Flowercrash

CHAPTER 1

Manserphine peered around a corner and saw a lone woman in pastel blue armour that twinkled like summersky opal, standing alert at the entrance to her goal. Summoning her courage, she tidied her flowing white dress, pushed stray locks of blonde hair behind her ears, clasped her hands before her, and approached. The woman glanced over as she neared.

Manserphine was tall. Looking down at the guard she said, “I need to enter the Propagation Chamber.”

“You cannot, sister.”

Manserphine stood firm before the guard and repeated her request. “Please, I need to go in for just a few minutes. I’m the official Interpreter of this Shrine, and it is my right.”

“My apologies sister, but during winter only the Grandmother Cleric, the Mother Cleric and the Sister Cleric can enter.”

Sighing with frustration, Manserphine turned and returned to the corner from which she had observed the guard. There must be a way around this. The Shrine of Our Sister Crone was quiet, allowing her an ideal opportunity to continue her secret work, but this woman barred her way. She looked again at the guard, an older woman with sculpted hardpetal armour damaged as if vermin had taken bites out of the scrolls and ridges. The circular chamber in which the guard stood was small, a pool full of waterlilies at its centre. Manserphine eyed the waterlilies, the seeds of a plan in her head, and she wondered how susceptible they would be to electronic manipulation. Only one way to find out.

She hurried to the Primula Chamber, where she was able to access the pool network through a winter flowering primula, from which it was a short step to making the waterlilies believe it was night, and time to close their petals. She ran back, lifting the trailing length of her dress to her thighs to increase her speed. At the chamber she was delighted to see the old woman bent over the waterlilies, lifting and peering under their broad leaves in an effort to see why they had closed. Manserphine tip-toed to the door and in seconds was through.

She smiled. There would be an amusing scene when she walked out again. The guard might report her, but she would deny everything. She knew her elevated position in the Shrine would lend authority to her words. She was safe.

The Propagation Chamber lay before her. Shafts of rainbow sunlight flooded down from the wafer-thin hardpetal laminae that comprised the roof, so that Manserphine felt she was standing under a ceiling of misty jewels. Before her, choking the large chamber, stood thousands of earthenware pots and seedling trays, each overflowing with flowers of every shape and colour. She could see black velvet orchids, huge whiskered roses like the faces of mice, sprays of orange wire…

And the scent. It made her breathe fast and deep. The atmosphere in this chamber was thick as a fluid; at the walls she could see fans rotating, drawing the air out, so that objects seemed to shimmer behind heat haze. Before her mind’s eye she saw a momentary vision of what Veneris, her home urb, might look like under this soft and gorgeous light, caressed by fragrant breezes from dawn to dusk.

She sneezed. Inevitable. She waited, eyes closed, hoping the guard outside had not heard. Minutes passed and nobody entered.

It was time to complete her task. She scanned the nearer pots and after a few minutes saw what she wanted, a magnolia with pale flowers like the hands of a corpse. Bending down she took a paintbrush from her dress pocket, unscrewed its protective top and dabbed the bristles on the stamens to collect a dusting of scarlet pollen. With the top on again, she replaced the paintbrush and stood upright, well pleased with her work.

She prepared herself for the guard. She opened the door. Standing there were two people, the guard and Mother Cleric Yamagyny. Manserphine opened her mouth to speak, but was too shocked to say anything.

“So our doorwarden was correct,” Yamagyny said.

“I distinctly heard a sneeze,” the guard confirmed.

Yamagyny took Manserphine by the hand and led her away into a corridor. “What were you doing in there?”

Manserphine thrust her hands into the pockets of her dress, aware of the secret paintbrush. She replied, “I only wanted to see how things were growing. I just felt that—”

“What you felt is irrelevant. You know the rules. The electronic networks mustn’t be disturbed during the winter, when Our Sister Crone renews her strength. She’s an old woman and she has to fight her ancient enemies, cold from the depths of the north, ice from the top of the world.”

“Yes, Mother Cleric.”

Yamagyny paused, glancing down at the thin dress that Manserphine had tied around her bare legs. Yamagyny was slender and dark, dressed in a black tunic, leggings and sandals. After a moment she said in a more kindly voice, “I’m disappointed in you, Manserphine. You occupy a vital position in the Shrine. What will Our Sister Crone think of you? How can she trust you inside the Inner Garden come springtime?”

Manserphine looked at the floor. “I don’t know.”

Again Yamagyny took Manserphine’s hand and led her on. “We shall have to ask, I suppose.”

Manserphine stopped and pulled her hand out of her superior’s grip. “Do we have to? I won’t do it again. I was bored. I’m sorry, I really am.”

“Sorry doesn’t matter now the deed is done.”

Manserphine swallowed, apprehension making her limbs tremble. “You won’t tell the Grandmother Cleric?”

Yamagyny gestured her to follow. “I have no choice. Come along.”

Manserphine tried to calm the fear she felt as a silent Yamagyny led her along corridors of wood and pink hardpetal, yet it was all she could do to stop her limbs from giving away her feelings. She needed to present a passive face, but she felt only turmoil. Too soon they stood at a tall oak door guarded by leering caryatids.

Yamagyny opened the door and gestured her inside. Manserphine stood in an echoing chamber of pure yellow, arrayed with soft green couches and hardpetal pots carved to resemble hummingbirds. A faint thrumming vibrated through the air, as if from invisible hives. On a couch lay Curulialci, the Grandmother Cleric. Curulialci was effectively the ruler of Zaïdmouth; Manserphine stood motionless as a cowed dog before its mistress, unable even to look into Curulialci’s eyes.

“There has been an incursion,” Yamagyny said.

Curulialci had a way of holding her spare and elegant body so that, whatever position she was in, she emanated regal calm. Her curly, black hair was greying now, but age gave her authority, and that green gaze had lost none of its force. From the corner of her eye Manserphine saw her look up, then sip from a goblet of wine.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Tell her,” Yamagyny said.

In a faltering voice Manserphine said, “I went into the Propagation Chamber. I only looked at the flowers, I didn’t touch anything. I know I shouldn’t have, and I am sorry. I promise to Our Sister Crone that I won’t do it again.”

“But how did you get past the guard?” Curulialci asked.

“I… tricked her.”

Curulialci chuckled. “That shows intent.”

A desperate Manserphine blurted, “The guard was half asleep. She was kneeling at the pool looking at the lilies. I was tempted.”

“The fault is yours,” Curulialci said. “There must be a penalty.”

“But I really am sorry.” Manserphine felt tears starting in the corners of her eyes. A sudden mental image of icy winds and empty streets made her shiver, and she put out a hand to steady herself on Yamagyny. It was midwinter outside.

“Careful,” Yamagyny whispered.

Curulialci said, “You shall be banished for one season. You may return to your chamber two days before the Garden reconvenes. I will see you here the night after. Present yourself with humility and you will keep your role as Our Sister Crone’s Interpreter. If your breath is still sweet and you have not succumbed to the embrace of men, I will look upon you with forgiveness. Otherwise you will be demoted to cleric, there to stay until you die.”

Manserphine looked up at the ceiling in an effort to force the tears back into her eyes. “Yes, Grandmother Cleric.”

There was a pause. “What do you say?” Yamagyny prompted.

“Our Sister Crone has been merciful.”

Yamagyny led her away. Manserphine’s thoughts drifted until she was reminded by the sight of her own door that she must pack her belongings and leave. Tears ran down her cheeks as she allowed Yamagyny to lead her into her room.

“Do you have any suitable bags?” Yamagyny asked.

“Not really.”

Yamagyny took a sack and began filling it with clothes. Manserphine dried her tears and listlessly assisted. Into a shoulder bag she put her few personal belongings. She let her arms fall to her side. Banished. Well, she had taken the risks and now she had to take the consequences. She sighed. Three months should pass quickly enough.

All packed, she was led by Yamagyny through dark, twisting corridors to the side exit of the Shrine. She realised that Yamagyny had taken her by a back route to avoid being noticed, and for that she silently thanked her superior. But now she stood in a cold alley, Yamagyny behind her, a sack in one hand and two bags on her shoulders. She set the bags down and turned to Yamagyny.

“I suppose I have to go,” she said.

“If you had followed Our Sister Crone’s laws this wouldn’t be happening.”

“Yes.”

Manserphine considered the paintbrush in her pocket and wondered if the pollen it held was worth banishment. Why had she agreed to work for another Shrine? Because of her inspirational vision. The strength of that image of her working with sculpted flowers had been too strong to resist.

She looked up and down the empty alley as a chill wind whipped at her flapping dress and brought goosebumps up on her arms and legs, and she wondered where she could go. She turned again to say goodbye, but Yamagyny had silently shut the door. She stared at the barrier before her. She was out.

It was the middle of winter. There would be frost tonight; clear sky. She would need shelter.

She walked up the alley to the street at its end, where she paused to take out her woollen coat and pull it around her slender body. That was better. She surveyed the narrow street. Along its central lane winter blooms grew, pale, silvery flowers with gleaming sepals, while the tracks to either side were dotted with muddy puddles. Every door and window was shut. It was early evening. Around her stood the towers, domes, and black-and-white houses of Veneris, and yet it seemed that tonight there was nothing homely here. When a group of people passed by they glanced at her then strode on, as if she was of no importance.

She walked down the street, aware that the sack and bags made her look like a vagrant. The next street was so narrow people could reach out from upper floors to touch the buildings opposite. Then she saw a crimson question mark swinging from a pole, lit by a glowing bulb:
the Determinate Inn.

It was a small inn and it looked cosy. Through a crack in the outer shutter she saw a room with a fire in the hearth.

She entered the inn’s hall through its creaking door, to find herself in the common room that she had seen, where she was greeted by the smell of beer and garlic, and by the silence of the room’s lone occupant, a sleeping woman. From a door behind the bar a tall man emerged, middle aged, dark haired and eyed, wearing rich clothes of navy blue. Manserphine was surprised to see he was clean shaven. So he was no beggar from the Woods, but neither was he linked to the Shrine of the Green Man, where beards were mandatory.

For a moment Manserphine stood staring, before the man smiled and said, “What can I do for you?”

Manserphine dumped her bags and sat at the bar. “A good tot of whiskey,” she replied.

He took a blue bottle and a square glass and poured her drink. Manserphine downed the liquor in one. Without asking he poured her another.

She began, “I didn’t—”

“On the house.” He looked down at her bags. “It would seem you’re in need of a little luck.”

Manserphine grimaced. “Maybe.”

He said, “I’m Vishilkaïr,” and reached over to clasp her hands between his own.

Angrily she pulled them back and said, “I’m no common woman. I’m a cleric of Our Sister Crone, and you don’t touch me.”

He stood still and silent.

Manserphine bit her tongue. Now she had given away too much. She said, “I hope you will keep that to yourself.” She turned around to see that the woman dozed still. “Or there could be difficulties.”

“You need not threaten me,” Vishilkaïr said. “I understand confidentiality.”

Manserphine had not meant to imply a threat, but she let the misunderstanding pass. For some moments they glanced at each other, until Vishilkaïr shrugged, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and drank.

“I can offer you cheap, clean, safe accomodation,” he said.

“I don’t need it,” Manserphine replied. “I’ll be away now. I have a friend who’ll put me up.” She lifted her bags and the sack, and departed with a cool, “Good evening, Vishilkaïr.”

But in the street she realised that she had no idea which was the best route to the house of her friend Luihaby. Most of her days were spent inside the Shrine of Our Sister Crone, whereas Luihaby, one of three civic representatives in Zaïdmouth’s governing Garden, lived somewhere in eastern Veneris. But where? It being winter, there were no flower screens from which to send Luihaby a message. Cursing, she dumped her baggage in the porch and returned to Vishilkaïr, from whom she asked directions. Luckily he had manners; he did not laugh at her.

Manserphine trudged on through the narrow streets, gaze cast down to the flowered thoroughfares when other citizens passed her, avoiding the brighter streets and the noisy inns with their flocks of drunken women, until she stood near the Sump, a sunken zone near the Woods. At the edge of a marshy courtyard full of bog-lilies she saw a four storey tower built of brick and black oak, with pale green hardpetal windows. Lamps inside made these wafer artifacts gleam like the circular eyes of monsters. A metal windvane squeaked in the breeze. Manserphine squelched her way across the courtyard to the door, where she sought the doorflower. Its petals were shut. Tutting to herself, she knocked loudly.