Red Sun Also Rises, A (13 page)

Clarissa indicated to Lord Speaker-Judge that she wanted to address the Parliament.

“Miss Clarissa Stark!” he announced.

Clarissa cleared her throat. “If I understand it correctly,” she said, “the Servants work in the houses of the Aristocrats.”

Hundreds of masked heads nodded. Someone said, “Until they are released.”

“In which case, if I am an Aristocrat, and, as such, am to be given an estate, I request that my companion, Mr. Aiden Fleischer, be assigned to serve me.”

“I oppose that motion!” Yarvis Thayne shouted.

“I bloody well support it!” the prime minister countered.

“Indeed!” Baron Hammer Thewflex agreed. “Indeed! Indeed!”

Voices were raised. Cheers echoed.

Speaker-Judge banged his gavel until the assembly quietened.

“The motion is passed. A decision must also be made concerning the role Miss Stark will play in our society. The Council of Magicians will take up this matter. Baron Thewflex, will you escort Miss Clarissa and Mr. Fleischer to the Council at once, please?”

Thewflex gave a thumbs-up—such a mundane gesture struck me as incredible, coming as it did from such a bizarre-looking creature—and made his way to the edge of the platform and the narrow corridor that led out of the chamber. He waved for us to join him there.

“Toodle-pip, old things,” the prime minister said to us. “When you’ve settled in, I’ll drop by for a cup of tea.”

“You have tea here?” I exclaimed.

“Of course, old fruit! Of course!”

Clarissa and I crossed the stage and followed Thewflex out of the building.

“So you’ve made me your skivvy?” I ruefully asked my companion.

“Whatever is necessary to keep us together, Aiden. Obviously I don’t expect you to actually work in that capacity. I’m still your sexton.”

“No, Clarissa. I relieve you of that duty. Here, we are equals. In fact, if anything, you are my superior, for you are certainly handling our peculiar circumstances far better than I.”

We passed through the front doors and descended the steps to the road. To my utter astonishment, Thewflex raised a hand and yelled, “Cab!”

A two-wheeled vehicle came careening around a corner and drew to a halt in front of us. In design it was boxy and sloped from a wide base to a narrow and very high top upon which the driver was perched precariously. It was pulled by
a cream-coloured beast, tubular in form, which ran along on multiple legs. The awful-looking monster had a thick knot of tails curling out from its rear—two of which were held by the driver like reins—while its pointed neckless front end was split by a massive mouth. There were at least twenty small eyes clustered irregularly above and below the long maw.

“What’s that hideous thing called?” I asked Thewflex.

“A hansom cab,” he answered, opening the vehicle’s door. “Hop in.”

“I meant the beast harnessed to it.”

“Ah. It’s a Kaljoor. Yes, indeed! Come along! All aboard!”

Rather clumsily, Thewflex hoisted himself into the cabin. I gave Clarissa a hand up and followed.

“Where to, guv’nor?” the driver called.

Thewflex leaned out of the window, looked up, and said, “The Temple of Magicians, and make it snappy!”

“Tell that to the Kaljoor, mate!” came the response.

Thewflex grunted, and as the hansom jerked into motion, he turned his goat mask toward Clarissa and said, “The Working Class have been singularly lippy of late. I can’t abide their backchat. One might almost think they consider themselves our betters because they’re assured a place in Phenadoor. I feel we Aristocrats are losing the respect that’s our due. For crying out loud, the idiots would be nothing without us! Nothing!”

My friend frowned and was on the point of asking a question when Thewflex directed our attention to the scene outside.

“Look at that, Miss Stark! Marvellous efficiency! Busy days! Busy days! Indeed so!”

He was referring to a large tract of land that had been forested when we’d entered the House of Lords but which had, while we were inside, been cleared and was now swarming with a dense crowd of Yatsill. As we passed alongside it, we saw a seemingly endless line of Ptall’kors arriving, all laden with stone blocks, having their cargo unloaded, then departing. Roads and alleyways already criss-crossed the area, and in the squares between them, large edifices of a vaguely Georgian style were being erected with astonishing speed.

“Incredible!” I whispered.

A tall, thin tower caught my attention. It was similar to the minarets I’d seen illustrated in books about Damascus and other Arabian cities, and I realised it was but one of a great many that dotted every level of New Yatsillat.

“It’s for the City Guard,” the baron said in answer to my query.

“A watchtower? What are you watching for? Why does the city require guards?”

“The Saviour’s Eyes are not always upon us,” he responded.

Before I could pursue the subject further, the hansom rocked around a corner, veered across the road, and, though having travelled only a short distance, came to a jolting halt.

“Temple of Magicians!” the driver announced.

Thewflex pushed the door open and heaved himself out. We followed and saw we’d arrived at a colonnade-fronted structure.

“Gee-up!” the driver said. The hansom rattled away.

“You forgot to pay him,” I noted.

“Pay?” Thewflex asked.

“Never mind. What do your Magicians do?”

“They have insight. Yes, indeed!”

“Into what?” Clarissa asked.

“I haven’t a clue,” Baron Thewflex replied. “I’m not a Magician.”

We entered the building and were met by a Yatsill wearing a crow’s-head mask and long yellow robes.

“Welcome, Baron Hammer Thewflex,” he said, with a bow. “Welcome, Clarissa Stark. I am pleased to see that you’ve received your eye protection. Welcome, Aiden Fleischer. Baron, thank you, and you may go about your business now. Miss Stark, Mr. Fleischer, this way, please.”

Thewflex nodded, saluted—the second Earthly gesture I’d seen him make—and departed.

We fell into step beside the Magician.

“I am Father Mordant Reverie,” he declared.

“What a name!” I blurted. “But
Father
? Are you a priest?”

“Priest, Magician, sorcerer, call me what you will, young fellow. The title makes no difference to the function.” The Yatsill regarded me curiously and emitted a small grunt. “Hmm! It’s a shame you weren’t also made an Aristocrat, Mr. Fleischer. As a mere Servant, your mind is closed to me, though your emotions play clearly across its surface. They are fascinatingly complex.”

“Closed?”

“Obscured. Inaccessible. It doesn’t shine with inventiveness like Miss Stark’s.”

“My apologies.”

My sarcasm went unnoticed. “Accepted,” Father Reverie replied. “What is this guilt you feel?”

“I’m sorry, Father, I don’t know what you mean.”

“You appear uncomfortable with yourself, as if you have done something wrong.”

An image of Polly Nichols’ corpse flashed into my mind’s eye. I swallowed nervously.

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” the Yatsill said. “I’m sure you’ll come to terms with the issue in due course. Now then, the Council awaits. Don’t dawdle, please.”

Like the House of Lords, the Temple of Magicians was new, clean, and still being decorated. Artisans were carving a frieze into the upper walls of the corridor we passed along, and a complex geometric pattern into the large door we came to at the end of it. Father Reverie dismissed the two Yatsill working on the latter. As the pair scuttled away, I realised that all the artisans, like the cab driver, wore flat caps, baggy suits, and plain masks. Obviously, it was the uniform of the Working Class.

Our guide conducted us through the portal into a big oblong cloister. We passed around the edge of this, through another set of doors, along a second corridor, and into a room that very much resembled the interior of a church. He escorted us to a bench beside a lectern and we sat facing a gathering of about a hundred Yatsill, nearly all in crow’s-head masks and yellow robes, though I counted five who were unclothed.

Behind us, a stained-glass window depicted the two suns over a sparkling sea. The bright yellow light—which made the chamber far less gloomy than my little church back in Theaston Vale—shone through it and illuminated the billowing clouds of incense curling from a censer hanging above the congregation. I later learned that the scent, which was similar to cinnamon, was Dar’sayn, the liquid from the fruits of the Ptoollan trees. The Magicians employed it to deepen their meditations.

Father Reverie took up position behind the lectern and said, “Fellow Magicians, I present to you the dissonance, Miss Clarissa Stark, and her Servant, Mr. Aiden Fleischer.”

“There it is again,” I whispered to my companion. “No debate. I’m your lackey.”

“What’s important,” she replied under her breath, “is that they keep referring to
me
as the dissonance, not to
us
. I think I’m starting to understand a little of what’s happening, Aiden.”

Before she could say anything more, Reverie asked her to explain how we arrived on Ptallaya and where we came from. Once more, Clarissa went through the story. This time, there were no questions. The gathered Magicians simply sat in silence.

“Mademoiselle Crockery Clattersmash,” Reverie called. “Will you please recount the events of the Immersion and how Miss Stark came to be an Aristocrat?”

One of the crow-masked figures stood. Clattersmash had told Lord Brittleback that she was going to meditate—obviously, she hadn’t done so for long. Now her unmistakable voice emerged from behind the face decoration, and in a concise manner—but in tones that noticeably quavered—she described our discovery in the Forest of Indistinct Murmurings, the journey to the Shrouded Mountains, the events in the Cavern of Immersion, and our long journey from there to New Yatsillat.

She sat down, rather heavily.

Reverie addressed the congregation. “Whatever you make of this, there are two certainties. The first is that, compared to our other Servants, these two are rather different in form. The second is that the dissonance brought to us by this one—” he gestured at Clarissa “—is far-reaching in its influence,” he held his hands wide, “and has been accepted without question by all but a few.”

One of the unclothed magicians stood and said, “The parliamentarian Yarvis Thayne and I represent that minority.”

“Father Yissil Froon,” Reverie responded, “you are the oldest, longest serving, and wisest of us—but see how many oppose you, or at least disagree with you!”

“That does not make me wrong.”

“But why do you object?”

“Because long ago, the Saviour looked upon the Yatsill and found us pleasing, though we lacked self-awareness, did not recognise the glory of Phenadoor, and were little more than animals. But it angered the Saviour to see us taken by—”

A ripple of disapproval
ran through the congregation, interrupting him. Someone hissed, “Blasphemy!”

Father Mordant Reverie rapped on the lectern and snapped, “Be careful what you say! As the survivor of many, many cycles, you are held in very high regard, but that does not grant you licence to transgress.”

“I understand,” Yissil Froon replied, “but cannot explain my objection without some reference to that which may not be spoken of in the sight of the Saviour. I shall be as circumspect as possible.”

“See that you are. Continue.”

The Magician bowed and continued, “The Saviour created a division. At Immersion, some of the children were made Working Class, and thus could never be taken, while the others were endowed with intelligence, language, and self-knowledge. These latter, the Aristocrats, were able to transmit their abilities to the Working Class and raise them from the animal state, but to do so, they sacrificed immunity—they could still be taken.”

Reverie nodded, held his arms out, and said, “We, the Aristocracy, are both honoured and cursed. Honoured because we are vehicles for the Saviour’s will and reveal to the Working Class that the bliss of Phenadoor awaits; cursed because we know the same bliss is denied to us. This is common knowledge, Yissil Froon, not an explanation. What is your point?”

“It is this: we Magicians have a special function. We extend the Saviour’s protection over our fellow Aristocrats that they may live for as long as possible before being taken. With the aid of Dar’sayn, we have been extremely successful in this endeavour, so much so that at each Immersion the Saviour has been able to make ever more Yatsill Working Class while reducing the number of Aristocrats.”

“Indeed,” Reverie agreed. “Is this not a good thing? Is it not the case that more and more Yatsill are thus gaining entry to Phenadoor?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Are you certain? For all your sweet words, rumours persist that you were the first ever to drink Dar’sayn, and that you subsequently opposed its use.”

“Those rumours are entirely unfounded, Father Reverie.”

“Do you follow the will of the Saviour?”