“Serena, is it?” the Architect Imperator said kindly, making a steeple of his hands and bowing slightly.
“Ceryl Waxwing,” she replied, bowing in return. Sajur Panggang smiled and shrugged ruefully.
“My pardon—I am so very bad with names—my wife was the one who remembered—”
He grimaced apologetically and adjusted the emerald mourning cuffs on his wrists. Ceryl wished that she had worn something a little more ostentatious. The Architect Imperator had indulged his whimsy for archaic clothing with a plain black suit and narrow tie, a woolen muffler tied around his long neck and his black turban of office. An enormous and no doubt artificial tourmaline of very pale green winked from within the folds of black silk neatly wrapped about his brow. Beside him Rudyard Planck bobbed like one of his own ugly creations. He too had eccentric taste in clothes: beneath a thick wool cape his shirt had been torn to shreds and then repaired with brilliant green silk and green thread, a vulgar shade that did nothing to complement his tallowy complexion. Like Tatsun Frizer he followed the current fashion for exotic shoes, in Rudyard’s case heavy fleece-lined boots that came up to his thighs. Ceryl looked up to see Reive smiling at him and the puppeteer grinning back at her. Hastily she began introductions.
“Sajur, may I present Reive—”
She faltered, realizing she had no other name for the gynander. Reive ignored her and continued to gaze at the dwarf. Ceryl grit her teeth and said, “Reive, this is the Architect Imperator.”
The gynander only looked sideways and nodded. The Architect Imperator laughed, as Ceryl blushed and went on, “Rudyard, this is—”
“Oh, we’ve met, Waxwing, we’ve met—!”
“You have?” Ceryl stammered. “How? I mean—”
Gently Sajur Panggang took her by the elbow, murmuring, “Perhaps we shouldn’t block the doorway, Ceryl. May I escort you inside?”
Ceryl choked, shaking her head, then nodded furiously and let him lead her into the Four Hundredth Room. Behind her Rudyard Planck murmured what sounded like a suggestive remark, and the gynander giggled. She tried to look back at them, but the Architect Imperator’s grasp upon her arm was quite strong as he led her toward the center of the room.
She stumbled after him, glancing about discreetly to see who else was there. Tatsun Frizer, of course. The opera star Kai Kaeng. A number of thugs from the Reception Committee, trying to pretend they were guests and not security personnel. A false hermaphrodite with an open-front tunic, preening before the real thing. A tall Aviator wearing a floor-length coat of sable over his scarlet uniform, standing by himself with his back to the crowd. Another Aviator walked up beside him, hesitating before placing his hand on his arm. The first Aviator turned to him, facing Ceryl. His blank metal face reflected Ceryl’s own and his eyes stared out at her, raw and wet and the color of oysters.
“—didn’t realize Waxwing had such good taste as to adopt this lovely and clever young thing—”
Dully Ceryl nodded as the dwarf rattled on. The rasa continued to stare at her. She made a small nervous sound, then forced herself to look down at Rudyard Planck laughing as he twiddled one end of Reive’s scarf in his blunt fingers. When she glanced up a moment later, the rasa was walking toward Âziz.
“Excuse me—” murmured Sajur Panggang. “I’ll find you later, Rudyard. Ceryl—”
He was gone before Ceryl could say goodbye. She looked helplessly at the dwarf.
“What a charming young friend you have, Ceryl,” he croaked. He tugged at Reive’s scarf. “Although she might be chilly later. I hear Nike’s chosen a wintry theme for this evening. I trust you’ll be scrying for us tonight, my dear?” He reached up to trace Reive’s navel, drew away a finger frosted with silver ash. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of hearing you before.”
“If we are asked.” Reive dipped her head modestly. Rudyard laughed and started toward the center of the room, taking Reive by the arm.
“Well, I certainly look forward to hearing you. Ceryl, may I get you a drink?”
Ceryl shook her head, following them. She inhaled, then sneezed. Lovey’s Prescient Chypre, Nike’s favorite scent this year, its overtones of frangipani and licorice so cloying it always made Cheryl’s head ache. She tried breathing through her mouth and elbowed past another actress, a wraithlike soprano with an eyepatch who was having her first success with the current vogue for sadist opera, with its graphic (and vulgar) depictions of the Third Shining, when the War between the celestial stations of HORUS and the Balkhash Commonwealth erupted into the holocaust that blasted the prairies into black adamant and destroyed the isthmus connecting the continent with its antipode.
“—then it was like the entire stage tilted, and of course I just went flying, I’ve never felt anything like it in my life, the whole place seemed to be moving, and all week I’ve had the most gruesome headache, and now of course they tell me Shiyung isn’t even going to be here tonight—”
The soprano turned to greet Ceryl, Lovey’s Prescient Chypre practically dripping from her bare shoulders. Ceryl smiled grimly and plowed on.
With a crowd inside it, the Four Hundredth Room seemed little different from any other place used for a dream inquisition, except for the wood-paneled walls. Ancient carpets on the floor, walls hung with aluminum tapestries, electric lights shining from within sconces shaped like cupped hands. A duo playing therimin and bass viola sat in a corner, nearly hidden by automotive statuary. In front of them a young galli in indigo robes and grass-green sash sang in a pure child’s voice an immeasurably ancient song—
“The keeper of the city keys Puts shutters on the dreams. I wait outside the pilgrim’s door with insufficient schemes.”
Ceryl pinched the bridge of her nose, wondering how Reive had disappeared so quickly. Someone handed the galli a wineglass; without stopping his song he smiled and bowed.
“The black queen chants the funeral march
The cracked brass bells will ring
To summon back the fire witch to the court of the Crimson King.”
“Ceryl. You made it.”
Ceryl started as Tatsun Frizer prowled up behind her, blessedly without her puppet.
“Y-yes.” She looked past Tatsun and spotted Reive on the other side of the room with Rudyard Planck. “Oh, damn—”
Tatsun followed her gaze and raised her eyebrows. Her vocoder blinked pale rose as she cooed, “That morph—she is a friend of yours?”
“The gynander? Yes—Reive, that’s her name— Reive! ”
From across the room Reive gave Ceryl a tiny wave. Rudyard Planck raised a glass half-full of virent Amity in a mocking toast.
“She’s very attractive,” said Tatsun. Ceryl looked up, surprised.
Tatsun sniffed. “Oh, don’t worry, I wouldn’t dream of stealing your little paramour. Excuse me—”
“She’s not —” Ceryl began heatedly, but Tatsun tossed her head and stalked off. For a few minutes Ceryl just stood there, watching as Rudyard offered Reive more Amity and the morphodite bowed gracefully as she accepted it. The last guests straggled in—two more actors from the pleasure cabinet, a diplomat leading an aardman on a silver chain, the usual hangers-on and uninvited guests, eager for the opportunity to ingratiate themselves with the Orsinate and so inadvertently increase their chances of dying at their hands. In the dim corner where the musical duo piped and droned, the margravine Âziz sat and drummed her fingers on her knees, looking uneasy, while at her shoulder the Aviator Imperator Tast’annin stood like a great hooded gyrfalcon, his black-gloved hands caressing the back of her chair.