by Tanith Lee
Excitement in the room we share. There’s a festival tonight. (I thought of the Featherers and felt uneasy, but it’s nothing like that.) Large chests from the wagons had been opened and astonishing garments taken out. Fit to rival Peshamban clothes.
One of the girls insisted on giving me – it was a ‘present’ – a deep blue dress sewn with embroidery and silver discs. Everyone clapped when I’d put it on. I felt shy, touched, and also rather resentful. A funny combination, but I think they feel sorry for me about Nemian. (Who, I may add, someone told me has already gone swanning off into the city.)
I did like myself in the dress when I glanced into the mirror.
We made each other up, black round the eyes and powder, and scented sticks of colour for the mouth.
‘Pretty Claidibaabaa!’ they cried, prancing round me. I really was the centre of attention.
Someone else then gave me silver earrings with sapphires in them. Real true sapphires.
‘Hultai chura!’ they squealed.
I concluded that must mean Darling of the Hulta. (!!!) (But why?)
We had lunch in the main hall, where food can be bought – pancakes and vegetables – then later in the room they were teaching me steps to wild Hulta dances, gallops and stampings and tossing the head (like a horse).
I haven’t laughed like this for so long. We laughed ourselves daft.
I feel a bit guilty now, thinking how Daisy and Pattoo and I found ways to giggle and mess around despite the filthy rules and cruelty of the House.
But the afternoon is turning over to sunfall and soon it’ll be that time which is my mother’s lovely name.
I can’t help it. I want to have fun tonight.
Nemian – well. Grulps, as the ruder Hulta say. Yes, grulps.
Someone will like me, dance with me, hold my hand. I’m not going to worry about if or who. Someone will. It’s that sort of night.
And I never was a princess. That was a lie. Wasn’t it?
There’s a song … it said … Moon in a cloud …
How to make sense of this.
I’ll try, but please, please my unknown, invented friend, be patient, it’s not easy.
A huge square in the last daylight, with tall gracious buildings around, views of parks, and cloudy dark-green trees, and down here orange trees with orange-gold fruits. At the east end of the square, some steps go up to a pavement of apricot marble. On this stands another high white tower. At the tower’s top, a clock. Actually, a CLOCK.
It must be, if it had been down on the square and anyone could’ve measured it, about the size of the Alabaster Fish Pool in the Garden of the House. Vast.
The CLOCK is in a frame of gold and silver, and up there, in front of it, stood three carved figures, very lifelike, except for being so big, painted and gilded. One was a girl and one a man, and in the middle was a white horse up on its hind legs. Out of the horse’s forehead ran a crystal horn. And later I noticed it also had silvery folded wings.
As we arrived, people were leaning out of small windows at the tower top, and lighting hanging lamps.
The square was full, and a cheer went up from the Peshambans, and from everyone else. Even we cheered. I wasn’t sure why, but it seemed polite.
Blurn appeared, very smart and over-the-top in dark red, patterned boots, and earrings.
‘Hi, Claidi. Like the clock?’
‘It’s good.’
‘They worship it,’ said Blurn.
‘Sorry?’
‘The Peshambans. They worship that clock.’
The CLOCK was a … god?
But Blurn had stridden on. And as the soft lights spangled over the CLOCK, other lamps were lighting all around.
The sky got bluer, deeper. Twilight. Stars came out.
There were long tables laid with such pretty food, wonderful colours and designs, and fruits I’d never seen before. And there were glass jugs in ice of wine or juice or mixtures of both, shining like rubies and topaz and jade.
Dagger slipped through the crowd. She wore green and a Peshamban mask shaped like a dragonfly.
‘It’s all free,’ she breathed. ‘Cos of the festival.’
She grabbed a plate and piled it with food, far more than I’ve ever seen her eat, and darted off.
But by then the centre of the square was clearing. There was to be dancing. Apparently all this tonight was done in the square, to honour the CLOCK.
One of the bandit girls, Toy, pulled me.
‘Come on, Claidi.’
‘But I can’t dance.’
‘Haven’t we spent hours teaching you, Claidibaa?’
‘But that was Hulta dances—’ I feebly protested.
‘There’ll be Hulta dances. They play all dances for all the visitors. And we showed you three Peshamban dances too.’ ‘But—’ ‘Hulta have come here before, in the past, remember?’
I was sure now I wouldn’t remember a step, would make a fool of myself.
But somewhere a band was tuning up, and I recognized for a second a phrase from a tune the girls had sung that afternoon in the Travellers’ Rest.
I found myself in the square’s centre in a line of laughing girls and women, between Teil and Toy.
A glance along the line made me feel happy, because everyone was shining and glittering and laughing. Peshamban girls with glass or real jewels sewn all over their clothes, and masks of cats and butterflies. Bandit girls clinking with coins. Women from all sorts of places I didn’t know, hadn’t ever known existed. At least I had Nemian to thank for this. For this freedom, this finding out. (Incidentally where was …?)
You’ve guessed, haven’t you. I was avoiding looking at the line of men opposite. It wasn’t going to matter too much, this time. You changed partners three times in this particular dance.
Even so.
The band was over there, under that fringed awning. Stringed instruments and flutes, what looked like a cello, and two drums. And two silver sheets that were suddenly clashed together, and the dance had begun.
I looked up into the amused and rather (already) drunk face of Ro.
A surge of relief and disappointment.
Too late to think of anything else.
We were off.
Ro and I swept round each other, joined hands, and galloped sideways, just as everyone else did.
Then we swung in a circle with hands still joined.
Whoops and shouts.
We parted, stamped and, hands on hips, raised our heads like proud horses.
Now all the women joined hands, and we did light tapping steps on the spot, while the men looked on haughtily.
Then we stood back and clapped to the rhythm of the dance, and the men pretend-fought, in pairs.
On Ro’s right was Badger, who now accidentally hit Ro on the nose. (This is not meant to happen.)
Ro dropped back, spluttering, and crashed into the man on his left – Mehmed – and Mehmed’s pretend foe.
‘Hey – you tronker—’
Stumbling, Mehmed trod on another man’s foot. This man wasn’t bandit or Peshamban. His head was shaved except where hair, tied in a horse’s tail, flared from the back. And he gave a roar and smacked his fist, painted blue, into Mehmed’s face.
Next second three or four men were rolling on the ground, swearing and kicking, with two bandit women, and a girl, also shaven and horse-tailed, trying to separate and/or hit-them-with-a-nasty-looking metal-studded sash.
The Hulta girls, used to brawls, started laughing. But some of the Peshambans down the line looked upset. The dance had come all undone, though the band was still playing.
Next moment a space opened in the crowd, just the way the wind had blown on the plain through all the flowers.
I’d seen more of the watching crystals that turned, up on buildings. They did watch, for now through the parting of people and orange trees, came marching six of the clockwork doll-guards from the gates.
‘Oops,’ said Teil.
Toy said, gloomily,
‘Now we’re for it.’
To my horror I noted two of the doll-guards had rifles pointed right at us all.
Then another voice shouted loudly as a trumpet. I didn’t recognize it, I’d never heard it before. It sounded made of brass.
But instantly somehow Ro and Mehmed scrambled up out of the muddle, leaving the horsetail man and another one flailing on the ground.
The doll-guards had reached us.
From out of a clockwork chest, a harsh unhuman voice ordered:
‘Cease fighting.’
‘I have,’ said Ro, annoyed.
‘Shut up,’ muttered Mehmed, who had a blue smear on his cheek from the horsetail man’s fist.
However, the horsetail man, and the other one, rolled apart, and sprang to their feet. They stared in alarm at the guards.
A silence settled, as the band gave up.
The deadly doll now demanded something – the same something, I think, over and over, in what seemed many different languages. Which sounded very frightening. Finally ‘Are you at peace now?’ demanded the deadly doll.
‘Sure, yes, completely. Love everybody, eh Mehm?’
‘Love ’em, yeah.’
The horsetail man, and the other one, had already mumbled something at other points in the language performance. Doubtless also saying how they loved everyone.
Then a man in scarlet and gold moved in between us and the rifles. He was breathing fast from running down the line of dancers. And from shouting.
‘A misunderstanding,’ he said to the dolls with rifles and axes. ‘I sincerely apologize. It won’t happen again.’
I hadn’t recognized his voice in the battle-bellow which stopped Ro and Mehmed as nothing else could. Now too it was different – like poured cream.
And the rifles were being lowered.
‘Do no harm in Peshamba,’ said the doll. ‘Peshamba does no harm to you.’
The weirdest thing. Some of the oranges on the orange trees flew open, and little coloured clockwork birds flew out of them, and up into the lamplight, to circle round and round. Just a coincidence, possibly.
I was taken aback anyway. But the guards had turned around and were marching neatly away again.
The horsetail girl fetched the horsetail man a ringing smack across his face. He cowered. What she was hissing at him I couldn’t understand, thank goodness.
Ro and Mehmed laughed.
The music started once more, and the crowd was closing over like a repaired split seam. And the dance began again, again taking me by surprise.
It was apparently time to change partners as well.
The magnificent man in red grasped my hands, and whirled me away down the avenue of dancers, before I had time to wonder if now I’d really forgotten the steps.
CHANGING PARTNERS
‘I didn’t cause it.’
‘I’d take a bet you did. You’re trouble, girl.’
We paused to swing around hand in hand.
The lines of men and women clapped in time to the music.
He was smiling.
Argul.
I’d never seen him look so sensational. His hair was like black Peshamban silk. The colour red suited him. All that gold—
And now he took me by the waist and lifted me high in the dance – steps I truly didn’t know – I couldn’t do a thing, just stare down at his smiling, marvellous face. His teeth, in that tawny face, are so white—
He looks happy tonight. He looks alive.
I couldn’t help laughing. I put my head back and laughed at the spinning starry sky.
When he set me on my feet, he steadied me, helped me get my balance again, but all the time we were still dancing …
The dance had changed in fact.
It was a Peshamban dance the girls had shown me. You move quite slowly, holding hands, taking easy, simple steps. Looking into each other’s faces.
This was the dance I’d been afraid no one would want to choose me for.
‘I don’t mean to be trouble,’ I said.
‘Oh Claidi,’ he said, ‘you can’t help it. Don’t try. It’s what a bird like you’s good at.’ I frowned. But I didn’t care. Although he was insulting me, they didn’t feel like insults. He said, ‘Don’t change. You’re wonderful.’
The music of the dance had a song. It was something about the moon in a cloud. And getting lost in the cloud of the moon.
Sky so dark now, and the stars behind his head. The lamps, and the little mechanical birds flying.
Everyone enjoying themselves, yet far away. The mood of the night like rosy curtains in the background.
I thought, I Know this person. I know him as well as I know myself. But I didn’t know him. I don’t know myself.
We danced every dance.
Sometimes there were dances where we were separated. But we always met up again. Then he caught hold of me strongly. I felt I couldn’t go wrong then.
I’ve never felt like that before.
Maybe I never will again.
At midnight, and midnight came so quickly, the CLOCK does something magical.
Not much warning. The band stopped playing. And everyone in the square, following the lead of the local Peshambans, raised their heads to look at the CLOCK.
Suddenly there was a strange noise, like a gigantic key turning in a lock. And then tinkly music began to drift down from the tall white tower.
The three figures on the CLOCK started to move.
The girl twirled, dancing as I had. The man bowed, and stretched out his hand to stroke the horse with the crystal horn, which, at that moment opened its wings.
And then they glided away behind the CLOCK, and other figures emerged from the other side. There was an old man leaning on a stick, and an Old Lady in a high headdress, and a monstrous beast. It had the body of a lion and a tail like three snakes knotted together, and the head of a bird.
The old man regally raised his stick, in greeting, and the Old Lady raised her slender hands. And the beast opened its mouth and fire came out, cascades of yellow sparks.
In the crowd below lots of people cried out in surprise. But the Peshambans only sighed with joy, looking up with loving eyes at the CLOCK which was their god.
I whispered to Argul, ‘It’s amazing. But do they really worship it?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘Because they say it’s beautiful, and God is beautiful.’
Somehow this wasn’t, at that moment, confusing.
‘I see,’ I said. I thought I did.
‘And,’ said Argul, ‘they say this, the clock needs only a little attention to keep it working, and that’s all religion needs too.’
‘Religion …’
‘Their worship of it, belief in it. Only a little work to keep perfection perfect.’
The music faded, and the three new figures became still. They’re the figures that face the city from midnight to sunrise. Then they change again, but silently.
When the CLOCK had finished its display, and the Peshambans who were praying had stopped (prayer isn’t only for rage or dismay. It seems to be just happiness, sometimes) Argul brought me a goblet of green wine.
Suddenly I could see why I’d thought him, that first time, so terrible, terrifying – he’s so strong, so powerful. So there.
After that we walked up through the city, beyond the square and the CLOCK. I don’t think we discussed why.
The streets were hung with trees, and cool, and smelled of flowers and scented dust and darkness.
There was another park. Peach-tinted lamps drooped from boughs.
We sat on a marble bench shaped like a bush under a large bush that had been cut and combed into the shape of a chair.
‘Oh, look,’ I said, ‘another mechanical doll!’
It was a fantastic bird, gleaming blue in the park lamplight. It had all at once lifted its drifting tail and opened it like a fan of green and turquoise, purple and gold—
‘No, Claidi. It’s
a peacock.’
‘It’s real?’
‘Yes. As real as you.’
‘I don’t feel real tonight. I never knew cities existed any more.’
‘When I was a child,’ he said, ‘my mother told me about Peshamba.’
‘Did she?’
‘There’s something written on the face of the clock. You can only see it from the top of the tower. It says: There’s time enough for everything.’
‘Is there?’
‘I hope so,’ he said.
Testingly, I said, ‘I haven’t met your mother, have I?’
‘No. She died eight years ago, when I was ten.’
I felt tremendously sorry. It was true. And now it reminded me of Twilight, my own lost mother.
‘That’s so sad.’
‘Sad for the ones she left behind. She knew such a lot. Herbs, and chemicals. Some of them, now, call her the Witch. But she wasn’t that. She understood science. Though she did have second sight.’
‘What’s that?’
‘She could see things the others couldn’t. Sometimes the future. She gave me—’ he made a gesture towards his collar. Then stopped. ‘A charm, or so we call it now. But it’s scientific. It can tell you things.’
‘I remember it,’ I said. ‘It’s made of glass.’
‘No. It just seems to be.’
‘You were looking at it …’ I hesitated, ‘that time – when I thought – you were going to rob us.’
‘We’re not bandits, Claidi,’ he said. ‘We get called that. I won’t say we’ve never thieved, but only to protect our own people, and never from people who hadn’t got enough themselves. And we’ve fought and killed for the same reason. But not from choice. Do you believe me?’
‘Yes.’
He looked at me for some time. The moon had risen late, it was in the sky. His dark eyes seemed more intense. Or the moon … was in a cloud, perhaps.
‘I saw you first,’ he said, ‘in that dry old park in Chariot Town. You were with him, your posh lordly friend.’
‘Nemian.’
‘That one, yes.’
