“Are there?” Nuïy asked. “Do you mean the Cemetery?”
“Never mind that,” Kamnaïsheva said, with vigour enough to make Nuïy suspicious. “We have here a dangerous anomaly. Well done for spotting it. I must consider what to do. I had better go and see Sargyshyva. You lock up here, I have to go. Get some sleep, Pinkeye.”
Nuïy was left to ponder the rippling cloak of the Analyst-Drummer—and then a slammed door. This was the first time in his life that he had been left alone in the Drum Houses. He ought to exploit such an opportunity. He walked first towards Kamnaïsheva’s worktable, to look at the hemispherical headgear. An odour caught his nose and he lifted it to his face. Musk. His memory worked for him. Sargyshyva. Musk oil was what the First Cleric used on his scalp, so he must have worn this contraption.
For the first time Nuïy considered what might happen if the Green Man succeeded in changing the Garden. The clerics of his Shrine would have to enter the Garden to assume control. Nuïy looked at the headgear and saw that it had screens and earpieces. A reality could be experienced through such equipment. Yet this technology was like nothing he had seen in the Tech Houses, being smoother, heavier, made of silver; and of course screens were not sanctioned by the Green Man. Nuïy saw the connection. Kamnaïsheva and Sargyshyva were plotting, they were thinking of the converted Garden and how to rule it. Though he had no evidence, he knew now that these two were the plotters, with Kamnaïsheva the instigator, for Sargyshyva, as First Cleric, would need no excuse to enter the Garden as leader. Something here was very wrong.
Nuïy examined the rest of the bench. Unfamiliar items littered it, worrying him because he did not recognise their uses. Eventually he locked and departed the Drum Houses. The night was old. He looked up to the top floor of the Inner Sanctum to see lamps glowing bright in the chamber of the First Cleric. That night he slept with the roar of surf echoing in his mind. He had never heard the sea, yet instinctively he knew what it sounded like…
Next day he noticed for the first time that the unexpected defences of the Garden were sourced in two places. Early morning reports suggested that a pair of subsystems had immersed themselves into the Garden and were somehow organising defences, so that the metaphors of the Green Man were simply returning to base.
“Do not give up,” Kamnaïsheva instructed him. “We are getting to the tricky parts. The deeper we probe, the more wily the defences. A point will come when the Garden will notice what we did earlier in the month. Then there will be chaos, as the changes we planted surge up from the solid earth.”
“But these two new systems are strong.”
“Two new systems?”
Nuïy tried to think of an appropriate metaphor. “It is as if two chess players are marshalling the defences of the Garden.”
“Two—” Without finishing his sentence, Kamnaïsheva was gone.
With nothing else to do, Nuïy continued drumming. He still believed they could change the Garden, but the anomalies, unexpected Garden states and the peculiar behaviour of Kamnaïsheva were having a draining effect on his morale. As night fell, he left.
He went to Deomouvadaïn’s house to discuss what he had learned. There he found a strange man, dark of skin, bulky, with a hunched posture that suggested wounding or disablement. The man scratched a ragged beard.
“This is Tantaïtra,” Deomouvadaïn said, “my man out in the urb. He has a strange tale to tell.”
“That I do,” said Tantaïtra, in an accent Nuïy recognised as belonging to the outer districts of Veneris. “I went up to the Cemetery to locate the Band of Herb Smokers, only to discover that they were in hiding. Some sort of feud is being played out among the gravestones. One man in particular, Argomaïtra, is being sought. So I talked to members of the Band of Four Males, and the Band of Some Depth, both of whom spend their time digging up oddments of silver technology. They were able to point me to the Band of Finding, Aha, whose leader is Argomaïtra’s uncle—an irascible man of ninety. The Band of Finding, Aha also have a feud with the Band of Herb Smokers. I was able to persuade my contact that damage could be done if I was given information. I learned that the Band of Herb Smokers formerly consisted of four men, one of whom was Kirifaïfra, now a resident at the Determinate Inn, Veneris. So I walked down to that inn and entered on the pretext of thirst. There I tried to engage the young man Kirifaïfra in talk, but he suspected me and forced me out with a projectile flower. I then returned to Emeralddis.”
Deomouvadaïn nodded. “You’ve done well.” He showed Nuïy a sketch that Tantaïtra had made of Kirifaïfra, then said, “It’s up to us now. We have to find and interrogate this man.”
“But we are confined.”
“Yes. Curse it!”
Nuïy quailed to see this rare expression of frustration, implying that even Deomouvadaïn was unable to think of a way of avoiding the gaze of Sargyshyva’s spies. Deomouvadaïn dismissed Tantaïtra with a handful of golden acorns, then asked Nuïy, “What stage are we at with the drumming?”
“We are close to the end. The Garden is metamorphosing. But there are difficulties, and the Green Man is being sorely tested.”
“Hmph. And the Analyst-Drummer?”
“Behaving bizarrely,” Nuïy reported, describing the most recent incidents.
“I’m sure he and Sargyshyva are plotting, possibly with Zehosaïtra. Gaddaqueva is out of it. We must find out what’s going on!”
Softly, Nuïy said, “You are unquiet tonight, Recorder-Shaman.”
“I’ve heard news from Zehosaïtra. This mustn’t be told to anybody. D’you understand?”
“By the strength of Our Lord Green, yes.”
Deomouvadaïn nodded, then sank back in his chair to gaze at the ceiling. “Events are coming to a head,” he said. “I’ve heard a report that the Shrine of the Sea are massing boats and even ships in the harbour. That can only mean one thing. An attack on Zaïdmouth, and presumably on the Garden. It may be that such an attack is linked with the flower crash.”
Nuïy was unable to stop a cry of anguish escaping his mouth. “But Recorder-Shaman! The moat is salty. Metaphoric data is being loaded upon our own metaphors and the Garden is built on sand!”
“What!” Deomouvadaïn cried. “Then it is Kamnaïsheva and Sargyshyva. We must stop them.”
“But how?”
“There’s no time to waste. We must speak to Zehosaïtra. Follow me.”
They sped out into the clerical yards and up to the Inner Sanctum, where they brushed passed the guards and ran up to Zehosaïtra’s personal chamber on the next floor up. Zehosaïtra welcomed them into his quarters.
Deomouvadaïn outlined what they knew. Nuïy discovered as he did that Zehosaïtra had yesterday warned of the Shrine of the Sea, only for Sargyshyva to dismiss the reports as fanciful. Deomouvadaïn told of everything: Nuïy’s suspicions, the drugged Second Cleric, and the new information regarding the salt and the sand.
Zehosaïtra pondered this for five minutes, before sitting upright to say, “I am the de facto leader of this Shrine. I must make the right decision.” He looked across at a statue of the Green Man, then concluded, “We three must confront Sargyshyva. There is no point in skulking now that the Shrine of the Sea has massed its forces. If we are left on the sidelines they will murder us. We must go. Come!”
So Nuïy found himself following the two clerics, with their angered faces, bristling beards and flapping cloaks. He felt lost amidst chaos. He followed them like a boy trailing older brothers.
But one final shock lay in store. As they ascended to the top of the Inner Sanctum they heard weeping. Rounding the corner they saw, kneeling before his own door, a mewling Sargyshyva, cloak muddied, hair unkempt, calling out, “Let me in! Let me in, fiend!”
Zehosaïtra ran up to the First Cleric and skidded to a halt beside him. “What is afoot?”
Sargyshyva seemed to care nothing for his extraordinary appearance. He implored Zehosaïtra, “The fiend’s in there. He’s locked and triple barred the
door. We must get inside before he departs us forever.”
“Fiend?” Deomouvadaïn said. “What fiend?”
“Why, Kamnaïsheva!”
Zehosaïtra hesitated, then declared, “We must go and make counsel. Follow me, all of you!”
All four men ran down the corridor and into an ante-chamber off the Scroll Room, where they sat around a table, Sargyshyva and Zehosaïtra on one side, Deomouvadaïn and Nuïy on the other. Again it was Zehosaïtra who took charge of the situation. “This is a Heretic’s Council,” he declared. “Kamnaïsheva has proved himself a traitor to the Green Man.”
“What’s he done?” Deomouvadaïn asked Sargyshyva.
Sargyshyva gulped and seemed close to breaking down. “We had an arrangement. I die inside t’mention it. He promised me eternal life in the networks. We two would leap in together. Now he’s forced me out of my own quarters.”
“Why? What’s in there?”
“The great golden statue. It’s an incarnation of the Green Man, with vast potential.”
Deomouvadaïn sagged. “You mean it’s plugged into the networks?”
“Yes.”
“Then the Analyst-Drummer must at all costs be stopped,” Zehosaïtra stated. “He could do anything from inside there.”
Sargyshyva began, “He could—”
“Enough speculation,” Zehosaïtra said. “There’s only one way. Force. We must fetch bull mastiffs from the kennels and have them smash open the door.”
“What of climbing in through a window?” Nuïy suggested.
“Too tricky,” Zehosaïtra replied. “We need speed and force. Deomouvadaïn, get the autodogs. There are three large blue ones. Bring them here with handlers. Once you’re at the Inner Sanctum, dismiss the handlers and activate the autodogs, then let them follow you. Don’t let on why.”
Deomouvadaïn nodded and ran out of the chamber. Zehosaïtra eyed Nuïy and Sargyshyva then said, “We’ll return to the chamber.”
At the gold-plated door, Zehosaïtra paced up and down for a few minutes, before hammering on the door and shouting, “Give yourself up, Kamnaïsheva! The Green Man will shine mercy upon you.”
No answer.
He tried again. “Give yourself up! We know you’re in there. You’re trapped. If we beseige this chamber, you’ll die. Come out!”
Still nothing. Cursing, Zehosaïtra continued pacing, leaving Nuïy to glance apprehensively at the crushed face of Sargyshyva. “It is a bad thing, First Cleric,” he said in an attempt at conversation.
Sargyshyva scowled, then said, “Our attempt t’change the Garden has failed. Missing the Analyst-Drummer we’re missing the guide.”
“Not so,” Nuïy said. “I have all his knowledge. I am the force behind the Drum Houses. He taught me all he knew, but then I taught myself more. Trust me, First Cleric.”
Sargyshyva looked speculatively upon Nuïy, but said nothing more.
After five minutes Nuïy heard a slobbering, coughing noise, and then from the stairs Deomouvadaïn emerged leading three azure-coated dogs, whose heads reached to Nuïy’s waist. Their great barrel chests heaved with their desire for action.
Zehosaïtra spoke to them like young initiates. “Autodogs! Smash this door! Quickly! Our lives depend on it!”
With deafening howls the autodogs flung themselves at the door, their eyes burning crimson with the intensity of their efforts. The volume of the din and the sheer ferocity of the attack caused Nuïy to shrink against the opposite wall, yet despite their strength the great oaken door remained firm, though dented.
Then they heard a voice over the howling. “Stop! Stop at once!”
“It’s him,” Sargyshyva said. “Talk to him, Zehosaïtra.”
Zehosaïtra called off the autodogs, then shouted, “Analyst-Drummer, open this door at once. The Green Man will treat you mercifully.”
Kamnaïsheva’s voice came through, muffled by the door. “I will treat only with Nuïy. Fetch Nuïy.”
Zehosaïtra stared at Nuïy, then gestured at him with one finger. Nuïy approached. Zehosaïtra whispered, “Do as he says. We must have this door opened. At all costs keep him speaking. Leave the rest to us.”
Nuïy, terrified, nodded and tried to keep his feelings under control. He wanted only to run away.
“Very well,” Zehosaïtra called out, “Nuïy is here. Open the door.”
“Let him shout out,” Kamnaïsheva replied. “And call off the autodogs.”
Zehosaitra stamped and shouted at the autodogs, until, cringing, they backed off a few yards. He nodded in silence at Nuïy. Nuïy called out, “I am here, Analyst-Drummer. Open the door as has been requested.”
Silence. A minute passed. At last they heard the sound of wooden bars being pulled out of their brackets, and then door opened a fraction. Against a line of yellow they saw a silhouette.
Suddenly all was light. A beam blinded Nuïy. He heard Zehosaïtra shout, then Deomouvadaïn urge the autodogs to attack. He felt a grip of metal on his left wrist, and he was pulled off his feet into Sargyshyva’s chambers, to fly through the air and crash head first into a wall, where he lay dazed. The door slammed shut. The dogs launched themselves into it, but too late. Down went the bars.
Nuïy opened his eyes and struggled to his feet.
Kamnaïsheva confronted him. “So, Nuïy Pinkeye,” he said. He stood a few inches taller than Nuïy, but seemed to loom over him like a giant.
“What are you doing, traitor?” Nuïy retorted.
Kamnaïsheva’s face betrayed no hint of an emotion. “Remember what damage Raïtasha and Deomouvadaïn did to you, Nuïy Pinkeye. I can do a hundred times worse. I can torture you while the puny humans outside try to punch their way in. Do you understand? So do not stand up to me. You will do precisely as I say. If not, the bruised, punctured, slashed, and considerably shorter remains of your body will regret this hour for the rest of its life.”
Nuïy swallowed. He had never before encountered such brute force. He saw now that Kamnaïsheva was an animal, inhuman despite his human looks. He had no option but to listen to these appalling threats.
“Well?” said Kamnaïsheva. His green eyes flickered with the power of his threat.
“I will do as you say,” Nuïy said.
“Follow me.”
To the sound of autodogs pounding the door, Kamnaïsheva led Nuïy to the statue of the Green Man in the centre of the chamber. He kicked furniture out of the way. Open-mouthed, Nuïy watched as couches hardly liftable by two men flew through the air. Yet Kamnaïsheva launched into it as if it was all made of matchwood. Nuïy took several steps back, cowering, until Kamnaïsheva saw him, and with a single look of his demented eyes called him back.
“This is what we are to do,” Nuïy was informed. “I am about to enter the networks. You will drum precise patterns that I will list according to their numbers. One mistake and you will suffer the fate just outlined. You will not be put off by anything I do or say once the process is in operation. You will drum—nothing else. You will say nothing. You will follow no instructions other than mine. Your attention will focus only on the patterns you are to drum. Is all clear so far?”
“Yes,” Nuïy mumbled.
Kamnaïsheva pulled the statue’s drum from its hand and passed it over to Nuïy, saying, “Sit comfortably as you have before, on one of these stools. Prepare yourself.”
“Yes.”
Kamnaïsheva then proceeded to list a sequence of pattern numbers that Nuïy recognised as those referring to metaphor expansion. Now he understood something of what Kamnaïsheva intended. Metaphor expansion allowed huge systems of data to grow into alternative environments. This was how they had introduced tree root data into jungle soil. But surely memories and thought patterns could not be so transferred? The process would be unimaginably complex.
Nuïy then realised that he was here to facilitate the transfer. Perhaps it was not possible by normal means. Only with the power and perfection of his own drumming could it be done. Despite th
e terror he felt at Kamnaïsheva’s domineering will, he felt awe at what the man had set out to achieve.
“Are you ready, Nuïy Pinkeye?”
“I am ready.”
Then Kamnaïsheva lay beside the statue, turned to Nuïy and said, “We will meet again, in another medium. Do not forget me!”
A great shiver took Nuïy. He closed his eyes, breathed deep. He sat still on his stool, drum between his knees.
Kamnaïsheva took a thick cable from the pool of papyrus and held it in his right hand. To Nuïy, the hundreds of bare ends looked like the centres of flowers. Then Kamnaïsheva tore open his robe and the metal shirt that lay underneath to expose pale skin. From under the shirt he pulled out leather stiffeners, and Nuïy watched, disgusted, as his podgy flesh settled into a new shape.
“Drum!”
And Nuïy drummed. Kamnaïsheva lay still, his right arm vertical, holding the cable. For a minute nothing happened. Dimly, Nuïy was aware of hammering on the door.
Then he saw Kamnaïsheva’s forehead puckering. In ten seconds a mass of flowers had grown out of it, budding, then opening to reveal multicoloured petals. Nuïy felt panic at the sight. He still had fifty seven patterns to drum. He set his memory to the task of controlling his hands and arms.
The flowers grew to a height of a foot. Forty nine patterns to go. They swayed, as if in a breeze, and then insects appeared—he supposed they must have flown in through the open windows of the chamber—and began frantic flights between head flowers and cable. Soon the air was alive with insects.
Thirty patterns left. Now the air was dark with crazed insects. They flew so fast Nuïy was not able to see them, except as dark, blurred lines which ended as insect shapes, then became blurs again.
Seventeen patterns.
Flowercrash Page 25
