“A jealous companion,” laughed the spado. From beneath his domino he drew a long quirt of braided hide. “Come with us, Boy.” He prodded me gently with the cord. “My Patron is Constance Beech, a Botanist. She will be delighted to introduce you to her fellows. Come with us.”
From the echoing hall erupted shrill laughter and cheers. I peered vainly into the swirling shadows to see what this heralded.
“They’ve brought out the ORPHEUS ,” said the woman. “Oh, do come dance!”
“The Curator I am looking for is a Naturalist,” I said quickly, grabbing her hand and pressing it to my breast. “A Regent. Roland Nopcsa. Do you know him?”
She shook her head and turned to her companion. “A Regent. Constance might know him.” She slipped her hand back into the folds of her mantle.
The spado nodded, “I know him: he engaged me once as Inquisitor for an esclandre. Constance attended the excruciation with us.” He tapped my shoulder with his quirt. “But he has engaged Whitlock High Brazil this evening, Boy! You know that, eh?”
His cool gaze met mine. I lowered my face so that he would not see the color that flooded my cheeks. “Yes indeed,” I said. “Whitlock and I were paired at Winterlong—you remember us, perhaps?”
The spado regarded me through narrowed eyes, nodding slowly. “You had a different look, then,” he said at last. “I know you now. The favorite of the House Miramar. Raphael.” He turned and grasped his partner’s elbow. “See, cousin! This is the boy I told you of, the Miramar—”
“But he is not so young, Nataniel,” she protested, tugging at his domino. “And we’re late—we’ll miss the cacique’s judging if we don’t hurry.”
“No, you are not so young,” the spado Nataniel agreed. He raised the butt of his whip to my chin and tilted it back an inch. “Eighteen?”
“Seventeen!”
“Seventeen, then … but seventeen has bright empty eyes gazing ever forward, and already yours are full of old dreams and brooding on the past.”
I started to make a sharp reply, but the spado only raised his quirt to gently tap my lips: once, twice, thrice. His eyes were keen and bespoke Silence.
“I had a summer’s folly with Roland Nopcsa once, Boy Miramar,” he said. A glance at his companion showed her more intent upon the Great Hall than upon either of us. “He took rather more liberties with a promising young chaunter than perhaps he should. My House—Illyria, but you knew that, eh?—my House was not pleased with Nopcsa’s inspiration, although they did gain a fine soprano for chanting the “Duties of Pleasure.” A dedicated ear for fine music, Sieur Nopcsa …
“I hear he has engaged the Exiguous Hagioscopic Chamber this evening for a private recital with Whitlock prior to the bestowing of the cacique’s jewels.”
“Indeed,” I said, and snapped my fingers in Anku’s direction. “Where might a lover of music find the Exiguous Hagioscopic Chamber?”
Nataniel drew the hem of his domino away from Anku’s anxious tread and pointed across the hall. “Through the archway carven with the image of a jaguarondi seizing a great fish,” he murmured, then extended his arm to embrace his companion. “Come then, Dido! This boy will not join us, but the gynander Anstice Helen has as pretty a face and she is waiting.”
The two of them bowed to me, Nataniel kissing his three fingers and reaching to brush Anku’s muzzle as he passed.
“Fare well, Miramar,” he called softly. “Tell Nopcsa that Nataniel Illyria taught you a song to sing him: ‘Toujours Jeune.’” They disappeared into the shadows.
7. Somewhat dubious affinities
I PAUSED, WONDERING IF I should go now to confront Roland, then glanced after the spado and his partner.
At the far end of the hall a great press of dancers had gathered. In their center reared the luminous pilasters and glass pipes of High Brazil’s great electrocalliope ORPHEUS . High above the throng glowed its metal cabinet. Bright figures—dancers in dark glasses, women wearing silver headbands, autovehicles spinning on metal wheels—flickered beneath the elaborately lettered scroll still gleaming with bright blue and yellow metallic paint:
THE ECHO MUSICAL MACHINE COMPANY OF NORTHERN AMERICA
Beneath the scroll was a winking face, twice man-size, chipped silver headband upon its wooden brow, lips pursed to blow into a pair of great glass pipes. A frieze of tipsy letters spelled out ECHO ORPHEUS beneath the figure’s chin.
Another wave of cheering swept the room. Rubbing my eyes, I glanced down to see Anku crouched between my legs, staring moodily at a tiger swallowtail. When I looked up again I saw that someone had lifted a woman in white domino and black mask above the crowd. To rollicking cheers she clambered up the side of the calliope, clinging for support to bas-relief leaves and the backs of fantastically carven vehicles, until she swung her legs over the gaudy face of Orpheus and raised her arms triumphantly. Amid shrieks of laughter she pelted those below with flowers.
The electrocalliope bellowed so that my ears ached. I wondered how the woman could bear it. Still I found myself moving closer to the front of the crowd, staring at her. Anku slunk beside me. When he occasionally brushed against my leg I could feel him shuddering from the noise and smoke, and I let my fingers droop to touch him reassuringly.
We reached the edge of the melee. Behind us revelers cavorted in the ceaseless spray of smoke and flowers. Before us was the expanse of peach marble adrift in petals and quivering wings, surmounted by the ORPHEUS . A rowdy crowd of boys from Persia and my own House—with a pang I recognized Small Benedick and Small Thomas—had clambered onto the balcony abutting the machine. They waved their arms as if conducting the calliope. I stared enraptured at the metal mouth releasing puffs of hempen-scented steam that rose to sear clouds of moths. Only Anku remained unmoved, imploring me with soft urgent cries to move on.
The carnival anthem rolled to a finish. A rush of steam and cheers; then the first piping notes of “The Saint-Alaban’s Song.” Drunken voices began chanting. Beside me a tall Illyrian sank to her knees beside a Botanist. At their feet a girl with Saint-Alaban’s red ribbons braided through her hair plucked absently at their robes as she sang:
“O Saint-Alaban
We now must say goodbye
We’ve lost our hearts and lovers and must go—
we don’t know why …”
I pushed away Anku, tired of his insistent whining. I applauded with the rest as the boys from Miramar tossed a crown of lilies at the girl atop the ORPHEUS . To a volley of cheers she plucked a single scarlet blossom from the wreath of flowers. Setting the crown .firmly upon her head, she straightened. Then, surveying the crowd below, she searched for a deserving recipient among us. Laughing with the others, I waved and urged her To me! to me!, trying to catch her eye.
Abruptly her gaze fixed upon me. Other faces began turning to me, laughing that the game had reached this end. Between my feet Anku stirred, growling. He stared at the figure above us as she raised the red lily, then tugged her mask free of its braids and ribbons to reveal her face: dead white, pitted with blackened holes whence crept writhing threads of spiders. I stepped back, my eyes still riveted to her. Her hands had been chalked to hide the bloody grooves where she had prised free the lid of the sarcophagus. White powder flaked from the raw bruises on her arms. Ghostly moths lit upon her thighs with slowly beating wings. As I stared, she touched three fingers to her lips. Then with a grin she kissed each of the lily’s garnet blades and laughing tossed it from the pensive brow of the ORPHEUS : a poisonous shaft tumbling through the air, cleaving the tremulous wings of moths and grazing a half-dozen eager fingertips before it began to tumble toward its mark.