But the Archbishop had turned and was now quite openly frowning at them.
“— must go, discuss this further at the moon viewing tonight on the Fourteenth Promenade,” Reive heard her say to the hagiographer. “Forgive me,” she announced loudly to Reive and Rudyard in tones that made it clear who she thought should be apologizing. At her side the precentor nodded anxiously. “The scribe was inquiring after your lineage. I told him it was immaterial and any genetic anomalies, apart of course from the obvious ones, would no doubt turn up in the autopsy, if of course they’re able to perform one.”
Rudyard bared his teeth again, this time in a manner less suggestive of goodwill. “I still believe that if you contacted Sajur Panggang—”
“Oh!” The precentor looked startled, then smoothed the folds of her jumpsuit and gazed at the floor. “The Architect Imperator is dead. Didn’t you hear? A suicide. He died right in front of the margravines.”
Rudyard Planck’s mouth drooped open and he blinked. “Sajur? But he would never—I can’t imagine—”
Another tremor shook the level. Reive gasped and Rudyard took her arm. The Archbishop and the precentor stared at each other, the Archbishop’s eyebrows raised in concern but not alarm.
“Now that may have something to do with Panggang’s departure,” she announced, turning and heading for a doorway clustered with softly chattering people. “Something else that will come out in an autopsy, no doubt. Now!”
She clapped her hands, the sound echoing like a crash through the Narthex. Several people gathered by the door jumped and looked around nervously. At sight of the Archbishop and her companions they turned and, whispering, walked into the next chamber.
“Good morning!” the Archbishop boomed. “Sister Katherine—”
A plump figure wearing the dark spectacles and green mourning dress of the Daughters of Graves stepped forward, pressing fist to chin in greeting. He was heavily scented with attar-of-roses. “Your Eminence,” he said in a soft high voice, raising his hood to show a round face whitened with maquillage. “We have been waiting.”
The Archbishop returned his greeting respectfully, then swept her arm out to indicate Reive. “The prisoners are here. You may report to the margravines and tell them we are on our way in.”
The galli turned to Reive. He raised his dark spectacles to reveal a pair of bright black eyes, and gazed at her with a near-worshipful expression.
“A true hermaphrodite,” he murmured, shaking his head. “We are so blessed, this offering will no doubt subdue the tumult in the earth….”
His voice trailed off as the walls around them trembled, and he raised his eyes to the Archbishop. “There is talk among the lower levels of fleeing the city when the Gate opens,” he confided. “A residential neighborhood on Powers collapsed two hours ago. They say two hundred died, and more would have been killed had they not already left for the Lahatiel Gate.”
“Mmm.” The Archbishop looked about distractedly. At her feet Rudyard Planck stared up at the galli, and suddenly asked, “Do you think I could have a drink? Some brandy or Amity?”
The galli looked surprised, glancing down at Rudyard for the first time. “Oh! The other prisoner, of course. Yes, I think I could get you a drink. I’ll go tell them you’ve arrived.”
He walked off in a haze of scent. After conferring for a moment with the precentor, the Archbishop turned to the prisoners and gestured toward the door. “Please,” she suggested, and waited for them to pass.
As she stumbled through the door Reive blinked at the sudden brightness and turned to Rudyard. “Is this—?”
He nodded, stepped close enough to take her hand. Behind them the Archbishop and precentor walked slowly, talking in quiet tones. “This is the Narthex proper,” the dwarf explained, waving his plump hand to indicate the rows of bronze columns, chalked with dust and verdigris, leading to a sort of balcony where a small crowd waited. “We’re almost directly above the Redeemer’s pen here, and that viewing balcony overlooks the Gate. When it opens you’ll get quite an impressive view of the sea.”
Reive gazed openmouthed at the ceiling, so high overhead that it hurt to crane her neck. Huge skylights of some tawny glass let in golden light that flowed in glossy waves down the columns and across the copper floor. It was by far the most beautiful place she had ever seen, more beautiful even than the most elaborate vivarium dioramas. Rudyard looked at her rapt expression and smiled gently.
“It is an honor, in a way,” he said, and sighed. “I’ve only been here a few times before—twice in that one year—and so I never had the chance to grow tired of it. And you don’t see the same faces here, either. Mostly religious types that the Orsinate can’t be bothered with more than once a decade. Like them—” He hooked a thumb in the direction of the two walking behind them, the Archbishop’s robes rustling against the floor. “If it wasn’t for the circumstances you might enjoy it.”
Reive nodded. As they grew nearer to the balcony a wind rose, warm and strong enough to send Reive’s linen shift flapping. The dwarf explained, “They’ll be starting to depressurize the area around the Gate. I heard that one year they forgot, and when they opened it hundreds of people were sucked down the steps. Quite a happy occasion for the Redeemer.”
“ Now —”
The Archbishop’s voice sounded unnaturally loud. The prisoners stopped, and Rudyard squeezed the gynander’s hand. “I’m sorry we didn’t have more time to talk about pleasant things,” he said sadly.
Reive gazed at him, her own sorrow suddenly so great she didn’t think she could bear it. She wanted to give him something, something to thank him for being her friend, however briefly.
“Our own dreams,” she said of a sudden. She drew him to her face, close enough that she could whisper in his small pink ear. “We have dreamed of this thing, of the Green Country, and Zalophus told us that the city is falling. But there is something else—”
She barely had time to finish before the Archbishop was there behind them, motioning for them to hurry through the portal.
“—this thing, Rudyard Planck, and it is very strange: in all of this we did not dream of our own death.”
On the balcony that was the Narthex of the Redeemer stood the surviving female members of the Orsinate, surrounded by high-ranking members of the clergy and one or two diplomats. A score of Aviators ranged silently along the balcony rail, their dark masks winking in the golden light. Alone among those gathered here they wore no green, only their same somber uniforms of shining black and crimson leather. There were fewer guests than usual—Shiyung’s murder had cast a pall over the festivities—and the destructive tremors that had racked the city for the last thirty-six hours had quelled some long-planned parties, though others were just getting under way on the upper levels. Âziz wore full Æstival regalia—lapis crown, emerald robes encrusted with metal pointelles and star-shaped cutouts, high collar spiked with stiff hollow skewers of gold and green and sapphire-blue. Stunning raiment, created for the margravines of the Fifth Dynasty, when tailoring briefly eclipsed all other interests in the palace. The vestments were all but un-wearable, and indeed Nike had refused to garb herself in anything more striking than a plain black suit, which admittedly set off her pallor and her crown to good effect. For the last Feast of Fear Shiyung had also forsworn the traditional garb, but Âziz felt that this was a mistake: the populace set great store by appearances and ritual. So after leaving the Gryphons she had spent the best part of an hour being fitted by her handmaid. She had also been careful to wear beneath it all a sturdy catsuit and boots. Since there had never been any need to travel outside the palace she had no traveling bags, but assumed the Gryphon would quickly enough bring her to the safety of one of the nearer Aviator command posts, where she could better equip herself and make plans for outfitting the Orsinate in exile.