CHAPTER 2
The next day, Manserphine was invited to join Cirishnyan for a brief meeting at the Shrine of Flower Sculpture. As befitted one of the two senior clerics of the Shrine, Cirishnyan’s chamber was magnificent, hexagonal in shape with each wall and the ceiling a different colour of the rainbow. The chamber had been cunningly constructed, so that when artists scraped away the outer surface of the hardpetal a darker colour of the same hue was revealed, creating, over the decades, a breathtaking mural of great intricacy. Lighting was provided by lamps shaped as tulips.
They sat opposite one another in deep chairs, their feet resting on stools. Cirishnyan was a small woman of middle years, with a deeply lined face and a shock of pale hair. She wore spectacles.
From a ewer, Cirishnyan offered Manserphine wine. “Pollonzyn knowledged us of the unfortunate reservations you had,” she began.
Manserphine sighed. What she had to say would be difficult. She hated disappointing people, and she felt unhappy about leaving the path suggested by her flower sculpting vision, but the banishment had shocked her into confronting the actions she had taken. “I do not wish to garden for you any longer," she confessed. “I dare not cut off my rootball.”
Cirishnyan nodded in the sympathetic manner she had. “There are nuances we can make. We want to keep you gardening for us because we must challenge the immorality of the Garden hierarchy as it stands today.”
“It’s too perilous,” Manserphine said, shaking her head.
Cirishnyan drank deeply from her goblet, then leaned forward to say with a grin, “But we have this nice petal for you. Suppose, just suppose, you grew upon your body a species of scentlessness that would make gardening for me much easier?”
Manserphine had heard of invisibility technology, but she had been able to garner nothing other than tale and rumour. Intrigued, she asked, “How?”
“Did you know that there is a flexible species of hardpetal known as softpetal? It is difficult to grow, and rare. We have noticed your flowing garments. We could sew thin strips of softpetal into them, thereby to give you scentlessness with respect to the whole bed of flower networks and their insects. For example, you would be able to manipulate networks, change the memories of individual flowers, have control over the vectors of swarms of insects, and even of individual insects. The only drawback is that on hot bloomtime days softpetal melts. However if you planned your gardening well, keeping your garments in ice when they did not surround your body, all would be fine.”
Manserphine grinned. “Flowered up!” This would make her work with the networks easier.
“But you will require affirming by our spirit of floral sculpture.”
“Who is that?” Manserphine asked.
“You shall meet her soon enough.”
Manserphine sensed a trick. This was a Shrine, after all, and she was known to be an important person. Was there a hint of a plot here? “I trust you are not attempting to graft me into you floral home bed. I’ll never leave the crones.”
Cirishnyan gestured impatiently with her hands, spilling wine upon the floor. “Absolutely never. You only become available to the blooms of Zaïdmouth as Interpreter, and we want you to stay that way. But the hierarchy of the Garden must be changed, and that is why we want dealings with you.”
So many people after so few positions of power. Manserphine reflected on the history of political change in Zaïdmouth. It was slow, often ugly. She wondered if Ashnaram, the other leading cleric of this Shrine, was listening in to the conversation—Ashnaram, who was the most vocal member of the Outer Garden, and the best debater.
“We shall arrange all,” Cirishnyan concluded. “Now then, in whose bed have you planted yourself?”
“At the Determinate Inn, crone meadow.”
Cirishnyan wrote something on a hardpetal tablet. “We shall scatter some seeds at your innkeeper until bloomexplode, when we understand you return to the Garden.”
Manserphine shook her head. “Scentless—the transactions could be pulled. The crones may be observing me.”
“We enjoy good garden design here,” Cirishnyan laughed. “We can reformulate the fragrance of the transactions. Or use hardseeds.”
“Flowered up.”
“Of course, we expect you to observe your own paths for signs of crone coverts, but we shall do the rest. Trust our fragrance. We don’t want to lose you, Interpreter.” She hesitated, as if thinking. “Are there any other petals we can offer you?”
Manserphine considered, animating her face into smiles to preserve etiquette. Floral sculpture was an emotional creed. “I am low on hardseeds until bloomexplode.”
Cirishnyan cracked off a corner of her writing tablet and inscribed it with signs. “Take this chit to Pollonzyn, and she shall provide you with a case of hardseeds.”
“I’m obliged.”
“Now, walk carefully. See us here if any more reservations are thrown up.”
Manserphine stood and they embraced, hugging each other for a full minute as custom dictated. “Farewell.”
“Farewell!”
Cirishnyan led her to the door of her chamber, then Pollonzyn arrived to guide her to the front door. Manserphine handed over the chit, then departed.
Back at the Determinate Inn all was silent. Omdaton sat before the fire with her head on her chest, snoring lightly. Nobody appeared when Manserphine entered, which she thought odd, so she helped herself to a glass of whiskey and retired to her room. The effort of translating Novais speech had exhausted her. Already it was afternoon and the sun was low, so that the kitchen garden visible from her window was thrown into shadow. Lying on her bed she listened to the sounds of the inn—creaking, an occasional scuffle from mice, now and then a shudder as the wind gusted. But no sound of people. This was a remarkably quiet inn. In fact, she had yet to meet another guest. Nor had she met Jezelva, the cook’s colleague.
She jumped up when a slamming door made the floor vibrate. Hearing Vishilkaïr’s voice she hurried downstairs, impelled more by loneliness than by curiosity, a feeling that enshrouded her now she was separated from her Shrine friends. He smiled at her and offered her a free whiskey, which she guiltily accepted.
Conspiratorially, he gestured her away from Omdaton. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this," he said, “but we’ve worked out who you are. It was all quite accidental. Kirifaïfra is the man to blame if you want to hit out a bit.”
“How do you mean?” Manserphine replied, trying to retain a semblance of composure.
“We know what your job was… is.”
Manserphine frowned. “Yes, is. They have not banished me forever. How did you find out?”
Vishilkaïr refilled her glass. Manserphine was already feeling tipsy, but she did not stop him. He whispered, “The most peculiar thing. We were walking back to the inn when Kirifaïfra tripped on a root in the street and fell over, knocking as he did a gigantic red gentian. When I knelt down to help him to his feet, he was spitting out petals. The flower screen was exposed and active. I’ve never seen such a thing in winter.”
Manserphine recalled her vision. “There are a couple of winter flowering species,” she remarked. “Carry on.”
“On the screen lay the faces of the Garden, and of course we recognised you, sister Interpreter.”
Manserphine slapped him on the shoulder, without force, but with a frown on her face. She looked him in the eyes to say, “I told you before, don’t call me that. People will hear. I have a name.”
His face showed that he knew he had made a mistake. “Of course. You are just Manserphine, our charming guest.”
“Now you can fetch me the supper menu. I’m hungry.”
She dined that night on devilled parsnips and strips of kelp, with deep fried crispy grubs. She drank gin. By the time she was carried to bed even her insomnia stood no chance, and she slept until dawn.
At noon she heard knocking at her door, so she crawled out of bed, put on her woolly coat—it was the only garment to hand—and went to see who it was. An apologetic Kirifaïfra stood outside, wringing his hands.
“Sorry to bother you, but there is a small lady with dark hair that smells of coal-roses awaiting your company.”
That would be Pollonzyn. Manserphine felt a hot sensation in the pit of her belly. “I must go to the privy. Tell her I’ll be down soon.”
“Very good.”
“And take all the spicy food off your menu.”
Kirifaïfra considered. “That would leave us with kale and beansprouts.”
Manserphine waved him away.
When she was ready she went down to meet Pollonzyn, who sat reading scrolls in the bay window seat, a tankard of beer standing beside her. “I’m here to collect a pair of garments for the softpetal,” Pollonzyn explained.
Manserphine led her upstairs, eyeing the heavy bag that Pollonzyn carried. When a pair of suitable dresses had been chosen Pollonzyn opened the bag to produce two chests, one large, one small.
“The large one is hardseeds for your innkeeper, the small one is for you.”
Manserphine nodded. “I’m obliged to Cirishnyan.”
“I am requested to invite you to our floral home bed just after flower- close, to meet our spirit of floral sculpture.”
“Tonight?” She shrugged. “Flowered up.”
Pollonzyn departed. Downstairs, Manserphine put the large chest on the bar and invited Vishilkaïr to open it, which he did as if it might contain an explosive.
Kirifaïfra ambled into the room, and Vishilkaïr said to him, “See here nephew, a chest of fine brass cowries.”
Kirifaïfra sniffed the air. “They have a superb aroma, don’t they?”
Vishilkaïr agreed. “I wonder why that would be?”
“A very sensual bouquet,” Kirifaïfra concluded.
Manserphine was not to be outdone. She said, “You might think you know what you are talking about, but you do not. And I have noticed a few things about you two, such as the fact that your inn has so few guests, and you are frequently out, and you, Vishilkaïr, wear rather splendid clothes.”
“We go out to buy food and drink,” Vishilkaïr objected.
Manserphine’s face hardened. “I’m not joking. You know who I am. I’m one of the most important people in Zaïdmouth. If you are sensible and not the chuckling rakes you sometimes appear to be, you will keep your mouths shut and let me get on with my life.”
“I quite understand,” Vishilkaïr said. He put a hand into the box and pulled out a fist of cowries, which he let trickle back. “I suspect this will more than settle your bill until spring.”
“Good. Then it’s agreed. I like this inn, and I hope to find respect here. Let’s make the next season a good one for all five of us.”
“All five?” Kirifaïfra queried.
“All five,” Vishilkaïr said firmly.
~
Manserphine departed as the sun set, making east for Novais along the route she had previously walked. It was a cold, clear night, and the fug in her head had been replaced with clarity. After a while she saw ahead the lamps of the urb, laid in serpentine forms across the hills.
At the Shrine of Flower Sculpture she presented herself to Cirishnyan, who led her up a spiral staircase to the top of the bell, where they paused at a blue door guarded by an armoured woman. When the door was opened and they walked through, Manserphine found herself inside a vast chamber, perhaps a quarter of the volume of the Shrine; and yet it was empty. A single window of orange let in evening light, which gleamed through clouds of dust to make an oval upon the floor. She noticed that girls on the far side of the chamber were beating the floor with cloths, so as to raise more dust. They wore wetted masks across their mouths. The walls of the chamber were contorted into shapes that reminded her of relief maps, and these were damaged by scorch marks.
“This is the bed of our spirit,” Cirishnyan said.
“Is she here now?”
“She always grows here. Wait awhile, and she will come to meet you.”
Manserphine sat down to await events. After a few minutes she noticed that the dust motes illuminated by the window were circling in a pattern, and, defocussing her eyes, it seemed as if they were making a face. There was the faintest odour of burning above the melange of flower fragrances that permeated the Shrine. Manserphine considered what she saw, and wondered if electrostatic charges created by controlled currents in the hardpetal walls were making the dust move in patterns, thick here, thinner there, to manifest the illusion. It really was a face. The face of a woman, perhaps, with pointed ears and large eyes.
“There she is,” Cirishnyan whispered.
“Is this the spirit of floral sculpture that you worship?”
Cirsihnyan nodded. An intense joy permeated her features, and she seemed too awestruck to speak.
“How will I be affirmed?” Manserphine asked.
“Her appearance has affirmed you. Dustspirit has accepted you into our beds.”
Manserphine returned her gaze to the illusion. She had never seen anything like it. Certainly the Shrine of Our Sister Crone, who used clay figurines and crumbling scrolls, had nothing to compare. After ten minutes they departed, but Manserphine felt the aura of the dust chamber tugging at her mind, and, suddenly vibrant as if from a premonition, she asked if they could return.
“You go on,” Cirishnyan replied. “The guardian bloom will let you in when you ask.”
Manserphine climbed the stairs once more. Inside the chamber all was quiet, except for the faint flapping of cloths far away, and she sat where she had before, trying to feel why this place spoke so clearly to her of peace. Perhaps it was the rhythmic flapping of the girls’ cloths; or maybe the otherworldly aura.
She watched the face emerge again from the clouds of dust, but now it seemed closer, moving in a definite way, its mouth working, its eyes closing, opening, then closing again. Manserphine felt for a moment that she was entering another of her visions. But this was different. She knew it. This was real.
A hissing voice, just audible, said, “Manserphine, Manserphine, so you have come to find me at last. So many years have I waited for one such as yourself. Open your mind to me.”
Manserphine looked across to the girls to see if they had noticed the voice, but it seemed they had not. The face was staring at her and it seemed very close, with hairs of dust that shot out like rocket trails. The burning smell was stronger, and she knew now that it came from the electrically manipulated dust.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
“Dustspirit, Dustspirit. That is who I am. But you, Manserphine, you have the ability to help me manifest. I must become embodied. There is much yet to do. I must walk the Earth once again.”
Manserphine realised that the entity was speaking to her in Venerisian dialect. That was a curious fact. “Shall I fetch Cirishnyan?” she asked.
“No. I want you.”
“But I’m not from here. I’m faithful to the Shrine of Our Sister Crone.”
“An irrelevance. It is you who speaks to me.”
Suddenly frightened, Manserphine leaped to her feet and fled the chamber, ignoring the calls of the guard as she clattered down the steps. She burst into Cirishnyan’s chamber without knocking.
“I saw Dustspirit in the dusty bed, and she knowledged me!”
Cirishnyan was on her feet and hurrying to the door. “How?”
They began to climb the staircase. Manserphine continued, “She softly knowledged into my ear as I sat in the bed. Come quickly before she departs again.”
“Flowered up!”
Outside the chamber Cirishnyan listened at the door, before opening it and entering, Manserphine following. The face was gone. Random clouds filled the air.
“Dustspirit has departed,” she told Manserphine.
Cirishnyan did not look happy. Manserphine put all her emotions into her voice to reply, “She was here, and she may return.”
A pause. “We shall wait.”
So they waited, and after a few minutes the visage of Dustspirit began to reform in the air, shifting as the dust motes billowed. Unable to wait, Manserphine called out, “Knowledge to me once more!” and then, using in her own dialect, “Speak to me! I’m back.”
Nothing. Embarrassed, she turned to Cirishnyan. In silence Cirishnyan took her by the hand and led her away. “You were inaccurate, Manserphine. Dustspirit is eldritch, as mysterious as the sun, and your mind was overwhelmed by her fragrance. I apologise for allowing you to return to her bed. You see, she rises and droops at her own whim, although it is usual for her to open out when we wait. She has never knowledged us since our floral home bed was germinated, a hundred and two bloomcircles ago.”
Manserphine was shocked by this. Why had she been chosen? Had it been another of her visions? She might be dreaming now. She replied, “But I saw her and she knowledged me.”
“You are fading. It is long after flowerclose and I can see the dryness in your eyes. Come to a quiet bed to rest, and I’ll have Pollonzyn bring intoxicants and chamomile spice.”
Vainly Manserphine tried to resist. “Scentless…”
Cirishnyan insisted, her grip firm. “Scented. Come with me.”
Unwillingly, Manserphine was dragged to a ground floor chamber, very small yet packed with soft chairs and boxes, where she was sat down. Pollonzyn appeared, a tray in her hand that held bottles and small jars with teaspoons in. Cirishnyan poured a drink then spooned out something that sank to the bottom of the fluid and bubbled.
“Have this,” she said. “It is too late to return to your bed. Remain here until floweropen.”
Manserphine did not want to, but with the drink in her hand and the clerics waiting on her she felt she could not refuse their hospitality; and she could slip out easily enough later on. She drank.
She woke some time later, but it was difficult to be sure how many hours had passed. The Shrine was quiet—the window dark, so it was still night. Then she noticed that her chamber had changed so that it was yellow, and considerably larger. And there stood Curulialci all in blue, with a fierce expression on her face, standing like a ghost behind the image of the floating mermaid who appeared in all her visions. Manserphine was not sure where she was, her mind caught between the unreality of the vision and the reality of Curulialci’s chamber. The Grandmother Cleric was trying to say something, but, as so often, Manserphine found herself unable to hear anything.
She woke to the real world. The smell of cherry blossom was overwhelming and, coughing for air, she stumbled to the window, which she opened. A horde of insects buzzed out. Watching them, Manserphine tried to get her breath back. They flew as one, away to the south. From the low hill upon which the Shrine of Flower Sculpture perched she could see the ocean glittering under starlight, and she noticed a huge rock which lay out to sea in the insects’ path. She wondered if that was their destination.
The fear of Dustspirit and the oppression of the chamber made her run out into the street. Judging by the sky it was nearly dawn. She had all her belongings, so she decided to return to the Determinate Inn, a journey that she completed without difficulty. Her pass key allowed her entry, and as the sun rose she flopped into her bed where, after only half an hour, she managed to find sleep.
The men teased her when she took breakfast an hour after noon. “What curious hours you do keep,” said Vishilkaïr. “And what affairs stopped you out so late?”
“Private affairs.”
The two men gave one another a knowing look.
Manserphine asked, “Did Jezelva accept the chest of cowries?”
Vishilkaïr nodded, smiling. “Oh, she was very pleased.”
“Good. Now if you don’t mind I’m going to read in my room.”
“Be our guest.”
That evening Pollonzyn arrived with two altered dresses, which she handed over before departing. Vishilkaïr said nothing as he sipped rum behind the bar. The inn was deserted, so Manserphine returned to her room to try one of the dresses on. They were slightly heavier than before, and she could see where the Shrine seamstress had sewn in foot long strips of what felt like leaves, but which, from the various colours she could see through the fabric, were clearly artificial. The softpetal smelled of meadow flowers.
She slipped off her gown, took a dress, and pulled it on. For a minute all seemed normal. Then she realised she was leaning against the wall. Her balance had gone. She tried to stand upright, but the pain in her eyes was sharp enough to make her wince, and she gasped in a breath of air that chilled her lungs. She smelled something bad—like a decaying body. Then she was on the floor, her head throbbing with pain, her eyeballs burning, her ears full of the sound of whining, while her nostrils seemed clogged with the stench of carcasses. Rolling around the floorboards she moaned and tried to blink away the pain in her eyes, but it worsened. Her skin was on fire. She tried to clamber to her bed, but failed.
The dress! It was making her lose her mind; it was changing her senses. But she was weak. She pulled the dress half off, but the effort caused a headache so severe she felt she would faint, or vomit. At length she knew she had to try again or die, so she pulled up her legs and managed to tug the dress off with the clutching fingers of one hand.
The pain in her head vanished, but her body felt bruised. She knew she was going to be sick. She clambered upon her bed and wrapped herself in a blanket.
“Manserphine? Are you all right?” The voice was loud, but her confused mind was unable to recognise it.
She tried to answer, but it came out as a groan.
Vishilkaïr came in, Kirifaïfra following.
Kirifaïfra leaped to the bed. “What’s the matter? Are you ill?”
“Sick…” she managed to mutter.
Vishilkaïr appeared with a brass bowl, which Manserphine promptly filled with the remains of her supper.
“Bad spices?” Kirifaïfra asked his uncle. “Chestnuts off?”
“No, this,” Vishilkaïr stated, holding the dress.
Manserphine managed to murmur, “Don’t throw it away. Keep it.”
Vishilkaïr stuffed the dress inside a cupboard. “Kirifaïfra will look after you,” he said. “I’ll come and check on you in an hour.”
“All right.”
Kirifaïfra lifted her so that she lay comfortably on her bed with her head up on a bolster, then covered her with another blanket and gave her a tankard of water. “Are you well enough to drink this?”
“Um…”
“Wait a few minutes, then. Was it supper?”
“No, it was the dress. Oh, my head.”
Kirifaïfra took one of the dresses out of the cupboard and examined it, before returning it. Manserphine’s pain was receding, but her limbs felt weak, her stomach rebellious, and her headache had returned.
“They seem normal enough clothes,” he told her.
“They’ve been treated. Never mind how. It must be a reaction to the treatment.”
“How were they treated? By some Blissis criminal?”
“No, nothing like that. By some friends. They mean well. But I’m not sure why it happened.”
Kirifaïfra hesitated, as if uncertain what to do next. “I’ll get some more water.”
“Thank you.”
Left to think, Manserphine pondered what had happened. Clearly she had suffered a kind of alergic reaction to the strips of softpetal that had surrounded her body. Presuming softpetal to be similar in function as its hard cousin, that would imply that her body could not cope with network interference—or that her mind rejected it. She had never heard of such symptoms. She wondered if her sleepless, dreamless mind had somehow rejected the memories and teeming circuits that were sure to exist inside the softpetal.
Kirifaïfra returned with a pitcher of water. “You worried us,” he said. “We heard banging from your room, and a shout.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was going to happen.”
“You should be more careful. People in Novais don’t live like we do here, they have strange ways.”
“I know,” said Manserphine. “I interpret them.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”
“I know.”
Kirifaïfra poured a tankard of water, then asked, “Do you know the Flower Sculpture people well?”
Manserphine frowned, trying to hide her reaction to this question. She knew they would be thinking hard on what they had seen, weighing the evidence, hazarding guesses. She said, “Why them? I work for the Shrine of Our Sister Crone.”
“I suppose you do.”
“Is your life so boring that you have to discuss mine all day?”
Kirifaïfra tapped his teeth with his fingernails. “My life is far from boring. But yes, you do intrigue me, with all these mysteries surrounding you—I mean, the money, that woman arriving, the late nights, and now this fit and the dresses.”
“All my affairs. Not yours.”
He sighed. “Regrettably so.”
Manserphine laughed out of sheer frustration. “You’re sorry? Have you nobody else to prise secrets from?”
“Maybe.”
“And what is it that you do when you aren’t bustling about for your uncle?”
“I enjoy myself.”
Manserphine sat back, tired of talking. She wondered if she would sleep tonight. So many things to think about. She watched Kirifaïfra tidy the objects on the hardpetal desk. His pigtail had been wound with a wire beaded with copper insects.
She wondered again about the vision-insects. They had remained an enigma for years, ever since the visions had started. Thinking back to her view of the sea, she wondered if she could trace their line, so to tell the direction of their flight.
“Kirifaïfra?”
He was at her side immediately. “Yes?”
“Downstairs in the bay window is a map of Zaïdmouth. Would you get it for me, also a straight edge, and a quill too?”
“Certainly.”
She heard him leap down the stairs, and a moment later caught a barking laugh from Vishilkaïr. When Kirifaïfra returned he handed over the items. Manserphine supported the map on a board and took the quill in her left hand, touching the tip to her tongue to activate the ink pump. It tasted of peppermint.
“What are you doing?” Kirifaïfra asked. He leaned across her shoulder to look at the map, and she smelled musk on his body.
“If I tell you will you promise not to annoy me by asking more questions?”
“I promise.”
“I bet you don’t keep it. What I’m doing is drawing the direction of some insects I saw flying yesterday. They went in a straight line from the Shrine of Flower Sculpture-”
“Ah!”
“Towards this rock in the sea.”
Manserphine drew the line with the aid of the ruler. She looked at her handiwork. She frowned. The line skirted the marshes west of Emeralddis, passing very close to the Shrine of the Sea.
“Hmmm,” she said.
“Has it worked?”
She ignored him. She thought back to other times that insects had appeared, and recalled an incident of ten, maybe fifteen years ago when as an initiate of Our Sister Crone she had been on the Shrine roof with friends, hoping to see a meteor shower. They had slept in their tent, but she, suffering insomnia with aching eyes, had watched the stars and the sea long into the night, and later had a vision. She remembered seeing insects fly south, directly towards the White Star, then at its zenith, yet only a few degrees above the horizon. So she drew another line on the map, from the Shrine of Our Sister Crone to the southern cardinal point. It crossed the first line not four hundred yards from the Shrine of the Sea. And she recalled now the insects of her vision here at the inn, which had flown out of her window, then risen and sped away to the south, again towards the Shrine of the Sea.
“You look worried,” Kirifaïfra said. He held her hand. “If you’re in trouble, I’ll help.”
Manserphine extracted her hand. “I’m not in trouble. Not yet.” She looked again at the oval that marked the Shrine of the Sea, situated on the western mouth of the Zaïd estuary.
“Aren’t you?” he gently queried.
“What do you know of the Shrine of the Sea?”
He shrugged. “Nobody knows much about the Sea-Clerics. They live isolated in Aequalaïs, in their golden Shrine. Strange people live in that urb, stuck behind the Water Meadows. The Sea-Clerics worship the sea. They have always refused to take their seat in the Outer Garden and it remains empty for them every year. They speak funny, and people can’t understand them.”
Manserphine laughed. “I speak some of that public dialect. Really it is only a variation of our language, spoken in long, flowing sentences that take time to digest.” She looked away, her eyes defocussed, and a poignant sea longing came to her mind. “Their speech rolls and sways like the ocean swell.”
“If you say so.”
Manserphine looked again at the map. “Something is saying that a part of me lies inside that Shrine.”