A Knight at the Opera pt3

The personal diary of Sorashi, daughter of Deirdre, pt 7

I am called to wakefulness – or the dream of wakefulness – by a voice calling my name. A soft voice I do not recognise. At the foot of my bed (as all good storytelling tradition demands) stands a hooded figure, reaching out a gloved hand in the gesture which says 'come with me'. Yet, strangely, there seems no threat from 'him' – an aspect of my dream, perhaps?

'Come, Sorashi', he repeats – the voice is neutral, no hiss or screech, no hollow echoes, just a voice one might use in someone else's bedchamber. An obvious question needs to be asked, so my response is logically 'Who are you?'

This apparition, apparently, is my tutor for the Opera. An Opera I had no idea I was in, nor needed a tutor for and I would wager mudbricks to sapphires House Indra didn't know either. Against this, however, lays the fact he could have attacked or kidnapped me as I slept.

In spite of my Amberite instincts, I go with him through the fireplace to begin my coaching.

We make little sound as we travel – to be precise, I make little sound and he makes none that I can hear. It seems neither of us feels disposed to make smalltalk. The Opera House looks very much as it did the last time I was here, apart from stray Amberite ghosts. Although the stage is lit, the audience area is not – seats and boxes dimly visible in the shadows seem like stage hangings.

I am playing Psychomorpha, Kaiserin of Diptera (the House which William managed to destroy – always nice to be included in family history) and, fortunately, I neither die on stage nor need to sing. And my part is only four lines – little chance to make a mistake, I hope.

As I am coached in the movements, gestures and mannerisms I am to take on, it is obvious that my tutor knew her very well and loved her more. I am not unsure that he did not refer to her as 'Mother to us all', and his voice carried the extent of his loss. I am distracted briefly by the memory of the tidily exploding insect in the Statue Garden, but manage to refocus my attention to hear my tutor say that I was chosen for the role for my actions in recovering Mother from the Abyss, and for fostering Tajal. Rather more ominously, he hopes that my performance will 'bring the House down' – my immediate concern is the Opera House, and I can only hope this is a theatrical phrase with no literal implication meant.

With the evidence of later occurrences, however, I cannot now help but wonder if the House referred to may not be that of our charming ultimate host. I doubt, however, that my performance would have made much difference in that respect.

After what could have been hours or weeks, I find myself in my bed where this narrative began, with not a shadowy hooded figure anywhere. My feet, however, are gritty.

Breakfast seems to continue the theme of making my life interesting – Tajal, in all innocence, being the cause of it. In Mother's hearing, she asks me 'Maman, are we going to Amber today?' I have to answer in the negative, and commiserate with her on yet more Conjuration lessons.

Mother has that look and, out of Tajal's earshot, I am invited to explain myself (it's always a bad start when she refers to me as 'Daughter'). I do so to (I think) her satisfaction – though she grumbles she is 'too young to be a grandmother'. I feel the prospect of taking Tajal to Amber concerns her more – a concern I share, but for different reasons, perhaps. I doubt neither Tajal nor I would wish to spend too long there.

After breakfast, Rama brings our invitations to the Opera – we are both invited to assay the spectacle from House Sawall's box. If Amberites are to be under attack, there are less secure places assuming we do not offend House Sawall. He also wishes to discuss education for Tajal and me – mine is to begin, courtesy of a 'casual' request from House Winter. It seems Amberites are active participants (or pawns) in the game of Chaos politics.

Sometime later, I stand in a large room and wish for Rama's useful little trick of shapeshifting clothing. Fortunately, I am not shy and there is something decidedly asexual in disrobing in front of Rama, rather like undressing in the presence of a tree.

On request, I shift to my other self – a form which finds his approval in its combined offensive and defensive capabilities and then, rather less confidently, the bird form. Speaking is less easy in this form as beaks are not conducive to forming words, so I listen more than I talk. I can glide short distances with a reasonable degree of competence but flight is yet to be mastered – interestingly, flight may prove problematic in our present surroundings.

It seems that the Courts themselves lie in what I understand to be a sort of bubble or carapace within (or on or beside) the Abyss and this 'ceiling' varies in height erratically. Learning to fly may have to wait until we are free of the Courts. Musings on the future, are not what I am here for, as Rama instructs me to combine the two forms.

This quickly shows the limit of my skill – I part-change and try to create wings sprouting from my shoulder-blades but end up with slightly furry wings where my arms are. Not a good look.

Rama assists by means of a psychic link and, after an interval of peculiar sensations, I end up looking like a temple griffin. He seems pleased at this result, I am more concerned with getting used to this new form. The lesson ends there, with Rama advising me to keep practising.

I go and change for tonight's entertainment, say goodbye to Tajal and proceed, with Mother to Woodstock. I am grilled about Mandor and impart what little I know but Mother reacts more strongly at the mention of Dara – although no explanation is forthcoming as to why, merely an attempt to solicit whether Dara would be at the Opera.

Irritatingly, the attempt comprises half a question, cut short with being told I wouldn't possibly know. As it happened, I didn't but there must be less annoying ways to pose the question.

We arrive and are greeted (not warmly, but greeted) by Dara. I introduce Mother as 'Aunt Kali' as she requested – a transparent lie which Dara's narrowed eyes and disbelieving expression show she does not swallow. The untruth is not challenged, however and we are led inside.

Mandor seems to be preparing for a year's siege, abstractedly consulting a long list and offering 'helpful' advice to Darig, who seems to be doing the actual packing. I help by filling waterskins, whilst being cheerfully informed by Mandor that he (Mandor) had been packing for ages. I make politely impressed noises whilst evicting two hand mirrors and a pair of slippers from one of the bags.

Finally, fully provisioned sufficient to carry a medium-sized village through a lengthy famine, we set out for the Opera. The passage seems smoother than before – the advantage of travelling with Chaos Lords, I presume – and we have ample opportunity to learn of House Sawall's other incumbents – father Archduke Gramble, aunt Whone and brothers Despil and Jurt. Havelock seems to show a split-second flash of – something – at this last name. Recognition? Surprise? It passes too fast to analyse, almost too fast to register. I could, of course, be mistaken.

Dara is not mentioned, presumably an adoptee of some fashion though apparently not high-caste enough to be invited .

Listening to the conversation as we approach the Opera House, no-one else mentions tutelage so I keep quiet on this. I know William is in the story but he says nothing about his part – on a separate note, I am very glad that I do not have to fight him. Since the Duomo, I have not quite the faith I had in my fighting abilities, not that I think they were a match for his whatever the level of my confidence.

Then again, I doubt he could survive in the kusht during the dry season, and maybe one day that would prove to be important. In the meantime, however, I am glad he is not an enemy.

House Sawall all conform to the white hair and pale skin look sported by Mandor – Whone and Despil are as charming, urbane and poised as he, the Archduke old-looking, cranky and somewhat resentful either of being here, or being here with us, it is never made clear. And Jurt, neither charming nor urbane, with a manner which makes me instinctively reach for my hunting knives and a furtive smile as though he was calculating how much you could bleed before you died. I sit well away from him and study the cast list which we have been handed.

It seems that Darig and Constance are also to appear, Constance as a Norn and Darig as himself. I hope both survive.

I resolve to look round to see who else I can recognise, as the House seems almost full, but before I can act on this thought, Havelock takes it upon himself to peacock right at the front of the box, leaning forward in an exaggerated manner guaranteed to draw attention. A foolish move is my first thought, but on consideration a display of confidence to deter amateur aggression, Amber is over here, and we are not afraid of you.

I try and find Melvin down below – eventually I spot him, sitting with uncomfortable bravado in the midst of beings more intimidating than him. I have no clue if this is chance or design, but fail to attract his attention before the lights dim which, by the actions of others in the box, seems to signify the beginning of the Opera.

And whatever else the entertainment brings, we have a very good view of the stage. on which stands a figure (identified as Lord Tobias of Unman by the cast list) who announces the Opera.

The High King raises his hand in – acknowledgement? permission? – it is unclear but the palsied weakness of age is all too obvious – and the entertainment begins.

Suhey and Dworkin give the setting narrative – in this case, the beginning of Amber and subsequent conflict originating from this – and then depart the stage.

The next part (after a little flurry of movement and the placing of scenery) appears to be on a plain, near a white tree of some description. In the middle of the stage lies a slaughtered tiger in strange orange and black striping. I quietly offer up the prayer for the brethren for it, poor creature, and wish it speedy passage to the wheel for its next life. Due to this, I miss the entrance of the three Norns, who seem to be brewing up something using parts of the little brother. I doubt it was dinner.

The gist of their speech seems to be prophesying the future with reference to Chaos – like all prophecies, these were decisive but vague and contradictory. Constance's first lines, by either design or delivery, seemed slightly out of tempo with the other Norns but Magnus (Augustus himself, as was), is to be King of Chaos.

Names and wars and the betrayal of honour. The shadow of doom overhanging all, no doubt to be confirmed by later excerpts. And the High King himself, asleep with his mouth open, in his Royal Box, surrounded by his minions.

In the gap between parts, I give serious thought to the logistics of going to see Melvin, and fail again to attract his attention. As I give up and turn my attention to my proximate surroundings in the Sawall box, I notice Constance and Darig whispering in a corner again.

I feel unreasonably hurt and left out – as though I am unimportant, with nothing to offer – a naive rustic peasant in the company of her betters, to be tolerated when she cannot be ignored. Not feminine enough, not politically manipulative enough, unable to look sufficiently attractively stricken in her tragic circumstances, too competent in resolving them on her own recognisance to be of interest to our fine warriors of Amber. Self-pity and envy are never attractive traits, so I hold my tongue and berate myself for giving in to my own insecurities.

Knowledge is power, nursing imagined slights is not. A polite interest reveals Constance discreetly pointing out Julian in the Karm box, ostensibly awake and moving around but this seeming belied by the Trump contact which says he is dreaming.

This is really not good.

The entertainment starts again, this segment referring to the fall of House Abal and the manipulations and fallout in respect of dislodging a monarch from their position. It involves poisoning, stabbing and a lot of singing.

When they finally stop singing, and everyone who is going to be killed has died, another interval is observed. And there is a knock at the door.

It turns out that Magdalene of House Karm has been sent over to have 'commerce' with House Sawall – meaning us, I presume. Her professional facade is somewhat shaken as, having entered the box, her way out is blocked by William, nonchalantly removing invisible specks of dust from the oversized sword he carries.

Her trading experience does not get any better when she tries to enforce House Karm's terms of business – I feel that she had not the slightest inkling of how nasty Amberites can play. My contribution to her learning experience is to move in close (ignoring protests from my olfactory senses) and smile sweetly. I might have rearranged my dentition at the same time. Without the backup of magic, Magdalene was learning the practicalities of being exposed and all too vulnerable in an unsympathetic environment. Even looking to House Sawall is fruitless – Mandor and Despil are subsumed fully in conversation whilst Whone examines her fingernails with bored intensity, Gramble is involved in eating and Jurt looks like a dog who has just heard the meatsafe door open. On a side note, it seems there is no mood of Jurt's which makes me other than uneasy.

Business is concluded on our terms – Constance and William will go to House Karm's box and speak to 'Julian'. For free. As a backup, their progress is monitored by Havelock on Trump – the rest of us have to make do with simple eyesight, with which I can see figures at the back of Karm's box. It looks like Julian, insofar as I can tell, but appearance means little here.

When she is trumped back, Constance is still not sure. Perhaps it was not a good time to mentions the mythical vodo powder which sends the mind to sleep whilst leaving the body biddable (although none of the stories mention the victim holding a coherent conversation whilst under its influence) – on the other hand, in a realm of infinite possibilities, it could exist in some form.

And back to the entertainment – we keep a wary eye on Karm's box throughout, but no suspicious emptying occurs. In this part, the wheels of politics are represented by 7 Rimlords playing musical chairs – the losers singing about this being the consequences of their regicide. Juan of Peron wins, and becomes High King.

A high honour with higher stakes, metaphorically dancing on a wire above a pit of flaming serpents – and Juan dances well, implying much whilst promising very little and outdancing those who wish the reinstitution of war with Amber. Cymnea appears on stage, a peace-bride for Oberon, overacting slightly as she departs.

Another stage in Magnus' rise as he manipulates the desperation of House Abal for a restoration of their fortune – extracting a promise of future help whilst carefully avoiding reciprocity.

The interval is on us again – I seek out Melvin, and attract his attention this time. I gesture that I should come down, an offer frantically refused by Melvin whose desperate hand-gesture to this effect morph unconvincingly into a n intense need to fan himself. Offers of food or drink are also refused – there is no time to do anything else, as William and I are collected by Hugo for our parts.

Ah, how foolish I am to assume that stage fright was the worst of our appearance.

We are escorted along the labyrinth corridors under the stage area when a figure steps out of the gloom. Barimanesque, he is dressed like a Cathae warrior as he shouts a challenge to William. Something about William being dishonourable , and something else about justice being served. I yell at Hugo to run, but he just cowers in a corner, so I run instead.

I fear it was cowardice, but I am not a warrior and the spikes now sprouting from William's armour would make the narrow confines of the corridor even more dangerously crowded, so I ran for help. Put callously, if the Cathae was good enough to best William, he could best me even more easily and if one of us was to die, I would rather it wasn't me.

This, of course, was not going through my head at the time, as I ran as swiftly as I could for the Sawall box. Wrenching open the door, I have sufficient breath to encapsulate the situation. Havelock and Darig run to aid our cousin – Mother infuriatingly whinges about not having a weapon – I offer her a knife but this was not what she wanted, petulantly demanding her axe. I'm afraid I was rather snappish in my response.

When I return to the corridor, William is victorious but has suffered a cut to his arm, which (I think) Darig had just finished binding. Hugo is fussing about the Opera and flaps at us to get into costume – I remember the half-shake of the headpiece to get it to sit correctly, and, on my cue, join William on stage, remember my lines and deliver them adequately (as far as I can tell) and leave.

I do not feel a great career as an actor awaits me, but I didn't embarrass myself. Darig walks me back (just in case) but nothing untoward happens. In the box, we relay each our own part of the story.

It seems that Constance knows the attacker from her Knightly society – the Deniable Moth – which apparently concerns itself with injustices, though what William has done to earn his ire I do not guess at.

The rest of the segment is rather interesting – it seems that Magnus/Swayvill is part Dipteran and explains exactly what happened regarding the destruction of Diptera. Although sad, its portrayal of William's actions was sympathetic and his actions understandable, and without magic, they managed to portray complex events effectively. How accurately, I would have no way of knowing, but Magnus' machinations and miscalculation are emphasised.

And, we move to the final interval, which, apart from the departure of Constance and Darig (Mandor has left sometime earlier), passes uneventfully as we consume pastries and strange blue fruits (rather tasty, vaguely reminiscent of pomelos). William returns and is told who his assailant was – he responds by shrugging and emptying a waterskin.

The interval is succeeded by the last act, and we all settle down to watch with, I'm sure, a sense of relief mingled with tension at what else could happen.

Magnus' rise is further detailed – on the suicide of the incumbent king (it seems to be a popular pastime), he is elected High King and raises Sawall (Mandor, looking suave) and Ascaris to Rimlord position, conveniently forgetting any implication of restoring Abal to their former glory. The head, Yusuf, denounces him as 'verily art thou true to thy name – easily swayed!'

At this, the High King (who seemed to have been asleep since the beginning) takes a sudden, startled interest in the stage, whilst a susurration of whispers from the lower seats hint at a connection made by the audience between Magnus and Swayvill. It was probably a bad time for him to wake up, as the coronation is the next event.

The Norns' utterances seem to calm him a little, until Darig's grand entrance as the 'Portent Phantom', lowered from the darkened ceiling on some form of rope or wire, whilst smoke and silver flakes swirl around him. Swayvill looks like he has seen an unquiet spirit, but makes no response.

As the final line is delivered, Swayvill seems to be having some form of seizure, shaking and struggling to rise as his guards seek to calm him. Pushing them away, he rises and hysterically denounces the words with the utterance 'Lies! Lies! Seize him! I will have his tongue! ' Demons stir to obey as we also move to try to intervene, but before any can do more than begin to move, a misshapen black shape swoops down and grabs Darig, shrieking something unintelligible as both disappear into the darkness.

Apparently what the figure said was 'sanctuary', according to Mother. I get one of her 'you are being irritatingly stupid' looks – it seems the axe affair is not going to be forgotten or forgiven lightly. Well, one cannot unspill buffalo milk.

I overhear something Despil is saying to Mandor – 'similar to what happened to us'. The black blob was Lady Zae? Well, if Mandor and Despil's current shape is anything to go by, at least the form is not permanent.

It appears that the sanctuary is an area within the Duomo, and on trumping Darig, it transpires that this is where he presently is. We pass provisions and a blanket through to him – it is the only thing we can do at the moment.

On a last footnote, as we pack up to leave Havelock asks Despil who the author of the work is. Despil looks thoughtful for a little, then shakes his head. On checking the cast list, the mystery remains unsolved – no author is credited.

Given Swayvil's response, probably a prudent move.