by Prue Batten
Would you applaud if you knew that I intend using them for myself against Isolde?
‘We would have kept the secret of their hiding place forever if necessary because if they fall into benighted hands then none are safe. Not you, not me and not even that plain and overly sexed curator out there.’ Her face worried for a moment but then she brightened. ‘But to answer the first question… they are tiny strips of washi paper with the words written on them in Færan. The contessa rolled each one and slipped them inside miniscule glass rods, an extremely difficult task to accomplish I can tell you. She then placed the rods back in the roll of suede in which they were delivered. Her henchman immediately took them back to the glassmaker and a day later four superbly wrought paperweights were collected and placed in that very cabinet. So you see my dear man,’ again she tapped his arm, ‘it is only one step further to deduce that the glassmaker modeled the millefiori with their secrets into paperweights.’ She leaned back then and stretched out her legs, pointing her toes in small red leather shoes. ‘But I could be wrong.’
‘It’s an interesting theory, Primaflora, but I can tell you this – nothing Other is in that cabinet, there is no frisson of any sort. I felt more of a frisson on the third floor than I do here.’
‘That’s because there was a Færan up there once, and a Hob, at the time the paperweights were made. They rescued a Traveller who was sorely treated by the henchman and spirited her away. And the reason you don’t feel the Cantrips in the cabinet is because someone stole the paperweights on the night of Carnivale.’
Finnian’s dreams dissolved in the slipstream of a curse.
‘Indeed,’ the Siofra nodded. ‘I agree. And we should all tremble with the charms on the loose.’
‘Why didn’t you tell someone the charms were in the paperweights and that they had been stolen? Surely it should have been known.’
‘We are telling you. We know the malfeasant of Eirie are in the hunt now they know about your brother’s death from one of the charms. It won’t take long before they begin to put two and two together and work out they are inside the paperweights. Others have a way of discovering such things, don’t you think?’
Finnian looked at her. ‘There is no accounting for an accidental discovery, did you think of that?’
‘Indeed, which is why we decided I should reveal as much as I could to you. Time is of the essence now and something about you and Fate hangs about and it is all connected with the charms.’
I don’t give a fig for Fate but tell me what you know.
‘But Finnian, you don’t seem happy with what I have told you thus far.’
Finnian debated. That this Siofra was like a compass pointing the way was undeniable. But she seemed to be a barometer as well, sensing his mood swings even before he himself. He moved the paperweight back and forth, the glass flashing in the moonlight, the occasional colour – alizaron, ultramarine, white – flaring as the sphere rolled. ‘I am grateful, have no doubt that I am, but I have a heavy weight upon me and it interferes with my thinking.’
‘Then tell, because a problem shared is a problem halved.’ She was sincerity itself.
Finnian sighed. ‘I played a reckless game with the result that an innocent man died and a boy is without father.’
Primaflora’s mouth flattened into a grimace of concern and she reached for the paperweight from Finnian and began to roll it in her own delicate palm. The movement gained momentum and the sparkling glass began to flow from one hand to another as if it were a liquid stream. ‘Was this a game of your own invention?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the affected individuals were mortal?’
Finnian nodded, seeing the sailor lying before him on the decks. He told her what had happened and all the while the ball kept moving, almost mesmerising in its rotations. He calmed as he watched, listening to her gentle rationale.
‘It’s regrettable that a mortal lost his life, and more so that a son is now without a father. But the death of a mortal when mixing with Others is not unusual, Finnian. They can always turn away or use any number of the protective charms. The choice is theirs.’
‘Maybe, but this man had no choice and was in the way at just the wrong time and he died when he needn’t.’
‘How do you know? How do you know that it wasn’t his Destiny to die just at that moment? No Finnian,’ she kept the ball looping and falling between her palms, ‘feel a smidge of guilt if you want, even compassion if you need to and make reparation if it helps. But,’ the paperweight swooped and came to a halt inches from Finnian’s face so that he blinked and started backward. ‘This is the focus. You must not lose sight of it. This is our future. Think on it, Finnian, and don’t lose sight of the ball. You have no time to mourn any longer than a moment. I think this may be your Fate, to bear the unbearable.’
I have been bearing the unbearable all my life. He looked down the stair at the black and white army placed in their attack positions on the tiled floor.
Primaflora smiled and touched his cheek. ‘The paperweights were stolen by Hobarto, the major-domo here. He was in charge of the domestic household. He waited until just before midnight on Carnivale whilst we were still in the Days of the Dark and then took the whole of the bottom shelf of paperweights including the ones you must seek. Since then the curator has just spread the others through the cabinet to make more of a display. Hobarto left the palazzo on that fateful night and that as they say, is that.’
‘Where did he go?’
Primaflora shrugged her porcelain shoulders. ‘Somewhere far from Veniche where he could make a pile of gelt undetected. Who knows? That’s for you to discover, my love. I have told you all I can. Now we depend on you. Your grandmother will be getting stronger and angrier as we speak and it will be a race between you and she, my friend.
‘And if I find them, what then? They are indestructible.’
‘We are Siofra; we keep secrets, we share secrets. But the destruction of the charms is a secret to which we are not privy. When you have the paperweights, we must hope something will reveal itself.
‘And if it doesn’t?
‘It’s not something we countenance.’ She pushed at him ‘Go now with grace, my handsome friend. And good speed.’
‘You trust me?’
Primaflora’s eyebrows rose. ‘Why wouldn’t we?’
Why should you? He placed her hand against his lips and turned away.
The front doors unlocked of their own accord and opened far enough for him to pass through. As he disappeared into the glimmer of a canal dawn, he heard the doors close again, the locks sliding into place as if he had never been at the palazzo at all.
The campanile bells had just finished a glorious carillon and the sound echoed and re-echoed across the piazza as there was a tug at his sleeve and he turned to find Gio at his side. He searched the boy’s face for an improvement in his demeanour. Perhaps there was a little colour, a flash of something better, something more positive.
‘Gio. Here,’ he pulled a chair for the boy. ‘Sit and have coffee with me. Tell me how your mother does.’
Gio sat carefully and sipped at the coffee Finnian ordered and told him that his mother had just this morning received a commission from the Doge’s wife to make lengths of cream lace for the wedding gown of the imperial daughter. And not only that, he, Gio, had gone to the boatbuilder’s just as Sir Finnian had said and he’d got a job as an apprentice and for good gelt too. Finnian sat back, pleased at the power of interference, knowing that whilst he could never right the wrong, at least Gio and his mother wouldn’t starve.
‘And you, Sir Finnian. You don’t seem too happy.’
‘Don’t call me sir, Gio. I’m just Finnian, and in answer to you, I’m frustrated. It would seem something I came here to collect has already been taken away by someone else and I’ve wasted my time.’ Wasted? If I had not come, Gio would still have a father…
‘Who took it? Who took what you came to Veniche for?’
‘It’s of no
account, Gio. I shall track him down.’
Gio screwed up his thin face, the first smile for days. ‘Well, people in Veniche only go to the Raj or to Trevallyn. My Pa,’ his eyes misted and he swallowed manfully on a small sob. ‘My Pa always said if you want to make money go to Trevallyn but if you want to make your fortune go to the Raj.’
‘Your father was a wise person, Gio, and I will heed his advice. Now here,’ Finnian passed a thick packet to the boy, a mesmered envelope with good provenance and better contents. ‘I want you to take this to the notary’s office over there, can you see?’ He pointed and Gio nodded. ‘The notary will read my letter and will do what is necessary and when you are done go home to your mother as I think she will look forward to seeing you.’
The boy sucked up the last dregs of his coffee and took the envelope containing a document saying that Finnian of Trevallyn, being the sole owner of the tiny apartment on the Calle Calliope, conferred the title to Signora Poli and her son Giovanni and any descendants in perpetuity. He wove his way through the perambulating crowds of the piazza and Finnian’s last sight was of the blonde corkscrew curls bouncing a little higher with each step the boy took.
He debated his own future. Trevallyn or the Raj? He tossed gelt. Heads or tails? The money landed in his palm and he slapped the cool metal onto the back of his hand.
Chapter Nine
Lalita
‘Little damsel, you must eat something or at least drink. You cannot go on like this.’ The afrit pleaded with her but she had only a care beyond reason for the quality of her work, not for herself, refusing the trays of delectables the Other laid out.
She dipped her pens and brushes, laying gold leaf and burnishing, intent on her task and not wishing to engage. Go away little afrit, for I am poor company and your chatter buzzes in my head like a bee. She heard him say, ‘I tried, but she won’t, do you see? Her reason slips.’ Why do you say that, tiny afrit, and to whom? Maybe you speak your own thoughts aloud or maybe your own reason slips. Honestly, who really cares? She found it necessary as she thought of care and love and its corollary of loss, to pick up her finest brush, dip it in green made from ground malachite, and draw acanthus leaves at the base of the capital letter heading the story. Her dry tongue began to cleave to the roof of her mouth so she poked it between her teeth as she guided the brush to pick out the folds on the leaf surface. Perhaps she might even put in a ladybird or a bee. A ladybird would be better, the red would counter the green…
If she let her mind move through the rhythms of the craft, there was no room left for more cataclysmic rumination because rumination meant ruination, this she knew.
The moon and the afrit were the only accompaniments to her desperate, solitary mood as the night progressed, neither noticed by her in her distrait. She burnished each illustration with a delicate gold leaf frame, flicks and finials in each corner, the gentle pressure she exerted at odds with the torrents of pain that flooded every bit of her being. Finally she wrote the last word, gave the page its number and leaned back. The afrit had sat quietly, passing her tools like a physician’s assistant and she believed her thoughts were her own. She said nothing to him, as silent as a graven image, as though the revelations of that awful day had cut out her tongue and she had become as one with the big men who guarded her door and the Sultan’s secrets.
Her mind now began to work beyond the page, the feverishness with which she had scribed doused with a crisp coldness, like the barren wastes of Oighear Dubh or the sweeping glaciers of the Goti Range. She picked up her most recent leaves and put them in order with the others, knocked them up so the edges ran straight, placed them between sheets of washi paper and then inside a large clam-shell box which she tied with a red cord. She tidied her work area and smoothed the coverings on her divan, her eyes filling but not overflowing as they fastened on the faded evidence of Phaeton’s blood. She was conscious only that she moved with precision and nothing more.
She took her harem clothes and sifted them through her fingers as she folded them, putting them in a neat pile on the divan, reaching under her hair to undo the chain holding the black pearl. This she laid almost as an offering on top of the silky garments. A sense of purpose filled her as she turned and walked to the latticed door into the tower, reaching for the paperweight on the worktable. Calling back over her shoulder, she strained to speak above a whisper. ‘Thank you afrit, for your kindnesses.’
‘Lalita’, he called, ‘where do you go?’
But she closed the door behind her and locked it with the key. The afrit passed through speedily, muttering, ‘Disaster, damsel, disaster.’ And then, ‘Do something,’ more loudly.
She heard him but pain cut through her, blinding her. There was nothing to divert her, her work was done and loss and grief began to smother her. Kholi. My mother and father, Phaeton. The night wind moaned around the top of the tower and she sucked it in, relishing the harsh desert cold as it slid down into her chest. Imran and Soraya… she knew who had killed them. Often enough she had seen the look of envy on Kurdeesh’s face; slitted eyes, mouth scowling underneath its hirsute layers. And then it would swiftly change, for to be caught in jealousy and bitterness would have been to upset his comfortable existence. She thought of his eyes as she stepped onto the parapet of the tower – they were as green as the malachite she used for her paints – green with envy, green with jealousy… green for grief.
‘Lalita, no! What do you do?’ The afrit appeared by her side, hovering in the air like a hummingbird. ‘You’ll kill yourself!’
She looked at him but said nothing. Yes, afrit, I will. But why should I live? To be perfumed and powdered in a hideously circumscribed life? Beside her two doves huddled, fluffed and cosy behind the shelter of an ornate corbel at the edge of the parapet. They burbled, angry with her for disturbing them in their connubial corner. They have each other to cling to, to love, to care for. I have no one. Only the summons to crawl up the Sultan’s bed from his toes to his testicles.
She closed her eyes tightly, the faces of the loved and lost floating before her. Opening them again, she gazed ahead, directly east to the horizon where a fine line of peach and gold dawn lay as if stitched by an embroiderer.
The Amritsands were like no other desert – sand flowing to valleys of shale with rocky escarpments, then falling into waterfalls of sand again. And all the while the moaning of the Symmer wind, sometimes a gentle sough but in the Symmer season later in the year, like the wail of a banshee. How I would love to wail like the banshee – to scream my sorrows from this tower.
The afrit grabbed at her hand. ‘Look at me, little desert flower, look at me. Don’t play silly games. I can help you. Come little petal,’ he pulled her gently,’ the pain will go and I can be there until it does.’
But she slid her palm from beneath his as if she hadn’t heard him at all.
In front of her, the Amritsands glimmered and waved in the ever-brightening light that spread like watercolour from the horizon up into the night sky. Momentarily Lalita fancied she could see Mogu, her brother’s camel, advancing ponderously, one calloused hoof in front of the other but it was a mirage of the mind and her heart cracked.
She grasped the paperweight, holding it as if it were indeed a heart, perhaps the heart of her whole family and as she felt its smoothness, its unblemished and complete roundness, she took a step into the air…
She fell straight down, the afrit’s voice yelling in some Other language, furious screaming as if he attempted to insult her. Her mind emptied itself, leaving a trail of thoughts behind, every one a fleeting memory of all that had meant something in her life. She wanted the end to be brutally quick – the snuffing out of a lamp flame, light to deepest dark.
The sensation of air rushing past her cheeks changed in an instant and her eyes flew open as her body was scooped up. Her heart thumped, fists balling to push herself away from the firm grip around her. The paperweight slipped from her grasp and it fell away, rolling, sparkling in the dawn lig
ht to hit the rocks and smash into shards. Like a bird, Lalita was carried down to land feather-light amongst the cullet about her feet.
‘No!’ Shouting, she found her feet and whipped around to her saviour as tears streamed down her cheeks. She scrubbed them away to stare at the tall djinn before her and his partner, the afrit. The enormity of their actions, the fact that she must now think again, deal with life’s bitter cards, feel pain and suffering, it all erupted with no care for offence. ‘Damn you both to hell, I want to die. I DO.’ She screamed. ‘How dare you stop me! What have I left? Nothing but suffering. I HATE YOU.’
‘Lalita Khatoun, all life is suffering but there are better ways for life to end than smashed into cullet like your glass there.’ The tall djinn before her spoke kindly.
She followed his glance to where her uncle’s gift, the only thing that could have sustained her, glittered on the rocks. She subsided against the nearest boulders, looking up at the sheer walls of the pink tower from which she had leaped, thinking how easy it would have been to be lifeless and drifting like flotsam in the river’s flow. The ochre Ahmad slid by her feet, pulling fretfully at the pieces of the paperweight and the afrit bent and quickly grabbed at a dot of yellow glass before it was sucked away. He offered it to Lalita and she grabbed it, his small fingers repulsing her. ‘How dare you? HOW DARE YOU? Is this your idea of an Other game, to let me live with nothing but the brutal memories of death and damnation. Can you imagine? No, you can’t, how could you?’ She walked in an agitated circle. ‘All that is left now is to be the Sultan’s plaything, to feel him touch any private part of me, for me to have to touch him. When he tires of me, to live with his treacherous odalisques seeking my demise, those same women who tried to poison me last week and killed Phaeton.’ She sobbed for a moment. ‘KILLED I tell you.’
She held the tiny shard of glass in her fingers, speaking more quietly, almost as if she spoke to the piece of cullet. ‘I wanted to end it all, I haven’t the courage to cope with the hurt any longer.’ She closed her tired eyes but the pictures drifting through her mind merely sharpened and she quickly opened them again, a hand rubbing to erase the memories.
