Glass (5 page)

‘We are certain because Selene’s memoirs describe similar changes.’

Dwllis nodded. The nearest exit was clearing. He said, ‘Thank you for your time, but I must depart now.’

‘Wait,’ the pyuton said, grasping the cuff of his jacket. ‘Don’t you work in the Rusty Quarter, at the Archive?’

Dwllis coughed, embarrassed, but also annoyed that he would now have to divulge his identity out of politeness. ‘Madam, I am none other than the Keeper of the Cowhorn Tower, Senior Historical Adviser to the Reeve.’ He bowed and left the Archive.

Thoughts bothered him as he walked north along Feverfew Street. Had the pyuton really not known who he was? That pricked his esteem. It must be that she was toying with him, making him state his own identity. Well, the Keeper of the Cowhorn Tower would not be going there again.

Back home with Etwe, having heard that no more gnosticians had appeared bringing antique memories, he decided to go to bed early. By the light of a glow-bean he read a pamphlet distributed by the Archive of Gaya, advocating rights for lessers. But sleep did not come easy. At midnight he rose from his bed at the top of the Cowhorn Tower and descended to the lower bowl, wandering the galleries there for ten minutes before, irritated and wishing for tranquillisers, he hurried down to the base of the tower, and the outer door. There, wearing thin earmuffs, he took in the sights and sounds of the city.

Night impenetrable covered the southern quarters, but he was able to glimpse pyrotechnics along Sphagnum Street, the cosy pink lamps of his local courtyard, the Copper, and, at the edge of vision, that macabre, glutinous light that emanated from parts of the Archive of Gaya.

Then he looked east.

At first it seemed some freak of the seething atmosphere, but it was too spherical. It came closer, and it seemed to Dwllis that he watched a glass lens of awesome dimensions rolling through Swamps fog; and yet he could see through it, to some other place that was bright, yet softly illuminated. The thing came near. Huffing and puffing he stepped backwards. Through it images started to form, then were lost.

Suddenly a man’s leering face appeared. ‘Noct save me!’ Dwllis yelled, before he slammed the door shut, locked it, and, gasping for breath, clambered to the top of the tower. Fear had taken control of his limbs. Etwe had heard his cries and was standing dressed in a gown at her workshop door. He hugged her.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘I saw a thing over the Swamps,’ he muttered. When he recalled the scene, he trembled. ‘Damn it! I saw a thing rolling in off the black slime, against the wind.’

‘Let’s check,’ Etwe said in comforting tones. She ran to fetch a shallow tray, poured in a few drops of liquid, then attached pyuter wires. The tray became a glowing screen, which she activated using the fishtail code-key strung around her neck. Speaking the names of pyuter routines, she turned the door camera eastward.

‘Nothing,’ Dwllis said, peering at the screen. He looked up at the wall of the chamber. ‘What a relief this tower has no windows.’

‘You must have imagined it,’ said Etwe. She took him by the shoulder, in a light grasp. ‘Shall we go to our room?’

Dwllis hesitated.

Coyness took Etwe. ‘Have you been chewing...?’

‘No,’ he said sharply. He glanced at her, then looked away.

‘I believe you.’

‘It is the truth. Etwe, you retire to bed. I am just going to check the front door of the tower.’

Dwllis descended to the ground, taking his time, trying to think of a useful weapon, for he intended peeking out into the night to see if the apparition was still abroad. He knew he had not imagined it. But as he shivered by the front door both hands were as empty as his mind. He opened the door.

The sward outside, like the air and the sky, seemed clear and calm. With no earmuffs Cray’s clamour attacked his eardrums, though being so close to the Swamps and the Cemetery the noise was of medium level compared to that of southern districts. His ears reported no otherworldly sounds. No rank smells, as allegedly accompanied spectres, spoiled the air. Moving slowly, he left the safety of the tower and stepped out.

Still nothing.

He followed the polythene wall for half its circumference before spotting something. Away north shimmered a sulphurous blur. It was the lens, images flickering in its lensing centre. As it returned south Dwllis swore and with thumping heart ran back to the door, which again he locked.

Etwe was waiting. ‘There is a... a lens-like object in the Cemetery. Don’t go out. It saw me. It may return.’

‘It
saw
you?’

Irritated, Dwllis waved a hand at her. ‘So it seemed to me. May I not have my perceptions?’

‘We’re safe in here,’ was Etwe’s cool reply.

He nodded. ‘We need protection,’ he said. ‘I need to make a picture of the object to show the Triad officials.’

‘Will you do that tonight?’ asked Etwe.

‘I must, I must.’

Feverish, and determined to capture the apparition’s image, Dwllis hunted drawers and cupboards for a portable pyuter with a lens, which Etwe linked to one of her pyuters by radio. He was ready. For the third time he stood quaking by the front door of the tower, listening. He commanded Etwe to remain at the opposite side of the room, beside her pyuter. Creeping out, he first ascertained that the lens was not close, then made around to a position from where he could survey the Cemetery. There the object shimmered, drifting south. Starting to tremble, he fed images to the pyuter as the apparition closed, moved east, then with a sound of clanging bells surmounted the Swamps wall and disappeared into the gloom. He ran back.

The images were good. They stored them, then made for bed. It was almost dawn when Dwllis dozed off, but three hours later he was awake and ready to depart for the Nocturnal Quarter, where, at Triad Tower, an official had agreed to meet him.

Dwllis did not approve of pedicians or aericians. A flying carpet being beyond his means, his only option was to walk. But he would wear no filmy cover. There was such a thing as style.

Today he wore clothes he imagined suitable for the interview, a brown and blue striped kirtle, a black velvet frock coat and a red shirt. His fuzzlocks he caught up in a sack hat in order to offer respect to officialdom. So attired, he walked down the main streets into Eastcity, arriving hot and bothered at a building in Eel Row attached to Triad Tower, where he announced his name to a fish-masked guard.

‘Wait here,’ he was told.

Some minutes later a genteel officer dressed in a brown cloak with a dorsal fin arrived to lead him into an ante-room. As he sat, another Triader, of high rank judging by her orange carpskin-trimmed robe, arrived, waving away the first with a fluttering gesture. She drew up a chair and sat opposite Dwllis so that their knees almost touched.

‘Good morning, madam,’ he began.

‘Good morning, Keeper. We received your message. You have been troubled during the night?’

‘I have,’ Dwllis replied. ‘I’m here to ask for protection.’ He handed her the sheaf of images. ‘I took these last night, and they very clearly show an object. I could be in danger. Anything could emerge from the Swamps, madam,
anything,
and being so close I feel I need some sort of…’

Dwllis ran out of words. The pyuton looked sympathetic. ‘I quite understand. Of course you are an official of the city and so may demand your right, but you may find that too many of our Triaders are out performing their civic functions.’

She rose and left the room, taking the images with her. Unsure of how well he had performed during the brief interview, Dwllis waited impatiently, tapping the floor with the toes and heels of his boots, walking around it twice, then sitting and brushing dust off his coat. When an achlorician came to remove some leaves that were turning green (for autumn was approaching), he watched the process.

Fifteen minutes later the pyuton returned to say from the open door, ‘We’ll send protection up. It’ll be along presently.’

‘Thank you,’ an uncertain Dwllis said.

The pyuton disappeared and the brown-cloaked officer arrived to show him off the premises. A little surprised, he found himself standing alone back in Eel Row. Perhaps it was just the manner of officials. Before heading back, he decided to make a detour east.

The Copper Courtyard, the smallest in Cray, was little known, its position by the Swamps bringing a ghoulish reputation to those who had heard of it. But Yardkeeper Cuensheley had cooked and brewed for Rhannan’s predecessor, her mother being a recorder of Gaya, and the quality of her provisions was unsurpassed. In addition, she knew few equals as a singer.

Dwllis stood upon the burnished copper floor. The quadrangle around him was set with dwarf trees in pots, the edges of their leaves turning from blue to green just like those of the plant he had seen earlier. Soon, the city would be swarming with achloricians. Amidst cushions, low plastic tables were set, while above there hung a net, and below that were strung lamps on wires. A score of Crayans presently relaxed at the hostelry.

Dwllis, spotting Cuensheley, waved at her. She approached. She was of slender build and medium height, but her long blonde fuzzlocks tied with rainbow ribbons, and her round, blue eyes set slightly too close elevated her out of mediocrity. Her skin was poor, though, too wrinkled for a woman of forty. She wore pale flowing garments that trailed along the floor.

‘Dwllis,’ she said in her melodious voice, ‘it’s been too long since I saw you.’

She pointed out empty cushions where they could sit, but Dwllis refused, saying, ‘Good evening, Cuensheley. No, I am not staying tonight. I wondered, though, have any of the regulars mentioned seeing anything unusual last night? Or this morning? Has there been talk of odd things?’

Cuensheley smiled. ‘Nothing. Is there a mystery? Tell me!’

She seemed sometimes like a girl to Dwllis: too enthusiastic. Occasionally she would laugh and clap her hands out of joy at some happening or experience. Dwllis, who only laughed when somebody told a joke, found there were times when he recoiled from her almost as though her vibrancy were a physical force.

He nodded, as if he had heard what he expected to hear. ‘I would consider it a favour if you would listen out for talk of apparitions.’

‘All right,’ she said, smiling. ‘You sure you don’t want a quick spearmint julep?’

‘Wholly sure.’

‘Are you getting short of–’

‘Hush!’ Dwllis said, glancing at the nearest people. ‘Do you want my reputation in tatters?’

Cuensheley laughed. ‘Please! Are you sure I can’t just get you a small drink? Free, of course, as it’s you.’

Dwllis made to leave the courtyard, waving Cuensheley away.

~

No events of significance had stirred the peace of the Cowhorn Tower while he was away, so he spent the rest of the day trying to tease information out of antique memories. At dusk, feeling a little restless, he decided to give up the struggle, but before he had cleared away his work a knock on the door startled him.

It was a short, solid man, a Triader guard dressed in an orange cloak, the belt around his pot belly boasting a scimitar. He wore a fish helmet and plastic boots. Any hint of power or poise was ruined by the man’s unshaven cheeks and by his ears, which stuck out under the helmet rim.

‘I’s sent to guard you. Name’s Coelendwia, sir.’

This was his protection? Dwllis stared at the man. ‘Good evening to you. You’re here to protect me against Swamp dangers?’

Coelendwia produced what seemed to be a pair of bellows from the pack on his back. ‘This here’s a spark rifle, sir. Known efficacy against dangers.’

Dwllis nodded. This was some official’s idea of a jest. The fellow must once have been a street urchin, since he was no pyuton. The Triad had considered his appeal and must have found it less than worthy. But Dwllis could not go back now since the humiliation would crush him. This person would have to do.

‘What are your hours, my good man?’ he asked.

‘Dusk to dawn, sir, by the clock.’

Dwllis found the ring of that word ‘sir’ pleasing. It was a word with the sort of sound he could bask in. He could even like the stubby little fellow. The rifle at least would be worth keeping. Of course, Coelendwia was lacking intellectually, but that no doubt informed his career choice. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Dusk to dawn it is. Do you own a razor, Coelendwia?’

‘Several, sir.’

‘A freshly shaven face impresses the opposite sex, I have found.’

Coelendwia seemed puzzled. ‘Yes, sir.’

Leaving the tower door ajar, Dwllis asked Etwe to give copies of the lens images to the Triader, so that he knew what to aim at, before sending a message of thanks to the Triader authorities. He returned to tell Coelendwia, ‘The thing we have seen is large, some variety of apparition from the miasmas of the Swamps. It’s nothing weaponous, you understand, but damnably fearsome. It is fifty feet in diameter, Coelendwia, and floats like a bubble.’

‘Is it something you recognise?’

‘No.’

‘Then knowledge be your best weapon, sir.’

‘Yes, indeed, that is the case,’ Dwllis murmured, gazing down on his new aide. ‘Now, good night. Awake me only if the lens approaches the tower.’

‘Yes, sir. Goodnight, sir, and sleep well.’

Dwllis locked the tower, then retired with Etwe to their chambers, where he ate supper and read books. Later he manicured his nails and brushed the clothes that he had worn during the day. An hour before midnight they retired to bed.

‘Are we safe here?’ Etwe asked as they lay side by side under thin blankets.

‘Of course we are,’ Dwllis replied. ‘The Triader owns a spark rifle. Besides, do we not lock up every night?’

Dwllis turned to stroke Etwe’s blonde hair, which lay flowing over her pillows. Her grey eyes were closed, but he knew she was faking repose.

‘Are you cold tonight?’ she asked. Her voice seemed to quaver around the room.

‘What do you mind?’ Dwllis replied. He took one arm in his hand. ‘There are temperature receptors in this, but no blood. Does a bit of cold hurt you? Or do your polymer nerves relay it just as figures?’