Darksong

by Isobelle Carmody

  And here she was, again dressed in songmaking finery and about to perform. She ought to have been afraid, she supposed, but she was buoyed up by the memory of the performance on Vespi. She could not help wondering if the coming performance would affect her as profoundly. She thought it unlikely, given that she would only be performing for an audience of three, all with their own specific agendas, rather than a crowd whose emotions would pour themselves into her music.

  Fridja reached across to adjust the coronet of flowers that held Ember’s filmy veil in place and she had to fight not to shy away. Of course the myrmidon was only worried about the flowers, which were an olfactor’s device, exuding a heavy perfume to confuse the air, in much the same way as heat waves affected vision in the desert. It was intended to prevent the hostess recognising Alene’s a’luwtha. They had all agreed that they could not risk the remote possibility of the hostess recognising the instrument. Ember had been forced to drink a bitter antidote to the scent, as had the other two.

  ‘You have the szerim somewhere dark and warm?’ Bleyd asked Fridja now, sounding tense.

  The myrmidon spy quirked a shaggy brow at him. ‘You think that I would not know its potency fades if it is allowed to grow cold?’ She, too, was costumed and masked, for they had agreed that, as an agent, Bleyd would have employed at least one casual servitor to tend his star, and it would be far easier for a servitor to administer the szerim as she fluttered about in her duties. Fridja had volunteered for the role, and her wild mop of hair, left unbound because of the part she played on Iridom, had been carefully tamed into three sleekly oiled curls, which exposed her hairline to make it immediately apparent that she was not a bewigged myrmidon. If Duran’s capture was by chance part of a plot involving the hostess, then she would be on the alert for myrmidons.

  ‘We are almost there,’ Fridja murmured. ‘Remember that we will be observed from the moment we alight, whether or not anyone is visible. Even if the hostess is not part of what happened to Duran, such women are clever gatherers of information that might be used or sold. Be not yourself again until we are within this carriage and it is moving away from this place.’

  Bleyd asked, ‘If we are to be watched closely and constantly as you say, then how will you manage to slip the szerim into the hostess’s drink?’

  ‘I will contrive it, do not fear,’ Fridja said. ‘One trained in sleight of hand by pickpockets from the gutters of Ramidan will not be seen by any watcher.’

  ‘How did you manage to get them to agree to train you?’ Bleyd asked incredulously.

  ‘They had no choice, since I was one of their number.’

  The carriage stopped with a lurch beside a wall covered in a creeper drooping with pale heavy blossoms, and Fridja disembarked quickly, holding the beaded carriage curtain aside and adopting an expression of respectful haughtiness such as was affected by senior servitors. Bleyd climbed down from the carriage and helped Ember out, saying solicitously and loudly, ‘Now remember, Lady, you must allow me to negotiate.’

  ‘I have agreed to that,’ Ember responded wearily, ‘but I do not see what there is to negotiate. I do not need a great amount of coin to repay you and cross to Myrmidor.’

  They had decided upon this dialogue earlier that morning while composing the chit to be sent to the hostess, but Ember had not expected to engage in it until they were inside. Obviously Bleyd had taken to heart Fridja’s warning about unseen watchers.

  ‘The point is that the hostess of such an important night garden will not take you seriously if you ask too little,’ Bleyd continued, clearly relishing his role.

  ‘You told me that you scribed to her of my true circumstances,’ Ember argued. ‘You said she would want me to perform.’

  ‘I scribed enough to whet her appetite,’ Bleyd said evasively. ‘Now, if you wish me to represent you I must be permitted to proceed as I see fit.’

  Ember gave a slight shrug. ‘The irony of all this is that my parents wished me to become a songmaker, though I doubt they would have approved of such a venue.’

  They had reached the door and Bleyd tugged at a silken rope alongside it. The muted tinkling of bells could be heard and Bleyd glanced back at the carriage. Its driver had been engaged casually some way from the myrmidons’ refuge and Bleyd had chosen him at Fridja’s suggestion, because he was chewing a drug called sosory, which she said caused an intensity of focus in concentration to the point that only one thing could be thought about at a time, but this in exquisite and complex detail. It was commonly used by carriage drivers all over Keltor to endure the boredom of the waiting that their profession required, but especially on Iridom where it was manufactured. Ember wondered how anyone could drive a carriage in such a state, but neither Fridja nor Bleyd had seemed concerned.

  The door in the wall opened and a smooth-faced boy with long, oiled limbs and heavily painted eyes and mouth looked out at them. He wore a simple silver half-mask shaped similarly to the cat-like mask under Ember’s veil, and a loincloth of rippling green fabric. He looked no more than thirteen, but his eyes were so old that they chilled Ember. ‘My mistress awaits you,’ he said in a high-pitched, lisp, closing the door behind them and beckoning them to follow. The corridor they were in ran parallel to the outer wall of the building, suggesting that what Ember had taken for a creeper-covered wall was in fact the outside of a substantial building. Clearly she had taken the name ‘night garden’ too literally, for she had expected an actual garden. The passage they were being led along turned suddenly to the right and, seeing how it ran straight ahead with doorways only opening on the right, she began to think that the whole building might be no more than a sort of passage with rooms opening off it. Some of the doors were closed and others were open, revealing small intimate-looking rooms with couches. One or two doors led to steps going up or down and Ember no longer wondered how Duran could have vanished between entering the night garden and being seen by the myrmidons performing for the guests.

  The odd thing was that none of the myrmidons had mentioned the extent of the hallways leading from the front gate. Now the right wall opened into a short passage that led to a wide heavy curtain which was drawn aside by waiting servitors as they approached. Ember smelt greenery and realised that the name was, after all, literal. But she was astonished at what met their eyes, for what they stepped out into was not merely a courtyard garden but a park that had been made to look as if it verged on wilderness. Trees and creepers had been artistically arranged to make it hard to see the buildings, and as the boy led them along a path that took them through stands of magnificent trees and beside the bank of a bubbling stream, it would have been easy to imagine they were really out in a forest.

  She began to feel there was a good chance that Duran might still be within the night garden because the myrmidons could not possibly have searched the whole place thoroughly, but again she wondered why they had not mentioned the complexity of the night garden.

  The boy ascended some steps and all at once they passed into a garden with delicately patterned mosaic paths which wove past tiny arbours filled with exquisite flowers and follies overlooking small ponds and little glades set with stone seats. The garden had obviously been designed to accommodate as many cul-de-sacs and private meeting places as might be desired by customers wanting to dally with the night-garden’s women and boys. There were also a number of small timber huts from which steam arose in clouds, and she supposed these must house the hot baths and saunas, or other pampering devices that Duran had mentioned.

  It was broad daylight, but Ember noticed that clusters of paper lanterns were suspended from poles all about the place, and she found herself imagining how the garden would look at night, shadows blending into a myriad pools of honey-hued lanternlight that would catch the clothes and headdresses of customers laughing and chattering as they watched performances or listened to music. They would sip exquisite ciruls and nibble delicious foods, and the air would be full of the scents of trees and flowers, and of expensive perf
umes and spicy foods. Truly this was a place devoted to sensual pleasures, and yet Ember also noticed how many servitors moved about, almost invisible as they clipped hedges or weeded flower beds or raked lawns.

  The ground had now begun to slope slightly downwards and there were only flower beds and mosaic fountains, so that they had a clear view of what looked as if it were the centre of the garden: a small, perfectly shaped stone amphitheatre built into the ground facing a polished stone stage. This would have been where the myrmidons performed, and Ember wondered how on earth Duran had hoped to join them, given how exposed the stage was. Then she noticed that the smooth green hill rising up behind the stage had two door-covered openings. This must be where the performers entered the stage area. It struck her suddenly that the myrmidons might not have mentioned the long walk from the front entrance because they had not seen it. Of course performers, like servitors, would not wander about the public areas. There would be more straightforward routes for them, perhaps even underground tunnels. No doubt one led from the door to the hill, and in between there were probably change rooms where the performers would wait to go on.

  The boy had now brought them past the amphitheatre and up the hill via a tiled green path that blended so perfectly with the grass that it could not be seen except if one were on it. Ember glanced back and noted that the hill was steep enough that already it was possible to see the layout of the place; the band of forest within which the garden and amphitheatre nestled and, beyond the tree tops, the upper floors of the surrounding building. The forest band was narrower than she would have thought and she guessed that the path through it was designed to give this illusion of spaciousness.

  She noticed a pair of servitors emptying piles of coloured beads upon little flat metal altars placed at intervals along the side of the hill around fat clusters of shielded candles. Tareed had spoken of olfactor hallucinogens which, when heated, would give off various substances designed to enhance the physical senses and instil a kind of elation. Placed like this, the wind would carry the drugged fumes over the garden perfectly.

  She looked up and saw that they had almost reached the top of the steep bare hill which was crowned by a small round pavilion formed of thick pillars of matt blue stone around a mosaic floor of deeper blue tesserae so highly polished that they mirrored the sky. There was no roof on the pavilion, just a lace of interlocking greenery with tear-shaped blue fruit or seed pods exuding a lavender-like fragrance. At the centre of the pavilion was a long rectangular table and several bench chairs beside a small pond built into the mosaic floor. Within the blue depths, golden waterflyts flickered under another reflection of the sky. On the other side of the pond, a stool stood covered in what looked like some sort of darkish animal fur.

  ‘Wait here,’ the servitor said, waving his hand at the pavilion. ‘I will inform my mistress of your arrival.’ She noted that he did not go back as they had come, but made straight for the trees which grew up the slope of the hill on the other side.

  ‘You will sit there to perform,’ Bleyd told Ember, pointing to the stool beside the pond. His voice was careful, reminding her that she must not let the pretence falter, but she thought he was pale again, and there was moisture on his upper lip. She wondered if he had taken another dose of whatever drug he was using, and hoped he knew what he was doing. In any case, there was nothing to do but go on with their charade. She went to the seat and set down the a’luwtha case. ‘You had best sit and be ready,’ Bleyd instructed, and Ember obeyed. Fridja hastened to help her arrange her red dress so that it fell tastefully on the fur.

  ‘Feinna fur,’ she murmured, disapproval in her eyes.

  The silence began to feel heavy and Bleyd must have felt it, for he began to talk about the magnificence of the night garden, pacing about and waving his hands in flowery gestures to underline his words. ‘The patrons who come here will expect to be entertained exquisitely. They will not mind if one entertainer is substituted for another – as will happen if you are engaged at this late stage – so long as they enjoy themselves. But having you perform here will be a coup for the hostess because songmakers have almost never played in these places, traditionally.

  ‘But I am not a songmaker,’ Ember said. ‘I was merely training as a songmaker.’

  ‘If only you would reconsider offering yourself to Darkfall, you might truly be a master songmaker to surpass all others. I could …’

  There was a ring of seriousness in his voice and Ember said flatly, ‘I must go to Darkfall.’ No one had ever told Bleyd that she meant to offer herself to Darkfall. He had assumed it because of the vision that had saved Tarsin, although more than once she had explained that she travelled there only to be healed. He could not imagine that this could be all there was to her, given her startling resemblance to Shenavyre. He was right, of course, because she was a stranger.

  Bleyd resumed his theatrical monologue. ‘Well, if you will not, it cannot be helped. But offering you will make my reputation as an agent who can procure rare and intriguing entertainments such as no other can match.’

  ‘The hostess comes,’ Fridja said in a servile voice that was both an announcement and a warning.

  A woman was coming up the hill, flanked by two lightly clad boys bearing cushions and what looked to be a shawl. The woman wore a clinging gown of white which outlined a perfect, voluptuous body, and her hair was black and sculpted into a lacquered ebony coiffure that reminded Ember of ancient geisha hairstyles. The initial impression was of youth, but as the trio came closer, Ember realised that the woman was much older than her body suggested. She wore a mask but it was merely a piece of shaped gauze that did nothing to hide her lack of face paint, or the ravages time and life had made of what must once have been a lovely face. The contrast between the youthful body and the ancient face was so extreme that it was grotesque. Ember would have guessed her to be seventy.

  The woman sat at the head of the table grunting loudly and muttering to herself, and the two boys fussed about her silently, arranging cushions and draping the shawl about her shoulders until she was satisfied. The whiteness of her skin was so pronounced that she appeared bloodless and Ember wondered if she was powdered.

  The hostess made a gesture, a mere flick of a finger, and the servitors withdrew to stand silently behind her seat. Then she clasped her hands, revealing nails so exaggeratedly long and curved that she must be able to do nothing for herself; a signal, perhaps, that she had wealth and servitors enough to be free of the need to use her own hands. Another servitor appeared from the trees behind the hill, carrying a jug of foaming liquid, three tall glasses rimmed in gold and a platter of tiny thin biscuits on a tray. When the servitor had withdrawn, the two boys hurried forth to serve the liquid to their mistress and then to Bleyd. The third cup was filled and brought to Ember who set it aside.

  Only when the boys had withdrawn again, did the woman finally lift midnight blue eyes to the Fomhikan’s face.

  ‘Entertainment agent Gilliam. You offer an intriguing tale.’ Her voice was so beautifully modulated that it was like hearing a virtuoso play an instrument. Ember thought that she had never in all of her life heard a voice trained so well to milk meaning from every syllable.

  ‘It is an honour to have intrigued you, Honoured Hostess,’ Bleyd said, rising and affecting the same flourishing bow that he had offered the first time Ember set eyes on him. Masked and painted, there was no sign of his fading grazes and bruises, and he made a handsome picture. But the hostess did not smile, although she accepted his homage with a slight nod.

  No wonder she does not smile when the shallowest form of human beauty and the most base pleasure are commodities she deals in daily, Ember thought.

  ‘Sit down,’ the hostess said. ‘Tell me how you came to meet?’

  They had anticipated this question. ‘I am Fomhikan and I was on my way to Vespi representing a balladeer whom I have solely represented for many seasons. He was a fine performer, but he was ill-mannered enough to fall in love with
a wealthy client and abandon his calling. It was surely fate that brought me to Vespi on the same ship as this young woman, and enabled me to come to her aid. When she confided her troubles to me, I felt that my skills as an agent could benefit us mutually.’

  ‘Are you lovers?’

  ‘No,’ Bleyd said, and flushed. Fortunately it fitted the slightly pompous character he was playing.

  ‘You said she travels to the Darkfall landing. Does she seek an omen-reading from the hags, then?’

  ‘Regretfully, she wishes to join them, Hostess,’ Bleyd said.

  The lifeless eyes flashed for a moment and then she turned to Ember for the first time. ‘You have soulweaving tendencies?’

  ‘I do, Mistress,’ Ember said. ‘They have tormented me all of my life and my parents do not understand that I cannot live a songmaker’s life with them pulling at me.’

  There was a small silence. ‘I have heard that there are drugs that will kill such tendencies.’

  Ember knew of such drugs from Tareed. ‘I have heard that they kill more than soulweaving tendencies,’ she answered softly.

  The inscrutable gaze shifted back to Bleyd. ‘How do you know her voice is as good as you say?’

  ‘I heard her singing aboard the ship before we met and indeed I meant to approach her on Vespi. An agent must be constantly looking for new talent, especially one without a client. She confessed to me that she had been trained by songmakers, before deciding to offer herself to the misty isle. Unfortunately I could not lend her the funds for the remainder of her journey because my parting from my previous client left me with little coin. But it came to me that we could help one another. Therefore I proposed to the young lady that I would pay for her trip here to Iridom and represent her to the best night garden on Iridom in the hope of …’