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The following week, the thesps declare themselves ready for action, and we trek through a series of boreholes that eventually lead us to a hill overlooking the city of Cornan.
It takes a while to cross, because there are so many of us, and we have to get the caravans through one at a time. Inez is worried that the borehole might be guarded, so she hangs back — if necessary, she, Cal and I will take a detour and find a more isolated entry point.
To our relief, there are no guards, and Cal nips back to tell Inez that the way is clear. While I’m waiting for her, I step up next to Oleg, who’s studying the city through a pair of binoculars. He offers me the binoculars and I thank him.
Cornan is a sprawling jungle set around a group of hills. Huge trees sprout from the ground, and with the aid of the binoculars I can tell that people live in them, as windows and doorways have been carved into the trunks.
There are houses built into the tops of many trees, nestled among the branches. One, the largest and most elaborate, sits atop the tallest, thickest tree, which stands in the centre of the city like a beacon. I guess that’s the palace.
Walkways have been built between trees at various levels, and I spot locals bustling along them. Rope ladders hang from the walkways, for people who want to get on or off along the way.
Vines entwine the city and rise into a blue sky above. The vines twist round the walkways and trees, as well as the hills, and there are people using them as paths. In a few places I even spy small houses or shops built atop especially wide vines.
It’s hard to make out the city floor, but I catch glimpses of buildings, roads, paths and parks, like you’d find in a normal metropolis. There are lots of tents too.
“Why so many tents?” I ask Oleg as I return the binoculars.
“For visitors like us,” he says.
“Aren’t there hotels?”
“Yes, but nowhere near enough to house the crowds that have come for the vote.”
He wanders off and Inez takes his place beside me. It’s a very different Inez, and I still do a double take when I catch sight of her.
One day, while the actors were rehearsing, Maiko took Inez to visit a remoulder. Remoulders are devisers who can change a person’s shape and appearance, by partially melting their skin and bones into a putty-like substance, then restyling it. They can tweak the colour of the hair and eyes too. Inez now has a shock of red, curly hair, thick red eyebrows and loads of freckles. Her skin is a few shades lighter and her eyes are blue. Her nose is wider and flatter, and her ears are a different shape. She’s also swapped her regular clothes for a long white dress and sandals.
Inez catches me staring and tuts. “Stop doing that. The wrong people might notice you noticing me.”
“Sorry,” I say, “but you’re so different.”
“Well, you’d better get used to it, and quickly,” she says. “And don’t forget that my name is...?”
I roll my eyes and mutter, “Mary Fitzpatrick.”
“Very good,” she smiles.
“I’m not dumb. I can remember your fake name.”
“I know,” she says, “but the more you use it, the more naturally it will come to you. It’s easy to call out a person’s real name, for instance if you thought I was about to trip or be hit by something flying through the air.”
“Don’t worry,” I sniff. “I won’t say a word if I see an accident coming.”
Inez punches my arm.
When we’ve all crossed, we wind our way down into Cornan. The city is packed with merry people, trading, pitching tents, performing, eating and drinking, or just strolling around.
“How come everyone’s so happy?” I ask Inez as we traipse along in search of a place to park up.
“It’s a joyous occasion,” she says. “People have come from all over the Merge. Old friends are meeting after maybe decades or centuries apart. There’s so much to see and do. Why wouldn’t they be happy?”
“But the vote of alignment...”
She makes one of her growling noises. “There’s a saying in the Merge — don’t let tomorrow’s sorrows sour today’s pleasures.”
Dermot’s at the head of our small convoy, helping haul the lead caravan along, and he’s becoming increasingly frustrated. He’s been to Cornan several times, and played in different areas, but his favourite spots have all been taken.
“I wish we could have come sooner,” he says to Maiko.
“It will be fine,” she soothes him. “There are crowds everywhere. We’ll draw an audience no matter where we perform.”
“I wish I had your faith,” Dermot sulks. “It won’t surprise me if we end up in a cave, performing to a handful of rats.”
“I thought there were no animals in the Merge,” I whisper to Inez.
“He doesn’t mean those sorts of rats,” Inez says, but before she can explain, a man with a face shaped like a crescent moon steps forward and halts us.
“Thesps?” the man asks officiously.
“Yes,” Dermot says.
“Do you have a company name?”
“No.”
The man tuts. “You actors don’t make it easy for us, do you?”
Before Dermot can reply, the man points down the road. “Take the third left, then the second right. Go over a hill and take the first left at the fourth junction. Follow the road round and you’ll find a patch with the code 173T. That’s your lot.”
“You can’t tell us where to go,” Dermot huffs.
The man with the moon face smiles thinly. “That’s the other thing about actors — you want to make your own rules. Well, you might have noticed that it’s bedlam here, so we’ve introduced strict camping laws.”
“But I don’t want –” Dermot starts to argue.
The moon-faced man blows a whistle and a giant steps out from where he was lurking behind a tree. And I mean a real giant, not just a big man like Cal. He must be five metres tall, with fists like wrecking balls.
“Is there a problem?” the giant growls, and it’s the sound of thunder rolling across the heavens.
“I don’t know,” Moon Face says with fake sweetness. “Do we have a problem?”
Dermot mutters something beneath his breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” Dermot sighs. “We’ll camp in lot 173T.”
“Wonderful,” the man beams. “Would you like the directions again?”
“I can remember,” Dermot says, and pushes past in a huff.
I gawp at the giant and the moon-faced man as I’m passing. The giant is like something out of a fairy tale, and so is the man, whose face is the shape and colour of a perfect crescent moon, even with little craters. He has a tiny nose, and his eyes and lips are a pale white colour.
I glance at the red-haired Inez. “Has he been remoulded like you?”
“Yes,” she says, “but I suspect his is permanent. A remoulder usually tweaks your bones and flesh into a shape that will fade after a few weeks or months, but some can twist your body into a form that will last as long as you live.”
“Is the giant a normal person who’s been remoulded too?” I ask.
“Yes, and that change is definitely permanent,” Inez says. “It takes weeks or months to remould someone to that extent — you have to take it one small step at a time, and I’ve heard it’s very painful. You’ll spot other people with moon faces – it’s a bit of a craze here – but not many giants. They tend to stick to zones which have been devised for them, with oversized houses, doors, chairs and so on.”
“Are they savage, like the giants in stories?” I ask.
“No,” Inez snorts. “They’re the same as the rest of us, just bigger.”
“Couldn’t we hire a giant to sort out Queen Pitina and King Farkas?” I joke.
Inez sighs. “If only life was that simple.”
We press on, following the grumbling Dermot as he leads us towards our camping site.