Elizabeth Hand - Æstival Tide

At sight of him Ceryl froze. She realized he knew nothing, cared nothing, about her; indeed, knew it should be impossible for a rasa to truly care about anything. If he had seemed to stare before, surely it was because she had been standing next to Sajur Panggang. But still he terrified her. His gaze was more acute than any rasa’s she had ever seen, and his hands twisted menacingly within their leather gloves….

Ceryl hugged herself, pushing back a fear as strong as the one that came upon her during her nightmares of the Green Country. Of course it meant nothing—the rasa Imperator; this oddly self-composed gynander who had scryed her dream, taken over her life, and within days managed to get invited into the Orsinate’s sanctorum; Reive’s sudden and inappropriate friendship with the rakish Rudyard Planck; the reports of tremors and structural failures throughout the city.

And then there was her dream; and all of this on the eve of Æstival Tide itself. Even as she stood, her bare arms prickled with cold and fear, she could sense it all Out There, whatever It was—poisoned ocean, devouring sunlight, monstrous typhoon—gnawing at the Quincunx Domes, or else circling Araboth like one of the Orsinate’s regenerated thecodonts grown to massive size, seeking a way to grind the city between its Luciferian teeth.

I’m going mad, thought Ceryl. I should consult a seer; but then she recalled that the present bizarre confluence of events derived from her doing just that.

She bit her finger. Maybe she should leave, go back to her chambers, lock the doors and refuse to come out until Æstival Tide was over. Just leave, like that, and let Reive flounder through the evening as best she could.

But then from down the hall she heard Nike’s booming hoo-ha laugh. A moment later she listed into the room, followed by a rather worried-looking serving girl. Âziz started in her chair; the rasa withdrew his hands and stepped back silently, drawing his sable coat around him. Âziz stood and went to greet her sister. Ceryl took a deep breath, then quickly made her way to where a trio of young boys were pouring wine from glass kraters. She drank hers too fast, scanning the room for Reive and shivering. The dwarf had been right. It was starting to get cold—another chance for the margravines to show off. All around the room guests ostentatiously tugged at capes and mufflers, garments made from the pelts of suricatas and martens and lynx specially bred on Dominations for the pleasure cabinet. The smell of the sea, ever-present even in this sanctum, was overlaid with a sudden burst of scent—the odor of fir trees, so thick and so obviously chemical in origin that Ceryl’s throat burned. She swore beneath her breath and rubbed her bare arms. Now that Nike had arrived it would be ill-considered to be seen leaving the room, especially if one wasn’t properly dressed. She grit her teeth and wished she could find the gynander.

Too late she glimpsed Reive on a divan on the far side of the room, sitting between two other morphodites. One had painted her face in complex pyramidical patterns; the other had small darting piggish eyes within a geisha’s mask and wore a towering blond wig of corkscrew curls. Ceryl recognized her as a former favorite of Nike’s, now gone to fat.”

The blond morph lifted her head, the wig teetering on her brow, and stared at Ceryl. Echion, that was her name. As Ceryl watched, she leaned over Reive and whispered to her, still looking back at Ceryl, while Reive sipped at her wine and stared about the room with her long green eyes. Whatever Echion was saying seemed to dismay her somewhat. When Nike bounced past with Âziz, the two hermaphrodites looked up. After a long moment, Reive tore her gaze from the margravines and stared across the room at Ceryl. Ceryl motioned frantically for the gynander to join her, but instead Reive looked back at Echion. She glanced up once more at Nike and Âziz, then nodded slowly. Beside her Echion smiled.

That smile turned the wine to vinegar in Ceryl’s mouth. She put down her glass, and had started toward Reive when Âziz clapped her hands.

“Well! This is an exciting group—Kai Kaeng, you look so dashing!—”

The soprano with the eyepatch bowed and blushed.

“—and I know we are all honored to have our new Aviator Imperator with us this evening—”

Strained yet enthusiastic applause. The rasa bowed stiffly, ruddy light spilling from his face. Then Âziz was beckoning them all to come close, to form the customary circle so that the inquest could begin.

Ceryl made one last effort to get across the room to Reive. She pushed through the crowd, nodding coldly at Tatsun Frizer, when a small strong hand grabbed hers—

“Sit here with me, Ceryl,” Rudyard Planck rasped cheerfully. His blue eyes guttered as he tugged her toward the middle of the room. “Here, Tatsun, you too.”

“Oh, but—”

Tatsun Frizer laughed, her vocoder sparking green and yellow. “I know just how you feel,” she oozed, shaking a finger at Ceryl. “Morphodites are so fickle. Best surrender gracefully and scold her when you get home.” She settled beside Ceryl, pulling a heavy silken throw from a divan and draping it over her knees. “Isn’t this enchanting? I can’t imagine why Shiyung isn’t here. Nike said they were going to have it chilly here tonight, but I never dreamed… ”

Tatsun Frizer prattled on. Ceryl thought of snatching the throw from her lap. It was freezing now. On the other side of the circle, Nike sat resplendent in a fox-fur coat, the thick pelts flaming about her pallid face. Every few minutes she leaned over the serving girl, who would hand her a morpha tube or a small agate kef pipe. Next to her Âziz sat stiffly, two brilliant splotches, like crimson thumbprints, on her cheeks. The Aviator had removed his long sable coat and draped it about her shoulders. There was a spurting sound as more of the pine scent was pumped from hidden vents. The lights dimmed to a cool blue, and from the ceiling snow began to fall.

“Oh, great ,” Ceryl swore, shuddering. All around the circle people applauded and laughed delightedly, holding out their hands and exclaiming as the snow hissed against their skin.

Rudyard Planck patted her knee. “My dear, would you like my cape?”

Ceryl glanced down to see if he was joking, but the dwarf had already begun to peel off the heavy woolen garment. “No, no,” she said hastily, “thank you—”

“Just a taste of winter,” Âziz was saying. Beneath the Aviator’s sable coat, she wore only a simple gray tunic and trousers, her dark hair pulled back through a gold ring. “Once upon a time, this would have been the first day of summer, and I thought, Why not celebrate our freedom from the tyranny of the seasons?”

Beside her sister, Nike nodded happily, tapping her feet and waving her kef pipe. Âziz lifted her face so that the snow glistened on her brow. She stayed like that for a long moment, snow frosting her dark hair.

Then, “Enough,” she said softly. The snow stopped, a few last flakes falling as people murmured their disappointment. Warmer air flowed from the vents, and another heavy dose of Lovey’s Prescient Chypre. Ceryl tried her best not to gag. Beside her Tatsun breathed deeply, eyes closed, and murmured the seven names of Blessed Narouz.

“We have a number of interesting guests this evening,” announced Âziz. “Margalis Tast’annin, whom many of you already know of course.”

Faint applause. Rudyard Planck snorted softly.

“Sajur Panggang and his little friend Rudyard Planck…”

(A few snickers: Âziz’s dislike of the puppeteer was well known.)