He had been a handsome man, rumored to be brilliant and even charming. Certainly his arrogance matched that of the Orsinate. Seeing him now, all vestiges of his humanity gone save for his corpse’s hand and his revenant’s eyes, made Ceryl’s throat tighten with fear. This was what happened to those who fell out of favor with the margravines. She waited until almost all of the others had filed into the palace, waited for the aardmen to bear their terrible burden inside. But still they remained, snarling at each other, while the Aviator stood in silence, waiting.
And now Ceryl had no choice but to go: she was the last person on the colonnade, save for the Aviator and his bearers. She gave a little gasp and darted in front of them, head down. The aardmen’s snarls grew louder as she passed but she did not look up. She fairly ran to the gate.
Only when she reached the portal she stopped, her heart rocketing inside her chest. Very slowly she turned to look back.
Within his palanquin the Aviator stood, staring at her. For an instant his eyes met hers. As from some unfathomable depth she saw a spark within them, a brilliant flash of gray, then nothing but that dead gaze in its crimson metal cell.
Ceryl turned and staggered inside. The aardmen wailed as she fled.
The crowd on the boulevard began to break up.
“You’re a morphodite?”
The woman from the Toxins Cabal sounded doubtful. On her shoulder the puppet snorted, shaking its narrow head and sneezing. Cold air flowed up from the ventricles now, an astringent odor, not unpleasant. All around them people were stretching and rubbing their eyes.
“Yes,” Reive replied reluctantly. She didn’t feel like talking. Her ears still rang with the Aviators’ shouts and the harsh voice of the rasa. “We’re—we have a friend—just visiting—”
The woman continued to stare at her, her gaze darting from Reive’s breasts to her groin, then back to her face.
“But you are a morphodite?”
Reive glanced around nervously, thinking perhaps the woman was actually a member of the Reception Committee. But she continued to stare at Reive, so intently that the gynander finally realized she must be confused because Reive’s face was not hidden beneath the customary layers of thick bluish-tinged powder.
“Yes,” Reive replied, her own relief apparent when the woman brightened. “We are a gynander—visiting here, only visiting—”
“Who could care?” shrieked the puppet. The woman struck its nose and it slunk behind her neck. She turned back to Reive, adjusting her fez.
“I think I’ve been to one of your sayings,” she said. “When Nike Orsina had that nightmare about the runcible spoon—”
Reive shook her head. “We don’t think so.” She’d never attended an inquisition with the Orsinate, and started to say so when the woman cut her off.
“I’m certain of it. I had dreamed about a flying boat the night before,” she insisted. “Nike said it was a gorgeous dream, that was the word she used. We’re very close, Nike and I. All the margravines are my good friends, actually. I never miss one of their dream inquisitions.” She leaned forward, peering at Reive’s eyes, then made a little grimace of distaste. “Although I had forgotten about your—um— eyes. But I’m sure it was you.”
Without looking she reached for a tiny metal purse hung about her neck, the pleasure cabinet’s sigil dangling from it on a silver chain. She withdrew a long narrow card and shoved it into Reive’s hand. “Here: tonight in the Four Hundredth Room. Twenty-seven o’clock. Nike will remember, she’ll be pleased I found you. Bring a guest if you’d like—”
This last said airily, as though unknown hermaphrodites were always welcome in the Orsinate’s sanctum. Reive nodded stupidly and stared at the card.
Tatsun Frizer, it read in small neat letters printed on a thin sheet of allurian. When she tilted it the scowling image of Blessed Narouz appeared, his hawkish profile silhouetted against the flaming refineries of Archangels. She raised it to her face and sniffed: petroleum. She slipped the card into her pouch.
“This evening, then,” said Tatsun Frizer. She gave a last puzzled look at Reive’s face, then headed for the palace, her yellow boots making a slapping sound against the pavement, her puppet peering back at Reive and flicking its tongue licentiously.
The gynander stared after them, lifting her eyes to take in the sweeping columns, the lapis-crowned gates and golden statues surmounting it all. She took a lock of her hair and pulled it, until tears filled her eyes, just to make sure she was awake.
An invitation to a party given by the Orsinate! Let Drusilla hear about that !
She dismissed a fleeting thought for Ceryl and ran back to the gravator, heedless of how this might look to the few surly aristocrats still arguing over matters of protocol and invitations or the lack thereof. She dodged servers as they rolled about the boulevard, sweeping up ashes and broken pipettes, and at the gravator entrance bumped into the vicar of the Church of Christ Cadillac and didn’t even say Excuse Me. If only she could get back to Ceryl’s chambers, find some new clothes and be gone before Ceryl returned….
But when she reached her chambers, Ceryl was waiting.
“Where have you been?” she exploded. “I ran back here as soon as I could—”
Reive sank onto the divan. “We attended the Investiture,” she said sullenly. She raised her head, adding in a haughty tone, “We have been invited to a party this evening. With the Orsinate in the Four Hundredth Room.”
She dug into her pouch and held out the allurian calling card.
“Tatsun Frizer and the Orsinate and the Four Hundredth Room,” Ceryl read, disgusted. “Lovely.” She tossed the card onto the floor and stared at Reive coldly. “So you went to the Investiture.”
Reive nodded once, her mouth tight.
“And did you have a lovely time there? A wonderful time, watching the wonderful margravines parade their latest victim in front of the mob?” She spat the last word and crossed the room, yanked open a cabinet and poured herself a glass of brandy. Once back in her own chambers, her fear had disintegrated into anger. “They sicken me—it all sickens me. And three days from now is Æstival Tide and we get to watch some more torment, when they loose their damned monster onto the beach. Well, you know what? I’m sick of it, all of it. Sick, sick, sick.”
Reive huddled deeper into the divan and watched her through slitted eyes. It was very unwise for someone to talk like this. Ceryl seemed to read her mind: she turned and glared at her, downing another brandy. “Oh, pardon me. I forgot—bad form to talk treason in front of houseguests.”
She stared at the bottle on the counter, then poured another brandy and drank it. Afterward her tone was calmer, but her voice still shook as she spoke.
“Reive—I’m sorry. It’s just—I was worried, that’s all. It’s the time of year, it always puts me on edge. And—well, just thinking about the timoria. Do you have any idea how many people died ten years ago, during the last Æstival Tide? Do you?”
She began pacing the room and went on before Reive could answer. “Two thousand. Out of a total population of, say, twenty thousand. Several hundred trampled to death on the strand when the Gate is opened, another hundred fed to the Compassionate Redeemer for their pleasure. Then of course Shiyung ordered that boat race, and of course all the contestants drowned. A boat race! No one here has ever seen a boat in her life! And then the hecatombs, and the babies sacrificed—it’s madness, absolute madness!”