At the Venereal Garden she pondered her dilemma. She must not seem like a customer of the preening men inside, but at the same time she needed to cover a lot of ground and ask questions. The best ploy was disguise. Already she wore a nondescript cloak. From her pocket she took a neckscarf given to her by Vishilkaïr, and after pulling her hair back, she tied it around her head to give her the appearance of a wandering academic.
It was morning, a time of low activity in the Venereal Garden, and she walked for five minutes before seeing anybody. Around her, gazebos, arbours and conservatories were set amidst profuse displays of bluebells, cowslips, dandelions and foxgloves, ready for the amours and liaisons of the night. It was warm, but the grass was damp after overnight rain. Manserphine paused to survey the ground ahead and find her bearings.
Away to the north she saw the top of the Gazebo Azure, around which many men had their stages. She decided to make for it. Languid women in translucent gowns wandered by, carrying books of love, lingams on strings, and silver trays of aphrodisiac food. The scent of the flowers and the warmth of the sun conspired to create in Manserphine a mood of unreality. She had never been here before.
She stopped one woman to ask, “Excuse me, I am looking for a woman of medium height, with shiny black hair bobbed to her chin, a pretty expression, but a rough accent. Does she come here?”
“There’s no point asking me,” came the reply, “ask a man.”
Manserphine shrugged and walked on. At the tower she saw two dozen covered stages, some empty, but most occupied by one, occasionally two men. So this was where low and middle ranking clerics came for their pleasures. Officially it was condemned by Our Sister Crone; privately it was funded by Our Sister Crone, or so rumour suggested.
Manserphine read the plaque on the stage of the nearest man, who sat at his ease on a wicker chair. It read, ‘Ladies of social distinction catered for. Documentation of family lineage required. Bring your own settee.’
The next read, ‘Exotic strip with oil! Make own wine and bring along! Foods no object! Please no cowries! Keep me warm with big legs!’
Manserphine stifled a groan of disbelief. Suddenly she was aware of her own stance, celibacy forced upon her, a price she had thought worth paying when she first became Interpreter. Seeing all this made her wonder.
At the next stage she attracted the attention of the youth by smiling at him, then approaching. “Hello,” he said, cheerily. “A quickie or a long slow one?”
Manserphine frowned. “I am not after your wares,” she said icily. “I am searching for a friend.” She described Luihaby, then asked the youth if he had seen her.
“It reminds me of one of Camfaïrra‘s regulars,” he said. “Go and ask him. He’s four stages along.”
Manserphine counted the stages. She was not prepared for what she found at the fourth stage.
There sat Kirifaïfra, relaxing in a chair angled away from her, his oiled torso bare to the sun, wearing a wrap skirt and sandals. His pigtail had been wrapped with multicoloured ribbon. Shocked, Manserphine put up her hand, to feel through the neckscarf the braid in her own hair.
She stood rooted to the ground. His pitch read, ‘Camfaïrra will sooth your troubled breast with scented oils, before offering you fragrant wine fermented from oyster-grapes. He will make you forget the nightmare world outside. You will cry when you leave him, but in your dreams he will lie at your side, your eternal servant.’
Still he had not seen her. Manserphine found that she could not move. Surely Luihaby was not coming here to make love with Kirifaïfra. She would not have it. She was jealous. Jealous! Ridiculous. Kirifaïfra was a youth, who said he loved her because… because… she could not think why he said it. But this changed everything.
He turned and glanced at her. Manserphine became a statue. The sun was behind her; he had not recognised her. In a rolling Blissis brogue she said, “‘Scuse, mate, lookin’ for Luihaby. Urgent, like. She been here?”
“Yes, she was here last night,” Kirifaïfra answered. “Can I give her a message when I see her next?”
Manserphine felt raw emotion surge from her chest into her throat, as if she was preparing to scream or sob. She stood unable to speak, staring at him. She became aware that she was not breathing. Then she pulled off her scarf and shouted, “You liar! You—”
He dived off the stage. Surprised, Manserphine turned and ran, but he caught her, and when she struggled, tackled her to the ground. From the other stages came whoops and guffaws.
Kirifaïfra turned to them and shouted, “Any more of that and I’ll poison the lot of you. Shut up!”
They quietened, though a few chortled to themselves. Kirifaïfra turned to Manserphine and said, “What are you doing here? Surely not—”
“No, I wasn’t,” Manserphine angrily interrupted. “How could you? You said you loved me, you stupid—”
“But I do. This is just one of my jobs.”
“Some job,” Manserphine muttered. “So Luihaby herself comes here on a regular basis to, to…”
“Don’t think about that,” Kirifaïfra insisted, “think about us.”
Manserphine laughed at this show of desperation. “Us? The Interpreter of the Garden and a two-cowrie gigolo?”
“I am more than that. I have noble feelings. I desire you. Manserphine, you’ve changed my life.”
“I can do more than that,” Manserphine replied, bitterness welling up inside her. “I can break your heart. You’re just a fool. How can you prostitute yourself like this? It’s a perversion of how things should be done.”
“And I suppose celibacy is not?” he replied. “You’re in no position to comment on my life. Aren’t we the same? You deny your natural desires for doctrine, while I exploit mine for the same.”
“What doctrine would that be?”
“Living life as a man with no money, the doctrine of hardship. Manserphine, I am an independent, a free will. I have no guardian, you must have realised that—Jezelva doesn’t exist. I wanted to tell you but Vishilkaïr wouldn’t let me. Now I only want you.”
Manserphine looked at him, her emotions lurching from anger to pity to jealousy, and back to anger. All the feelings of her youth were rekindled. She understood that she had merely repressed them, not sublimated them as required by Our Sister Crone. Yet she could not show any crack in her doctrinal armour. He must not see what she really wanted; for suddenly she knew. If he did, she was lost.
She sighed, staring at the grass. “This was a bad move. I have work to do. I knew I shouldn’t have taken this task on.”
“What task?”
“An investigation. You needn’t worry, I won’t implicate you.”
“Implicate me?” he repeated, looking frightened.
“Our Sister Crone looks with wrath upon tempters.”
That made him think. And it was true. Yamagyny could have him castrated and sent packing into the Woods if he was linked to Luihaby.
“Manserphine, you must save me,” he said. “Truly I still love you. We must be together. If I’m in trouble, you must save me.”
Manserphine looked away, and from the way he relaxed she knew he had spotted her indecision. The complexity of the situation, made worse by her feelings, made her tremble. She stood up. He stood by her, and with a gentle arm led her to a tree, under which they sat.
“Am I really in trouble?” he asked.
“I have been told to investigate Luihaby. Members of the Garden must be celibate according to Our Sister Crone’s immutable law.”
“Luihaby doesn’t come just to me. She’s a bit of a slut.”
“I don’t need to know that,” Manserphine replied. “The subject here is you. There’s no question that I can mention these liaisons in my report. There’s only one way out.” Manserphine warmed to her subject, seeing a way to manipulate him. “You must stop working here. If you continue there is always the risk of Yamagyny finding out. You will have to remain at the Determinate Inn.”
“But I’l
l have no money.”
Rain began pattering down from a grey stormcloud coming in off the sea. They huddled closer to the tree trunk. Manserphine thought awhile, then said, “Ask your uncle for more pay.”
“He won’t give me more.”
“Surely he’s got enough to give you a few extra cowries?”
Kirifaïfra shrugged. “I don’t think so.”
“But he’s rich. All those fabulous clothes, the inn, the never ending supplies of whiskey and vodka.”
Kirifaïfra’s gaze became distant. “He certainly has large amounts of coinage flowing through his hands.”
“I suppose he is some drugs supplier in Blissis.”
“To my certain knowledge drugs play no part in his financial dealings.”
Manserphine scowled. “I don’t want to know, whatever it is. You had better come with me to the inn.”
They stood, walking to the southern gate of the garden through the drizzle. Half way down the street Manserphine noticed the three men who had tried to gatecrash the party at the Determinate Inn. They leered at her as she passed.
Manserphine turned and shouted, “Go grin at pigs in the Woods, vagrants—ow!”
Kirifaïfra had slapped a hand around her mouth and was bundling her down the street. “Shush!” he said.
She struggled free, to demand, “What are you doing?”
“Those three will revenge themselves on you for your cheek.”
“My cheek? But they’re men.”
Kirifaïfra became as serious as she had ever seen him. “They’re rough men of the Cemetery. Cross them and they cross you back, tenfold. Steer clear of them.”
Manserphine was angry at being told this—and by another man. “I don’t fear any man,” she said. “They are just ruffians. Show them a dagger and they would collapse like a pack of cards.”
“They wouldn’t. I know.”
“How?”
He hesitated. “I can’t tell you.”
“Another secret? You love me, you want to bed me, yet you cheerfully declare your secrets?”
“Don’t jest,” he said. The expression on his face was pained. Manserphine muttered to herself and said nothing further.
At the Determinate Inn he took her hand and kissed it in a gesture so melodramatic she laughed. Affectations like this were in his nature. She said, “I’d better go. Things to do.”
“Yes. Oh—your friend was here last night. She said she will send a message.”
“My friend?”
“The secret gynoid.”
Manserphine stared at him. “Zoahnône was here last night?”
“Yes, in the back garden. We chatted.”
“You chatted? What about?”
Kirifaïfra nonchalantly answered, “I told her about the flower crash.”
Manserphine’s mind became temporarily blank. She murmured, “I think I need a drink,” and seconds later found herself sitting at the bar.
As ever, Omdaton sat asleep before the fire, while Vishilkaïr stood behind the bar. Kirifaïfra sat next to Manserphine, his thigh warm against hers. It was as if she had never left.
“A triple whiskey on the rocks?” Vishilkaïr asked.
Manserphine nodded. “How is it that I leave this inn with sadness in my heart, only to find myself back days later?”
“The heart seeks home,” remarked Vishilkaïr.
“That’s right unc,” Kirifaïfra commented.
Manserphine laughed and playfully hit his shoulder. Yet, how could it be? How could she feel more at home here than in the Shrine where she was Our Sister Crone’s fourth most important cleric? She drank her whiskey and smacked the square glass down, indicating a refill. Vishilkaïr obliged. Turning to Kirifaïfra, she said, “So you told her about the flower crash? How could you know about it?”
“Botanical observation,” he replied. “As you’ve found out, I work in the Venereal Garden.”
“Worked,” Manserphine corrected.
Vishilkaïr threw his nephew a puzzled glance. “Tell you later unc,” said Kirifaïfra. “Working in the Venereal Garden allowed me to watch the growth and decay of wild networks, the sort Alquazonan looks after. Did you notice almost all the flowers there are the wild variety?”
“Never mind that, the flower crash,” urged Manserphine.
“I’m coming to it. When flowers lose their petals at the end of their season, seeds fall too. Those seeds are nuggets of ideas. Kernels of concepts. When they enter the earth any hardpetal nearby creeps over and smothers them, forming nodes from which new networks emerge. Now, in the Venereal Garden there lie gynoids who want to mate.”
“Mate? Who with?”
“The insects, of course. Don’t you know? Gynoid sex happens when insects bring huge quantities of data to flowers that bloom from their bodies. I don’t know why that should happen, but anyway. This means that the networks in the Venereal Gardens are metaphorically carnal, which makes for fascinating screens, I can tell you. Now last year I noticed that a great quantity of seeds were produced by all the flowers of the Venereal Garden, and it struck me that perhaps they knew of some event to happen the following year that might strike them down. This would make them want to produce as many seeds as possible.”
Manserphine cast her mind back to the previous year, when there certainly had been unusual quantities of seeds, dropped in spring from the winter flowering blooms and in autumn from those of summer.
She said, “But how did you know of the flower crash?”
“A trifle of research showed me that the networks themselves call this future event the flower crash.”
Fascinated despite herself, Manserphine tried to find faults. Though she knew the answer to the question, she said, “Why should the networks be able to see their own demise?”
Kirifaïfra hesitated, then replied, “That does puncture my theory, I must admit. Still, it is only a theory—though Zoahnône called it a brilliant piece of deductive reasoning.”
“Did she,” Manserphine said. She pondered what she had heard. In the flower crash vision, she had felt the event to be imminent. If Kirifaïfra was right it would happen this year. But what was it?
“Have you noticed how many roses there are this year?” Kirifaïfra asked.
“Yes,” she replied, absent-mindedly.
“I think something bad is going to happen soon. Diversity—that’s nature.”
It was time to go. She had wasted too much time drinking.
Walking back to the Shrine, she arranged in her mind what she would put in her first report. Best to be vague about Luihaby for the moment. On the way to her room she passed a crowd of clerics and laity at an open door. She stopped. “What is happening?” she asked.
“Something horrible,” somebody said.
Manserphine looked over shoulders to see a blood-soaked body on a bed. Thorny stems grew out of the chest and stomach. It seemed the victim had been lying there for a few days. A cleric was invoking Our Sister Crone’s rites of finality.
“Who is it?” Manserphine asked, looking away.
“Our Debt Collector. Gharalaiwy, she was called.”
~
Nuïy crouched in the silence of midnight, Deomouvadaïn’s herb garden all around him. In the boggy ground he sat still, headphones over his ears, trying to coax the fading papyrus into a semblance of clear sound. Soon he would have to find and plant new ones.
He listened.
Then he heard the phrase that he had for so long tried to catch amidst the ever-increasing babble of the spring networks.
Flower crash.
He memorised the message as it passed. ‘I’ve spoken with Kirifaïfra concerning the flower crash. I am sure now that it will happen this year. I’ve questioned Lizlaini, but she knew nothing of Shônsair’s origins. Shônsair clearly has plans and is highly dangerous. I am still searching Blissis for her. Hope your first session was successful.’
So. Names. Now he had facts to use. Who was this Kirifaïfra, these un-men Lizla
ini and Shônsair?
He and Deomouvadaïn must find out.
CHAPTER 12
During the weeks following the reconvening of the Garden, Manserphine noticed small changes in the virtual environment that at first she explained away as an understandable reaction of the self-regulating systems, but which later she began to worry about. She could hear the sea. They all heard this sound, whether they stood in the Inner or Outer Garden, and with it, some days later, came distant mewling gulls and the distinctive odour of sea air.
Fnfayrq did not reappear, except briefly at the fourth session to wander the Outer Garden and enjoy the flowers. With no idea of how she would behave, nor what was causing the changes, Manserphine was left trying to articulate her ephemeral worries. Curulialci advised her to forget such details.
One night Manserphine had a mild vision. She was floating before the mermaid, red stars above her, dark depths below. From the mouth of the mermaid an orange flower emerged.
Manserphine understood the relevance and found herself fully awake, insects buzzing around her head in a haze of clematis perfume. Dawn was an hour away. She hurried to the garden and checked the message screen. There she read, ‘My plans are progressing. I have heard rumours of a deranged gynoid wandering Blissis in search of experience. This gynoid may know the whereabouts of Shônsair. If I find Shônsair, I may force out of her various explanations, such as her role in the flower crash, before I decide what to do with her. Unfortunately, the residents of Blissis are truculent, when they are conscious, and I am finding questioning difficult. It seems possible, however, that Shônsair and Baigurgône have some role in this attempt to crash the flower networks, so I must continue. Please keep your ear open for talk of suspicious gynoids. Kirifaïfra’s evidence suggests that the flower crash will occur this year.’
Manserphine had heard no talk of gynoids. She had not seen Zoahnône for some time and the embodied gynoid plan, with its attendant tasks, had been relegated in her mind. She was more worried about the Garden.
That afternoon she was summoned to a private meeting of the three senior clerics. Her report on Luihaby had been studied and further investigation had been carried out by a disbelieving Curulialci. Luihaby was to be weeded out of the Garden, her replacement one Suonhilni, who would represent those few residents of the Woods and the edges of Veneris who could be represented. Manserphine shrugged, glad that she had helped Kirifaïfra avoid an unpleasant fate.
Flowercrash Page 19
