Then he had his first glimpse of Sargyshyva. The First Cleric was a bulky man of medium height. He was bald, but retained a few grey hairs, slicked down to the sides of his skull with an oil that smelled of musk. His features were loose, his face jowled, his eyes small amidst rolls of fat. He emanated an air of almost decadent power. His green clothes were studded with gems and gold braid.
He turned as Nuïy walked around the chair. Unsmiling, he indicated the adjacent chair, which had been angled so that Nuïy, when he sat in it, could see Sargyshyva. Zehosaïtra walked a few paces away, then stood at ease beside the statue, picking then chewing hazelnuts from a nearby dish.
“So, Nuïy Pinkeye,” Sargyshyva began, “yer the green leaf who’s caused so much consternation in the ranks below me.” His voice was as phlegmy as Deomouvadaïn’s, but the gruff accent was stronger.
“I am Nuïy Pinkeye,” said Nuïy, deciding not to mention the consternation. He was acutely aware of his deficient vision and the mark of shame tied around his head.
“So. I’m glad t’meet you.”
“I too am glad to be here,” Nuïy fumbled, his nerves almost making him stare, struck dumb.
“D’you know why yer here?”
“Yes, First Cleric. I am here for you to check whether I am suitable for the ultimate stage of the plan.”
“The plan?” asked Sargyshyva.
“The plan of the Green Man.”
“So. I see.” Sargyshyva looked out of the open window, allowing Nuïy a view of the spots on the back of his neck. After a minute he turned his head back, to say, “So. The plan of Our Lord In Green. It’s a great secret. It’s known only t’me and my two deputies. D’you understand what I mean by that?”
“It elevates me to a great height, First Cleric. I must be aware of that, and never betray any secrets offered to me.”
“How will I be sure of that?”
“I will swear to the Green Man.”
Sargyshyva lifted himself out of his seat—with difficulty, Nuïy noticed. He gestured with one finger for Nuïy to stand with him by the statue. “Ring for Gaddaqueva,” he told Zehosaïtra.
Zehosaïtra walked to a column shaped as a silver birch, from which real silver flaked. He pressed something, then returned.
They waited in silence. After five minutes the door opened and in walked a tall, skeletally thin man, with ashen skin and greasy, black hair. He moved with submarine slowness. Nuïy had heard rumours of this man, Gaddaqueva the Second Cleric, but the actuality was more bizarre. He was thought to be an aesthete of unimaginable harshness, who lived for scholarly knowledge and claimed never to have expressed an emotion. To Nuïy he looked like an animated corpse.
When he passed, Nuïy smelled sweet-opium. Immediately the foul image of his disabled father came to mind, who had taken the drug to mitigate the symptoms of his disease. Why would so important a person as Gaddaqueva risk such a drug? The same disability?
No time to think now. Sargyshyva turned to Nuïy and said, “So, then, Nuïy Pinkeye. What’s the oath you must swear, and we three must witness? First, we must ask what you most fear. What couldn’t you endure?”
Nuïy knew already. “I could never leave the Shrine. It is my life.”
“So. Good, good.” Sargyshyva placed his right hand on the forehead of the statue, and indicated that Nuïy should follow suit. “Swear after me. I swear on Our Lord In Green.”
“I swear on Our Lord In Green.”
“That if I disobey any order given to me.”
“That if I disobey any order given to me.”
“I will be broken off Our Lord In Green.”
“I will be broken off Our Lord In Green.”
“And become humus.”
“And become humus.”
Sargyshyva nodded and returned to his seat. “Sit, Nuïy Pinkeye.”
Nuïy did as he was bid, while Gaddaqueva wandered out of the chamber and Zehosaïtra sat on a couch.
“So,” Sargyshyva continued. “Now you can know the heartwood of Our Lord In Green’s plan. What is the Garden? Why was it formed? D’you know?”
“Not really, First Cleric.”
Sargyshyva continued, “The Garden’s an abstract place where those with political power meet. It’s exclusively of the un-men. Those of the hag predominate. It’s split into two. The Inner Garden comprises the senior two hag clerics, plus the android Alquazonan of the Wild Network Guild. Finally, there‘s the Interpreter hag Manserphine. The Outer Garden comprises five lesser officials, including those not from shrines. We, and those of the Shrine of the Delightful Erection are banned because of our masculinity.”
“Unfair,” Nuïy muttered.
“You’re correct. So. How can we alter this parlous state?”
Sargyshyva paused. “Are you asking me, First Cleric?” said Nuïy.
“You may answer if you want.”
Nuïy did so. “We must reform the Garden so that it is inimical to un-men. Then we can take our rightful place… then we can do the will of Our Lord In Green.”
“Yea. That’s good. So, then. The question arises. How will we do the will of Our Lord In Green in the Garden? One answer springs out. We must reform the Garden into the image of a deep forest, with cold winds, sun, and occasional rain. It must be simple and strong. Birds and animals must replace insects. This is where you come in, Nuïy Pinkeye. You’ve proven yer ability at transformation. Yer task is t’help us alter the Garden as I’ve described.”
Nuïy nodded, then stared at his feet, trying to give the impression of humility. “If the will of Our Lord In Green is strong within me, I can do it.”
“So. Such may be the case. But don’t think you’ll have an easy time of it, as you did at the Percussion Lodge. Have you seen the Garden?”
“Yes, First Cleric. It is dense, jungly, filled with foul blooms and strident insects. I hate it. I saw it on screens when I was a boy.”
“So. But let me tell you that the databases of the Percussion Lodge stand next t’the Garden as a two-year oakling stands beside Our Lord In Green. The Garden’s teeming with subsystems. You merely altered a few such at the Percussion Lodge. Perhaps twenty or thirty. We suspect the Garden t’be formed of several thousand.”
“I still believe I could do it,” Nuïy said.
“It’s not impossible. If it were, Our Lord In Green wouldn’t have placed such thoughts in my mind.”
Nuïy nodded. “What of the flower crash, First Cleric?”
“The what?”
Nuïy was silenced. He had assumed that Sargyshyva would know of the flower crash. He had cut pink blossoms because of his desire for the superior clerics to know of it. Now he realised he had made a mistake.
“The what?” Sargyshyva repeated.
Nuïy had no choice but to tell what he knew. “In the Tech Houses I overheard a conversation about the flower networks crashing. Doubtless I misheard. It was some time ago.”
“I know nothing of this. Who supervised you at that time?”
“The Recorder-Shaman.”
Sargyshyva turned his head away and for five minutes sat in silence. Nuïy fretted, unable to move. Big trouble was on the way; Deomouvadaïn would make humus of him. But he could not speak to defend himself.
Eventually Sargyshyva said, “No matter, Nuïy Pinkeye. I’ll deal with the affair. Now it’s time for you t’depart. You’ll continue yer work in the Tech Houses and the Drum Houses. Once the Garden’s reconvened next week, I’ll summon you here. The details of the plan will then be enacted. Come summer, I hope t’be in command of Zaïdmouth, in the name of Our Lord In Green.”
“Very good, First Cleric.”
Zehosaïtra led Nuïy out of the room. With the door closed, he said, “Well done. You kept your strength. He is a difficult man with a strong vision.”
“That he is.”
~
Night fell across the Shrine of the Green Man. In his chamber, Sargyshyva stood by the north facing window, looking out over the fields a
t the centre of Zaïdmouth, glancing from the yellow lamps of Blissis to his right across to the distant blur of Veneris. He felt unsettled. Talk of networks crashing had come as a surprise, and he saw the hand of the Recorder-Shaman in that.
Into his chamber stepped Kamnaïsheva, wearing a shadow cloak to guard against prying eyes. The pair sat in adjacent chairs, Sargyshyva holding a goblet of port, Kamnaïsheva with nothing.
“Analyst-Drummer,” Sargyshyva began. “Today’s rainy news is disturbing. Should we make aught of it?”
“After your squirrel’s message, I cunningly queried the Recorder-Shaman with regard to the flower crash. He told me what Nuïy Pinkeye had heard. He had kept the information to himself. His heartwood may be rotten. He is not to be trusted.”
“Aye to that. But what do we two do?”
Kamnaïsheva replied, “Our scheme must continue. If this flower crash be an imminent event, we must enter the networks soon, before it happens. Fear naught, Sargyshyva. Once I am in, the flower crash will not happen. The infinities of the networks can be controlled.”
“Yea. I hope so.”
“There remains just the Recorder-Shaman. We will enclose him. Order that Nuïy Pinkeye works only with me. Ask a crow to watch over the Recorder-Shaman. Our Lord In Green will aid us.”
“He will,” Sargyshyva agreed. “But should we not force Nuïy Pinkeye to listen for further information of the flower crash?”
“We need not. I have one contact who can aid us. Shortly I will leave Emeralddis to find that person.”
“Do not be long.”
“I will make best speed,” replied Kamnaïsheva, standing.
“Then go. Return with sunny news.”
Kamnaïsheva departed, merging into the shadows before he had left the chamber, and Sargyshyva was left swilling the remains of his port around his goblet, pondering the curious sensation that control of the Shrine had somehow left his hands.
~
Nuïy felt more worried than ever when he considered the fact that Sargyshyva had not been told of the flower crash. There were two explanations. Either Deomouvadaïn had told nobody else, or he had told one, two or three of the other senior clerics and there was a plot. Whatever the truth, Deomouvadaïn was an enemy of the Green Man.
Armed with this deduction, Nuïy nearly panicked. Plots in the upper hierarchy made him feel utterly adrift, a tiny piece in a great game in which he existed only to be used. Of course it was possible that the Recorder-Shaman was waiting to announce his discoveries after collating data, but that theory was skotched when Sargyshyva himself announced that Nuïy was no longer to listen inside the Tech Houses, instead to concentrate on drumming. It suggested again that the First Cleric was unaware of the potential of information regarding the flower crash.
Nuïy had to act. He had sworn never to disobey an order. But that did not mean he could not work alone.
In Deomouvadaïn’s herb garden one night he planted a spy ear that he had propagated from audio-papyrus some weeks back. This he set to record unnatural sounds—the only place sweet-opium could be collected was from honey poppies in the garden. His second plan was to listen to the networks of Zaïdmouth from native nodes outside of the Tech Houses. Such nodes were of low quality, but serviceable. Nuïy felt that his memory and analytical abilities would allow him to rise above such problems.
Over the next few days he followed his plan. The native nodes grew a few inches under the ground in earth around the Tech Houses; they were far flung root ends from internal growth that had forged through stone. Finding a suitable node, he attached headphones whenever it was safe—the middle and late hours of the night—and listened to the networks. Days passed, yet he heard nothing of the flower crash.
But his herb garden spy worked. It recorded Deomouvadaïn plucking leaves. Nuïy recognised his erstwhile master by his step and the stertorous sound of his breathing. But there was one rogue sound, of a person entering the garden, walking around, then cutting something and walking away, and Nuïy knew this could be the clue he wanted. He listened carefully to his recording, then used the mental techniques he had learned in the Tech Houses to analyse it. A heavy yet careful step, absolutely no sound of breathing, and a faintly sucking sound at the moment of the cut that could so easily be a poppy head. Nuïy replayed these sounds in his mind, attaching them to his three suspects. One fitted. Kamnaïsheva.
So the Analyst-Drummer was making sweet-opium for Gaddaqueva. There were two possibilities. Either the Second Cleric knew or he did not know. With the importance of the flower crash in his mind, Nuïy knew he had to find out.
Next day he met Kamnaïsheva in the Drum Houses, where they discussed techniques before trying experimental procedures with metal-rimmed drums. Toward the end of the day, Nuïy told Kamnaïsheva he was thinking of picking garlic from Deomouvadaïn’s garden to purify his blood. “Have you ever been there?” he nonchalantly asked.
“I never go near it,” Kamnaïsheva answered, before returning to drum matters.
Nuïy had the information he wanted. Gaddaqueva was being drugged into somnolence to keep him quiet, doubtless because of his brilliant mind. Deomouvadaïn had been ousted, and perhaps this was why he had kept the flower crash information to himself. The cleric wanted revenge. Having considered Deomouvadaïn an enemy, Nuïy now realised the Recorder-Shaman was the only person he could talk to. He must face his fear and go. He had not broken his oath, of that he was certain.
Next day he met Deomouvadaïn in his house. They sat sipping ale, warily glancing at one another. Nuïy started by saying, “I am loyal to the Green Man. I have sworn a terrible oath, to which I have remained faithful.”
“Get to the point, Nuïy Pinkeye.”
“This is the point,” Nuïy said. “I have accidentally discovered a plot against the First Cleric. The Analyst-Drummer is plotting, possibly with the Third Cleric, in league against the First Cleric. The Second Cleric is being drugged with sweet-opium. You have not told anybody of what we learned of the flower crash.”
Nuïy feared Deomouvadaïn would explode with fury, but instead he smiled. “Yer a perspicacious youth. I have myself come to see a plot, and my evidence points the same way. I suspect Kamnaïsheva of working against Sargyshyva.”
Nuïy gasped. “But how? Why?”
“Neither I nor Kamnaïsheva has had audiences with Sargyshyva recently. I’ve told Kamnaïsheva about the flower crash. He said he’d pass the information on to Sargyshyva, to which I agreed. What you’ve just told me indicates that he didn’t pass it on.”
“You trusted him?”
“I trusted him until recently. Now I know there’s a plot afoot. I’ve been ousted from the confidence of the senior clerics. As you know, my access to you has been denied. My guess is that Kamnaïsheva is working alone or with somebody to maximise their gains out of you. Nuïy Pinkeye, you’ve fair set this Shrine to growing. Some say yer a gift from the Green Man.”
Nuïy looked away, embarrassed. This, after all, was the man who had so mistreated him. “We should carry on as normal,” he said. “Soon the Garden will reconvene. We must keep our ears open for Kamnaïsheva’s plots.”
“That we must, Nuïy Pinkeye.”
CHAPTER 11
It was spring.
In Veneris, the pale blooms of winter made way for the colour splashed heads of new flowers. The narrow, paved streets became passable only with difficulty, partly because of the amount of technology cluttering up the central aisle of every street, but also because swarms of insects appeared. These insects were the procedural vectors of the networks. Some were bees from the autohives, those processing systems that were the powerhouse of the larger networks, but also making appearances were hoverflies, a few butterflies, and at night a great number of moths with immensely long tongues suitable for the transfer of data.
In back gardens and on empty land more network flowers emerged; cherry, rose, meadow-sweet, and other, more exotic species such as white plum and wet-rose. The onset of spri
ng coaxed the networks out of hibernation, and people were again able to communicate over distance, act remotely, access their databases and accounts, or perform research; in short, they could manage all the transactions that their various cultures so depended on. In particular, screens became active.
And yet this spring was different.
It was soon noticed that there seemed to be a reduction in the number of species flowering. One family dominated all others: Family Rosaceae. Before long people also began remarking on the lack of butterflies and other specialised insects, for apart from the bees and nocturnal moths only hoverflies had appeared. There were great quantities of these, but no variety.
Manserphine returned to her chamber in the Shrine of Our Sister Crone. Soon she had unpacked, and the small room was again untidily stuffed with clothes and other oddments, thrown inside the antique furniture that occupied every corner. Her first task was to find the humble bee pen. Slipping into the Insect Chamber, she opened the single cupboard there to see what was available. Because such pens were rare it would not be possible for her simply to take one, since this would be noticed and there would be an outcry. Yet she was entitled to use the devices here. In the end she decided to swap her own generic bee for the humble bee, which she took to the Determinate Inn paddock via a back gate. There Zoahnône waited.
“Use this only with orange snapdragons,” she explained. “Ideally you should keep to one flower, for the information you send will then remain in fewer bees. But it’s not essential. I’ll check the snapdragon in the garden of the Shrine every evening. Code your information to me alone.”
Zoahnône nodded. “We must keep in touch. If we need to talk face to face we should arrange to meet here, where it is safe.”
“I’d rather not,” Manserphine said, “because I want to escape this inn. There are many other old gardens in north Veneris where we could meet. But what will you do now?”
“I have three immediate tasks. I have to locate Shônsair, Baigurgône, and I have to prepare the embodied gynoid plan. I hope that my first such creation will be born soon, most likely from a gynoid already mature, for I intend bypassing the normal ex-utero process.”
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