor and dispersing the rosy petals. “I’m waiting for someone,” I said. I turned as though to search for a face in the glittering throng.

With a chuckle the man turned as well, his little charge battering his shoulders and casting in farewell another handful of petals.

I waited until they disappeared and gave a soft whistle to Anku. Quickly I walked toward the main stairway, trying to calm myself and staring resolutely at the floor awash in crushed blossoms and struggling moths. I was not unfamiliar with hallucinations, the dulcet visions of gospel mushrooms and the headier drowning stupors of opium tincture and hempen tea. But now I was the unwitting channeler of Death’s dreams and Death’s desires. I tightened my grip upon the banister, and then went on my way.

At the curve of the staircase three Paphians blocked the steps. An Illyrian traced the blue veins of her companion’s throat with one white hand. With the other she tugged a spent tab of frilite from her temple and tossed it away. She lifted her torpid eyes to gaze upon me, extended her hand to pluck at my tattered hem. “Look, Johannes,” she murmured. “He has come for you: Baal-Phegor, the Naked Lord …”

Before I could pass, the one she called Johannes blinked and with great effort lifted his head.

“Ah,” he mumbled; then choked and with a strangled yelp drew back, smacking his head against the banister. This stirred the third in their menage, a very thin young girl with black hair and the slanted ebony eyes of Persia. For an instant, wonder and fear stained her sharp features with a piquant flash of crimson. Then:

“It’s a
costume,
” she said, annoyed. She turned to display shoulder blades incised with threads of gold from which tiny black feathers fluttered. “You idiot, Johannes.” With a petulant yawn she reached for him; but he pushed her away and continued to stare at me wide-eyed.

“A costume,” I repeated, nudging Anku to continue.

Johannes shook his head as Anku pattered down the next two steps. When I started to follow he raised both hands before his breast and crossed them at the wrists, palms opened to me. The Persian girl tittered.

“He’s a Saint-Alaban.” She giggled as I stepped over her long legs.
“So
superstitious!”

The Saint-Alaban turned on her and in a flurry of squeals the three resumed their sally. -‘

We wandered through the crowd, Anku and I. The rev’elers scarcely noticed me; even Anku received few surprised glances. From one dim corner of the hall a sweet sound echoed through ripples of laughter and the clamor of pipes. I followed this to a recess where water purled from a marble fountain. Drowned moths floated on its surface like blossoms. I swept the poor dead things from a brass spigot shaped like a peccary’s head. Dipping my face in the scented water, I washed away the grime, then unbound my hair and let it fall into the basin. Afterward I dried myself as best I could, leaving my hair to dry wild and tangled about my shoulders.

“Here,” I called to Anku. Filling my cupped hands with water, I bowed to let him drink greedily. “Supper next.”

A passing couple glanced at me and tittered behind their velvet dominos. I stared back at them coldly. The taller of the two (a spado, I guessed by his hairless, somewhat fleshy face and sweet childish voice) paused to gaze at me from gray eyes half-hidden in the folds of his domino.

“Ill-met, young Lord Death,” he said. He tilted his head to indicate my tattered clothes and the looped vine dangling from my neck. His partner clung limply to his arm and glanced at me sideways, a painted fantoccio draped in scarlet.

“An original conceit,” she murmured, her husky voice deepened still more by chloral. “The Saint-Alabans will forfeit their place in the masquerade rather than be judged alongside a likeness of the Hanged Boy.”

The spado nodded and stretched a hand to graze my cheek. “Will you join us in strappado, Hanged Boy?” he asked, lips parting to show a ruby placebit glimmering in a front tooth. One long pale leg slid from the folds of his domino to rub against my thigh.

I shook my head but did not move away, liking the feel of his smooth limb against mine. “I am looking for a Curator,” I said.

“Many of us will find Patrons tonight,” the woman murmured, leaning forward to gaze at her reflection in the sparkling basin. “There’s luck in threes—come with us.” She took my hand and pressed it between her legs, so that for a moment I felt only heat and the gentle sweep of velvet falling about my arm. Behind me I heard a faint growl. I looked back to see Anku watching from the fountain.

“A jealous companion,” laughed the spado. From beneath his domino he drew a long quirt of braided hide. “Come with us, Boy.” He prodded me gently with the cord. “My Patron is Constance Beech, a Botanist. She will be delighted to introduce you to her fellows. Come with us.”

From the echoing hall erupted shrill laughter and cheers. I peered vainly into the swirling shadows to see what this heralded.

“They’ve brought out the
ORPHEUS
,” said the woman. “Oh, do come dance!”

“The Curator I am looking for is a Naturalist,” I said quickly, grabbing her hand and pressing it to my breast. “A Regent. Roland Nopcsa. Do you know him?”

She shook her head and turned to her companion. “A Regent. Constance might know him.” She slipped her hand back into the folds of her mantle.

The spado nodded, “I know him: he engaged me once as Inquisitor for an esclandre. Constance attended the excruciation with us.” He tapped my shoulder with his quirt. “But he has engaged Whitlock High Brazil this evening, Boy! You know that, eh?”

His cool gaze met mine. I lowered my face so that he would not see the color that flooded my cheeks. “Yes indeed,” I said. “Whitlock and I were paired at Winterlong—you remember us, perhaps?”

The spado regarded me through narrowed eyes, nodding slowly. “You had a different look, then,” he said at last. “I know you now. The favorite of the House Miramar. Raphael.” He turned and grasped his partner’s elbow. “See, cousin! This is the boy I told you of, the Miramar—”

“But he is not so young, Nataniel,” she protested, tugging at his domino. “And we’re late—we’ll miss the cacique’s judging if we don’t hurry.”

“No, you are not so young,” the spado Nataniel agreed. He raised the butt of his whip to my chin and tilted it back an inch. “Eighteen?”

“Seventeen!”

“Seventeen, then … but seventeen has bright empty eyes gazing ever forward, and already yours are full of old dreams and brooding on the past.”

I started to make a sharp reply, but the spado only raised his quirt to gently tap my lips: once, twice, thrice. His eyes were keen and bespoke
Silence.

“I had a summer’s folly with Roland Nopcsa once, Boy Miramar,” he said. A glance at his companion showed her more intent upon the Great Hall than upon either of us. “He took rather more liberties with a promising young chaunter than perhaps he should. My House—Illyria, but you knew that, eh?—my House was not pleased with Nopcsa’s inspiration, although they did gain a fine soprano for chanting the “Duties of Pleasure.” A dedicated ear for fine music, Sieur Nopcsa …

“I hear he has engaged the Exiguous Hagioscopic Chamber this evening for a private recital with Whitlock prior to the bestowing of the cacique’s jewels.”

“Indeed,” I said, and snapped my fingers in Anku’s direction. “Where might a lover of music find the Exiguous Hagioscopic Chamber?”

Nataniel drew the hem of his domino away from Anku’s anxious tread and pointed across the hall. “Through the archway carven with the image of a jaguarondi seizing a great fish,” he murmured, then extended his arm to embrace his companion. “Come then, Dido! This boy will not join us, but the gynander Anstice Helen has as pretty a face and she is waiting.”

The two of them bowed to me, Nataniel kissing his three fingers and reaching to brush Anku’s muzzle as he passed.

“Fare well, Miramar,” he called softly. “Tell Nopcsa that Nataniel Illyria taught you a song to sing him:
‘Toujours Jeune.’”
They disappeared into the shadows.

I
PAUSED, WONDERING IF
I should go now to confront Roland, then glanced after the spado and his partner.

At the far end of the hall a great press of dancers had gathered. In their center reared the luminous pilasters and glass pipes of High Brazil’s great electrocalliope
ORPHEUS
. High above the throng glowed its metal cabinet. Bright figures—dancers in dark glasses, women wearing silver headbands, autovehicles spinning on metal wheels—flickered beneath the elaborately lettered scroll still gleaming with bright blue and yellow metallic paint:

Beneath the scroll was a winking face, twice man-size, chipped silver headband upon its wooden brow, lips pursed to blow into a pair of great glass pipes. A frieze of tipsy letters spelled out
ECHO ORPHEUS
beneath the figure’s chin.

Another wave of cheering swept the room. Rubbing my eyes, I glanced down to see Anku crouched between my legs, staring moodily at a tiger swallowtail. When I looked up again I saw that someone had lifted a woman in white domino and black mask above the crowd. To rollicking cheers she clambered up the side of the calliope, clinging for support to bas-relief leaves and the backs of fantastically carven vehicles, until she swung her legs over the gaudy face of Orpheus and raised her arms triumphantly. Amid shrieks of laughter she pelted those below with flowers.

The electrocalliope bellowed so that my ears ached. I wondered how the woman could bear it. Still I found myself moving closer to the front of the crowd, staring at her. Anku slunk beside me. When he occasionally brushed against my leg I could feel him shuddering from the noise and smoke, and I let my fingers droop to touch him reassuringly.

We reached the edge of the melee. Behind us revelers cavorted in the ceaseless spray of smoke and flowers. Before us was the expanse of peach marble adrift in petals and quivering wings, surmounted by the
ORPHEUS
. A rowdy crowd of boys from Persia and my own House—with a pang I recognized Small Benedick and Small Thomas—had clambered onto the balcony abutting the machine. They waved their arms as if conducting the calliope. I stared enraptured at the metal mouth releasing puffs of hempen-scented steam that rose to sear clouds of moths. Only Anku remained unmoved, imploring me with soft urgent cries to move on.

The carnival anthem rolled to a finish. A rush of steam and cheers; then the first piping notes of “The Saint-Alaban’s Song.” Drunken voices began chanting. Beside me a tall Illyrian sank to her knees beside a Botanist. At their feet a girl with Saint-Alaban’s red ribbons braided through her hair plucked absently at their robes as she sang:

“O Saint-Alaban

We now must say goodbye

We’ve lost our hearts and lovers and must go—

we don’t know why …”

I pushed away Anku, tired of his insistent whining. I applauded with the rest as the boys from Miramar tossed a crown of lilies at the girl atop the
ORPHEUS
. To a volley of cheers she plucked a single scarlet blossom from the wreath of flowers. Setting the crown .firmly upon her head, she straightened. Then, surveying the crowd below, she searched for a deserving recipient among us. Laughing with the others, I waved and urged her
To me! to me!,
trying to catch her eye.