by Sarah Ash
‘You can’t come in,’ Jolaine said defensively. ‘See the notice?’
‘I see it.’ The second of the men, impeccably dressed, took a letter from his breast pocket and handed it to Jolaine.
‘What does this mean?’ Orial said, bewildered.
‘I represent the Sulien Council, demselle,’ he said with a nod of the head. ‘I have attempted to serve this order upon Dame Tradescar on several occasions and each time I have been turned away. You are my witness that she has taken the order and is now obliged to read it.’
‘Jolaine –’ Orial turned to the Antiquarian who had already torn the order open and was scanning the page, muttering venomously all the while about petty officials and bureaucrats.
‘So now you will let us in?’
The brawny man made as if to push the door wide open; Jolaine neatly jabbed him in the foot with her walking-stick. There was a smothered curse and the foot was hastily withdrawn, enabling her to slam the door shut in his face.
‘I am in the middle of important new researches,’ she shouted from behind the door. ‘I will not be disturbed.’
‘As you are disinclined to co-operate, Dame Tradescar, His Worship the Mayor wishes me to inform you that he has recently received an application from a gifted young scholar, a certain Dr Theophil Philemot from the University of Can Tabrien.’ The official took a step forward, as if confident Jolaine would admit him. ‘He also wishes me to remind you that you are deemed by the City Council to be well past the usual retirement age.’
Orial saw Jolaine’s shoulders sag; it seemed as if all the fight had suddenly leaked out of her.
‘Jolaine – there must be something I can do!’
The Antiquarian shook her head. Keep your counsel, her eyes implored Orial through the glass.
‘I’m so sorry, my dear. Our little outing will have to wait for another day.’
CHAPTER 12
Acir Korentan was no longer certain whether he was shadowing Amaru Khassian to spy on him – or to protect him.
Until that sun-gilded afternoon in the Parade Gardens, he had been steeling himself to bring his mission to a conclusion. He had planned one more meeting with the composer, a meeting at which he would convince him that the only course of action left to him was to return to Bel’Esstar. He would appeal to Khassian’s better nature, would talk of reconciliation and a new dawn.
And then Fiammis had thrown all his plans awry.
Was she acting on her own initiative? Or was there some more sinister reason for her appearance? Even in Enhirrë he had heard rumours… sudden, inexplicable deaths in Bel’Esstar of prominent people opposed to Ilsevir’s new regime. There was, of course, no proof that the deaths had been deliberately contrived… And there was no proof that Fiammis had not come to Sulien for her health.
Each day Acir had observed Khassian leave the Crescent house in company with the Magelonne girl. And each day he had followed them, only to lose them in the back streets of the city – or, more accurately, they lost him.
But today Acir kept the musicians in sight; today he saw them turn aside from the busy market thoroughfare and – disappear.
Acir followed, hastening his pace. Steep steps, with only an iron handrail to cling to, plunged down the hillside between ramshackle terraces. There were many of these precipitate stairways in Sulien, winding down beneath ancient arches into squalid courtyards or weed-grown lanes, behind the ornate façades of the crescents and squares.
This stair led nowhere. A blind alleyway, the sheer walls on either side windowless, blackened with soot, damp and clinging moss.
Acir turned around. There was no other way out. The Magelonne girl had tricked him again.
Then he saw it. At the far end of the alley, an archway, overhung with dark, dusty ivy, concealed an iron grille. A carved stone face stared out from between its leafy crown of glossy green, its sunken eye sockets empty, seeing nothing: a sightless mask of death. The grille beneath led down into darkness. Into the Undercity.
Acir came closer. He had no lantern to light his way below ground. But he was certain he was still on Khassian’s trail. This was not the moment to turn back for want of a torch. He slipped beneath the trailing curtain of ivy and tested the handle of the grille. The rusted iron hinges groaned – then, as he exerted greater pressure, slowly opened. Far ahead in the darkness he caught the dwindling flicker of lanterns.
Darkness, secrecy, concealment – the whole escapade stank of conspiracy.
He sighed. He had no choice now; he must follow them into the dark. And the lights were so far ahead, he would soon lose them altogether.
He pulled the grille to behind him and set out warily in the darkness. He had not forgotten the vast reservoirs that lay below ground… or the vicious water-snakes that lived in their murky depths.
The flickering lights went on some way ahead of him. This was too easy. Had the composer become careless? Or did he just not care any longer?
The lights suddenly vanished.
Acir stood alone, lost in the utter blackness, listening in vain for a footfall, a dislodged stone, even the distant drip of water.
Should he feel his way back to the entrance, hand over hand? And which way was the entrance? Was the only alternative now to go on into the dark?
Slowly, uncertainly, he went blindly forward, still listening attentively.
He had expected to hear the murmur of voices, hushed, conspiratorial. But all he could hear was – singing.
They were musicians, after all. And musicians needed to practise their craft.
He crept closer, drawn towards the faint strains of music until he reached a tall doorway cut into the rock.
Voice intertwined with voice, clashing then resolving into a melting sweetness.
Only gradually did he begin to distinguish words… and with a shock, realised that he knew those words as if they had been branded upon his heart. He and his brothers had chanted them at dawn and at dusk in the echoing rock-temple in the Enhirran desert. The Vineyard Verses. The verses in which Mhir described the appearance of the angel in the hillside vineyard: the moment of divine revelation.
And now, through Khassian’s music, it was as if he was hearing them for the first time.
Notes swirled like dark smoke, and in the smoky darkness a third voice soared, a column of flame, searing the darkness.
‘Mhir, Mhir, open your eyes, look on me!’
The pulsing of the swirling keyboard figurations became the throb of great wings, fanning a hot, dry wind, a wind of fire that would burn away all disbelief, all sin.
‘Then he put His mouth to my mouth and His tongue was as a scorching flame. The fire of His words flowed into my body. Though I was burned to the core of my soul yet was I made whole again…’
Tears pricked Acir’s eyes; the lighted chamber beyond blurred in the darkness.
Angrily, he pulled the back of his hand across his eyes, wiping away the wetness. This was wrong. The composer’s music should merely act as a vessel for the words, it should remain remote, unemotional, allowing the words to speak for themselves. The repetition of the words in free chant was an act of devotion in itself, devoid of anything extraneous to sully their purity. The worshipper should contemplate the meaning of the words – not the beauty or expressive power of the music.
This music was sacrilegious.
And yet its power to move was indisputable.
Was this why Girim wanted Khassian? To use his gifts to glorify the Commanderie’s achievements? Was this what lay behind these long, frustrating weeks in Sulien?
The music suddenly broke off – and the golden vision vanished as swiftly as a pricked bubble. The Diva began a petulant complaint. Acir moved closer until he stood in the chamber doorway, unnoticed.
They had hung lanterns around the walls of the painted chamber, filling it with pools of watery light. One musician sat at a keyboard instrument; Khassian and the Magelonne girl leaned over his shoulders, peering at the music. The Diva pa
ced up and down, remonstrating with them. In another corner, Acir noted that the other singers were observing him and hiding smiles behind their hands.
It was the Magelonne girl who spotted Acir. It was almost as if she sensed he was there for she slowly raised her golden head and stared directly at him. The Diva followed her gaze – and let out a piercing scream that echoed to the roof of the chamber.
‘A ghost! A ghost!‘
Cramoisy sank to the floor in a faint.
The other singers sprang to their feet, closing ranks. Acir was outnumbered. He would not retreat now; that would be undignified. Open confrontation was inevitable.
He entered the chamber.
‘Korentan.’ Khassian straightened up.
Orial was fanning Cramoisy’s face; she glared at Acir as he walked past her. The other singers closed in around him but he kept on walking until he had reached the keyboard.
‘For one moment then, Captain, I truly believed you had come to kill us,’ said Khassian.
Acir picked up the sheets of music from the keyboard.
‘“Elesstar – Act Three,” ‘he read aloud.’ “Enter Elesstar, distracted.” ‘He threw the sheets down again. The keyboard player grabbed them, clutching them to his breast as if he feared Acir would tear them up.
‘So now you have discovered our secret,’ Khassian said quietly, ‘what are you going to do about it?’
‘There is no law against the practising of music in Sulien,’ Valentan put in.
‘Why do you persist with this opera?’ Acir asked, ignoring Valentan, addressing Khassian alone.
‘Because I have to.’
‘No. Because it’s seditious. Because it warps the words of the poetprophet, bends them to suit your aims. Because you alter Mhir from a visionary to a revolutionary.’
The other singers drew closer still.
‘Some might say that the two were the same. Mhir spoke out against the oppressive rule of the Shultan. What was that if not revolutionary?’ Khassian had turned to the others. ‘Let’s give the Captain a further taste of sedition. The “Freedom” chorus.’
Valentan struck a chord on the keyboard and Khassian began to sing. The other singers glanced uncertainly at each other, and then first one, then the others, joined in until the chamber throbbed to their mingled voices.
‘You can’t stop it!’ cried Khassian. ‘You can kill the singer – but the song will still be sung.’
A sudden thrilling swerve of key brought all the voices in unison, all singing the refrain together:
‘Freedom, freedom!’
Sunset had warmed the roseate stone of the city of Sulien to flame and gold; window panes were afire with the last glory of the dying light.
Acir stood at the railing and gazed down over the darkening city.
Khassian’s music smouldered on in Acir’s mind, dark as holy fire. It had touched his heart, his soul. He had been unprepared for this assault, unprotected.
How could the mind that had conceived and fashioned such ravishing sounds be labelled corrupt?
Amaru Khassian was a true visionary.
‘Good evening, Acir.’
She sat in his chair, one hand resting on the table, the other caressing the handle of the parasol which lay across her lap.
‘F-Fiammis.’ He stumbled over her name, shocked to see her here in his lodgings. ‘How did you –’
‘Oh, don’t worry. I’m not here to assail your virtue.’ She rose to her feet; in the cramped little room, there was barely any distance between them. ‘I know it is unassailable.’ Her voice was dry, mocking him. ‘Your reputation is safe – the landlady didn’t catch sight of me.’
‘Why have you come?’
She turned away from him, trailing her finger-tips over the table, the wooden bedhead…
‘Just the barest necessities. A hard bed, a table, a chair.’ She lifted the knotted scourge from the case which he had left beneath his bed and turned it over in her hands. ‘What are you punishing yourself for, Acir?’ Her fingers stroked the handle of the scourge suggestively.
He blushed and reached out to take it from her.
‘I must ask you to leave, Fiammis.’
She had obviously been through all his possessions. But what had she been searching for?
‘Don’t you want to hear the message I’ve brought you from Commanderie headquarters?’
‘The message?’ Acir said. He had no desire to prolong the encounter. To be so near to her again was torment enough.
‘Girim nel Ghislain wants to see you. In Bel’Esstar. Do I need to elaborate?’
‘Elaborate,’ he said shortly.
‘You haven’t fulfilled the task he set you, Acir. So you are recalled to Commanderie headquarters.’
‘And you?’ he said, frowning. ‘He hasn’t sent you here merely to relay a message.’
She looked up at him; her cornflower eyes hard, bright as jewelled enamel.
‘I am to replace you.’
‘You!’ The implied criticism wounded him deeply. Girim nel Ghislain no longer trusted him. How had he come to fall from favour so fast?
‘Until you have received new instructions from the Grand Maistre. Whatever they may be,’ she said, smiling again. The smile which he had once found so bewitching now seemed charged with menace.
‘Your authority?’ he said coldly formal, hand extended, palm upwards.
She slid her fingers into the soft cleft between her breasts and drew out a token and placed it on his outstretched palm. He tried to stifle a shiver as he realised the token was still warm from the heat of her body. He looked down and saw the crimson rose of the Order of the Rosecoeur enamelled on the metal token, weeping its jewelled tears of black blood.
The badge of the inner circle of the Commanderie.
Without a word he returned it to her.
*
Orial could hear Dame Jolaine puffing as the Antiquarian followed her down the steep path into the Hall of Whispering Reeds.
‘I’m afraid I must be a little out of condition. Give me a moment or two to get my breath.’
Orial held her lantern high to illuminate the border of painted reeds. Jolaine hobbled up to the wall and, head on one side, began to copy down the hieroglyphs with swift, rapid pencil strokes.
‘And we thought it was merely a hunting scene, decorative… but not very significant. How perceptive of your friend to notice these concealed inscriptions.’
Orial was glad that Jolaine had not asked her precisely what she was doing with Amaru Khassian down here in the Undercity. After a while, Jolaine began to read aloud:
‘“She hears the voices of the winged ones calling her. She falls to the ground, possessed by the divine madness. It is time to go down into the dark waters.” ‘
On the frieze the naked diver cleaving the green waters seemed sexless, the slender body clothed only in long strands of hair and a loincloth.
‘My predecessor called this “The Boy Diving for Fish”,’ Jolaine muttered. ‘But look at the skin colour. Ivory for a woman, light terracotta for a man. This is a young woman. And now the next picture in the cycle begins to make sense…’
‘Water-snakes? Or dragonfly nymphs?’
Dark, wormlike shapes writhed through black waters. Sun, moon, dawn and duskstars shone in the sky together. On the shores of the water, a riot of confused seasons was in progress. Stylised trees bore blossom, fruit, bare branches simultaneously.
‘“Years go?” Ah! Years pass!’ Jolaine cried excitedly. ‘Of course! It shows the passing of time. The artist was not merely being fanciful. It’s a calendar – of sorts.’
‘And this picture?’ Orial moved on to illuminate the last image. ‘“The Day of the Dead”?’
Dragonflies, gauze wings limned with jewel-shards of emerald and sapphire, hovered in a ring above the waters.
‘The unbroken circle. Symbol of eternity. We can but guess… for look, Orial, the last hieroglyphs that would have given us the clue have flaked away
.’
‘Trodden into the dust in this chamber.’ Orial felt she might weep from disappointment. ‘And now we’ll never know.’ She set the lantern down on the floor and knelt to search the dust with her finger-tips, vainly hoping she might find a fragment of broken plaster.
‘Ah… but all is not lost. Your friend has made a discovery of some significance. These chambers are of immense importance – not just to you and me, but to the history of Sulien. They must be properly preserved or these priceless records of our past will end as dust blowing through empty chambers.’
A wisp of melody floated into Orial’s mind. She began to hum softly as she searched.
‘We always thought the Lifhendil sense of perspective less sophisticated than our own.’ Jolaine halted her swift pencil strokes to contemplate the spinning circle of dragonflies. ‘Giant dragonflies – little people, little trees. How charmingly primitive, we said.’
‘They’re not dragonflies?’
‘Winged Ones. Eä-Endil.’
‘Eä-Endil.’ Orial resumed her humming. What was the tune? She couldn’t remember where she had heard it before – and now it circled her brain as she continued her search, round and round…
‘What’s that you’re singing?’ Jolaine looked up from her notebook.
Orial broke off, surprised. She was unaware she was singing aloud.
‘I don’t know. Some dance-tune from the gardens, most like. I don’t remember where I first heard it. Do you recognise it?’
‘No. I can’t say I do.’
Orial’s fingernail clicked against something hard. She moved the lantern closer.
‘Look. Look at this, Jolaine. I’ve found something.’
A glimmer of white had appeared in the caked dirt.
Jolaine swore under her breath and, kneeling down beside Orial, took two brushes from her pocket, giving one to Orial. With careful strokes, they set about brushing the earth away.
‘What is it?’ Orial whispered.
‘Look. Oh, look,’ crooned Jolaine. ‘Isn’t it beautiful? Have you ever seen anything so perfect?’
