No Present Like Time (9 page)

An hour later I still had two hundred grams left in the envelope, enough to poison the entire crew of both caravels. I tipped a fingernail-full of cat into a beaker of white wine. It touched and dissolved like melting snow. I cut a line on the book cover and snorted it. My jaw sparkled. I threw the porthole open and threw up, monumentally, down the
Petrel
’s side.

Then I returned to the poop deck, dazzled by brightness. The fresh wind made me shudder. The mainland was ridiculously small and featureless—I could see the entire Cobalt coast, a pale green line edge-to-edge of the horizon, already turning blue. The Awndyn cliffs were a faint smudge less than half a centimeter high. In every other direction spread the indistinguishable ocean. I didn’t want to look at it. “It’s as if we can see the whole east coast,” I said to Mist.

She laughed and shook her head. “Say goodbye to it, Jant.”

I could fly back even now. I leaned over the stern and stretched my wings to feel the wind under them.

“This is something you’ve never seen before?” the Archer asked calmly.

“It’s horrible.” I hissed a breath. “It’s a travesty.” I always have to work in their world. Lightning has visited the mountains on adventurous expeditions and once when I needed help; but I defy any of them to trek to the high plateaus. I cross boundaries more vertiginous and worlds far more precarious than this, I told myself, but I didn’t feel at all reassured. “Are we in water deep enough to be attacked by sea monsters?”

Mist tutted. “Jant, there is no such thing as a sea monster. I have circumnavigated the Fourlands. I have sailed past this longitude for six hundred years, so you can absolutely take my word for it. Monsters are just the tales of drunk, braggart harpooners. You might see a whale spouting in the distance, but that’s about all.”

I sipped my doctored wine and watched the
Stormy Petrel
’s green wake curve out like lace from a loom. The horizon receded; I expected a clap of thunder or something when it merged with the haze and vanished. I stared in that direction for long after, memorizing the position. In an hour’s time
Petrel
would carry me too far to fly home.

I turned away from the railing. I had been looking out to sea for so long the size and bustle of the ship surprised me. My hands were weak, my glass was empty. I took a step and the deck tilted. Shit, if the others see my condition they are definitely going to know. I must reach my cabin, lock door, sleep it off. I edged along the railing to the top of the ladder, and felt about with one foot for the rungs. I can step down, it isn’t so far.

I crashed heavily onto the half deck, shook my wings and arms to locate them. Yes, of course the floor is bloody tipping, I told myself; we’re on a sodding ship. I clawed the cabin open, threw my coat down but it slid toward the door. I have taken too much. But it feels so good, oh god it feels good. The buzz and dislocation comes on slow when I drink cat. So I forget to be careful and I always drink too fucking much. It’ll peak soon, I hope. I was clever to return to the cabin while I still could. Now there’s no coast only sea no land to land on only sea. We must trust our memories that the Empire still exists.

I’ve taken too much. I lay on my quilt, curled up, eyes closed—can’t observe the outside world anymore, too much going on out there. Thoughts rush around my mind and cat begins to break them down to their constituent cycles. Consciousness is circular. Thoughts come in cycles. There are big, slow, infrequent cycles and fast rings repeat inside them. Words are made when sound cycles click the right combination. Consciousness is circular; thoughts come in cycles. There are big—It’s happening to me! I think I’m dying. Don’t worry, I won’t die; this has happened before. I hate it when this happens. I’m probably going to Shift. And I haven’t been to Epsilon for years. Epsilon. Words are made when sound cycles click the right combination. Oh, no, it’s starting to happen—am I dying? Don’t worry, I won’t die; this has happened before. God, I hate it when this happens. I’m probably going to Shift. And I haven’t been to Epsilon for years. Probably going to Shift. Last time, I almost died. Rayne said I was dying. Don’t worry, I won’t die. This has happened before. I hate it when this happens (it’s happening to me; it’s happening to me). I’m going to Shift. And I haven’t been to Epsilon for years. Consciousness is circular; thoughts come in cycles. Haven’t I just thought this? Words are made when sound cycles click the right combination (—to me, it’s happening to me, it’s happening to—) What is? This feeling of dying. Don’t worry, I won’t die, this has happened before. Words are made when sound cycles. God, I hate it when this happens. I’m probably going to Shift. And I haven’t been to Epsilon for years (—me, it’s happening to me, it’s happ—) I think I just thought that (—ening to me, it’s happening to me, it’s happening to—) oo to me ahp ap hap happening oo fu tu to me see words are made when words are made words worr dd hut hur lur wur wor words are ay ma may dde words are made words are made ugh dug dur wer wur words arr are geh neh ney ay made words are made ur err are arr…ar…r…

Shouts assailed from all sides and before me were market stalls running into stalls out to where the horizon met the orange sky. Constant Shoppers hustled and bustled, a little boy selling postcards of Epsilon darted through the crowd. I recognized the Squantum Plaza bazaar.

I sat on the pavement cross-legged and concentrated, changing my appearance from just a pencil sketch of Jant to something more solid that looked like me, with a few improvements.

Having brightened myself up, I staggered to my feet. I swore I would never come back here and now I’ve broken my promise again. A small gray cloud appeared above my head and began to rain on me. “All right,” I told it, waving my hands. “All right! I’m not that depressed!” The cloud showered a few more desultory drops and dissipated.

There were market stalls of mildewed books, cloth and raffia, cakes and beer. Horse brasses, porcelain, thousands of gemstones spilled on velvet. Flat green grief toads sang mournfully in glass tanks. Stalls sold ancient sea-krait scales, barometz root—looks like a sheep but tastes like turnip—trained falcons apparently “the best hunters in the Scarlet Steppe” and confused stacks of bamboo crates full of finches that cheeped and fluttered.

There were bonsai ents—little gnarled trees with root-legs stumbling around on a polished tray. A marsh gibbon capered on a stall’s canopy. It had pale green silky fur and round intelligent eyes; its back legs ended in duck feet. I couldn’t help laughing at it. The monkey pulled its top lip back in a bubblegum-pink grimace.

Now that I was trapped here for an uncertain length of time, I decided to enjoy myself. I went looking for the pair of golden shears that was the sign of the Bullock’s Bollocks bar. It was no easy task because Epsilon changes constantly.

A crowd of nasnas with tour guides wended their way between the tables. Nasnas are men with one arm and one leg each. The two nearest me were heavyset columns of flesh, and they supported each other, hopping along in a pair. The arm of each man projected from the middle of his chest, waving like a trunk. I studied their faces and caught my breath. Each had a big, single eye directly above his nose, all his features in a vertical line, a wide mouth and rough skin. The men turned their great round eyes on me as they passed. Their guide announced, “This is the edge of the Tine’s Quarter. Take special care on the road please…And if you see any Tine,
run.
Well, hop
quickly.
”

Behind the nearest stall sat a big, bearlike animal. Its fur was pure black and white splodges. Backward-pointing spines grew around its neck and down its back. The beast shook itself and its quills clattered. Its head was bowed; it looked so hunched and miserable that I stopped, intending to buy it and set it free. The stall holder was a greasy man with a glass eye. A parrodi perched on his shoulder, with colorful ruffled feathers. It rolled its eyes and copied his every gesture.

The stall holder saw that I was a tourist and delightedly shook the bear’s chain. “A porcupanda, sir! A highly prized delicacy. Not five hundred pounds, not four hundred pounds. Three hundred pounds to you only, sir!”

“To you only, sir,” drawled the parrodi.

I concentrated and imagined the right amount of money in the pocket of my suit. I paid the stall holder and freed the porcupanda. When I patted its head, it licked my hand then bounded away.

I walked on, to the central fountain built with stinguish technology out of solidified water. White cement could be seen between the transparent blocks. It made a wonderful three-dimensional matrix with beams of sunlight dancing through, cast by the liquid water lapping inside the fountain. A couple of wet thylacines barked and played in the great jets that fell like diamonds.

A bouquet of chloryll courtesans lounged beside the pool. The chloryll co-cultivate this quarter of the city. Their extreme beauty reminded me of Tern, slight and exquisite; their skin was ebony black. One had tiny fruits growing in her shining hair, piled on top of her head. Her floor-length dress rustled, it was made of living foliage; here and there tiny pink roses budded among the leaves. Vines wrapped around her arms like long net gloves. Behind her hung a trail of coiling tendrils, fronds and variegated ferns. These fruiting bodies were great to sleep with, but instead I wanted to have a good look around Epsilon after so long away.

T
he market continued into the Tine’s Quarter, where a wide road paved with eighteen-carat gold formed one side of the market square. A shiny building with smooth pillars housed four tall rectangular machines that emitted a low vibration. The salt-copper, watery-rotten smell of the Tine’s red liquid was thick in the air. A sign hung above the machines read:

TINE AUTOMOBILES, THE HEART OF MOTORING

Driving the arteries of Epsilon, you can’t beat the Carotid Café. All tastes catered for: blood, beer, coffee. Next: ten miles.

A girl sat in a low carriage underneath the sign. It was made of gold, so it must be of Tine manufacture. It was molded in feminine curves, with bulging panels over its small, spoked wheels, doors as in a roofless coach but an upright glass window fixed at the front. It had no shaft for horses.

I vaguely recognized the girl inside. She waved. “Hey, winged boy! Jant! Remember me from court? I was the Shark!”

“Tarragon!”

“Come over. Don’t worry about the Tine.” A Tine was attending to her car. He was a carnivore like all his species, three meters tall, bursting with muscle. He was naked except for a loincloth, his sky-blue skin scarred and tattooed. His blank eyes were pupil-less, uniform blue. His eyebrows were two pierced rows of steel rings: the Superciliary Sect. I thought that he could live for a week on the meat stuck between his sail-needle teeth. His taloned hands held a black rubber tube which snaked down and disappeared under the ground. He was pumping the red liquid into Tarragon’s gold automobile.

The whole floor hummed. I trod carefully, ready to sprint at any time. I kept Tarragon between myself and the growling attendant, but Tarragon was a Shark, or rather the Shift projection of a Shark, and she was just as dangerous.

Tarragon grinned with sharp teeth. Fins emerged from the middle of her back and the sides of her body. With a look of concentration she mastered her shape transformation so they retracted and her skin smoothed. She briefly became a beautiful woman rather than a Shark.

“Do you like my shape?” she said. “I find that air-breathers are nicer and more obliging to pretty girls.” Then, lost in thought, the changes gradually reasserted themselves, so that I was confronted with the difficult challenge of talking to a frothy blond teenager in a strapless dress and stiletto heels, with three rows of triangular teeth. Parallel slashes appeared in her neck; deep gills like black ribbons. They widened, inhaled, and vanished.

She concentrated on improving the shiny crimson dress wrapped around her body. A furry phlogista stole draped her shoulders. Phlogistas are rare and expensive; they’re long, like mink, but dark red in color with deep, sumptuous fur. It had a little lion’s head, but instead of a mane its face was framed by a ring of fleshy petals. This feline flower-face formed the clasp of her stole, and its yellow glass eyes glittered. Phlogistas are resistant to fire; to clean a fur you place it in flames.

I offered Tarragon my hand, but she looked at it as if it was her favorite sandwich. “You can touch the car, you know,” she said.

I surveyed the vehicle. “It’s not alive?”

“No, Jant. It’s not alive…
Parts
of it are alive.”

It was made of a thin sheet of pure gold, and the complicated fittings inside were gold, too: a wheel where Tarragon rested her delicate hands, and a dial that looked like a clock face but wasn’t.

“The car won’t hurt you,” she said carefully. “But keep clear of the Tine. They invented these sports cars to do their hunting and to make religious sacrifices, injuring victims in interesting ways for the purpose of their worship. They’re keen on fast, fast cars, the faster the better, like this rocket; the best that meat can buy. To build speedy cars they need good athletes. You are an athlete, aren’t you?”

I nodded.

“Tine will do anything to lay their hands on a runner as excellent as you. If they knew about Rhydanne you would already be dead. They need athletes, that’s what makes these babies go,” she said, tapping a flipper lovingly on the steering wheel. “Take a look.”

She pressed a button and a trapdoor popped open at the front of the vehicle. I sloped around and peered inside.

Lying under the bonnet, a mass of green-purple guts quivered and heaved. Clear rubber tubes ran red liquid around them. They stank of ripe meat. Diagonally across the center were six big hearts, doubled up in a line. Solid red-brown muscle pumped in unison. I had an impression of the mighty strength they produced to drive the spoked wheels.