Flowercrash (16 page)
The rules of etiquette demanded that the men sit at the foot of the table, so Manserphine found Pollonzyn opposite her. Once the first round of eating had passed, and they were sitting back in their chairs, dipping into relishes and cracking crispcakes, Manserphine thought to mention the humble bee pen.
“There’s a petal you can lend me,” she said. “I need a humble bee. Do you have a spare at the floral home bed?”
Pollonzyn had seemed subdued during the meal, but this request made her blanch.
“You have reservations?” Manserphine asked, concerned.
“The floral home bed is not as it was. Dustspirit has become scentless, and Cirishnyan has knowledged us all that you did
that
particular bit of gardening.”
Manserphine glanced at the others. They were listening, but she knew they would fail to understand the nuances. “I did no gardening like that,” she replied. “Dustspirit has fickle pollen. She shall return.”
“That is as may be. But Cirishnyan wants you to droop, maybe even wither.”
Manserphine digested this news. Clearly the absence of Dustspirit had been noticed, presumably because she no longer appeared in the upper chamber. The clerics would make the connection between the speech of Dustspirit and herself, and this disappearance. That could cause a problem. Suddenly Manserphine felt afraid of her old employer, and she knew she would never work there again. Pollonzyn must have been invited to the inn as a friend, and had probably come here on that basis. That was some consolation.
There came hammering on the front door. Vishilkaïr frowned at Kirifaïfra. “Go and see who it is,” he said. But as Kirifaïfra opened the hall door Vishilkaïr thought better of his words, and followed his nephew.
Manserphine turned to see men at the door, and she recognised them as the trio from the Cemetery who had frowned at Kirifaïfra. They were in an ugly mood. They forced their way into the hall, with much swearing and thwacking at the walls.
Vishilkaïr stood by Kirifaïfra at the hall door. “What do you want here?” he demanded.
“We’re bloody gatecrashing,” one man replied in slurred tones. “Let us in. ‘S an inn, innit? We’re bloody thirsty. Wanna drink.”
“This is a private party,” Kirifaïfra said, barring the way as the leading man tried to muscle past. “Get out.”
The man whistled and pointed at Manserphine. “Wa-hey, look at the blonde! She’s mine.” He pushed back the two men behind him.
Kirifaïfra thumped the man on the nose, then thrust him into his friends. The man snorted out blood. Vishilkaïr watched, then rolled up his sleeves, removed his cravat and joined Kirifaïfra. After a minute of kicking, thumping and profanity the three men were out in the street, whereupon Kirifaïfra drew a lead-shot convolvulus, which he brandished at the men.
“Return and I’ll lead-line your breeches,” he said.
The men ran off, and the pair returned to the inn.
“Sorry about that,” Kirifaïfra said, touching Manserphine on the shoulder.
“Who were they?”
“Thugs,” Omdaton said.
“Nobody, nobody worth mentioning,” Kirifaïfra insisted. “More whiskey?”
“They seemed dangerous,” Manserphine said.
Vishilkaïr scowled. “Forget them, Manserphine. They were just oafs from Kirifaïfra’s past.”
“Uncle!” Kirifaïfra protested.
Vishilkaïr shrugged and took a mouthful of whiskey.
Pollonzyn departed as evening fell, and then Omdaton staggered over to the fire, where she fell asleep. For some minutes they chatted about times past, until Vishilkaïr departed for his room upstairs.
So Manserphine was left with Kirifaïfra. Somewhat tipsy, she had almost forgotten that in less than a day she would be in her old room at the Shrine of Our Sister Crone. They took a bottle of vodka and a couple of square glasses to the bay window.
“So tomorrow you will be gone,” Kirifaïfra said.
“Yes. But you shall be able to see me in the Garden—at least, for those official sessions that are broadcast.”
“It’s not the same as having you here.”
Manserphine began to feel uncomfortable again. “For somebody who I knew well, perhaps not.”
“Then you do not know me well.”
“Not so well as kin at my Shrine.”
“There are other relationships of obligation,” Kirifaïfra said. “Don’t you have any of those in your life?”
“No.”
“Don’t you want any?”
“I’m close to my father and brother,” said Manserphine.
“But they are family. Surely you are lonely?”
“Not really. Our Sister Crone provides.”
Kirifaïfra seemed confused. He drank his glass of vodka, then refilled it. “That seems to me to be a sterile existence,” he said, distractedly.
“Look,” Manserphine said, deciding to be plain, “I wonder if you haven’t become a little too attached to me these past months. Frankly, Kirifaïfra, I hope you have not, because I can’t be approached.”
“Why not?”
“I am the Interpreter of the Garden. I am a senior cleric at the leading Shrine of Zaïdmouth. You are a classless man.”
“You aren’t so perfect,” Kirifaïfra said bitterly. “You were banished for your misdemeanor.”
“We all make mistakes.”
Kirifaïfra turned to her, a look of desperation in his face. “But I love you, Manserphine. Can’t you feel that? I love you.”
Manserphine looked away. She had missed the clues. And yet she was not shocked, as if part of her had guessed the truth, and suppressed it.
“This is going to be difficult to tell you,” she said, apologetically. “You can’t approach me, Kirifaïfra. I’m different to you, not some common woman of Veneris, but somebody apart. Forget what you just said. You didn’t say it. I shall go tomorrow, and you shall continue here.”
“I’ll never forget it,” said Kirifaïfra; and in a moment of lucid understanding he added, “and I know you won’t either.”
Manserphine was silenced by this. Of course, neither of them could deny this moment. Nonetheless, she had to. She said, “Senior clerics take an oath of celibacy.”
He looked at her, astonished. His round eyes flickered as his gaze faltered. “You’ve forsworn sex?”
“Yes.”
“But why? How?”
“Our Sister Crone demands it. It is part of her doctrine.”
Kirifaïfra sat back, laughing. “But it is impossible. You are denying your humanity, and that is tantamount to cruelty.”
“Nevertheless, I have taken the vow. If I were caught with a man I would return to the minor laity. All members of the Garden take a similar vow, regardless of their affiliations.”
“But how can it work?”
“Celibacy is the path taken by senior clerics. Lesser clerics take lovers, some men, some women. Men in particular are frowned upon. It is considered that celibacy encourages a purity of thought.”
“What nonsense!” said Kirifaïfra. “It is simply a denial of a natural urge for reasons of control.”
“You may think that. But I, a cleric of Our Sister Crone, do not. So you see that we can never be lovers. Put the thought from your mind.”
“Such thoughts burn my mind every night,” Kirifaïfra replied.
Manserphine stood up. “I think it’s time we retired. I have to leave tomorrow. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Kirifaïfra stood. “Wait. I have something for you.”
“No, Kirifaïfra—”
“You must see it.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew what seemed to be a string of many colours.
“Is it hardpetal?”
“Fabric,” he replied. With a quick motion he laid it over her head, whereupon it twisted itself around a lock of her long, blonde hair, extending itself, until the entire lock was a twist of colour. “Very fetching,” he said.
Manserphine felt she could not reject the gift. Tomorrow, she would be gone, and that would be the end of it.
“I could give you more gifts.”
Manserphine struggled to find further excuses. “I am important,” she said. “They would have to be extraordinary gifts—beyond your reach, in fact.”
“I could take you into the Cemetery to find such gifts,” he said.
“You know I can’t go there.”
“Yes. Your vision.”
“I saw myself buried in earth,” Manserphine said. “The feeling was very strong and I won’t ignore it… besides, I recently learned that these visions may hold elements of truth.”
“This would be from the gynoid in the back garden.”
Manserphine said nothing.
“It is our secret,” Kirifaïfra said, “but where has she gone?”
“I honestly don’t know. And now, I must go to bed. Goodnight, Kirifaïfra. Try to understand my position.”
She departed the common room. After locking and barring her door, she sat on her bed and considered the evening. Part of her wanted to stay here. Part of her felt ashamed at having to reject such a charming man. But these things had to be done. Unhappily, she lay on her bed.
The night passed. Inevitable insomnia struck, and with dawn a few hours away she still lay awake, looking at the stars through her window. At dawn she managed to drift into dreamless slumber.
The bright sky woke her.
It was mid morning. She had slept perhaps for three hours. Time to pack her meagre belongings and depart.
They stood by the front door of the inn as she departed, Vishilkaïr and Kirifaïfra and Omdaton, while she carried her bag and her sack, and with her free hand fiddled with the coloured braid. A few yards away she turned and waved to them. Tears ran down Kirifaïfra’s cheeks.
She turned the corner of the street leading down to the thoroughfare on which the Shrine stood. Out of sight of the inn, she put down her belongings, and wept.
CHAPTER 10
The day came when Nuïy was taken to meet Sargyshyva, First Cleric of the Green Man. He felt apprehensive, not least because neither of his teachers would be going with him, just Zehosaïtra. In addition there was the humiliation of being forced to wear the pink eyepatch. He was now known as Nuïy Pinkeye. He felt he occupied a split position, at once despised for his inability to follow orders, yet treasured for the new life he had brought to the programme of network transformation. But even his naive enthusiasm was not enough to mask the thought that one day he might go too far.
The brutality of the Green Man had earlier seemed a good thing, for Nuïy had imagined that brutality used to subdue others who did not believe what he believed. Now it had been used against him, he saw the dark side. Yet he accepted it as an inevitable part of living in the Shrine. The Green Man sanctioned such behaviour, and so it must be correct.
Zehosaïtra took him to the Inner Sanctum. The weather was mild and Nuïy wore a light green robe and low boots. Men and youths stared at him as they walked by, for the legend of his achievements had spread to all parts of the Shrine. Inside, he was led to the upper floors, along increasingly opulent corridors, decorated with statues of the Green Man, gold-plated acorns the size of his head, and lines of copper and silver twigs hanging from traceries of bronze. The air was dense with the smell of deep forests. The stones themselves were damp, and moss, lichen and even algae had been left to grow in a mark of respect to the demiurgus who had been so insightful as to create plants with no blooms. Nuïy looked up to see streams of nutrient trickling from nozzles. Gutters lined the sides of the floor.
At a door of gold-shod oak, Zehosaïtra paused. He turned to Nuïy and said, “This is the private chamber of the First Cleric. You must behave with the utmost respect. I know of yer checkered career. So far, the Green Man has been merciful. But if you stray from the path laid out by the First Cleric he will make humus of you. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Zehosaïtra stared through his thick lenses. “Do you understand, Nuïy Pinkeye?”
The name emphasised the mark of his failure to obey. This told him that Sargyshyva would never be merciful. “I understand,” Nuïy replied.
“Let us hope so.”
Zehosaïtra opened the door and led Nuïy into the most sumptuous chamber he had ever seen. It was ten yards on each side, with a high roof painted green. Columns supported the walls, each shaped as a tree trunk, while from the coving branches hung, some painted white, some black, but mostly a glittering green, as if gold dust had been sprinkled upon them. The furniture was opulent in the extreme; deep, embroidered, large and welcoming. Centrally placed stood a gold statue of the Green Man, naked, with muscle-bound limbs, a thick cock jutting out, and real hair, curly and black down to the shoulder. His eyes were of diamond. He held a drum in one hand, noticeable for its real hide and the unusually thick basal cables leading down to the pool of papyrus in which the statue’s feet were sunk.
Nuïy noticed that the couches, tables and desks of the chamber had been placed around this statue, so that wherever the occupant sat he would see the Green Man.
Today the occupant sat in a chair facing away from the door. Zehosaïtra said, “We are here, First Cleric,” and led Nuïy to the seat. Nuïy noticed golden statues of seated dogs beside the chair, heavy breeds with thick jaws and extended claws.
Then he had his first glimpse of Sargyshyva. The First Cleric was a bulky man of medium height. He was bald, but retained a few grey hairs, slicked down to the sides of his skull with an oil that smelled of musk. His features were loose, his face jowled, his eyes small amidst rolls of fat. He emanated an air of almost decadent power. His green clothes were studded with gems and gold braid.
He turned as Nuïy walked around the chair. Unsmiling, he indicated the adjacent chair, which had been angled so that Nuïy, when he sat in it, could see Sargyshyva. Zehosaïtra walked a few paces away, then stood at ease beside the statue, picking then chewing hazelnuts from a nearby dish.
“So, Nuïy Pinkeye,” Sargyshyva began, “yer the green leaf who’s caused so much consternation in the ranks below me.” His voice was as phlegmy as Deomouvadaïn’s, but the gruff accent was stronger.
“I am Nuïy Pinkeye,” said Nuïy, deciding not to mention the consternation. He was acutely aware of his deficient vision and the mark of shame tied around his head.
“So. I’m glad t’meet you.”
“I too am glad to be here,” Nuïy fumbled, his nerves almost making him stare, struck dumb.
“D’you know why yer here?”
“Yes, First Cleric. I am here for you to check whether I am suitable for the ultimate stage of the plan.”
“The plan?” asked Sargyshyva.
“The plan of the Green Man.”
“So. I see.” Sargyshyva looked out of the open window, allowing Nuïy a view of the spots on the back of his neck. After a minute he turned his head back, to say, “So. The plan of Our Lord In Green. It’s a great secret. It’s known only t’me and my two deputies. D’you understand what I mean by that?”
“It elevates me to a great height, First Cleric. I must be aware of that, and never betray any secrets offered to me.”
“How will I be sure of that?”
“I will swear to the Green Man.”
Sargyshyva lifted himself out of his seat—with difficulty, Nuïy noticed. He gestured with one finger for Nuïy to stand with him by the statue. “Ring for Gaddaqueva,” he told Zehosaïtra.
Zehosaïtra walked to a column shaped as a silver birch, from which real silver flaked. He pressed something, then returned.
They waited in silence. After five minutes the door opened and in walked a tall, skeletally thin man, with ashen skin and greasy, black hair. He moved with submarine slowness. Nuïy had heard rumours of this man, Gaddaqueva the Second Cleric, but the actuality was more bizarre. He was thought to be an aesthete of unimaginable harshness, who lived for scholarly knowledge and claimed never to have expressed an emotion. To Nuïy he looked like an animated corpse.
When he passed, Nuïy smelled sweet-opium. Immediately the foul image of his disabled father came to mind, who had taken the drug to mitigate the symptoms of his disease. Why would so important a person as Gaddaqueva risk such a drug? The same disability?
No time to think now. Sargyshyva turned to Nuïy and said, “So, then, Nuïy Pinkeye. What’s the oath you must swear, and we three must witness? First, we must ask what you most fear. What couldn’t you endure?”
Nuïy knew already. “I could never leave the Shrine. It is my life.”
“So. Good, good.” Sargyshyva placed his right hand on the forehead of the statue, and indicated that Nuïy should follow suit. “Swear after me. I swear on Our Lord In Green.”
“I swear on Our Lord In Green.”
“That if I disobey any order given to me.”
“That if I disobey any order given to me.”
“I will be broken off Our Lord In Green.”
“I will be broken off Our Lord In Green.”
“And become humus.”
“And become humus.”
Sargyshyva nodded and returned to his seat. “Sit, Nuïy Pinkeye.”
Nuïy did as he was bid, while Gaddaqueva wandered out of the chamber and Zehosaïtra sat on a couch.
“So,” Sargyshyva continued. “Now you can know the heartwood of Our Lord In Green’s plan. What is the Garden? Why was it formed? D’you know?”
“Not really, First Cleric.”
Sargyshyva continued, “The Garden’s an abstract place where those with political power meet. It’s exclusively of the un-men. Those of the hag predominate. It’s split into two. The Inner Garden comprises the senior two hag clerics, plus the android Alquazonan of the Wild Network Guild. Finally, there‘s the Interpreter hag Manserphine. The Outer Garden comprises five lesser officials, including those not from shrines. We, and those of the Shrine of the Delightful Erection are banned because of our masculinity.”
“Unfair,” Nuïy muttered.
“You’re correct. So. How can we alter this parlous state?”
Sargyshyva paused. “Are you asking me, First Cleric?” said Nuïy.
“You may answer if you want.”
Nuïy did so. “We must reform the Garden so that it is inimical to un-men. Then we can take our rightful place… then we can do the will of Our Lord In Green.”
“Yea. That’s good. So, then. The question arises. How will we do the will of Our Lord In Green in the Garden? One answer springs out. We must reform the Garden into the image of a deep forest, with cold winds, sun, and occasional rain. It must be simple and strong. Birds and animals must replace insects. This is where you come in, Nuïy Pinkeye. You’ve proven yer ability at transformation. Yer task is t’help us alter the Garden as I’ve described.”
Nuïy nodded, then stared at his feet, trying to give the impression of humility. “If the will of Our Lord In Green is strong within me, I can do it.”
“So. Such may be the case. But don’t think you’ll have an easy time of it, as you did at the Percussion Lodge. Have you seen the Garden?”
“Yes, First Cleric. It is dense, jungly, filled with foul blooms and strident insects. I hate it. I saw it on screens when I was a boy.”
“So. But let me tell you that the databases of the Percussion Lodge stand next t’the Garden as a two-year oakling stands beside Our Lord In Green. The Garden’s teeming with sub-systems. You merely altered a few such at the Percussion Lodge. Perhaps twenty or thirty. We suspect the Garden t’be formed of several thousand.”
“I still believe I could do it,” Nuïy said.
“It’s not impossible. If it were, Our Lord In Green wouldn’t have placed such thoughts in my mind.”
Nuïy nodded. “What of the flower crash, First Cleric?”
“The what?”
Nuïy was silenced. He had assumed that Sargyshyva would know of the flower crash. He had cut pink blossoms because of his desire for the superior clerics to know of it. Now he realised he had made a mistake.
“The what?” Sargyshyva repeated.
Nuïy had no choice but to tell what he knew. “In the Tech Houses I overheard a conversation about the flower networks crashing. Doubtless I misheard. It was some time ago.”
“I know nothing of this. Who supervised you at that time?”
“The Recorder-Shaman.”
Sargyshyva turned his head away and for five minutes sat in silence. Nuïy fretted, unable to move. Big trouble was on the way; Deomouvadaïn would make humus of him. But he could not speak to defend himself.
Eventually Sargyshyva said, “No matter, Nuïy Pinkeye. I’ll deal with the affair. Now it’s time for you t’depart. You’ll continue yer work in the Tech Houses and the Drum Houses. Once the Garden’s reconvened next week, I’ll summon you here. The details of the plan will then be enacted. Come summer, I hope t’be in command of Zaïdmouth, in the name of Our Lord In Green.”
“Very good, First Cleric.”
Zehosaïtra led Nuïy out of the room. With the door closed, he said, “Well done. You kept your strength. He is a difficult man with a strong vision.”
“That he is.”
~
Night fell across the Shrine of the Green Man. In his chamber, Sargyshyva stood by the north facing window, looking out over the fields at the centre of Zaïdmouth, glancing from the yellow lamps of Blissis to his right across to the distant blur of Veneris. He felt unsettled. Talk of networks crashing had come as a surprise, and he saw the hand of the Recorder-Shaman in that.
Into his chamber stepped Kamnaïsheva, wearing a shadow cloak to guard against prying eyes. The pair sat in adjacent chairs, Sargyshyva holding a goblet of port, Kamnaïsheva with nothing.
“Analyst-Drummer,” Sargyshyva began. “Today’s rainy news is disturbing. Should we make aught of it?”
“After your squirrel’s message, I cunningly queried the Recorder- Shaman with regard to the flower crash. He told me what Nuïy Pinkeye had heard. He had kept the information to himself. His heartwood may be rotten. He is not to be trusted.”
“Aye to that. But what do we two do?”
Kamnaïsheva replied, “Our scheme must continue. If this flower crash be an imminent event, we must enter the networks soon, before it happens. Fear naught, Sargyshyva. Once I am in, the flower crash will not happen. The infinities of the networks can be controlled.”
“Yea. I hope so.”
“There remains just the Recorder-Shaman. We will enclose him. Order that Nuïy Pinkeye works only with me. Ask a crow to watch over the Recorder-Shaman. Our Lord In Green will aid us.”
“He will,” Sargyshyva agreed. “But should we not force Nuïy Pinkeye to listen for further information of the flower crash?”
“We need not. I have one contact who can aid us. Shortly I will leave Emeralddis to find that person.”
“Do not be long.”
“I will make best speed,” replied Kamnaïsheva, standing.
“Then go. Return with sunny news.”
Kamnaïsheva departed, merging into the shadows before he had left the chamber, and Sargyshyva was left swilling the remains of his port around his goblet, pondering the curious sensation that control of the Shrine had somehow left his hands.
~
Nuïy felt more worried than ever when he considered the fact that Sargyshyva had not been told of the flower crash. There were two explanations. Either Deomouvadaïn had told nobody else, or he had told one, two or three of the other senior clerics and there was a plot. Whatever the truth, Deomouvadaïn was an enemy of the Green Man.
Armed with this deduction, Nuïy nearly panicked. Plots in the upper hierarchy made him feel utterly adrift, a tiny piece in a great game in which he existed only to be used. Of course it was possible that the Recorder-Shaman was waiting to announce his discoveries after collating data, but that theory was skotched when Sargyshyva himself announced that Nuïy was no longer to listen inside the Tech Houses, instead to concentrate on drumming. It suggested again that the First Cleric was unaware of the potential of information regarding the flower crash.
Nuïy had to act. He had sworn never to disobey an order. But that did not mean he could not work alone.
In Deomouvadaïn’s herb garden one night he planted a spy ear that he had propagated from audio-papyrus some weeks back. This he set to record unnatural sounds—the only place sweet-opium could be collected was from honey poppies in the garden. His second plan was to listen to the networks of Zaïdmouth from native nodes outside of the Tech Houses. Such nodes were of low quality, but serviceable. Nuïy felt that his memory and analytical abilities would allow him to rise above such problems.