by Sarah Ash
‘Listen to me, babbling on.’ Cramoisy made an effort to control himself. ‘But it is so good to see you – when everything else –’ his voice cracked again ‘– everything else is in ruins.’ The tears began to well again and he raised the handkerchief to his mouth as though to smother them.
Orial reached out and shyly touched his hand.
‘Tell me.’
‘So – upset – my voice –’ He could not finish; one hand pointed at his throat.
‘You’ve lost your voice?’
Cramoisy nodded.
‘Your singing voice?’
‘It can happen, you know. Shock. And once it’s gone, it’s gone for good. It never comes back. My performing career is over,’ he said starkly.
‘But tell me what brought this about?’ Orial persisted.
‘Amaru – was arrested.’ This was no performance; Cramoisy’s distress was genuine. ‘Deported – no word now – for days –’ He turned to Orial, mouth contorted with anguish. ‘How could he do it? Didn’t he know he was sending him to his death?’
‘How could who do it?’
‘I’m sorry to speak ill of your father, carissa. Doubtless he thought he was doing it for the right reasons. He was acting as a responsible citizen. He-’
‘My father?’ Orial said sharply. ‘My father had Amaru arrested?’
Cramoisy nodded, dabbing at his eyes.
‘But why?’ Even as she asked the question, Orial realised that she knew the answer. ‘Oh, no. Not because of me?’
Cramoisy’s eyes brimmed above the handkerchief.
‘My collapse? He blamed Khassian?’
‘Apparently so.’
Orial started up from the couch. Her heart was beating too fast.
‘Then I must put this to rights.’
‘It’s too late. He’s already in Bel’Esstar.’
‘Then I will go after him.’
The Diva’s eyes widened.
‘Go to Allegonde?’
‘I will plead his case with the Grand Maistre – with Prince Ilsevir himself, if he’ll see me.’
‘No. Oh, no.’ Cramoisy made a tutting noise. ‘Have you any idea what it is like in Bel’Esstar? You’ve heard the horrific stories Azare and Valentan have to tell. It’s no place for a young girl –’
‘At least we could find Captain Korentan. He would help.’
‘And how can you be so sure? How can we trust him? He was in league with that so-called Contesse, that brassy strumpet parading herself in her fine gowns and millinery…’
Orial went to the window and looked out through the rivulets of rain darkening the panes.
‘When does the Bel’Esstar diligence leave?’
‘Your father will never allow you to go.’
‘I shan’t ask his permission,’ Orial said, gazing out over the rainswept city. She swung around and looked the Diva directly in the eyes. ‘Will you come with me?’
‘Me?’ The Diva tried to get to his feet but instantly sank back as though exhausted by the effort. ‘Oh, it’s hopeless, hopeless… every time I think of Amaru in Bel’Esstar, I come over so faint…’
‘What’s worse? To go or stay here, worrying and waiting?’ Orial demanded.
‘And there’s the problem of papers. Of course, there might be another solution…’
Orial saw a faint glint of malice light the Diva’s dull eyes.
‘You’ve devised a plan?’
‘I have a mind to play the Commanderie at their own game. Yes, that’s it!’ Cramoisy clasped his hands together, as though clutching the idea tight to his breast. ‘I’ll play the penitent. I’ll tell the Grand Maistre in a heart-rending scene that I have seen the error of my ways. The Diva decides to be converted – what a coup for the Commanderie!’
‘But that would mean –’ Orial stopped. ‘I couldn’t ask you to compromise your principles, that would be too great a sacrifice.’
Cramoisy flapped one hand dismissively.
‘Fa to principles! Listen, carissa, a Diva can’t afford to have principles. He sings for whoever pays the highest price.’
Orial gave the castrato a long, pensive look. It seemed as if he was in earnest, in spite of the extravagant words and gestures… though it was always hard to tell.
‘But we’ll need funds.’ He rose from the couch and went to unlock a walnut casket on a side-table, talking all the while. ‘I could sell this jacinth brooch, I suppose it might fetch fifty courons or so. And the matching buckles – I always thought they were a trifle tawdry.’ He took out one piece of jewellery at a time, laying them side by side on the table. ‘That pays for our passage. Now for the lodgings…’ Cramoisy began to count on his fingers, silently calculating the sums.
‘So you’ll come?’
‘Well, there’s precious little to do here in Sulien. Besides, I have a pressing desire to see what is being worn at court this summer.’
Orial stood on tiptoe to kiss the Diva’s cheek.
‘I’ll go and pack!’
On the curved staircase, Orial faltered, grasping at the rail to steady herself.
What am I doing?
She could still hear her own voice, clear and determined, ringing out across the echoing salon:
‘I must put this to rights.’
She reached the front door; outside, shafts of light penetrated the looming clouds and puddles glistened between the paving stones. The rain had stopped.
Where had the courage come from to speak out? Now that she had time to think about what she had said, she was astonished at her own boldness.
How long have I got before the Accidie finally claims me? Is it long enough to repair the damage my father has done?
Is it long enough to save his life?
Orial drew out her leather valise from beneath her bed. The rain drummed relentlessly on the window panes. What did one take on such an unpredictable journey? And was the weather hot at this time of year across the mountains in Bel’Esstar – or grey and stormy, as in Sulien? She knelt back on her heels, perplexed. Where to start?
Why am I fussing about packing? Does it matter what I take?
She knew she was living on borrowed time. But if there was only a little time left to her, she wanted to use it to the full. She felt a strange sense of calm now that she had made her decision to go. Besides, who could foretell what the future might bring? Anything might happen.
A door banged downstairs. Her heart pattered as fast as the falling rain.
A man’s voice called up the stairs.
‘I’m off to the apothecary’s, Orial. I’ll see you at tea.’
Papa.
How was it possible to love someone – and yet be so desperately ashamed of what they had done?
If it were not for you, Papa, I would not have to make this journey.
She went to the window and saw him striding purposefully away down the street, case in hand. But from this height she could see the little patch on the top of his head where his immaculately trimmed hair was thinning. In spite of his brisk step and his neat appearance, he was ageing. And who would care for him when she was gone?
Her heart gave a little twist of anguish.
She unfolded the brief note she had written him and re-read it:
I have to go away for a little while. Don’t worry about me, Papa, please, I shall be quite safe – and you know I am more than capable of looking after myself.
Your loving daughter,
Orial
It seemed so inadequate a way to say goodbye.
She went to the drawer and took out her only jewellery: a necklace of black and ivory pearls with ear-drops of matching pearls that had belonged to her mother. Maybe they would act as a talisman, a token of good luck. She could not bear to leave them behind – but to wear them might attract unwelcome attention.
It would be sensible to sew them into the hem of her dress; she had heard tales of unscrupulous thieves and pickpockets in Bel’Esstar.
She swiftly unpicked a f
ew stitches and threaded the pearls inside the hem, sewing them tightly in. She stood up, smoothing out the folds; no one would guess the pearls were there.
Now she was ready.
She took up the valise and placed the note on her coverlet next to her old rag doll and much-loved book of faery tales.
‘Farewell,’ she whispered, softly closing the door.
The diligence to Bel’Esstar stopped in the courtyard of the Moon and Sickle inn in the centre of Sulien. Carriages and mail coaches for all other destinations in Tourmalise used the Three Hares tavern on the far side of the city.
Orial approached the busy yard warily, glancing all around, hoping no one would recognise her. She had collected her travel permit from the Guildhall, her valise was packed – now all that was needed was the Diva and the tickets.
Ostlers bustled about within the cobbled yard, leading fresh horses from their stalls. There was a rich, all-pervading odour of trampled hay and horse-manure.
The passengers from the capital were descending and collecting their luggage. But where was Cramoisy?
A sudden shrill whistling pierced her mind, a bolt of blue lightning, icily cold. She stumbled, clutching at the wall to support herself.
One of the stable lads passed in front of her, laden with fresh nose-bags for the horses. He was whistling ‘Come Kiss Me Now’, a popular dance air. An innocuous little tune in itself, it threatened to bring all her plans to a premature conclusion.
She squeezed her eyes tight shut but ‘Come Kiss Me Now’ etched itself across the darkness in zig-zags of dazzling light.
The Accidie.
‘You all right, demselle?’
She opened her eyes and saw the stable lad staring at her.
‘Yes…’ she said, embarrassed.
He gave her a peculiar look, hefted up the nose-bags and disappeared into the nearest stall. At least he had stopped whistling.
‘Orial!’
She looked around to see Alizaeth coming towards her, arms outstretched, ribbons and laces streaming from an absurd little feathered hat perched like a sparrow on one side of her head.
There was no escape. Alizaeth’s arms enfolded her and she dutifully kissed her friend on the cheek, almost overpowered by the sweet fragrance of lilac water.
‘We’ve just returned this very minute from the capital. Such modish fashions, Orial! Look at my new bonnet – isn’t it becoming? Alyn bought it for me – he’s such a darling. Have you met him yet? There he is – collecting our baggage. Alyn – yoo-hoo! Come and meet my old school friend Orial.’
Of all Orial’s acquaintance in Sulien, gossiping Alizaeth was the last she would have chosen to encounter.
‘What are you doing here?’ Alizaeth asked brightly. ‘Going on a journey?’
Orial forced a smile, hoping that Alyn would take Alizaeth away.
‘Bel’Esstar coach leaves in five minutes!’ cried the coachman from the inn steps.
Where, oh where, was Cramoisy?
‘Bel’Esstar? You’re going to Bel’Esstar?’ shrieked Alizaeth.
There was one ruse that might silence her old friend. Orial placed one finger to her lips.
‘Can you keep a secret, Alizaeth? I’m eloping.’
‘Eloping? How thrilling! But – with whom?’
‘Hush. You’re not to breathe a word. I would not have confided in you – if it were not for our long friendship.’
Alizaeth took Orial’s hands in her own.
‘I promise you. Not a word. But is he trustworthy, my sweet?’
‘Bel’Esstar coach ready to depart!’ The coachman had climbed up on to the driver’s seat and was settling himself, spreading his cloak around him. He clicked his tongue to the horses, drawing the reins together in one hand. Stableboys ran to drag open the doors.
And there was still no sign of the Diva.
Orial bit her lip in vexation.
‘Wait! Wait!’
The Diva came sweeping into the yard, one bejewelled hand imperiously upraised, scattering ostlers and stableboys. Behind him, two servants struggled with a heavy trunk.
Cramoisy climbed up into the diligence. He paused on the step and turned around and, with an arch smile, grandly beckoned to Orial.
‘Hurry along now, carissa! You’re holding up the driver.’
Alizaeth’s mouth had dropped open in astonishment. Orial could just imagine what she would tell her friends: ‘Orial Magelonne has eloped with a castrato, but then you know what they say about those castrati, my dear!‘
She gave Alizaeth’s hand a farewell squeeze and, picking up her valise, ran across the yard to board the diligence.
*
‘Ohh – ohh,’ moaned Cramoisy. ‘They’ve stopped the coach. They’re going to arrest us.’
‘Hush,’ Orial said curtly. It was warm in the coach and the sickly scent of Alizaeth’s lilac water still clung to her clothes. She was beginning to tire of the Diva’s attacks of the vapours – partly because they were occurring with increasing frequency and partly because they were beginning to make her feel apprehensive too. She feared that Jerame might have set out after her – although she had done her best to ensure he would not discover her absence until they had crossed the border into Allegonde. And there was a far deeper fear. How long before the Accidie took hold again? How long before –
The coach door was opened.
‘Your papers, please.’ A Guerrior of the Commanderie stood at the open door; another stood further off, observing.
Orial presented their passes. Beyond the Guerrior she glimpsed vertiginous crags, brown cinder pines, a tumble of scree. From high above came the keening cry of a mountain hawk.
Cramoisy lay back against the cracked leather seat, fanning himself.
‘Demselle Orial Magelonne? Eighteen years? Native of Tourmalise? A three-month permit to attend the Conservatoire in Bel’Esstar?’ The Guerrior gave her a searching look and then glanced past her at Cramoisy.
‘Cramoisy Jordelayne. The Diva.’ He pronounced the name slowly, consideringly. ‘You have been away a long while from Bel’Esstar, Diva.’
‘I’ve been giving recitals,’ Cramoisy snapped. ‘That’s what I do. I’m a singer. Is that a crime?’
‘And the purpose of your journey, Diva?’
‘I’ve had time to reflect… and I have decided to seek an audience with the Grand Maistre –’
A deep, distant rumble interrupted the Diva. The ground trembled and the horses twitched their heads uneasily, setting their bridles jingling.
‘What’s that noise? Thunder?’ Cramoisy craned his neck to stare up at the sky. ‘I can’t see any clouds. Is there a storm coming?’
Orial saw the Guerrior glance at his companion; the papers were hastily stamped and handed back.
‘Continue with your journey.’
The coach pulled away from the border post.
‘Didn’t you think that strange?’ Orial said. ‘Thunder – without a cloud in the sky? What exactly are the Commanderie doing up here, so close to Sulien?’
‘Just be thankful they didn’t ask any more questions.’
‘It sounded like firedust. Are they testing out new weapons? Arquebuses? Cannons?’
‘You should never have come.’ Cramoisy was not paying attention to what she was saying. ‘Your father will never forgive me for allowing it.’
‘But there was no problem! They stamped our papers, they let us through!’
‘And now news of my return will reach the capital long before us. Grand Maistre Girim will have his reception party prepared.’
‘Shall we turn back then?’ Orial cried. ‘Shall we leave Khassian to his fate?’
‘You should turn back, yes. It’s not your battle, carissa.’
‘All we need to do is to find Captain Korentan and explain the mistake. He seemed a fair-minded man. I believe he might be prevailed upon to help us.’
‘Tcha! So naive!’ Cramoisy began fanning himself again.
‘How so?’ O
rial asked, flushing. ‘How naive?’
‘Since when has the Commanderie been fair in its dealings?’
The coach juddered and creaked as it began its erratic descent towards the river plain far below.
‘But the case my father brought against Khassian can be quashed.’ Orial caught hold of the leather strap as the coach swerved to the right. ‘Here I am! Living proof!’
‘My dear child, the Commanderie would have seized on any excuse to get Khassian back into their clutches. He is their trump card. If he capitulates then all resistance to the Commanderie will collapse. Don’t misunderstand me, I admire what you are doing. And I know you are doing it for the best of reasons. But Girim nel Ghislain will not give up until Khassian has prostrated himself at his feet in Mhir’s shrine and made full public confession that his opera was decadent and dissolute. I fear we are wasting our time.’
‘Ouf!’ Cramoisy reached into his reticule and brought out a metal flask. ‘More cordial?’
Orial listlessly shook her head. Cramoisy had added a little spirit to the dilute elderflower cordial but even the dash of alcohol did not improve the metallic taste of the lukewarm liquid.
It was bakingly hot inside the coach and the tannery smell of hot leather was beginning to make her feel queasy. She opened the window – but a cloud of dust from the road forced her to close it again to just a crack.
‘Is it always this hot in summer?’
‘On the Dniera plain? Always. Sometimes there are thunderstorms – terrifying thunderstorms that sweep across the plain till it boils with water like a vast lake.’
Orial gazed out of the window, checking for clouds. There were none against the burning sheen of the sky – but there was a distant shadow on the horizon.
‘Is that Bel’Esstar?’
Cramoisy leaned across to take a look.
‘And not before time. If I have to spend much longer in this oven of a coach, I shall expire!’
‘City of a Million Lights,’ Orial said softly. The name conjured visions of candle-lit concerts, the royal chapel echoing to the sweet voices of the boys’ choir, the glittering stage of the great Opera House itself…
The visions faded into smoke, dispersing like charred fragments of a burning manuscript.
