Khassian watched the morning mists slowly drift from the roofs of Sulien to reveal a glorious day.
Yet the windows in the first-floor apartment in Mistress Permay’s house were shut to seal out the noise of the street, the clatter of barouche wheels on the Crescent cobbles, the rowdy whistling of the coachmen.
Orial sat at the escritoire, her pale face rapt, utterly absorbed in the task of transcription. Occasionally one hand would move upwards to tuck back a straying lock of hair. Yet all the while not one word was spoken, not one sound disturbed the stillness of the salon.
Khassian moved across to look over her shoulder.
‘What is this?’
This was not his opera. He did not recognise what she had been notating at all. It was utterly unfamiliar.
She shook her golden head.
He looked up from the score and met her eyes, dazzling in their iridescent glitter.
‘I – don’t understand.’
Her vagueness irritated him. He had been struggling to articulate the moment of Elesstar’s death – and she was not paying attention.
‘What in the name of hell is this?’
It was as if some other music had intruded upon her consciousness and she, unaware, had continued to notate it, nurturing the parasite within his own work.
‘I don’t know.’ She stared at the five bars, frowning. ‘I thought it was you.’
‘This is nothing like my style!’ He was angry now, insulted that she could have confused this aberration with his own distinctive musical voice.
‘I wrote down what I heard.’ She stood her ground. Bravely, for he could see the tears in her eyes.
‘Strike it out. We’ll have to start again.’
She nodded dumbly and lifted her pen to score through the alien fragment. Then he saw her – almost as if guided by a will other than her own – take the page and surreptitiously slip it beneath the others.
*
The River Avenne flowed serenely through the Parade Gardens. The mellow light of late-afternoon gilded the west-facing terraces on the surrounding hills but the riverwater was dark with secrets, untouched by the sun.
Orial stood at the railings, staring down into the water.
What am I doing here?
She could not remember walking this way, could not even remember leaving the Crescent house.
Notes formed themselves into a melody, a repetitive, insistent, obsessive melody. It flowed through her consciousness like a current of dark water. Where had she heard it before? The Parade band? She glanced over her shoulder to where the musicians were packing away their instruments beneath the striped awning.
She softly sang a few notes aloud.
No. It was not one of the simple country jigs or gavottes favoured by the band; its intervals were too wayward, its mode too melancholy. Neither was it a part of Khassian’s opera; it bore none of the characteristics of his style. Whenever she closed her eyes, waters lapped into her mind, cloud-dark waters, stirring with a breath of current…
The melody and the waters seemed inextricably linked, one with the other.
She wandered on alongside the Avenne, holding the iron rail, the feel of the cold metal against her finger-tips centring her, keeping the weaving spell of the melody at bay.
She lifted her hands from the railing and closed her eyes, waiting.
The music flooded back into her brain, a rushing current, eddying, swirling into a vortex. A whirlpool.
Orial gasped. The notes spun faster, faster, dragging her towards the black chasm at the centre of the spinning vortex. Whirled giddily around, she felt her knees buckling, she was falling, falling –
She opened her eyes. She was leaning out over the railing, dangerously far over the placid riverwaters below.
‘What is happening to me?’ she whispered.
A cheerful whistling cut across the insistent river-music, a drinking catch, robust and simple. The drinking catch argued with the river-music in Orial’s mind. She tried to concentrate on the catch, on its bright major intervals, thirds, clean, clear fifths, sixths…
‘Are you all right, demselle?’ The park-keeper was coming along the path towards her; the last sunlight burnished the brass buttons on his uniform.
‘A – little – dizzy –’ Orial whispered. Keep whistling. Please keep whistling.
‘You could have fallen in the river!’ He caught hold of her, prising her fingers from the railings.
Normally she would have shrunk from such intimate contact with a stranger. But now she sank thankfully against his broad shoulder, utterly spent. He smelt strongly of pipe tobacco, his breath warm, tainted with the stale smoke. A real smell. A comforting smell.
‘Shall I call you a barouche, demselle? Have you far to go?’
‘Dr Magelonne’s Sanatorium,’ she said faintly.
‘Let’s sit you on this bench to recover.’
Shadows were lengthening, birds were fluttering in the ornamental cherry branches overhead, settling to roost. Underfoot the dewy grass was white with cherry and crab apple blossom. She stared at the fallen blossom. Spring was passing. It would soon be the Day of the Dead.
‘Dr Magelonne?’
Jerame looked up from his notes.
A woman stood on the threshold.
He got up, frowning slightly. It was not yet time for his first patient of the morning.
‘You have me at a disadvantage.’
‘Fiammis, Contesse of Tal’mont.’ She held out one gloved hand. ‘I have no appointment.’ It was a statement, not an apology. A trace of a foreign accent subtly coloured her speech.
‘How can I help you?’
She sat opposite him, placing the frilled parasol she was carrying across her lap.
‘We will not be disturbed?’
Mesmerised, he shook his head.
‘You have a daughter, Dr Magelonne?’
‘Orial.’ Jerame felt a slight unease; he had been expecting the Contesse to make discreet enquiries about the treatments he had to offer. Wealthy women frequently came to the Sanatorium hoping for a cure for infertility or the removal of some unsightly skin blemish. Over the centuries, the Sulien waters had gained a miraculous reputation.
‘I don’t like to interfere in your personal affairs, Doctor, but are you aware that she has been regularly visiting Amaru Khassian?’
‘Amaru Khassian?’ At first he was too astonished by the information to wonder why she had taken it upon herself to impart it to him.
‘I see that you were unaware of this.’
Orial had deliberately disobeyed him! She must have been taking music lessons with the composer – and in doing so, had unknowingly exposed herself to the very danger from which he had sought to shield her. Dear Goddess, what damage might she have unwittingly inflicted upon herself?
He made an effort to collect his thoughts.
‘Why have you come here to tell me this?’
‘Because I believe Khassian is plotting some kind of insurrection, using Sulien as his base. He is a wanted man, Doctor Magelonne.’
Magelonne blinked, pushing his spectacles higher up the bridge of his nose as if to see the Contesse more clearly. This elegant stranger could have no idea of the reason for his distress; who – save Tartarus and Jolaine – knew of the dangers of the Accidie?
‘Now, wait. How can I be sure you are telling me the truth, Contesse? What precisely have you to gain from telling me? For all you know, my sympathies might already lie with Khassian’s cause. What’s to stop me going to warn him?’
‘Your daughter’s wellbeing.’
He gazed at her in disbelief. She was still smiling; a self-composed, calm smile that belied the threat in her words.
‘You’re threatening my daughter?’
‘I am merely informing you of the facts, Doctor.’ She stood up, shaking out the frills of her parasol. ‘Act upon them as you see fit.’
He sat down at his desk again, dumbfounded. His neat writing in the open ledger no longer made any sense as he stared at it, through it.
Orial – visiting Amaru Khassian? Was Khassian the secret suitor who had brought such a becoming flush to her cheeks, who had caused her to lie and dissemble?
No. He slammed the ledger shut. It must be a mistake. She was helping Jolaine Tradescar – she had told him so.
He grabbed his hat and cane and made for the door; outside he almost bumped into Sister Crespine who, starched and immaculate as ever, was bustling down the corridor.
‘Where are you going, Doctor? You’ve a patient at nine-thirty –’
The nine-thirty patient would have to wait.
Pigeons fluttered out of the way as Jerame crossed the Guildhall Square at a brisk pace and climbed the steps leading to the Museum two at a time.
A sign on the door proclaimed the Museum closed for renovations. He ignored it and tried the handle, rattling it loudly. Locked, of course. What had Orial told him? Jolaine Tradescar had made some kind of discovery in the Undercity and was jealously guarding it from other scholars.
He walked around the side of the building, along a narrow alleyway where the walls of the Museum were stained with green streaks of damp. He peered in through the windows which were filmed with a thin layer of grime – but the blinds were pulled down.
He went round to the back where he remembered Jolaine had a rickety privy housed in a shed. The alleyway was darkest here, noisome, with a slime of dead leaves underfoot. Jerame gave a grount of disgust; the old scholar, obsessed with her studies, had neglected the upkeep of the building. He did not like to think that Orial had been working in this dirty, insanitary environment.
The side door was also locked; he rapped on the glass pane which was clouded in cobwebs.
‘Jolaine! Jolaine!’
‘Who’s there?’ a voice demanded querulously.
‘It’s me – Jerame Magelonne.’
‘I’m in perfect health, Doctor. And I’m busy.’
‘I need to talk to you.’
‘This really is most inconvenient.’
‘Five minutes of your time, that’s all.’
There was a pause. Then Jerame heard a key turn in the lock and Jolaine Tradescar’s face appeared, wispy wig awry, staring at him suspiciously.
‘Well?’
‘Is Orial with you?’
‘Not strictly speaking “with me” at this precise moment in time.’
‘Let me in, Jolaine.’
The Museum office was still in a state of disorder. Stale fragments of half-finished rolls littered the tables alongside chipped mugs with puddles of cold qaffë inside.
‘How can you live like this!’
‘At my age, one lives as one pleases,’ she said.
‘And have you been following the regime I prescribed for you?’
Jolaine gave a little shrug.
‘Orial told me she had been coming here to help you. Is that true?’
‘She has been helping me, yes.’ Jolaine shook the crumbs off an open ledger, affording Jerame a glimpse of line upon line of meticulous drawings.
‘Was she here yesterday afternoon? And the day before?’
‘The day before yesterday?’ Jolaine took off her pince-nez, polished the lenses on her skirt and put them on again. ‘I seem to lose track of the time…’
Jerame was not convinced by her performance. ‘If you’ve been conniving with her to deceive me –’
‘To deceive you?’
‘Don’t deny it. She’s been lying to me and you’ve been shielding her. Turning her against her own father.’
‘Sit down, Jerame.’ Jolaine’s manner was no longer that of the eccentric scholar; her voice was stern, even commanding. Surprised, he sat down.
‘If I didn’t know you as well as I do, I would take exception to your tone of voice. Bursting in here, making all manner of wild accusations! But as it’s concern for your daughter that’s made you forget your manners, I’ll forgive you. If you hear me out.’
‘Now wait a –’
‘Did you think you could keep her from the music forever? It is as necessary to her as food and drink.’
‘But the Accidie,’ Jerame said in a whisper. ‘You know it will kill her, as surely as it killed Iridial. First the radiance – then the confusion. Madness. Death.’
‘You must listen to me, Jerame. The madness is not what it seems. The death – may not be death as we understand it. She is Lifhendil. Ach, if you would only read what I have been transcribing –’
‘I haven’t time. I have to find her. And I have a good idea where she is.’ Jerame seized his hat and gloves and made to stand up.
‘I have not finished,’ Dame Tradescar said in a voice of iron. Jerame hesitated… then put the gloves down again. ‘Well?’ he said brusquely.
‘To the city-builders, children gifted as Orial now is were special. When the “madness” came, it was regarded as a divine sign. Unchecked, it precipitated the sufferer into a trance-like state where all outward life-signs ceased.’
‘No.’ Jerame slowly shook his head in denial. ‘Not… possible.’
‘Read what I have written. It is all based on accounts left by the Lifhendil themselves,’ Jolaine pushed the open book around so that Jerame could read for himself.
A NEW PERSPECTIVE ON THE ACCIDIE
The one possessed could choose either to leave her family and become immortal as one of the Winged Ones, Eä-Endil – or to forego her chance of immortality and bear children who might themselves become Endil. The madness could only be lifted by the ministrations of the Winged Ones who –
At this point Jolaine’s writing trailed away.
Jerame stared at the translation in disbelief. If this were true, then Iridial…
‘Winged Ones? Immortals?’ All the solitary years of study had finally turned the old woman’s brain. ‘This is mythology! Moonshine!’ He brought down his clenched first upon the open book. ‘I know only medical certainties. When the heart stops pumping, then the blood supply to the brain ceases and death ensues. Her heart had stopped. She was dead when we dragged her from the Avenne.’
‘Had you never stopped to ask yourself if there might not be a grain of truth in the old legends? That if you stripped away the veneer of centuries, there might be an underlying constant beneath the distortions and elaborations? That there might be an ancient wisdom we could use to preserve Orial?’
‘Then why is modern medical science ignorant of it? I consulted the greatest authorities in Tourmalise over Ir— Ir—.’ He could not bring himself to say her name out loud.
‘That was because the answer was here in Sulien. And maybe Iridial was trying to tell us so – but we did not understand her.’
‘There is no proof!’ cried Jerame. ‘And all the while we waste time arguing over maybe and what-might-have, Orial is with Amaru Khassian. And every moment she spends with him is shortening her life, hastening the onset of the Accidie.’
Sun-glints on green water…
Orial had set out to walk to the Crescent. But now she found herself walking once more beside the Avenne.
What am I doing here? I should be with the Illustre. He’ll be displeased if I’m late again.
She had hardly slept all night for the music in her head. She had covered sheets of paper, trying to notate the different melodies, trying to disentangle the knotted threads. Now she was so tired that the bright flowerbeds of the River Gardens had all merged into a blur.
She stopped beside a willow and sat on the grassy riverbank to take off her spectacles and rest her sore eyes. The soft plashing of the water, the breath of the breeze through the willow leaves, wove a thread of green melody, pulsing spring sap, into her mind.
Riversong, lulling her to sleep…
If she closed her eyes a moment…
Sleep…
A bright burst of sound awoke her. The band had begun to tune up in the River Gardens and the cacophony as they endeavoured to reach the same pitch pierced like a white-hot blade through her spinning thoughts.
If the band was tuning up, it must already be three in the afternoon. And she should have been with Khassian by three.
Must go to the Crescent… must…
Slowly, exhaustedly, she forced herself up the grassy bank. So tired… she was so very tired…
Khassian, standing at his usual vantage point at the window, saw Orial meandering along the sunny Crescent. What was the matter with the girl? Why was she so late? He was impatient to get started, his mind bursting with fresh ideas.
Two men in uniform appeared, walking briskly along the Crescent; they passed Orial and came up the path to knock at Mistress Permay’s door. Their dark blue jackets and crimson-trimmed tricorne hats proclaimed them members of the Sulien Constabulory. Khassian leaned closer to the glass, trying to hear what they were saying.
‘I keep a respectable house, Officer, as well you know,’ Mistress Permay was protesting.
Khassian moved hastily away from the window.
‘Cramoisy!’ he shouted, crossing the salon. ‘Cramoisy!’
He heard the tread of the constables’ boots on the stairs – and then Mistress Permay’s sharp rap on the door. Cramoisy emerged from his room in déshabillé, his hair undressed. Before he opened the door, he shot Khassian a quick, questioning look.
“These two gentlemen want to have words with you.’ Mistress Permay’s voice was querulous; her eyes darted suspiciously from Cramoisy to Khassian and back again. The unspoken message was blatant: ‘Any trouble with the law and you’re both out in the street.’
‘Sulien Constabulary,’ the first of the constables said, tipping his tricorne hat to the Diva. ‘If we might step in a moment?’
Orial appeared on the landing behind the constables, her white face floating like a ghost in the gloom. Khassian irritably beckoned her inside and pointed towards the music room.
‘Practise on the epinette,’ he ordered. ‘I won’t be long.’
Cramoisy smartly shut the outer door in Mistress Permay’s face.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ the constable said, ‘but we’ve been asked to check the papers of all foreign visitors in Sulien. A formality, you understand.’
Papers. By Mhir’s blood, they still had no official papers! Khassian felt his heart begin to drum a desperate tattoo.
‘Do sit down,’ Cramoisy said, ushering them into the salon.
“This will only take a minute,’ the officer replied. Neither sat down and the silent one took out a notebook, licked a stub of pencil and began to take notes.
‘If you know my name then you will also know that I am intimately acquainted with His Worship the Mayor,’ Cramoisy said with one of his most gracious smiles. ‘He will vouch for me – and for my compatriot, the Illustre Khassian.’
The two constables looked at each other; they seemed somewhat discomfited.
‘We are nevertheless required to check your papers, so if you would be so good –’
Cramoisy shot Khassian another glance. He sensed that the castrato was as nervous now as he.
‘We were in a fire,’ Khassian said. ‘Our papers and passports were destroyed, along with all our possessions. I came here to recover from my injuries. No one insisted on seeing our papers then. We can, of course, send to the Allegondan Embassy for new passports… but this might take some time.’
‘So you have no papers,’ the officer said. The other constable was busily scribbling away.
‘Is this a problem?’ Khassian said edgily.
‘My orders are to arrest any illegal immigrants. And without papers –’
‘Take me to the Guildhall!’ Cramoisy cried imperiously. ‘I demand to see the Mayor at once. Let him speak for me and my compatriot. I take it you will not argue with him? ‘
‘Exactly how long have you been in Sulien?’ said the constable.
‘Eight or nine weeks, maybe more. It’s difficult to be precise…’
‘If you had come on a temporary permit, it would have expired after eight weeks. It would have had to be renewed,’ he said sternly.
‘Are you threatening me, officer?’ said Cramoisy, giving him one of his most withering glances.
In reply, he drew an order out of his breast pocket and handed it to Cramoisy.
‘Well, and what is this?’
‘Notice. If you and the gentleman here have not produced the necessary papers within three days, I will be obliged to arrest you and take you to the border where you will be handed into the custody of officials of your own country.’
He gave a little bow and placed his hat back on his head. The other constable snapped his notebook shut, pocketed it and stuck his pencil stub behind his ear.
‘We’ll see ourselves out.’
The instant they had closed the door behind them, Cramoisy threw the order of repatriation on the floor and stamped on it.
‘Who has done this to us? Who has reported us? I’ll wager it’s that cursed Captain Korentan!’
‘Three days,’ Khassian said numbly. ‘Three days.’
‘All’s not lost yet, Amar. The Mayor will grant us a reprieve. And if he won’t – then we’ll have to go underground.’
‘Always hiding, always on the run.’ Khassian’s head was aching; the tension of the interview with the constables had tightened a band around his temples. ‘How long can we keep this up?’
‘As long as we have to,’ the Diva said brightly. ‘Ask yourself – what is the alternative? To go back to Bel’Esstar? To kneel before Girim nel Ghislain and beg forgiveness? To repudiate your works, denounce your friends publicly? To reject everything you have ever valued?’
‘I’m tired, Cram,’ he said.
The Diva drew Khassian’s head towards his shoulder and let it rest there a moment or so. Then he patted his cheek.
‘Orial’s waiting. Get back to work.’
The music flowed from Orial’s fingers in a flood that she could no longer control, it possessed her whole being utterly.
Rivermusic.
She was a channel through which the music poured in a torrent, unchecked. But where all had been golden glints on green water, now a chill darkness slowly shadowed the notes until the onward rush had become an underworld river moving through a still, sad landscape…
Distant voices whisper over the black water, calling her name…
‘No…’ she whispers back.
‘Orial…’
She can see them now, waiting on the far shore, a host of pale spirit-shades, calling to her.
The voices of the dead…
The notes of the epinette floated into the salon, the melody eldritch, haunting, the underlying harmonies subtle and sad.
It was a warm day. Yet Khassian sat shivering as the music wove its wanton spell. The notes of his score seemed to shrivel into insignificance on the page before his eyes. Even this, his most inspired, his most complex, work lacked that unique quality of spontaneity.
‘Orial!’ he shouted. ‘Orial!‘
She appeared in the doorway, pale-faced, gold-brown hair escaping its ribbons.
‘Let’s get started.’
‘But, Illustre, I –’ The glittering rainbows were unfocussed, as though half-veiled in distant mists.
‘Now. I want to complete the aria today.’
One slender hand rose tremblingly to touch her forehead as though it ached.
‘My own music. I can’t –’
‘Your composition?’ Khassian’s temper flared. ‘You dare to put your inconsequential ramblings before my work?’
‘You don’t understand.’ A stifled sob escaped from behind the hand that had risen to cover her mouth. The other fumbled for the pen, dipping it into the ink.
‘Listen to the first phrase.’
He saw her hand begin to move over the sheet. The first flight of string fanfares, as he had thought them to her, note for note. Then the pen faltered. Another blot.
‘Again,’ she whispered.
He re-rehearsed the opening bars and watched, frowning. Her hand seemed to be arguing with itself. Notes appeared – were scratched out – reappeared again. The clean sheet was criss-crossed and cross-hatched with a fretwork of fine lines. She was transcribing nonsense.
‘Orial!’
‘One more time…’ There was a soft pleading tone to her voice which might have mollified him, had he not been so aware of the pressure he was under to complete the work.
She suddenly flung down the pen. Ink seeped all over the manuscript. When he looked at her, her hands were clutched to her head, fingers slowly clawing her pale cheeks.
‘I – I – can’t. Your music – my music – all jumbled –’
A thunderous knocking at the front door drowned her words.
‘Where is my daughter? I demand to see my daughter!’
Mistress Permay’s cry of protest went unheeded as someone came running up the stairs.
‘Orial! Orial!’ Dr Magelonne flung open the doors. ‘What have you done to her? What have you done to my child?’
Bewildered, Khassian turned back to Orial.
‘Orial. Oh, no, no…’
Where her nails had dragged down her cheeks, crimson scoremarks had appeared.
It looked as if she was weeping blood.