Duck Soup

The personal diary of Sorashi, daughter of Deirdre, pt 9

Before I go to bed, I sit cross-legged on the floor and try to clear my mind, to meditate. There is too much which has occurred recently, I lack clarity and have no focus – the attacks on me, how I am viewed by my cousins, my responsibilities and our whole predicament. I need a fresh perspective, away from the dead-ends and useless circles presently presented.

Reminded of the Angel Gabriel’s words – an eternity ago, it seems – I find my centre and silence my intellect’s clamour, trying to see only patterns. No startling insights come to me, I know too little of that necessary to provide these, I think, but my mind feels calmer, less clouded as I lay down to sleep.

I awaken in a dream, with my tutor from the Opera standing at the foot of the bed. I follow as he moves silently to a door, newly arrived in the room. As we travel, he talks, congratulating me on my performance and predicting it would be remembered – or perhaps, not my performance but she who I portrayed. I am unsure now.

As we enter a windowless and doorless room, I am told that the end is coming, and I will receive my reward – this training, I presume. However, to come into my inheritance, I must best a creature – the thing in the cellar, obviously.

The training I am undergoing is one part of the path of my inheritance/reward for my acting debut. The other is a roll of parchment, tied with yellow ribbon – a deed of ownership of the Alhambra, sealed with the crest of Swayvill. It will not aid me against my forthcoming trial, but confers a ‘moral advantage’ – something I will no doubt find out about in the future.

The training focuses on ‘fluidity’ – on the transition of shifting rather than the end result. At the end of it, I feel a more complete understanding of the process, and of the Chaos worldview. I can also feel the Pattern within me, an iron bar woven into a silk sari-length, blocking some transformations by its very existence.

I thank my tutor, but am admonished that this is payment, the culmination of a deal, not a favour. Then I wake.

The room is the same as before – the only difference is the small scroll under my pillow. I put it in the lining of my knife sheath for safekeeping.

Breakfast finds Mother displaying her gift for fitting in to male company as she flirts, attends and flatters Rama – technically male, I suppose. I may be misleading in my words, she is no concubine looking for a suitable mate, all big eyes and giggles and fluttered eyelashes. She just has a gift for – well, understanding and adapting to get on with the male nature. A gift I sadly lack – turning into a tiger is somehow not on the same level.

My shortcomings aside, I have two letters – one from Mandor, requesting my presence and one from Melvin, inviting me to adjudicate a duel. When quizzed on my confused demeanour, I explain – then have to explain who Melvin is and watch the subtle changes as he is mentally amended from ‘unsuitable interloper’ to ‘potentially useful person to be aware of’ – in fact, one of her first questions is ‘is he useful?’ Utility, it seems is the nata and merta of everything and everybody, all things reduced from sentient free-willed beings into lumps of advantage or disadvantage.

It never ceases to sadden me, this Amberite attitude – perhaps it is merely the attitude of those in power, but it still makes me depressed. She also makes the point that the duel may well be over me – which is possible, but it seems unlike Melvin.

If it is true, however, I fear the day is fast approaching when I will have to dash Melvin’s hopes.

I travel to Woodstock, where the cousins are assembling – Darig is there, courtesy of a royal pardon. Of course – he is instrumental in Mandor’s plan.

The cousins seem intent on storming House Karm to rescue Julian – correction, William is strident in his insistence on this plan, and everyone else seems to be going along with this. Apparently, a small force can outface a large one by being too quick for the larger force to react to – there seems a flaw in this plan, or at least a great deal of unsupported optimism, but my attempts to insert a little rationality into this monologue are soundly ignored, in fact any input from me is unanimously ignored by all there. Mandor, whose opinions on this matter I would rather trust, tries to show the futility of such action, but it doesn’t seem to have much impact on William’s dreams of glory.

It is Havelock who, with Mandor’s support, argues for a diplomatic effort to resolve this first – William seems disappointed, but it makes far more sense – after further discussion, William warms to the idea sufficiently to admit that he has an ally in House Karm who could be persuaded to allow some of us in (hopefully I am extraneous to this particular expedition).

And thus we travel to Brứ-na-Bóinne, the conversation still revolving around the heroic rescue of Julian in the favoured manner of the cousins, who seem to view anything worth saying is worth repeating several times in the same conversational sequence. It would seem circles are the Amberite pattern of choice in social circumstances.

We do not immediately seek out Melvin on our arrival at Bru-Na-Boine, Havelock is intent on seeking confirmation from another hand of cards – the verdict to several questions seems to be to proceed cautiously, a lot of unknowns thrown up. There is talk again of an assault on House Karm ‘if it comes to it’. It would seem that now is an apt time to reveal my big secret.

Which I do, to pretty much the same amount of interest shown to my previous contributions. Nobody seems surprised, or shocked, or blazingly bigoted toward my talents – I suppose that the Family drums have been busy pounding out this particular fact for a while. My primary reaction was a sense of relief, along with a mischievous sense of anti-climax. I was expected some reaction, a scintilla of surprise, but at least I am not cast out from their company.

We go into the gloomy hall, past the hulking guard demons, to where Melvin starts and stutters at our entrance. The matter of the duel is mentioned scarcely less than an eye-blink later.

It seems that, at the Opera, there was ribald joshing at my expense by one of the followers of another minor house – in short, I had the Alhambra, my shapeshifting lessons were known of (demons, I presume, gossip like kitchen slaves) and it was suggested it would be worth marriage to get hold of it (I get the impression my approval and/or my survival was not relevant, but I am just speculating). Melvin, driven by the reckless bravery of a first crush, challenged the speaker (Akira of House Sundiata (I think)) to a duel on the basis of the dishonour to my name.

Oh Melvin, sweet but foolish boy! My first reaction is regret for his sake that he did not silence his tongue on so trivial a matter, but I realise that this may be the start of his courage – as good a basis as any, I suppose. He does not seem very courageous, in fact he seems terrified of what he has done.

With a view to seeing how hopeless the situation actually is, Constance asks him to spar with her. It’s a less than edifying spectacle, but quickly apparent that Melvin is psychologically his own worst enemy – fairly obvious opportunities are abandoned as he hesitates, obviously trying to second-guess himself and after a fairly short time, William interjects and calls it off.

He then suggests an alternative approach – he will attack Constance, and Melvin has to try and stop him – which, as it starts, means that Melvin stands frozen like a eunuch at an orgy, licking his lips nervously as the steel flashes and sparks. Until something happens...

I am not sure of the exact details, but Constance is driven back against a wall and, lacking the room to use her sword, must have used some magic - at which the sword swings down viciously in a killing blow which, by William's posture, he is desperately trying to redirect. Then, suddenly, Melvin is there, blocking William's oversized sword with his own, and a strangely determined look on his face.

The spar is over, and DeLambre bustles to bandage yet another injury to his master – something about the way he looks at, then turns his back on, Melvin, speaks of deliberate and unveiled contempt.

When Havelock mentions it to William, of course, William tells him (and us) that nothing of the sort happened. In William’s eyes, of course (the eyes of a man who wouldn’t know a social cue if it bit him on the testicles), DeLambre can do no wrong and William’s contempt for Melvin is hardly a closely-held secret.

Melvin, true to form, does nothing. Admittedly, Darig’s attempt at pushing Melvin’s limits does not achieve anything apart from a curt order from William to cease the sparring, and may have distracted him.

I have no idea what Melvin’s opinion of the cousins is now – not high, I would guess. The only useful thing to come out of the sorry episode is the offer, for the duration of the duel, of that odd, malevolent blade wielded by William’s alter-ego and now owned by Darig.

We take our leave of Brứ-na-Bóinne (I think Melvin was glad to see us go) as I take Margrath to the Alhambra to see what he can do. It looks a little worse than it did before, more molten, with bits of the gate house falling off. According to Asfar, there has been untoward interest by several beings, and not of an amiable nature either. I need to take it on, and soon.

Margrath is introduced to Asfar, and walks around, lips pursed as I wait to be told there are termites in the roof loft and mud miners in the walls.

There is a lot of work, more than he could do himself, but he can start to shore up the main part – though it will take him hours. I then have to warn him about the potential assassins, and urge him to take care – I have a duel to adjudicate. If he encounters any trouble, to Trump us.

I still have to deal with his payment, but that will come in its own time.

Ah, the Garden of Delights. Such ... memories, none of them good – the place seemed little changed, still sullenly misty with the unfathomable ‘delights’ looming like figures in a bad dream – although I notice the suit of armour, the one which reminded me of Mother, had lost its glow. So a minuscule improvement, then – or possible a more worrying conundrum. I will play the littlest goat kid and assume the former.

The torso-statue is the vantage point apparently – though I cannot see Melvin for the moment. I do, however, see Caine and Bleys, who both greet me – Bleys managing to sound rather less inauthentic about it, though Caine mentions something about Dirk turning up soon.

I make some polite rejoinder as I am not sure exactly why the remark was made (see how Amberite I am now!) – are we being pushed together while the families broker a deal? Is the possible affection of a male my only interest, and Dirk a shiny bauble to keep me out of the way whilst males do important things? Is Dirk ordered to keep an eye on the oddball cousin?

Or, prosaically, Dirk may have expressed an interest in me of a non-manipulative nature. Stranger things have happened.

But Darig has arrived, and is far more interesting than I am, so I wander around a little. Not many of the family are here – I see William approaching, with two women – one of which is presumably his wife-to-be. He looks a little – nervous? – uncertain, perhaps, I cannot tell. Maybe the reality of his impending nuptials.

The party are greeted by Suhuy, who exchanges some sort of call-and-response ritual greeting rhyme with Rachael (the seemingly younger of the two women) and then he runs through our respective roles and responsibilities.

William and Darig go to arrange terms, whilst Suhuy asks to join my table at the top of the torso – I do not refuse, obviously.

The terms, apparently, are, the duel is to first blood and there is to be no sorcery – or backing down on either side prior to the whole ridiculous event, unfortunately.

And thus the two protagonists stand side-by -side. Akira, blocky and impassive in laced armour with two long thin swords, and poor, dear Melvin, holding the leech-like blade, fresh from a last-minute strategy talk by his seconds and with an indecipherable look on his face – part fear and part grim determination.

There is a tradition of giving ‘favours’ and I am to choose who to give it to – I remove my neck scarf and wrap it around Melvin’s neck, tucking it into his shamiz as though I was his mother. Such a simple act, but Melvin stands straighter and looks less scared – and yet, Akira seems hurt and crushed that she was not chosen – I cannot think of any rational reason why she should think I would.

I do not have time to ponder it, but it seems odd – whatever the underlying reasons, I can only hope it has done House Barimen some good – but the duel must progress, and I retreat to a safe distance and call for the duel to commence.

Akira advances determinedly, no feints or circling, almost contemptuous of her opponent – who, characteristically, stumbles forward gracelessly, the malevolent blade whipping in his hand, lips working in a silent mantra.

My name – he gives himself courage with my name!

I am humbled.

The duel is not a lengthy affair – there is a play of blades, retreats and advances, I get the feeling Akira finds the blade as disconcerting as everyone else who has been on its receiving end. Then Melvin’s blade finds its mark (and probably not entirely on its own, an uncharitable thought I suppress quickly), Akira clutches her arm and the duel is over even as I announce it.

I move back down from my vantage point and formally announce Melvin the victor, my honour upheld and the matter over – the last said in a tone mimicking Mother’s ‘there-will-be-no-argument’ voice. Melvin looks relieved and smiles as his seconds relieve him of the blade and pass him a drink. Akira’s seconds seem almost to ignore her now that she has lost – I do not know if her House are ungracious losers, or if her status has diminished due to her failure, or whether accepting the duel (instead of just apologising for any insult caused) was the sort of action which was only a good idea if one succeeded. Perhaps this has helped secure House Barimen a little more.

I let him keep the neck scarf.

As the assembled audience starts drifting away, Lord Suhuy approaches and indicates that I did a satisfactory job, and that he supposes he owes me some lessons – although, he remarks as he looks at me sharply, it would seem I had been having some rather advanced tuition already. But, an agreement is an agreement.

He obviously recognises the handiwork of my mysterious tutor, and I long to ask him his/her/its identity but do not quite have the nerve. In a bid not to seem too forward, I forward the invitation that he might visit me to give the tuition – the wrong move, I can tell immediately, as he indicates I may be ‘getting a bit above myself’.

I backtrack immediately and say that, of course, I would call on him as soon as I could, which elicits a grunt of ... not quite approval, more a non-verbal ‘that’ll do’, but at least he is not mightily offended (I hope).

I do not think I will relay this amusing anecdote to the others – touching feminine naivety is not quite as endearing when used as a weapon against oneself.

Instead I join the others – they are going back to Brứ-na-Bóinne for a little celebration. I tell them I will join them there – I need to go to the Alhambra first.

Given that he is toiling on my behalf, abandoning Margrath to lonely employment in order to make merry would seem a little churlish.