Burying the Shadow

by Storm Constantine

  The judicial system of the city is, of course, run by the patrons, so it should have been a simple matter to discreetly compensate the murder victim’s family with no further questions asked. However, the grieving mistress would not let the case rest, and recruited Mervantes’ brother Zalero to her cause. Between them, they kicked up a tremendous fuss, and demanded the execution of Perdina Tricante. All the patrons’ efforts to subdue the situation were to no avail. Encouraged by Rosalia, Zalero Mervantes embarked upon investigations of his own, and consequently published a pamphlet on the affair, which he distributed in the streets. He raised excruciatingly uncomfortable questions. What was the motive for Perdina’s crime? Using Rosalia’s evidence, he did not believe it had been the action of a lunatic; it had been too premeditated. Inspection of Oro’s journal did not disclose any romantic attachment to Perdina, but it was rather revealing concerning his infatuation with Hadith Sarim. Winsome poems asked the beloved why she shut herself away in the atelier courts. Why were her people so distant and aloof, as if they had a thousand secrets to keep? Zalero considered these questions himself - although unlike his unfortunate brother, he was starkly devoid of any sentimentality. He concluded it was more than a coincidence that Oro had been murdered after falling in love with an artisan. It was as if his eyes had suddenly been unsealed, after a lifetime of blindness. He realised no one ever had any relationship with the artisans, no-one saw the interior of the atelier courts. What secrets were hidden there? Who exactly were the artisans? What race were they? Where had they come from? And why did the ruling families of Sacramante do so much to protect them? Had Perdina Tricante been involved with Hadith Sarim herself, thus murdering Oro out of jealousy, or were her motives darker, and less obvious, than that?

  His inquiring pamphlet was widely read by Sacramantans and, according to reports we received from the patrons’ agents, the question upon every non-patron’s lips was simply: why have I not stopped to think about these enigmas before?

  An emergency meeting of the Parzupheim was called, attended by elders of many of the patron families and the Kaliph Izobella herself. The most significant point addressed was the practicality of ridding ourselves of Rosalia and Zalero’s unwanted attention, by exterminating them. Or had they made themselves too visible to the public eye for that to be a safe option? If they died, or disappeared, would others take up the flag of their activities? It was a desperate moment. One eloim even advocated that we should take Zalero and Rosalia into our confidence and elevate them to the ranks of the patrons in the hope they would understand the greater implications and let the matter drop. Few of the eloim, and none of the patrons, thought this was a good idea. Rosalia and Zalero were too incensed and excited for the subtly addictive properties of being supped to affect them.

  Our familiar reality had changed; humanity had begun to question our existence. Sadly, Izobella resolved that, in her opinion, there was only one way to safeguard eloim secrecy; Perdina Tricante must be sacrificed to the executioner’s blade. Even then, there was no guarantee such drastic measures would be enough to satisfy the Mervantes.

  Understandably, the Tricantes objected strongly to the Kaliph’s suggestion. They could not countenance Perdina being executed for something her family had ordered her to carry out. They pleaded for reconsideration. Yet, there seemed no alternative. Some patron families supported the Tricantes, others pressed for a passionless resolution of the problem. The meeting fell into disarray, forcing the Parzupheim and the Kaliph to call for an adjournment.

  Later the same day, Perdina herself resolved the situation by taking her own life. She left a note claiming she had murdered Oro out of jealousy, which given that she must have been in an unhinged frame of mind when she wrote it, sounded convincingly hysterical. The Mervantes were quickly heaped with palliative compensations; money, privileges, goods. Perhaps that would be enough. Of course, it was not.

  Zalero had indeed woken up. He had transcended all the subtle restrictions placed upon his people, and set about incubating a racial hatred for the artisans throughout his society. He insisted that his brother’s death must not be in vain; something sinister was going on in the atelier courts and he intended to discover what it was.

  The eloim prudently abandoned all street performances and withdrew into the atelier courts, appearing in public only in establishments frequented exclusively by patrons. Perhaps unwisely, under the circumstances, the patron families insisted that Zalero and Rosalia were public nuisances and demanded their incarceration in the judicial stronghold. Naturally, this caused a furore, although many Sacramantans took the opposite stance, speaking out for the artisans, and urging us to return to public performance. The fact that we were wary of doing so only provoked further suspicion. Mervantes’ followers - a minority, but loud-voiced - complained about the artisans’ privileges and riches. They declared we were nothing more than maggots in the heart of Sacramantan society, barring anyone who was not of our race - people who could undoubtedly be just as successful, given a chance - from attaining prominence in the creative fields. Could it not also be said that the artisans’ selfish dominance of the Arts possessed distinctly political overtones? Who in fact, inquired Mervantes’ followers, really reigned in Sacramante, while the Bochanegran dynasty clearly danced exclusively to artisan tunes? Money poured into artisan coffers from the vaults of the old Sacramantan families, they said. These same families would not sponsor common people and, as their old money controlled all the galleries and theatres, would not contemplate the exhibition of unsponsored work - never mind the purchase of it. Mervantes’ people declared that this situation effectively prevented anyone who was not favoured by the old families making a living as an artist or performer. This was, of course, true to a degree, and the way both patrons and eloim wanted things to be, but we could hardly admit that. However, we did not actively suppress natural flair in the un-supped, and would, should an individual case merit it, elevate a talented person in rank, absorbing them into patron community.

  Zalero and Rosalia, with their rebellious demands, undermined the delicate status quo. Even after they had been imprisoned, demonstrations were staged beyond the atelier walls, non-patrons marching up and down, demanding that the gates be opened and that poets and artists of their own be allowed to take up residence.

  Everyone was thrown into profound anxiety, and I paid a visit to the family stronghold, hoping to be reassured by my father.

  Clear morning light fell into the small, comfortable room Metatron used as his private study. Beyond the windows, the Metatronim garden bloomed in profusion beneath a serene summer sky. The whole scene was one of tranquil contentment and it was hard to believe there was anything amiss in the world, looking out there.

  Metatron embraced me warmly, offering me brandy and a seat beside the window. His voice sounded blithe although his face betrayed his anxiety.

  ‘Are the un-supped right?’ I asked him. ‘Has the time come when they no longer need us? Is our star on the descendent?’

  Metatron sat down beside me and gripped my arms firmly. ’Gimel, beloved daughter, do not lose your faith! Do not let despair into your heart, for it is certain I shall need your help in the near future. I believe all this upheaval is merely another result of the subject we discussed before. Someone, somehow, has upset the equilibrium. It is this that has allowed Mervantes to wake up and view things with an objective eye.’

  I wriggled in his hold. ‘But where is all this leading us, Metatron, where?’

  My father relaxed his grip and dropped his eyes. ‘Sadly, I am concerned it might lead us, once again, to war.’

  I could not bear the thought of that, and stood up quickly, needing to make some physical movement. I pressed my hands against the window glass, wondering if I dared to break it, and whether the pain of cutting my flesh would lessen the pain of terror in my heart. ‘And if it does?’ I asked. ‘What then? Do we have a chance? In comparison to humanity, the eloim are few on this world. They would overwhelm us, no
matter what dark verses you might dare to quote!’

  Metatron pulled my stiff fingers away from the window, and gently pushed me back into my seat. ‘Gimel, you know as well as I do that we fought for our lives once, and could, if necessary, do so again. We might have become indolent over the years, but we are not powerless, although I sincerely hope it will not come to war.’

  ‘I don’t see how you can prevent it!’ I said. ‘For years, you have talked of taking action and yet have done nothing but use the patron agents as spies. You have succeeded only in gathering a collection of folklore tales! Forgive me, but I fail to perceive how this can help us now!’

  ‘That information has been more useful than you think,’ Metatron said stiffly. ‘I am sure that if we can remove the disruptive influence at work in the world, the situation will calm down, and we will be able to resume our activities unmolested.’

  His words did not reassure me. ‘I am not so sure,’ I said. ’We are interlopers in this world; it is not ours. Therefore, the question has to be asked: do we even have the right to fight to remain in it?’

  Metatron looked at me in disbelief, almost anger. Then, his expression changed to one of great weariness. ‘Gimel, forgive me, I sometimes forget how young you are. Let me explain. We have given so much to these people, so much. It was through Lord Sammael’s love for humankind that we, his followers, lost our power in the old world. We did not have to follow him here, Gimel. We could have stayed in our natural realm, but Sammael convinced us humanity was in peril, so what could we do but give him our support? The traitor Mikha’il sent all his legions against us, we suffered great losses, yet we adhered to our beliefs - for the sake of humanity, not just for ourselves. Essentially, we relinquished everything we had to live here among the people.’

  If his explanation was designed to appease me, it failed. ’Do you know, in some ways, I’m beginning to think Avirzah’e is right!’ I said. ‘Your words have only served to remind me how little gratitude we’ve received for our sacrifice! Humanity thanks us with war! With hatred!’

  Metatron’s voice was gentle. ‘Remember, we gave in love, Gimel. And the Tartaruch is not right. You must never think that. There is nothing to be gained by going backwards.’

  My conversation with Metatron threw me into greater turmoil. I could not speak to Beth about it; his reaction to the Mervantes affair had been to shut himself away in his brush court and apply himself mindlessly to his work. If I attempted to confide in him, he only grunted in reply, and then changed the subject. I was tempted to shout at him, shock him into facing reality. Hiding behind a canvas would not save him if the Sacramantans ransacked the atelier courts. Feverishly, I considered fleeing Sacramante. Perhaps I might reveal myself to Rayojini and live, for a while, on the road with her, until the situation in the city was resolved one way or the other.

  During those days of anxiety and fear, I know I was hard on Rayojini, nipping her heels from a distance, somehow transferring my helplessness onto her through persistent assaults on her mind. Other times, weighed down with guilt, I would attempt to soothe her and bring her pleasure, but she had become so adept at coping with me, it was easy for her to repel my gentler approaches.

  Then, another inevitability manifested itself upon my threshold; one which Metatron himself had predicted years earlier. Avirzah’e Tartaruchi made his approach.

  I had risen late that day. The skies were overcast, which miserably reflected my less than carefree mood. Sitting in my salon, I was reading through a manuscript for a new play; although when we would be able to perform it, I could not imagine. Tamaris came hurtling through the door, her face flushed, her hands aflutter. ‘What is it?’ I asked, in dread. We had come to expect the worst when our servants were agitated.

  ‘You have a visitor,’ she replied, her eyes round with excitement. ‘Tartaruchi!’

  ‘Avirzah’e?’

  ‘Yes!

  I arranged my gown more artistically around my legs. ‘Then show him in, Tamaris, and bring out the brandy.’

  It did not occur to me Avirzah’e was about to fulfil Metatron’s prophecy. I expected some kind of immature silliness, but nothing sinister. Avirzah’e and I had not been in the same company for several months, and I hadn’t spoken to him properly since The Thorn Path had ended its season, fifteen years before. If he’d hoped to achieve any kind of intimacy with either Beth or myself through involving us in his production, he’d been sadly misled. I supposed he’d since given up trying to command our attention.

  I was uncomfortably stunned by Avirzah’e’s appearance when he swept into the salon. His presence filled my tasteful little room like a ball of flame. He was dressed in garments of the deepest, bloodiest crimson with muted gold embellishments. Ropes of dark, polished crystal beads adorned his neck and glinted in his carefully coiled hair. He bowed, and the heavy beads rubbed together with a gentle clinking sound. ‘Gimel, thank you for receiving me.’

  I inclined my head. ‘The pleasure is mine. Please, make yourself comfortable. Tamaris, relieve the Tartaruchi prince of his travelling cloak.’

  He sat down opposite me - the place, coincidentally, where Metatron always chose to sit when he visited me - flicking back his black, red-ticked hair. I instinctively curled up my limbs.

  It was all very formal to begin with. Tamaris poured out the brandy, while Avirzah’e and I swapped chilly pleasantries. I began to wonder what he had come for. He asked me how Beth was. ‘Splendid,’ I replied. ‘He is splendid.’

  Avirzah’e smiled, thinned his lips and sipped his drink; very pointedly, I thought.

  We had begun to discuss a new ballet that the Eshim were working on, when Avirzah’e suddenly, and very bluntly, changed the subject. ‘There have been no suicides among the artisans for three years now,’ he said, not looking at me.

  I was rather taken aback by his comment. What had it to do with the ballet? ‘No,’ I replied carefully, with a faint note of interrogation.

  ‘Has the sickness passed us, do you think?’

  ‘We can only hope so.’ I wondered whether he was aware of how many eloim had been forced into retreat for exhibiting overt signs of depression and self-destructiveness. I knew, because Metatron kept me informed.

  Avirzah’e laughed. ‘You are transparent, dear Gimel! You know as well as I do what is going on. Still, there has been a marked decrease in casualties, I understand.’

  I made no comment on this, but reminded myself firmly of Metatron’s suspicions and, however much my instinct was to discredit them, vowed not to let the Tartaruch deceive me. ‘I have a feeling you are leading this conversation to a predestined point, Avirzah’e.’

  He leaned forward earnestly in his chair. ‘Never think I underestimate your intelligence. We, as a race, are balanced upon the point of a needle; a needle which stands in corrupting fire. Soon, there is every likelihood we will fall - again.’

  I shivered. ‘You touch upon a delicate issue - one which I am not prepared to discuss.’

  ‘Every cell proclaims you Metatron’s spawn! It is time you woke up, Gimel!’

  ‘Speak plainly, then, but do not be surprised if you offend me.’

  ‘Do you want to die?’ he asked.

  The silence that followed these words was almost vertiginous. I stood up. ‘I would like you to leave my house, Avirzah’e Tartaruchi.’

  He remained sitting. ‘No, you don’t and, if you will permit me to answer my own question, neither do you want to die. At least hear me out, Gimel.’

  I sat down again, and sighed. It struck me how much I was enjoying the Tartaruch’s company. He was right; I did not want him to leave, no matter what obscenity he was about to blurt out. ’Very well, I will listen. But, please, remember at all times exactly who I am.’

  ‘Assure yourself I am incapable of forgetting that! I know the consensual Metatronim opinion of my throng. But I have to say this, Gimel. You will die - we all will - unless preventive measures are undertaken. The Watchers have...’


  ‘No!’ I interrupted. ‘You’ll not speak that name here!’ The Watchers were Mikha’il’s creatures. Wary of their power, which might traverse the boundary between the worlds, we were forbidden to name them. The spoken name alone might be enough to invoke them. ‘Avirzah’e, I implore you, guard your words!’

  Now, the Tartaruch stood up, and began to pace my room. ‘Guard my words? What are you afraid of? You are as conditioned as the human rubbish who populate this world!’

  ‘Perhaps so, but for good reason!’

  ‘Words cannot summon them, Gimel,’ Avirzah’e said scornfully. ‘They are here already! They have always been here. Now, are you the unique creature I think you are, or are you a craven, spineless wraith as the majority of our pathetic race are?’

  I bit my lip until the ichor ran, sucking my own juice in a moment of total indecision. I swallowed. My voice was hoarse. ’Spit your venom, then!’

  Avirzah’e made a genuflection of respect and sat down again. ’My gratitude, Lady Gimel. Now, in plain words, we are on the brink of many calamities. Our minds are attacked by an unknown malady, for which there is no apparent cure. Human puppies are snapping at our ankles, puppies that may well grow into fierce, aggressive hounds with powerful jaws. Years ago, I suggested to the Parzupheim that we take hold of our own destiny and propel humanity into a position where they could no longer be a threat. My suggestion was ignored. Look what has happened! Can you sit there and, in all honesty, deny that the sickness and humanity’s sudden aggressive interrogation might be connected? I don’t think so. It is too coincidental. We have existed for centuries in this world, without one incidence of disease, or one human ever having the wit to question our origins or existence. Now, the question is: what event instigated these two dilemmas?’