Iain Banks - A Song Of Stone

I make to go upstairs, to look for you, my dear, but the lieutenant, smiling, brimmed glass in hand, grabs my wrist as I mount the first step. “Abel? Not leaving us, are you?” She wears the old opera cloak again, its scarlet interior rippling within the black as she moves.

“I thought I'd check on Morgan. I haven't seen her. She may be frightened,”

“Let me do that,” she says. “Why don't you join the fun?” She waves the glass at the ballroom where the music thumps and bodies leap and caper.

I look, and give a small pained smile. “Perhaps I'll join you later.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “Definitely join it now,” she tells me. “I know.” She reaches out as Lucius and Rolans approach, one carrying a huge tray of food, the other a smaller tray stacked with opened wine bottles. She takes one of the bottles from the tray, then shoos the servants onward to the ballroom. She shoves the bottle into my hand. “Make yourself useful, Abel,” she says. “Top people's glasses up. That'll be your job for tonight. Wine waiter. Think you can do that? Think that's within your capabilities? Hmm?”

She seems already drunk, though there has scarcely been time. Was she drinking in the jeep on the way back, or could it he that our brave lieutenant can't hold her drink? I look at the bottle's label, trying to discern its vintage. “I thought being your guide today might have earned me my daily bread.”

“Normally it would have, I'm sure,” she says, going up a step above me to put one arm round my neck. “But the guys did all the shooting and you didn't, and they don't normally get to have parties in castles. Be a good host,” she says, knocking me on the chest with her glass, spilling wine on my waistcoat. “Oops. Sorry.” She pats at the stain, wipes it with her hand. “It'll come out in the wash, Abel. But be a good host; be a servant for once in your life; be useful.”

“And if I refuse?”

She shrugs, frowns almost prettily. “Oh, I'd be awfully upset. She drinks from her glass, studying me over its rim. “You've never seen me lose my temper, have you, Abel?”

I sigh. “Perish the thought.” I glance up the rising spiral of stairs. “Please tell Morgan not to worry, and I'd ask you no to force her to come down here if she doesn't want to. She can be shy with people sometimes.”

“Don't you, worry, Abel,” the lieutenant tells me, patting m shoulder. “I'll be nice as nice.” She nods to the loud ballroom and presses me on the back. “Off you go, now,” she says, the turns on her heel and skips upstairs.

I watch her go, then reluctantly enter the ballroom. Saturnalian, I wander amongst the revellers, topping up their glasses, emptying one bottle and taking another from the supply on a sideboard. By the state of the floor, as much is being spilled as drunk. Performing this duty, I am alternately thanked with camp extravagance, or just ignored. In any event, not everyone requires my services; some of the men clutch their own bottles and drink straight from them. Their partners are at first cajoled, persuaded and bullied into drinking their share, then gradually, swept along by the music, dance and the men's boisterous bravado, some start to relax, and dance and drink for their own enjoyment.

Next door, in the dust of the partly demolished dining room, also damp underfoot, trays of savouries, meats and sweets are being laid out and almost as rapidly demolished. A surprising amount and variety for such short notice; I suspect the castle's supply of canned food will not last out the night.

A shout, and from beneath a dust sheet the ballroom's grand piano is revealed. A soldier drags its stool out from underneath, sits, cracks his knuckles and as the music is turned down, then off launches into some plodding, jangling, sentimental song. I grit my teeth, and take another pair of bottles from a refilled tray. A guitar is produced, and a woman volunteers to play. A drum, draped in regimental colours, is torn from a wall and young Rolans is persuaded to thump its well worn skin. The band of soldier, servant, refugee plays as one might expect, inaccurate, loud and wild.

The lieutenant reappears, leading you. I cease in midpour, watching. You have dressed in a sea blue satin ballgown, arms clad in long topaz gloves, your hair gathered up, a glittering diamond choker at your throat. The lieutenant has changed too, dressed in dinner jacket, trousers and black tie. Perhaps she could not find a top hat and stick. One of my suits, it sits a little large on her, but she does not seem to care. The music hesitates as the piano player stands to watch you two enter. The lieutenant's men hoot and yell and clap. She bows with low exaggeration, acknowledges their jeers, takes up another glass of wine, hands a second one to you, then bids us all continue.

The woman playing guitar is hauled up to dance; the band takes an extended break and the recorded music resumes. The bottles of wine are shuttled up from cellar to tray to hand and their contents sloshed into glasses and throats. The room grows warm, the music's turned up, the piles of food shrink, the soldiers lead their women into dance, some lead them off upstairs, others play like huge clumsy children, disappearing to bring back some new toy discovered elsewhere in the castle. Trays hurtle down the stairs with shrieking soldiers hanging on; an old, wood brown globe depicting the ancient world, removed from its stand, is rolled into the ballroom and kicked about; two pikes are ripped from a wall display, cushions tied over their ends and. two men take one each, sitting on serving trolleys while comrades push them up and down the Long Room, jousting, laughing, falling, smashing vases, urns, ripping up carpets and tearing down portraits.

The lieutenant dances with you, in the centre of the room. When the music pauses and she leads you to the side to take up your glasses, I approach to serve. A huge crash, followed by much laughter, sounds from somewhere above. There is a thunderous noise of something heavy rolling overhead, audible even when the music resumes.

,Your men have become vandals,” I tell the lieutenant over all the noise as I refill her glass. “This is our home; they're wrecking it.” I glance at you, but you look unconcerned, and stare wide eyed at the dancers capering, clapping, whirling on the floor. One soldier is drinking what smells like paraffin, spitting it out, blowing fire. Beside a window, half hidden by the curtain, a couple are copulating against the wall. Another crash from overhead. “You ordered them to treat the castle well,” I remind the lieutenant.” “They're disobeying you.”

She looks around, grey eyes twinkling. “The spoils of war, Abel,” she murmurs lazily. She gazes at you, then smiles at me. “They have to be let off the lead now and again, Abel. All the men you were with today probably thought they were going to die; instead they're alive, they won, they got the prize and they didn't even lose any friends, for once. They're high on their own survival. What do you expect them to do; have a cup of tea and go early off to bed with a good book? Look at them “ She waves her glass towards the crowd. Her words are slurred. “We have wine, women and song, Abel. And tomorrow they may die. And today they killed. Killed lots of men just like them; men who could have been them. They're drinking to their memory, too, if they only knew, or to forget them; something like that,” she says, frowning and sighing.

The soldier trying to blow fire sets his hair alight; he yells and runs and somebody tries to throw a white fur coat on him, but misses. Another man catches the burning man and empties a bottle of wine over his head, putting the flames out. There are shouts from outside the ballroom, and the sound of something coming clattering, crashing down the spiral of stone steps, smashing halfway down and tinkling.