“Come and look!” he whispered excitedly.
In a garret near Alves he had found a metal feather. It was the first proof of his theories. Smiling and nodding, he held it out for Buffo to examine. He cast quick, anxious little glances over his shoulder at Ashlyme. Ashlyme looked away and pretended to be interested in the stuffed birds which stood on the shelves as if they were waiting to be revived. The gaze of their small bright eyes made him shift impatiently. The old man looked like a bird himself, with his thin bones and nodding skull. He is frightened I will steal his discovery, thought Ashlyme. Buffo should have come on his own.
“Hurry up, Buffo.” But Buffo was engrossed.
Ashlyme picked his way between the bales of rags and secondhand clothes which made up the shop’s stock-in-trade. He found what he thought was a nice piece of brocade, folded into a thick square and heavy with damp. When he shook it out and held it up to the light from the doorway, it turned out to be a decomposing tapestry, in which was depicted a city at night. Huge buildings and monuments stood under the moon. Along the wide avenues between them, men dressed in animal masks were stalking one another from shadow to shadow with mattocks and sharpened spades. He dropped it quickly and wiped his hands. He heard the old man say, “The clue I have been looking for.”
“What do you think, Ashlyme?” asked Buffo.
“It looks like an ordinary feather to me,” said Ashlyme, more bluntly than he had meant to. “Apart from the colour,” he amended.
“These birds are real!” said the old man defensively. He came closer to Ashlyme, holding the feather tightly. “Would you like a cup of chamomile tea?”
“I think we’d better just look at what we came to see,” said Ashlyme. Buffo and the old man bent down and began to root through a pile of disintegrating bandages. Ashlyme watched uneasily. “What are you looking in there for?” he said. “Who would wear things like that?” He walked off irritably.
“Don’t you want to choose your own disguise?” Buffo called after him in a puzzled voice.
“No,” said Ashlyme.
He stood outside in the square, watching the children run about in the chilly sunshine. Above him the partly obliterated sign creaked. If he studied it carefully he could make out the word SELLER. The fishmonger was pulling his barrow out under the archway; the woman was still singing. Ashlyme closed his eyes and tried to imagine how he would paint if he lived here rather than up in Mynned. He decided that one day he would find out. The smell of the food being cooked was making him hungry. Suddenly he realised how rude he had been to Buffo and the old man. He went back inside and found them drinking chamomile tea. “Can I have a look at that feather?” he asked.
The old man held it out. “You see?” he said. “Look at the craftsmanship. These birds were built long ago, by whom and for what purpose is as yet unclear.” He leant forward. “I believe,” he said, in a whisper so quiet that it forced Ashlyme to lean forward, too, “that one day they will speak to me.”
“It’s interesting work,” said Ashlyme.
Later, as they were preparing to leave, the old man touched his sleeve. “This will surprise you,” he said. “I don’t know how old I am.” Suddenly his eyes filled up with tears. He rubbed them unembarrassedly with the back of his hand. “Can you understand what I mean?” He gazed at Ashlyme for a moment or two, with a look in which could be read only a vague anxiety, then turned away.
“Goodbye,” said Ashlyme. And outside, to Buffo: “Do you know what he was talking about?”
“It means nothing to me,” admitted Buffo, hefting the brown paper parcel which contained their disguises. “I can’t wait to get these home and try them on.” But on the way back to Mynned through Line Mass he stopped suddenly. “Look,” he said. “That’s the fishmonger following us. I saw him in the High City this morning, and he had some nice hake. I think I’ll cook a bit of that for tea.” He was unlucky. For some reason, as soon as he saw Buffo approaching, the fishmonger went into a side alley and made off, his barrow clattering on the cobbles.
THE SECOND CARD
THE LORDS OF ILLUSIONARY SUCCESS
This card implies a transaction which leaves you unsatisfied. Be prepared for unexpected events. If it comes next to No. 14 you will lose a favourite overcoat.
“Viriconium is all the cities there have ever been.” AUDSLEY KING, Reminiscences
Ashlyme seldom took his own meals at home. Before the plague he had eaten with his friends at the Luitpold Cafe in the Artists’ Quarter. Now, more often than not, he could be found at the Vivien, or one of the other charcuteries on the Margarethestrasse, eating a chop.
One night he had supper there with Mme. Chevigne, who wanted him to design the programme for a production called The Little Humpbacked Horse. This had been devised as a vehicle for Vera Ghillera, the city’s newest principal dancer, illegitimate daughter of a laundress, with a lyrical port de bras, and would run as a rival to Die Traumunden Knaben if that play was ever produced. Ashlyme was not enthusiastic but allowed himself to be persuaded. (Later he was to make two or three sketches for this commission; but they were of young dancers caught unawares during exercises often far from graceful, and they were never used.) The sharp-nosed little Chevigne, who in her time had danced as well if not better than Ghillera, amused him with her scandals until late. When he got home a bluish moon was shining through the roof lights of the studio, giving an odd look of frozen motion to his easel and lay figure, as if they had been moving about just before he came in.
A note had been pushed in through his front door and lay on the mat.
Come at once, it said, in a self-assertive script. It was unsigned, but with it the Grand Cairo had sent a massive silver signet ring which he treated nightly in powdered sulphur to maintain its tarnish. Ashlyme sighed, but he set out immediately for Montrouge.
The night was quiet and dry. A wind had got up and was scattering dust over the surface of the puddles. In Montrouge the Barley brothers had fallen out over a white geranium in a pot, which they had stolen in some midnight adventure along the Via Gellia. They were rolling about in the moonlight among the half-finished brick courses of the dwarf’s municipal estate, kicking over stacks of earthenware pipes and biting one another when they got the chance. Ashlyme found himself watching them silently from the shadows on the other side of the road. He could not have said why. Presently Gog Barley got on top of his brother and gave him a punch in the chest.
“You bit of snot,” he said. “Give us me rose back.”
He twisted Matey’s arm until he got the geranium. It was more foliage than flower. He jumped up and made off with it, but Matey gave him the “dead leg” and he fell into a trench. They scuffled stealthily in there for a minute or two, then bolted out of it with enraged howls. Suddenly they spotted Ashlyme.
“Oh, gor,” said Matey. “It’s the vicar.”
He dropped the flower and stood there breathing heavily, wincing and squinting and shading his eyes as if Ashlyme had unexpectedly held up a bright light. He nudged his brother in the ribs and they both ran off shouting in the direction of the Haadenbosk. After a moment the night was quiet and empty again. The geranium pot rolled slowly across the road until it came to rest at Ashlyme’s feet. He bent down to pick it up and then thought better of it. One ghostly white floret remained among the leaves of the geranium, luminous in the moonlight; a musty smell came up from it and surrounded him.
He got into the tower by showing the dwarf’s ring.
Pride of place in the salle had been given over to a delicate little drawing by Audsley King. It was of boats, done in charcoal and white chalk on grey paper, and Ashlyme had not seen it on his last visit there.
He found the dwarf pacing impatiently to and fro, dressed with a kind of ignominious majesty in a studded black jerkin. A pair of spectacles gave him a judiciary air. His hair gleamed with Altaean Balm. Despite his new acquisition he was in a dangerous temper, and he greeted Ashlyme brusquely. “Begin drawing,” he said, taking u
p immediately a stiff seated pose which threw into prominence the tendons of his ageing neck. Confused by the lateness of the hour and the vertiginous spaces of the old building, Ashlyme made some attempt to set up his easel. The dwarf watched disapprovingly, fidgeting about in his chair as if the pose had already become intolerable to hold, and said as soon as Ashlyme had settled down,
“What fresh secrets have you found it necessary to hide from me today, Master Backstabber?”
He gave Ashlyme no time to answer this accusation. “Say nothing for the moment,” he warned, with an irritable gesture. “Don’t bother to try and justify yourself to me.” Suddenly he gave a sly laugh. He jumped out of his chair and took off his spectacles. “I got these when I lived in the North,” he said. “But I can see very well without them. What do you think of this new drawing of mine?”
Ashlyme, unconvinced by this change of mood, swallowed. “I should not like you to think that I had deceived you deliberately-” he began. He saw the dwarf watching him with the patient, ironic eyes of the secret policeman, waiting for an answer. He could not organise his thoughts. “It is very good,” he said at last.
“And you recognise the artist, of course?”
Ashlyme nodded.
“Audsley King,” he whispered.
The Grand Cairo nodded. “Just so.” He sat down again. “Go on with your work,” he advised. “I think that would be best for you now.” But he was soon back on his feet, rearranging a display of sol d’or. He picked up one of his cats and stroked its greyish fur. Every time he said its name the animal purred loudly and poked its head into his armpit. “You are not a man for secrets, Ashlyme,” he said contemplatively as he opened the door and watched the cat run out into the corridor with its tail in the air. “Never imagine you are.” He listened for a moment at the door. “I am your man for secrets,” he mused. “They’re safe with me.” He went up to the Audsley King sketch, regarded it with his hands behind his back, then tapped its frame. “Why didn’t you tell me about your little scheme to smuggle this woman out of the quarantine zone?”
“I-” said Ashlyme. He was confused and frightened. “She is the great painter of our age. We-”
The dwarf studied him silently for a moment, head on one side. “ ‘She is the great painter of our age’!” he mimicked suddenly. “Do you know, Ashlyme, I can’t quite make you out. That’s not a very responsible attitude in the face of our present plight, is it?” He took out a leather notebook. “What about this other man, this ‘Emmley Buffold’, who is so fond of fish? He gave my man quite a fright, chasing him like that! What does he hope to gain from it?” He laughed at Ashlyme’s expression. “Oh, make no mistake. It’s all written here. I know who’s in it with you.” He shut the book decisively.
“I am the man for secrets,” he said. “You must always bring them to me. It is the only safe course.”
Ashlyme looked at him in dismay. “What will you do with us?” he said.
The Grand Cairo put his notebook away.
“Why, I’ll join you!” he answered, and winked.
Nothing would persuade him otherwise. He would listen to none of Ashlyme’s arguments. He had the romantic temper, he said. He needed action! Besides: Audsley King was the greatest painter of their age. Only a criminal oversight could have placed her in such jeopardy. She was a resource. He made Ashlyme sit down, poured out two glasses of bessen genever, and insisted they drink to their adventure. “Confidentially,” he admitted, “I am bored with all this.” His gesture took in the whole of Montrouge. “This morning I woke up wishing I was back in the North again.” He emptied his glass. “You can’t imagine how appalling it is up there,” he said. “Constant intrigue and backstabbing, and black mud in everything you eat. The wind never drops. Ruined cities full of cripples, and insects as big as a horse!”
He shuddered. “Even the rain was black. But I’ll tell you something, Ashlyme: at least we were alive then! Our intrigues had bowels. A kingdom was at stake, even if it was a kingdom of mud!”
“But what about your own police?” appealed Ashlyme, who had understood little of this reminiscence, with its implications of habitual conspiracy in a country which could barely support life. “What if they catch you with us?” This was his last argument. The wine had made him feel sick but slightly less frightened. He was sure that the dwarf would never forgive him his deception; he suspected that his position was only slightly less insecure than it had been when he first entered the room. “Won’t that put you in wrong with your employers?”
The Grand Cairo laughed scornfully.
“Never mention those brothers to me!” he exclaimed. He shook his head, staring into space. “I argued all along against us coming down here, even in defeat-” He rubbed his hands over his eyes. “Look at them now!”
He refilled Ashlyme’s glass, emptied his own.
“Oh, it was hand-to-mouth in those days, it was catch-as-catch-can. You should have seen some of the lads I had with me then; they’d kill a cow with their bare hands! It’s all very well for you to be frightened of those imbeciles downstairs: after all, they’re here to frighten civilians. But not one of them would have lasted a week up there. Not one of them.” He examined this idea with morose satisfaction. “Don’t you worry about them. This is a scheme that can’t go wrong!” He leaned forward enthusiastically and took Ashlyme’s hands. “Imagine the scene “Three muffled figures, heavily armed and disguised, support a fourth. (She is unable to walk unaided. Her face is pitiable, pinched, almond white, framed in a great collar of wolf’s fur. Under her skin are fine mauve veins like those the clematis sometimes displays beneath its flower. Her eyes are as blue as phosphorus in the gloom.) Like ghosts they cross the end of an alley, passing in silence in the deep night, and make their way stealthily from gravestone to gravestone across Allman’s Heath, down to the waters of the Pleasure Canal. Will the boatman be waiting, as he promised? Or has he been enlisted by their enemies? They are almost home now. But wait! Out of the mist at the water’s edge comes the pursuit! Now they must fight!”
A dreamy, excited expression had settled on the dwarf’s face. He got up and mimicked the weariness of the conspirators, taking the part of each in turn, then the curious lurching gait of the sick woman. He let his eyelids fall half-closed and said in a kind of shrieking falsetto, “I can go no further.” He collapsed, and caught himself before he fell to the ground. He pulled forth an imaginary knife and looked warily about. This pantomime took him all round the room and up to a huge wardrobe of black pear wood, its mouldings disfigured where he had struck matches on them. As he reached this he turned towards Ashlyme the sexless, ageless glance of the obsessed, full of incomprehensible irony; and at the word fight, he opened it with a quick, powerful tug.
It was full of weapons of all kinds: clubs, truncheons, and loaded wooden coshes; misericordes and stilettos, with and without sheaths; knuckle-dusters studded and spiked, trick knives whose blades shot out on springs, and strangling cords made of silk or cheese wire, all hanging in rows from pegs. Most of this stuff seemed rusty and ill-kept, although at one time it had been in almost daily use. In a wooden rack were three bottles made of deep blue glass, which had once contained acids. Some rotten-smelling objects in the bottom of the cupboard turned out to be potatoes and cakes of scented soap into which had been embedded bits of broken glass; among them were other homemade devices of less obvious purpose. The dwarf took them out one by one and laid them on the floor, knives in one place, garrotes in another. He beckoned Ashlyme closer.
“Come on,” he said. “Have anything you want. We must go prepared.”
Ashlyme stared at him dry-mouthed. The dwarf made encouraging sounds. Eventually Ashlyme picked up the smallest knife he could find. It had a curious flaw halfway up the blade. The dwarf started a little when he saw Ashlyme had picked that particular one; but he soon recovered himself and told several stories about it. “I got that knife on Fenlen Island in the North,” he said. “There was blood on that kni
fe from the moment I had it.” But this was said with such unconvincing bravado that Ashlyme was sure he had simply stolen it from the Barley brothers years ago, and was glad to get rid of it now in case they found out.
Ashlyme was to grow used to this weapon, sharpening his pencils with it, and sometimes fingering the flaw in its blade, which was quite unlike rust and had a satisfying texture to the ball of the thumb: but that night he took it home in horror, wondering what would become of him.
Emmet Buffo lived at the top of an old house at Alves, halfway up the famous hill (the summit of which had interfered with many of his most radical and innovatory observations). Alves was a curious place. It was a windy salient or polyp of the High City flung out into the Low, partaking of the character of both. While its streets were wider than those of the Artists’ Quarter, they were no less shabby. Strange old towers rose from a wooded slope clasped in a curved arm of the derelict Pleasure Canal. About their feet clustered the peeling villas of a vanished middle class, all plaster mouldings, split steps, tottering porticos, and drains smelling of cats. Ashlyme trudged up the hill. A bell clanged high up in a house; a face moved at a window. The wind whirled dust and dead leaves round him.
While he waited for the astronomer to open his door, he thought of Audsley King’s most popular watercolour, “On the bridge at New Man’s Staithe.”
In this view of Alves a honey-coloured light seems to rise from the glassy waters of the abandoned canal and enfold the hill behind, giving its eccentric architecture a mysterious familiarity, like buildings seen in a dream. The towers, their pastel colours thickened romantically, glow like stained glass.
Ashlyme smiled. A print of this picture hung in every salon in the High City. The question most frequently asked about it was: “This unmoving figure at the parapet of the bridge, is it male or female?” Audsley King would answer: “I did not intend you to know.” She had painted it during a love affair sixteen years before. She now disowned its dreamy lights and sentimentality. “It is untruthful,” she complained. “Yet they love it so!”
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