Elizabeth Hand - Æstival Tide

Ceryl Waxwing’s workchamber was at the outermost rim of Dominations Level, near the Amazonian dioramas. It was not a coveted spot. You could see the flat gray surface of one of the domes from here, and hear the boom of the ocean rolling against it. Because of its proximity to these reminders of Outside, the chambers had been empty for years before Ceryl was assigned to them. And since her promotion to the Orsinate’s pleasure cabinet, Ceryl herself should be in her new quarters up on Thrones. Every week she told herself she would move, that this would be the end of it; and every week she spent as little time as possible where the Orsinate might find her. She hated giving up her workchambers, although even she had to admit they were nowhere near as spacious or comfortable as her new quarters. When pressed, she said that she needed access to the plants and animals of the vivarium level for her work as a pharmacologist.

But the truth was, Ceryl couldn’t sleep on Thrones. She would never admit it, but she missed the sound of the sea. She wondered sometimes if that had something to do with her nightmares—knowing it was so near to her Outside, that constant crash and sigh that surrounded her as she worked.

But then, even Shiyung Orsina had been stirred by it.

“Does it keep you awake at night, listening to that?” she asked Ceryl the first time they’d met. The margravine stood staring out the workchamber’s strip of window, a glass of Ceryl’s cheap brandy in her hand.

This was not long after Ceryl’s lover, Giton Arrowsmith, had died. Shortly before his death, Giton had become involved with the cult of Blessed Narouz’s Refinery. Ceryl suspected that the Orsinate had him killed, ordering the destruction of the block of flats where he and several other disciples of Blessed Narouz lived. When Shiyung suddenly appeared at her door, Ceryl was convinced she was about to be hauled off by the Reception Committee. Instead she ended up being promoted to the pleasure cabinet.

She’d heard scuffling outside, and then the sweet yet commanding tone of the most popular of the margravines. Then someone had started banging on her door. When she’d opened it, there was Shiyung, with a full retinue of guards and ’filers following her, taping her official visit to the Amazonian vivarium for broadcast that night. In the crowd Ceryl glimpsed her supervisor, her white face belying her confident words.

“…Waxwing is our best pharmacist, I’m sure she can do something for your migraine—”

Ceryl tried weakly to explain that she was not a pharmacist, but the subtleties of her work were lost on the margravine. Shiyung drifted into the room clutching her forehead, gesturing dramatically for the others to leave. They did so, casting sympathetic glances in the stunned Ceryl’s direction.

The margravine was taller and even lovelier than she appeared on the ’files. As always when she made one of her highly publicized tours of the lower levels, she wore laborer’s clothes—in this case, a biotech’s yolk-yellow robe and high rubber boots. Her sleek black hair was pulled through a copper loop. At her throat the Orsinate’s heraldic eye glittered wickedly.

Ceryl stared at her, speechless. It was as though the dreaded Zalophus had appeared at her door.

“Thank god! A pharmacist!” The margravine moaned and sank into a chair, shielding her eyes from the dim light. “Please—the migraine—help me—”

With shaking hands Ceryl had mixed a nostrum combining tranquilizing neurots and a strong anaesthetic (cheap brandy laced with alomine) along with a mild hallucinogen (datura), followed by a few minutes of massage therapy. To her amazement (and eventual dismay) the philter worked. After an hour Shiyung lifted her head, batting her eyes weakly.

“It’s gone,” she whispered. She fingered the pendant at her throat and gazed at Ceryl with huge black eyes. “My god, you’ve saved me—”

Ceryl nodded, moving quickly to help the margravine as she got unsteadily to her feet.

“That’s a remarkable cure,” said Shiyung, her voice a little slurred. “Amazing. Nothing else has ever worked. You —” She pivoted and pointed at Ceryl, the tip of one long finger resting on the pharmacologist’s nose. “You are a miracle. Come.”

“Come?” Ceryl stammered.

The margravine nodded. “I hereby appoint you my Personal Pharmacist and Healer.”

“But—”

The margravine wiggled her fingers in Ceryl’s face. “Oh, please—don’t be obsequious. I can’t bear it when they’re obsequious.” She shook her head, wincing, then turned to the door. “But I must get back to the others! There was a rumor of a strike by the Amazonian staff—I must make them feel needed again—”

She extended her hands toward Ceryl, closed her eyes and murmured a blessing in which Shiyung’s own name figured prominently. Then she reached for the doorknob. When she hesitated Ceryl swallowed and took a wary step backward.

“A word of advice,” whispered Shiyung. She cracked the door open. “Hire your own Personal Taster before you move. You’ll need one up there.”

The margravine’s new Personal Pharmacist watched in disbelief as Shiyung floated back into the hallway, her headache transmitted to Ceryl. From her desk Giton’s holoed image stared at her accusingly.

That had been six months ago. She still hadn’t spent more than a few days in her new appointments. She was terrified that the Orsinate would discover she was nothing more than a low-ranking pharmacologist who sold quack remedies and bootleg narcotics to the other menial toilers on Dominations. Even with her promotion, there was no way she could afford her own food taster. Whenever possible she avoided her duties in the pleasure cabinet—which consisted mostly of attending parties and dispensing cures to hungover cabinet members—and fled back to her old workchamber. Ceryl Waxwing’s apartment on Thrones remained empty. Now she watched uneasily as the gynander stared out the grimy little window.

“What’s that?” Reive pointed outside as Ceryl rummaged in her tiny refrigerator for food.

“The dome.” Triumphantly she held up a jar of dulse jam and some crackers. “Hah! I knew I had something—”

The gynander continued to gaze out the window. “The sea’s out there?” she asked, trying to clear a spot on the glass.

Ceryl handed her the food and looked away, embarrassed. “I guess so.”

“Oh.” Crumbs fell to the floor as the gynander pressed her face up to the glass. “Right there? Right outside your window? The ocean?”

Ceryl cleared her throat and pretended to read a monitor on her desk. Perhaps this had been a bad idea after all. This morph had no manners whatsoever—imagine mentioning the ocean to a stranger! Ceryl fiddled with her monitor, glancing sideways at the morph. She’d be wasting her credit and, worse, her time. At the thought of another night plagued by bad dreams she sighed and rubbed her temples.

The gynander ate noisily but without further conversation. Finally she dropped the empty dulse tin and wiped her hands on her pantaloons. Ceryl watched her with distaste.

“All right,” the gynander pronounced. She cast a last curious look at the window. “Please tell us of your troubles.”

“I—I’ve been having these dreams.”

Reive nodded solemnly, as though she had never heard the words before.

“Nightmares,” Ceryl went on quickly. “I—they’re not the sort of dreams I can talk about easily at an inquisition when there’re others around. I’m—in the pleasure cabinet,” she added. She tapped nervously at her monitor. “You understand…?”

The gynander nodded. “It is, perhaps, a treasonous dream?”

Ceryl raised her eyebrows at the gynander’s bluntness. “We-ell,” she stammered, then nodded. “Yes, I think—well, someone might think it was treasonous,” she said lamely.