A Knight at the Opera pt1

The personal diary of Sorashi, daughter of Deirdre, pt 5

I wake from a dream, in which Julian and Flora are throwing dresses at me whilst telling me there must be something which suits me and I am being deliberately obstructive, whilst Dirk holds up necklaces made of daggers for me to choose.

No doubt some may see this as illuminating – at some level I still seek Mother’s approval even though it always was a fruitless quest. But I rise, wash and dress ready for breakfast.

The problem of Alhambra and its guardian Chimera weighs upon my mind, and I find it hard to focus. I wonder if a quick shuffle of the cards could provide some guidance.

Interesting spread – at times like these, I wish I was more skilled at card reading.

The indicator is the tower, aspirator is the Fool (appropriate), the past is Death – almost unnervingly literal in this instance. The very interesting thing is the hidden influence – the Priestess, offering strength and hope, a wise and inspired woman acting in my favour; could this be Lhasa? She has been more than kind to me and I admit I feel a great deal of fondness for her. If this is true, then the dragonfly of luck seems to have alighted on my shoulder.

The Ace of Coins is the culminator – but I have to succeed first, and the next card reinforces this. The Hanged Man – upright, a change of circumstances, reversed, inability to adapt, over reliance on the concrete.

Something to do with shapeshifting? Well, all I need then is to get extremely good at shapeshifting in a very short time. Only an impossible task.

I suppose I can only fail, and then it will become someone else’s problem and I travel the Wheel to my next life.

Having had my fill of self–pity, I make breakfast and join Lhasa. She looks tired and old, and repeats her intention to move on. It is a sad thing to be alone, and I do not blame her, though she rouses herself enough to tell me that she has arranged my next hosts – she hopes they will be suitable but feels I will be comfortable there. They should be here shortly.

What arrives first is my winnings from the race – a pair of earrings in the shape of dragonflies, the wings fashioned from some iridescent blue–green shell. A nudge from the Wheel or just a pretty bauble? The jewellery comes with an equally pretty note from Lord Torc hoping they will ‘enhance my beauty’.

And yet, in addition to the expected flowery flattery, a few things begin to emerge as I re–read the note in order to write this record. Firstly, he uses my military title, then in the body of the note hopes they will be ‘a comfort in times of trouble’ and goes on to backhandedly warn me that faery gifts can be more than they appear.

So not just a pretty bauble, then. But I put them on – it seems insulting to spurn his token out of fear of the unknown.

And then another knock on the door, which Lhasa herself insists on answering. She returns slowly with a handsome man who in bearing and clothing looks like a warrior caste Naya. He introduces himself as Mirza Rama of House Indra and asks if I will accompany him to Cloud 9, the abode of his House. I take my leave of Lhasa for almost the last time – apparently I am to visit House Indra and see if it suits me, then come back for my belongings if it does – I doubt that she would knowingly inflict a House Spectral upon me and unless it is as bad as Constance’s experience I am determined to make the best of it.

And so we go by roundabout route to make up for my limitations. In the course of our journey, Mirza Rama reveals his demon form – interestingly, not unlike the temple wall paintings of demons – taller than the Barimen form by about half a span, with metallic black skin, blue tongue, golden hair , teeth like a birina and four arms. I do not find it frightening at all – strangely, it feels comforting, an echo of a home I have left a long time ago. Although I cannot say with certainty, I feel that my lack of any negative reaction stands in my favour.

We travel on to a rajanai palace, all white stone, columns and fretwork, floating on a light blue cloud. We sweep through huge opulent rooms where demons obeise themselves into an even larger reception room. Sitting under a silk canopy, on a throne made of peacock feathers is Mirza Rama’s father, the Chaos Lord Zamindar Krishna, venerable in age but without any apparent infirmities of that state, he is alert and welcoming to this unimportant scion of the Amber family. I sit on velvet cushions and we talk of the battle, and of the House itself – its strength lies in storm magics and war. I hope my response to their losses was suitably diplomatic, though I could see no obvious offence taken.

At the conclusion of my audience, I am taken to my luxurious quarters and introduced to my servant, Mahabali, a short humanoid with blue skin and eyes of fire. Upon the large bed are laid out garments in my size, in suitable colours and, upon enquiry, I find that I have my own bathing room – the bath, sunken into the floor, has dozens of taps whose purpose I will have to ascertain to ensure I do not pour acid or lava upon me. Fortunately, warm water is one of the options, as Mahabali demonstrates.

There is a flicker of indecision as I try to decide whether it would seem rude to dismiss ‘him’ but he withdraws and leaves me to my bath and subsequent dressing in privacy.

When I am again suitably attired, I am informed that Lord Mandor has requested the presence of all Amber cousins at Woodstock, so off I go. Is it odd that the paths seem rather humdrum now?

I arrive neither early nor late, Havelock and Constance are there and, as the others arrive, Lord Mandor offers to give me advice on Alhambra, as other parties are interested in this tasty morsel I have been gifted. What advice that would be is subsumed by the arrival of Margrath and his news of Delwin’s death. Not entirely unexpected but sad nonetheless. However, it is the message which Margrath bears which is more ominous.

According to Delwin, what is coming is far worse than our tussle in the Duomo. Also that we must neither let our prejudices block our path nor try to change the past. Before the Duomo, I would say that was a metaphorical warning but in this Court, it seems it is not.

Funeral arrangements are paradoxically bound by rigid rules of precedence. Delwin (and the others who died) cannot be honoured in death (I think they are buried in Amberite custom; I would rather be burned on a pyre, it seems somehow cleaner) until the most senior has been dealt with. This means that until Oberon is honoured, all other dead are in waiting.

And of course, once Oberon passes, the precedence of funeral arrangements will be one of our least pressing worries. But a toast to the fallen is the least we can do at the moment.

Lord Mandor’s summons was not to discuss deaths, however – it seems that the rigidity of the Court is circumvented somewhat by Orders of Knighthood, a less formal set of organisations in which different Houses can mix and exchange ideas. We are offered admissions to these intriguing groups, but I note no descriptions – the clues are in the titles, apparently.

As they may be important, I have made a note:

The Superannuated and Disingenuous Order of the Invidious Blade (chosen by Dirk, Must have been the knife reference)

The Interminably Lachrymal Order of the Deniable Moth (Constance; to be fair, I think it was the only one left when she chose)

The Seasoned and Crapulous Order of the Undulating Thing (Me. Apparently, crapulous means ‘fond of food’. Just hope it doesn’t involve eating worms and other such things)

The Middle Aged and Lackadaisical order of the Brash Extremity (Darig. Mandor’s order as well, seemingly a sort of symposium for advancing hypothetical theories)

The Mature and Interesting Order of the Loquacious Nettle (Margrath. Didn’t see him as the talkative type, and I’m not sure what a nettle is)

The Illustrative and Ingenuous Order of The Inconscient Brush (Havelock – no great surprise)

The New and Innovative Order of the Lugubrious Vendetta (William. Not entirely uncharacteristic)

William asks about any potential divided loyalties – the reply seems to imply we will have to work that one out for ourselves, as the Orders are very secretive about their processes and initiation rites so very little could be imparted. Apparently.

We are also invited to watch Zae’s ascension to Chaos Lady – or to her death, it is apparently a challenging rite. But probably not too dangerous for the spectators. On the subject of alternatives to our slow and rather frustrating task of gaining support from the Houses (with its one step–forward–two–back progress, linked with the problematic external political landscape of the Courts), Havelock suggests holding a ball to speed the process up, which leads to the suggestion of Alhambra as the place to hold it, leading itself to the problem of how to repair and maintain it. It is beyond my capabilities and of every other cousin except possibly Margrath. It requires conjuration – this last helpfully volunteered by Mandor.

As the conversation draws to a close, we begin to take our leave but are interrupted by the arrival of Lord Hector, shifting quickly into Barimen form as he enters. He seems perturbed, almost apologetic, as he announces that Swayvill has ordered an opera for our ‘entertainment’. Mandor’s reaction is unexpected – he seems actively distasteful of the enterprise, but deigns to explain to us that this opera is a form of play in which the lines are sung rather than spoken (he didn’t say if dancing was included) and invariably violent; the actors are taken from Shadow and if the character dies, so do they. And the action is not confined to the story-floor itself, often spilling over into the spectators.

Finally, the spectators are not permitted to leave for any reason until the opera is finished. We are warned to take plenty of food and drink as spectators have died of starvation before.

Theatre as assassination tool – a unique twist.

The piece is called ‘The Resistible Rise of Magnus Matricide’ – apparently not an established story.

It is an odd occurrence when a piece of entertainment seems more ominous than a full-on armed skirmish.

As we leave, Constance asks me to check whether the demons are included in the ownership of the Alhambra. Which reminds me – I never did get that advice from Mandor.

It seems, after discussion, the most logical thing to do is go and scout out the House of Opera, which has only recently always been there (my brain itches again). Whilst en route, we talk. From somewhere, Havelock has acquired a list of Houses and Lords of Chaos – but from the future, apparently. I cannot recall where he received it from, if he ever imparted that information to us, but House Minobee has 2 Chaos Lords in this list. I point out that reliance on it may be a mistake – as Lhasa has told me she does not wish to divide, the list may be from a future not the future (as a guru once said, the future is written on fast–flowing water) but my words are not gratefully received. Havelock looks at me as though I am being childishly unhelpful, and the conversation changes to our way out of the Courts – inevitably returning to Mandor’s plan. William mentions a conversation with Benedict in which Benedict expressed his reluctance to order Darig to carry out the assassination (I can see why, it seems too reliant on luck and the goodwill of a Chaos Lord) but the way William tells it makes me wonder if he took part in this or merely overheard. Unimportant in the end, really.

William seems subdued, not his usual overconfident self. Not sure why – impending nuptials, perhaps?

But the conversation circles pointlessly, retreading old ground to no purpose and I feel obliged to point this out – I am faintly surprised but reassured when William agrees.

And thus we approach the Opera House – a strange building with oval walls in a grey–blue hue. There is a door, which opens easily to admit us. Inside is a wide-ish corridor which seems to go round the internal perimeter, and a corridor which leads down – following it, it leads to an oval wooden stage, slightly raised up from the floor and surrounded by an empty area bare of seats. If I were back home, I would assume that this is where the lower castes would sit or stand. Being here, I would say the area was reserved for demons.

Around the demon area, tiers of seats are arrayed like frozen ripples from the stage – the nearest being uncomfortably unprotected from the play’s action, bearing in mind Mandor’s warning about audience participation. And lastly, above the seats are set enclosed balconies, called ‘boxes’, for the Chaos Lords – 13 in number. In order to investigate, we split up – William and Constance have the stage area, Havelock and Darig the seating area and Dirk, Margrath and I the perimeter corridor.

It is not intrinsically exciting – the corridor has stairways attaching to it labelled with House names – to the boxes, I confirm. There are other smaller corridors, labelled with lesser House names, down to the tiered seating. And then comes an unpleasant and uncharacteristic smell, of sulphur mixed with unwashed physical dirt – faint but intrusive. Even the others can smell it, but not as well as me, and it seems to be getting stronger. As we continue, I take the decision to improve my senses – Dirk is not a problem, but how will Margrath react? I can faintly hear something moving ahead and we need my enhanced senses. Nodding briefly to Dirk, I turn to Margrath, smile apologetically and say ‘Sorry about this, Margrath’.

And my senses expand – I can feel the tug of the other soul, wanting to fully embrace its nature, but I must hold back – time, again, does not allow. The smell does not become more pleasant, unfortunately, but I can differentiate stale sweat, dust and mildew within it. I can, however, tell much more accurately how far it is ahead of us – not far from the bend of the corridor. I relay this to the others – Margrath seems a little shaken, Dirk seems unruffled – and we hug the side to give us as much cover as possible, and when we have to break cover, just past House Amblerash’s box, I find myself ahead of the others so stick to the wall to try and give Dirk a clear view of our quarry. His knife hits what seems to be a demon, misshapen with eyes mismatched not only in colour but position – eyes wide with shock at the three of us bearing down on it.

As I tackle him, the smell makes my nostrils sting. His attempt to throw me off, however, is a mistake, as I instinctively hook my claws in to keep my balance – the pain seems to dissuade him from trying that again.

Embarrassingly, it turns out our potential threat is the caretaker, a demon named Hugo. As his black ichor drips slowly onto the floor, he tells us of the Ghost in Black who haunts this place, a spirit who is waiting to waylay our friends near the stage. He warns us that the ghost is very dangerous – at least, that is what he told Hugo.

Throughout this, I feel I ought to apologise for attacking the demon, who was merely performing his duties when three insane Amberites went for him. And yet, I am not sure if it the right thing to do – he seems resigned to taking whatever fate places in his path, and physical attack would appear to be nothing out of the ordinary. Would he be offended by my guilt, or see it as weakness or just not understand why I felt bad about it? Dirk makes no move to apologise, and as Hugo goes through a previously hidden door, any opportunity is lost.

I still feel awkward and guilty about it, though. But I need to wash my hands – having shifted back, my fingernails are disgusting – fortunately the washroom is not far away.

And then on to the next uncomfortable task – explaining to Margrath why I suddenly went fanged and furred. He at least does not panic or try to attack me – there are stories of those like me in his shadow with physical links to totem animals, but they are seen as dangerous, uncontrolled in their animal state, wishing only to kill and destroy – he mentions something about the moon as well, but I’m not sure of the correlation. I do my best to assure him I am not some psychotic killing machine (in either form) and my other form is under my control in both changing and behaviour. He seems to accept this – how much he actually does remains to be seen but he does not attack me immediately.

I do not go into details of how the tiger and I are both always part of each other, in whichever form I am. I am unsure if I could even articulate it, let alone convince a one-souled of this state of being, but I cannot even remember clearly a time when this was not the case – she and I are both the same entity now.

Dirk is of course listening to this – I hope he relays my words to Caine, and they are at least given some weight. But I suppose if I were an uncontrolled killing machine I would make the same argument. Well, I suppose I will have to have that little chat with the cousins sooner than I had imagined – not exactly looking forward to it, though.

We pass Hugo on our way to the stage, carrying a mop and bucket – to his credit, he doesn’t cringe much and I notice that the puncture wounds from my claws are now merely marks, and he politely points the way to the stage. Coward that I am, I still do not apologise to him.

It seems that whilst we were attacking the staff, Constance and William had been chatting to Brand, now in the form of a shadowy spirit with a glow on his chest where a certain jewel once was. Typically enough, he wanted something but wouldn’t reveal his plans, and there is much discussion and guessing about what he is, and wants, and intends to do as we exit. But Mahabali hurries me away back to Stronghold for an urgent appointment.

As I enter the main room, Lharsa is absent but Mirza Rama and Duchess Bellissa are there – they rise and show respect which I return, hopefully appropriately. As we sit, Lharsa enters looking haggard yet determined. She first asks after my new housing, which I assure her is more than suitable and I am sure I will be comfortable and happy there. She smiles, then reminds me of my promise, and says she has decided to divide. I am instructed to choose one of the offspring, name it and commit to raise it – I assent, obviously, I have given my word and Lhasa has more than fulfilled her duties as a host.

When Bellissa says her goodbyes, I am struck by how much it seems like a daughter bidding goodbye to her mother (an unsubtle nudge from the Wheel?) rather than sisters parting. Lharsa walks slowly through a set of double doors, closing them after her. Shortly after, a long, low groan starts, rising to a shriek of pain – apparently dividing has its labour pains, too. Bellissa flinches slightly, but neither of the other two show any other emotion.

The shriek dies away after a while, and I hear 2 voices, coupled with a faint rustling, before the doors open to reveal two children – one male, one female – dressed in blue clothes with a large square collar edged with blue. They seemed half–grown already, which removed the problems of breastfeeding and toilet training (I hope!) and so I approach the girl, who regards me with intelligent interest, cocking her head slightly as though waiting for something. Of course – I need to name her.

I smile and say ‘I name you Tajal – it means jewel’. The child nods assent and asks ‘Are you my mummy?’ I say yes, and she asks another question ‘Are we going to Amber?’

I have never been an adherent of lying to children, but at the same time one must tailor responses to the child’s ability to understand. I do not attempt to explain the problems we face in doing so, but the thrust of her question can only be answered ‘Yes’. At which she turns to her twin, and says, with a degree of satisfaction ‘See? I told you!’

And thus begins my life as a mother. Bellissa crosses to the boy – I do not hear what name she gives him and we depart for our respective dwellings with our new charges.

Despite the problems we face, and challenges I must face in raising a child of Chaos, there is something rather pleasing about the hand of a trusting small child in yours.