Glass

by Stephen Palmer

  ‘There are no such answers available to me,’ Subadwan said. ‘I want to know why Tanglanah said she had known Gaya for thousands of years – but how can I work when I’m trapped?’

  Liguilifrey considered this, then said, ‘What about Dwllis at the Cowhorn Tower?’

  Subadwan, remembering information gleaned from the headmerger, wondered if Dwllis would know anything of the pre-Crayan era. ‘It’s worth a try,’ she said.

  They made the call. A young woman with dark eyes, thick black fuzzlocks and an insouciant expression said, ‘Copper Courtyard.’

  ‘Courtyard? I seem to have the wrong line,’ said Subadwan. ‘I wanted the Cowhorn–’

  The woman had looked off-screen. ‘Mum! Some woman for Dwllis.’

  The face of another woman appeared, middle aged, blonde, with eyes so faded blue they were almost grey. ‘Hello?’

  ‘I was trying to contact the Keeper of the Cowhorn Tower,’ Subadwan began.

  ‘He’s resting.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘His partner. Aren’t you…?’

  Firmly, Subadwan said, ‘If you would have the Keeper talk to me for a minute, I’d be most pleased. I am indeed the Lord Archivist of Gaya.’

  Two minutes passed before the pasty face of Dwllis appeared on the screen, a local power drop making his image distort into blocks. ‘Good evening, Lord Archivist,’ he said. ‘I am honoured to speak with you. How may I help?’

  ‘Do you know anything of Gaya before Cray was founded?’

  Dwllis scratched his chin, then pulled down his hand as if remembering his manners. ‘Knowledge of Gaya, you say. Madam, without accessing my records I can say nothing, but if you gave me a few days I could collate information for you. Would that suit? You see, I have rather an urgent task to complete.’

  ‘As soon as you can,’ Subadwan said.

  Dwllis nodded. ‘Surely your own Archive would contain such information?’

  ‘Not from that long ago. Gaya’s memoirs begin with the founding of Cray five hundred years ago.’

  ‘Then I shall perform the work for you. Now, I heard of your difficulty, so where should I contact you?’

  ‘Meet me at the Baths, but don’t tell anybody I’m here.’

  ‘Confidentiality is my nature. Good night to you.’

  ‘Good night.’

  ~

  Next day Subadwan spent talking with a stubborn Aquaitra and an oddly quiet Gwythey. Her feeling that these two were planning something became stronger, and she yearned to be back at her Archive, in control, sitting at the apex, her clerks ready to act upon her word. The sense of being trapped grew worse.

  Later, she wandered the Baths barefoot in her black gown, enduring the glances of other people, daring them to say something. Not one person spoke to her. Either they were embarrassed or she was a non-person. She knew that many Crayans must have heard of her predicament, and wondered if her students were ashamed of their leader.

  As afternoon faded imperceptibly into evening, Subadwan took her third bath of the day. Odd to think that water could be anything other than joyful. Now it was becoming a bore–

  Crack!

  With no warning there came the sound of clattering boots and the harsh clamour of shouting voices. Subadwan raised her head to look over the side of the pool and saw emerging from the far tunnel a squad of Triaders, dressed in orange and black. There came the sound of screams and splashing water.

  At first Subadwan simply did not recognise them as intruders, despite the uniform and the guns. Such a thing at the Baths was impossible.

  Somebody pointed at her and yelled. There were five intruders, fuzzlocks shorn, armed with the black rifles used by the squad who had forced her out of her Archive. Subadwan clambered out of the pool and grabbed a green towel, which she wrapped herself in.

  ‘Don’t move!’ came the order. The Triaders were running towards her.

  Subadwan tried to ignore the cries of fleeing bathers. She looked for any means of escape, running around the pool so that the enemy were on the opposite side.

  ‘Stand still or we fire!’ yelled the leader, swarthy skinned and with a rasping voice.

  Subadwan stopped. Five rifle muzzles pointed at her. ‘Gaya save me!’ she wailed.

  Now both pools were empty of people, apart from a group cowering at the furthest end. Subadwan waited for the Triaders to approach.

  One of the pool pyutons began to move. Another followed suit. Seconds later every one was clambering out of the water. Slack-jawed the Triaders watched, their eyes wide in horror, two of them crouching and stumbling backwards. The other three stood firm.

  The pyutons hobbled on their amputated legs like possessed mannequins, their bodies shuffling from side to side as they ran, their stub arms flailing. Seven surrounded Subadwan while the others formed two phalanxes and closed on the Triaders in a pincer movement.

  Rifles were raised. ‘No shooting!’ Subadwan shouted. ‘Leave the Baths now.’

  The first shot was fired and a pyuton was thrown backwards, sparks spitting from a hole in its neck. The other pyutons charged, emitting eerie howls, thin and high, like the cries of Swamp owls emerging from the mist. One of the pyutons protecting Subadwan pushed her down, and Subadwan crouched low.

  Now black bullets the size of fists, trails smoking, were flying everywhere. They burst out with a grumbling phut sound. Pyutons were falling, all the time trying to strike Triaders. The pyutons from the other pool were charging over, and the sight of them bouncing and leaping on their amputated limbs, sacrificing everything for speed, made Subadwan groan with horror.

  ‘Stay back!’ she called to them. A black mass flew over her shoulder. Something sharp like the claws of a bird raked her cheek. ‘Stay back! The pyutons are winning.’

  And they were. Two Triaders lay still. The body of a third lay twitching at the pool edge. The other two were trapped. Firing a series of bullets this pair ran, jumping over pyuton bodies, then disappearing into a tunnel.

  Slowly, heads bowed, the surviving pyutons returned to their poolside places. Liguilifrey approached. ‘What happened?’ Subadwan asked her.

  ‘I don’t know. The first thing I saw was the squad running in.’

  Liguilifrey’s eyes croaked, and Liguilifrey turned to listen.

  ‘It’s only Calminthan the Laverwoman come to examine the bodies,’ she said.

  Indeed Calminthan was approaching, two bathers accompanying her. Subadwan studied the battle scene. Eight pyutons lay still. Two others sat wounded, helpless, their eyes closed. The wall behind them was chipped and splatted with what looked like ink spots, black and slimy, slowly sinking to the floor. Little black lumps with twitching, extended claws lay everywhere.

  Folding her arms across her chest to calm her trembling, Subadwan walked to the pyuton bodies. ‘What do we do with these?’ she asked Calminthan.

  ‘They will have to go to the Cemetery.’

  A man’s voice said, ‘We will take care of them.’

  Subadwan turned to see eight cloaked and hooded figures walking towards them on bare feet, single file, as if in ritual. Their hands were clasped in front of them. Subadwan could not see their faces since their hoods were voluminous. Druids, she thought.

  The leading druid stopped only a yard from her. ‘We will take these pyuterkin to their resting places.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Subadwan asked him.

  ‘The pyutonic undertakers of the Cemetery.’

  The other druids were already picking up pyuton bodies. Subadwan wondered, as she looked on in awed silence, how they knew what had happened here. How had exactly eight come? Marshalling her courage, she said, ‘I’d like to know your name.’

  The druid had been about to kneel at the side of the unclaimed pyuton. He looked up, and Subadwan saw the faintest outline of a dark face. Wishing she had not spoken, she swallowed, and looked away. But the druid stood and said, ‘Are you the Lord Archivist of Gaya?’

  ‘Yes.’

&nb
sp; The druid knelt before her. ‘I am Hedalgwadey. It is our appointed task to inter Cray’s electronic sisters.’

  ‘Why are you kneeling?’

  In kneeling, he seemed to speak to her belly. ‘Lord Archivist, though we owe you no reverence, I offer you anyway the honour of the druids, since we were once a part of your Archive. Long ago, the druids abandoned Gaya and travelled their own winding path, their own macabre and necromantic path, which led to the Cemetery. I kneel now in an alien country before an alien sovereign.’

  ‘This is something I wanted to know,’ Subadwan said.

  Hedalgwadey continued, ‘Lord Archivist, the circumstances of druidic separation are not known to me, unless they are concealed in tribal memories that I may not impart even to you. Your own Archive should possess the memoirs, unless they have been dispersed to the electronic substrate of the city.’

  ‘How did you come? You eight?’ She reached out to touch Hedalgwadey’s cloak.

  He leaned back. ‘Druids may only touch and be touched by pyuterkin, Lord Archivist. As for our arrival, we can hear something of the future on the fluctuating bands of our cosmic radios, which tune in to the afterlife. That is how my kin know who to carry to the Cemetery. And now I must leave and perform my work.’

  Hedalgwadey lifted the last pyuton and settled her over his shoulder. The druids marched away, again in single file, Hedalgwadey last. He turned before entering the tunnel. ‘We will meet once more,’ he said.

  When he had gone, Liguilifrey clung to Subadwan, trembling. ‘I couldn’t see them,’ she said, ‘not one single druid. Only the druid’s voice came to me.’

  ‘Your eyes must be broken.’

  ‘They’re perfect. It was the druids I couldn’t see.’

  Subadwan pulled away to look into Liguilifrey’s face. She had no eyes, but artificial spheres had been inserted under her eyelids for cosmetic reasons. Yet Subadwan saw the fright on her face, and for the first time she wondered how the avian pyuter could see for her friend. ‘You only heard him? Did you hear their cloaks rustling as they arrived?’

  ‘Yes, yes. It was like a visitation of ghosts.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’ Subadwan glanced up at the pyuter perched on Liguilifrey’s shoulder. It stared down at her, head cocked, beak open to reveal a yellow tongue. ‘I just don’t know what to say. Druids must be invisible to pyutons. But I’ve got to get back to my Archive.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear what Hedalgwadey said? I’ve missed something there. I must find out what, before Tanglanah returns. Unless… unless the key to all this is the headmerger, with all its secrets.’

  Gripping Subadwan’s hands, Liguilifrey said, ‘You mustn’t leave the Baths.’

  ‘Tanglanah has secrets. She’s trying to entice me into experiencing an abstract country. Perhaps I should put on the headmerger and never take it off… it mustn’t be stolen.’

  ‘And will you experience this abstract country?’

  ‘No.’

  Liguilifrey sighed. ‘But what if you change your mind, and Aquaitra takes over the Archive?’

  ‘I’m not going to do it. As for Aquaitra, she may think she runs the Archive day to day, but she would never challenge my wisdom. She daren’t. I still have a little time.’

  ‘How much?’

  Subadwan drew away. ‘Umia dared break Baths law. He must be desperate. I wonder if there is more to it than just wanting me a member of the Triad. But whatever scheme he plans he will try again.’

  ‘To invade the Baths?’

  ‘We must be vigilant. Next time his agents will enter by stealth.’

  Liguilifrey hesitated, then said in a timid voice, ‘So you will stay here for fear of Umia’s agents?’

  Subadwan sighed. ‘I suppose I’ll have to for now.’

  CHAPTER 13

  One night, Dwllis received an entirely unexpected visit from the druid Hedalgwadey. As usual, Hedalgwadey was cloaked and cowled, and even in the light of the Cowhorn Tower’s central chamber his face was concealed. Despite Dwllis’ obvious consternation, Hedalgwadey spoke as if everything was normal and his visit was a natural consequence of events in the Cemetery. It turned out that this was in fact the case.

  ‘Do you have news for me?’ Dwllis asked.

  ‘What is news?’ Hedalgwadey conversationally replied. ‘That which was in the future and which has just occurred. But we druids hear faint echoes of the afterlife, which for all of us is a place of the future, and so we are, after a fashion, soothsayers. Time spreads. Sometimes we become disorientated.’

  ‘My good man, why are you here?’

  ‘Since your visit to the Cemetery I have taken an interest in you. I have heard your rumour on the radio frequencies of the afterlife. I believe that you have an appointment.’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘Why, yourself.’

  Confused, Dwllis said, ‘How can that be?’

  ‘You have seen visions in the lens. I would guess the lens to be personalised to you, for it is attracted to the Cowhorn Tower, and you claim to have seen yourself in it.’

  ‘On occasion I have.’

  ‘We druids punt across the Swamps, listening, ever listening. We wish to make the future more certain by listening to its possibilities. I have seen parts of your future. There seem to be two paths, one trod by you, one by another, and depending on circumstance one of these paths will come about, and its walker triumph. But that is all I have heard. I am here to make you aware of your position.’

  ‘I was already aware of it,’ Dwllis said haughtily. ‘But you say you travel the Swamps?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you not worry that ordinary Crayans will find you out?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Hedalgwadey replied. ‘Even if you were to report me, nobody would listen. Social inertia takes care of that. It is believed that the Swamps are a deadly region, and rightly so. People would mock you even if you were to relay tonight’s discussion.’

  ‘But you do enter the city. What if you were found out?’

  Hedalgwadey gently shook his head. ‘You are thinking out of key. Everybody carries in their mind some concept, some tenet, that they never question. For example, nobody ever asks why Noct owns the prime memoirs of the city, and yet Noct represents all that is bad. Is it Noct’s sombre shadow that enfolds the city? Nobody asks.’

  ‘Are you saying that nobody can truly overcome the many authorities under which they live, in order to become a free person?’

  ‘Not quite. Some people have attained that enlightenment. One such was somebody I knew, Seleno, Querhidwe’s predecessor, who had a gift for upturning the most stable of concepts. There was a character out of place in this city – an outsider, as I considered her. What a great tragedy was her death.’

  ‘In what sense?’

  ‘The loss of genius is always tragic. Luckily Querhidwe continued the gnostician augmentation programme–’

  Dwllis gasped. ‘You know of that?’

  ‘A few facts only. With certain lodes, Querhidwe managed to improve the ability of some gnosticians to mentally model themselves and their environment, that being the basis for consciousness. It seemed to her that they remembered the founding of Cray.’

  ‘Then the gnosticians arrived before the founding of Cray?’

  ‘Possibly. But whence they came, nobody knows.’

  Dwllis considered what he had heard, and thinking of his frustration in not being able to communicate with the gnosticians, he wondered how feasible it would be to devise a pyuter translator. It was a bizarre thought, but could the musical warble of the creatures be considered a language? Could he translate it as he might translate Old Crayan? Perhaps even Seleno herself had missed the possibility that the gnosticians were already conscious.

  ‘I live with a terrible dilemma,’ he told Hedalgwadey. ‘The Reeve is considering a gnostician purge, and I have had to lie about earlier purges, saying there were none, when in fact there were a few. Yet I feel it is
my duty to protect these kindly creatures, since they are alive, and quite possibly intelligent. What you have told me makes me feel even more that I must understand gnosticians before it is too late.’

  Hedalgwadey observed, ‘There are often gnosticians in the city. The streets would flow violet with their blood.’

  ‘You know of this?’

  ‘It is a distinct possibility.’

  Appalled, Dwllis shivered. ‘It must not be. And now I begin to see a pattern in the strange events that have surrounded me. Somebody in the Archive of Selene wishes to augment the intelligence of the gnosticians, perhaps so that conversation may take place. It may be that the gnosticians were here before the founding of Cray, which is all there is of the human world. Might it be that some secret fact needs to be prised out of the minds of the gnosticians, and that is what is being searched for?’

  ‘It is a possibility.’

  ‘Then I too must speak with one such – perhaps Crimson Boney – before all is lost.’

  ‘That will not be easy.’

  But Dwllis was not to be put off his stride. ‘And there is the question of the Querhidwe’s fishtail, that was passed on to me by yourself. That marks me out as a part of these events.’

  ‘I believe it does.’

  ‘Do you remember what Tierquthay was told by the voice from the world after this one? He was told to continue the work of Querhidwe.’

  ‘That is not remarkable.’

  ‘But who are these inhabitants of the afterlife?’

  Hedalgwadey paused before saying, ‘We consider them the operators of the radio stations that broadcast from the afterlife, unless their minds are themselves the broadcasters. Their whispering thoughts we use to create symbolic abstracts of the future. But they do not like us.’

  ‘So you do not know who they are?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  And with that, Hedalgwadey departed.

  Dwllis mulled over what he had been told. Fear took him as he realised that his life was no longer his own, solely his own at least, and he saw dreadful visions of what, out of control, he might do. He was scared of himself. It reminded him of his childhood in Cochineal Mews, decades ago now, when in an austere and arid house he had dreamed of the Cowhorn Tower surrounded by flights of black birds, and then, compelled by a desire so strong it terrified him, had spent hour after hour walking around the place, trying to pierce its gloom. Days long since gone. In a straight-jacket he had been brought up, he realised that now, trained by distant women, distant adults, to keep quiet, keep calm, keep his self locked away in a box, away from the dangerous probing of other human beings. For human contact was dangerous. Was he, as Cuensheley claimed, a misanthrope?