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CONTINUED
“IT IS SAID THAT SOMEWHERE BEYOND THE blasted, stone-struck fields of Ajanabh, there is a clear mountain pool with the most extraordinary figure crouched over it: a terrifying stone serpent covered in stone feathers, with a miter on his head and tears in his eyes, staring into the water like a mirror. What you see at the foot of the stage is our memorial to the greatest voice ever to grace the Opera Ghetto: Ulissa, who was Duchess twice over, sweet Ulissa, dead for the lack of a dress!”
Arioso finished with a flourish, and bowed deeply.
“You know that isn’t what happened.” Agrafena rolled her eyes.
“Who is to say it isn’t?” the jackal-headed tenor said indignantly.
“I am! No Basilisk could have blighted every field, yet every field perished.”
“Ah! But the root systems, Fena dear, the roots! The stone would have spread, even if you could never see it in the withering leaves. And no city garden was touched. Only the wide and ox-tilled fields.” He crossed his arms over his chest in satisfaction, and turned to me. “When Orfea discovered what had happened—for of course, Ulissa had been caught in his gaze, and mistaken for her friend! Ah, without tragic mistakes of identity, where would the theater be?—she went mad with grief for both of them, and for her city which was blasted and broken. And perhaps, just perhaps, the mad Duchess wanders the city to this day, mourning by the riverside! Is it not a marvelous tale?”
I agreed that it certainly was.
“If you are finished, we must go, Arioso,” the violinist insisted.
“Yes, yes, to the roost and the river with you—you are taking her by the river way, aren’t you? It is the best and loveliest route. But promise you’ll come back and play for the Duchesses this year. Swear it! No one can play the Basilisk’s Dirge like you! And bring your audience with you—she is a pearl among empty seats!”
Arioso kissed both of us noisily on our cheeks, though his kiss went straight through my smoke, and returned to the stage, where the beautiful sea set was being struck, and a forest raised in its place, with leaves all of ladies’ cast-off spring veils.
Agrafena did indeed take me by the riverside, the Vareni, which flowed through the corners of the city, cutting deep into the layered streets, as though Ajanabh had always been there, and the river, a latecomer, had had to make do with grinding down avenues and boulevards instead of hills and mountains. The thoroughfares arched out over the water like battered cliffs, their undersides curving sharply away from the current. Leering lanes had long ago crumbled into little red deltas, where ramshackle fishing huts and lock-houses had been built onto the ruins of what might have once been a grocer’s alley.
The water of the Vareni, which rushed and burbled, was of every conceivable color. In Kash, everything is more or less fire-colored: red and golden and black and white and the occasional blue. But here was crashing, waving water in rose and emerald and cobalt, stark yellow and depthless black, white and scarlet and orange, indigo and silver, gold, and flashing, peaking turquoise. Even in the inky, starless night, the colors gleamed. The whole thing whirled by, eddying and swirling, sending up a rainbow of spray against the docks and finger piers which jutted out into the water, for the Vareni was a warm, swift-flowing river, treacherous and deep.
Agrafena watched it go by for a moment, and chuckled at my astonished stare.
“Up northside”—she pointed—“is the Dressmaker’s Parish. For centuries upon centuries, they ran their cloth through the headwaters of the Vareni, the final wash of the dye. All those colors leeched into the water, and even though there is but one lonely spider there now, weaving her ball gowns still, the colors are fast, and the Vareni is bright.”
She led me down to the waterside, to a tall and spindly bell tower which had no bell, though several suspect shards of bronze lay shattered around its base. A warm light seemed to flicker inside, but I could not be sure. Water like blood licked the stairs.
“This is where I leave you,” Agrafena said, drawing out one side of her long hair and playing a few slow, jagged notes. “When you will, find me in my courtyard again, and I will take you back to Simeon’s hands.”
She walked away, her red dress swaying, and her feet kicked a few swift, dancing steps as she disappeared behind a thin little chapel with a kicked-in door. I turned to the bell tower, the roost, I supposed, and sucked in my breath. The Vareni smelled like fish and linen. The door was no more than a gaping arch, and I ducked inside, drifting up the long, curving stairs, my smoke behind me like a shadow.
In the upper rooms, by the light of my own flames, I could see a great ivory cage, burned black by the blazing tail of a Firebird, who lay sleeping within, his wings folded gently over the dozing form of a young girl, whose toes stretched and curled lazily as she dreamed. The ceiling spun away overhead, into the broken bell hook and beyond, and the night poured in.
THE TALE OF
THE WASTE,
CONTINUED
THE VEILED WOMAN PUT HER HAND ON THE leopard’s head, and the great cat arched her neck to meet the peeling palm, purring as her ears were thoroughly scratched.
“She does not sicken you?” the Djinn asked.
“She does not repulse me, no. She is mine. The leash goes both ways. And her hand can do little to me by now that is not already done.”
Surprisingly dexterous, Rend pulled a little pack with her soft, spotted mouth from her mistress’s voluminous black robes and opened the flap, gently drawing a water flask from its depths and a few strips of dried meat and crusted bread. Curling her lips away from the food so as not to moisten it, she pushed it into the cage, where Scald chewed it gratefully. She refused the water, however.
“That I do not need. They mean for me to starve here, not die of thirst. We do not thirst. What fire longs to be quenched? Either way, it will not be long.”
The leopard shrugged her spotted shoulders. The evening was deeper now, and the scent of weeds and mouse bones was thick on the wind.
“We find it interesting that you speak of Ajanabh, for that was the home of my lady, before she was stricken. She knows little of what has passed there since she left the red towers for the black spires of Urim. Did you betray your people? Did you do something to keep them from the carnelian box?” Rend asked, her whiskers twitching.
The Djinn-Queen frowned, her orange-lined eyes narrow and angry. Then she laughed, harsh and hoarse, golden tears showing at the corners of her eyes, where the fire made filigree patterns, as she shook her head. “That silly box. If only they had told me what was in it. But then, I suppose generals are always foolish, no matter how dazzling the host they command. But I would not call anything I did betrayal, no more than it was betrayal to tell no Djinn but the highest about Kashkash’s true nature, or to keep a Queen ignorant of her own war.”
