The Grand Ball

The personal diary of Sorashi, daughter of Deirdre, pt 12

The time of Darig's fighting class is upon us so Tajal and I make our way to House Petrus, where a small crowd of offspring and their guardians are already gathered.

Tajal seeks out her brother immediately – the reunion seems gleeful enough, but there is an undercurrent of tension in the rest of the room. Possibly just so many Houses in the same vicinity but I feel more than a little apprehensive – of what, I don't know, but as the poem says, the rat can feel the eagle's eye upon him even if she cannot see the eagle.

This feeling is not helped by the addition of Jurt to the crowd. He seems a little old (to my inflexible reckoning) to be here, despite his not-very-mature habit of giggling. Despil is keeping a very short leash upon him; it is presumably not just me Jurt concerns.

The others are a mixture – Darig's two are here, Margrath's Ibemo, a small boy from Seraph, a larger child from Vaal, and one from House Taud who, despite the Barimen form, keeps large spurs on the backs of his arms. He looks slightly out of place in some way; it is not just the spurs.

Tajal has returned to my side and takes my hand for reassurance – she looks a little overwhelmed. I smile and squeeze her hand, squatting down to give the words of comfort she needs. I get a slightly reticent smile in return as she is called to choose a weapon.

Most of the students are given a small, lightish sword. Jurt sulks loudly at this, and is given a slightly more substantial blade which mollifies him minusculely but Despil's warning glower heads off any more concrete expressions of his disappointment.

Ibemo holds the small blade obediently but Darig looks at his bulk and swaps it for a two-handed weapon – the first weapon looked like a toothpick in his hands. I do not doubt Jurt was pouting but disappointment is like the summer rain – it falls on us all.

The first fight is called, once the weaponry is sorted out – Tajal's name is called as she is paired off against her brother – strange how her eyes light up at this.

I will admit to bias, but she acquits herself well – dispassionately, her brother is faster and has better technique but she is more graceful and seems stronger.

The other pairs are less interesting – Darig's daughter has an unfortunate tendency to cheat and Jurt acts like the maharajah's second son, albeit his tantrums are less indulged. He is strong and reasonably competent, but pathetically easy to fool, despite Darig's continued advice.

As the fights continue, my attention wavers from the events before me as a growing scream impinges itself on my consciousness. Reminded of Lady Zae's unconventional arrival at the Alhambra, I try and pinpoint the source of this anguish – I note that others in the room are hearing it as well. Reassuring that I am not going mad, at least, though that is a far more elastic term here than anywhere I have ever been.

It is not an easy thing to do, however, the sound seems to be coming from everywhere. As I move round the walls, however, I see a distortion in the stone, at first, like a bubbling under the surface, which resolves itself into the semblance of a face – Melvyn's face, not entirely unexpectedly.

I move towards it, not sure of what to do – the eyes open, then the mouth moves. The voice is faint, but definitely his.

He tells me that he loves me but 'they' will not let us marry – as he says this, I feel at once sad and relieved. I respond that I knew, and I feel for him as well (ah, the little soft lies of a woman) and I am always his friend.

His stony throat works as he pushes out the last few words, “Tell Margrath to choose sorcery”, and with that cryptic utterance, the stone reverts back to its usual contours.

I move to relay this to Margrath (who seems as puzzled as I) but no sooner had the warning been passed than the tension of the room comes to a head – there is shouting and shoving on the practice floor.

It seems that Ibemo had been practising with the prickly student from Taud and the situation had deteriorated quickly (and deliberately? Who could prove such an allegation?) – apparently, according to Vaal's guardian, Taud had called Ibemo a 'third-caste', at which point Ibemo had punched him hard enough to knock him to the floor. Taud and his guardian are shouting about dishonour and retribution and honour, Barimen forms now discarded, whilst Ibemo looks contrite and embarrassed.

Taud Senior – called Aelfric, apparently, challenges Margrath to a duel over the (not deliberately manufactured at all) 'insult', and no attempts at conciliation are effective (which is completely a surprise to all in the room). Unfortunately, the case is already proved – in response to a 'mere' insult (though I do not feel it to be a trivial one), Ibemo did hit Cerdic (Taud Junior) – provocation being no defence.

The miniscule self-satisfied flick of the head of Aelfric is soon negated as both Despil and Bela (of House Vaal) offer to be Margrath's seconds – Despil explains the rules. Margrath gets to choose the method of the duel – with Melvyn's no-longer cryptic message fresh in his mind, he chooses sorcery.

Despil looks a little surprised – Aelfric, however, does not look happy, as though he has been wrong-footed. House Taud leaves, to little sorrow from the rest of the room.

And so the rest of us leave as well – despite the unpleasantness, most seem to have enjoyed and learnt from it. All the way home, Tajal regales me with highlights and 'did you see me...' statements. There is comfort in the self-centredness of a child, sometimes – she assures me that Lord Margrath would 'easily win' the duel. I tell her I hope she's right as she goes off to her studies.

May we live in interesting times?

I have nothing important to do before the Ball, so start to exercise. Beginning with a few simple stretches, my body almost independently moves into yoga positions and I end with nearly the full Shiva war dance. I doubt I'd get into any temple dancing troupe, but it feels good to dance, I can feel the stress evaporate as muscles and skin flex in harmony with remembered music.

One cannot revisit the past. But it helps to acknowledge it now and again.

We all foregather at the Grand Ball, all in our relative ideas of finery and make polite conversation as we wait. There is talk of precedence, giving added excitement by what we know is to come – I assume only Family, originally, but then I am reminded that this is Mandor's plan, for which he would need assistance. It may be that only Swayville and his loyal advisors are ignorant of the unexpected entertainment.

But I digress – precedence is as expected, the most important first down to the young of the House of Amber. So we youngsters – Darig, Dirk, Havelock, Constance, myself and Margrath – are last.

It would seem that, if all goes to plan, then at least our social betters will not have suffered the indignity of not being presented – if it goes to plan, and it is our plan it goes to.

In the midst of these grim musings, the angel with different coloured wings announces the engagement of William and Rachael. There is applause and the usual congratulations – Rachael seems pleased, William is unemotional but his expression as he looks at her speaks volumes. Cymnea has an air of having arranged the whole thing.

I just hope they're as happy in Amber.

Before the presentation, there is the inevitable business of state – in the true spirit of Chaos, the workings of state seem to double as entertainment. First up is Orlok of Spandrel, for whose crime of the attempted assassination of William, is banished with his House from Chaos as soon as the Ball has ended. Mandor, who has unnoticed turned up at my elbow, murmurs something about the exile being 'not for the first time' and intimating that such banishments are not for long, good assassins being 'readily forgiven in the right circumstances'. He then asks me to dance later – completely unexpected but I recover sufficiently to accept with a degree of decorum.

“Excellent. Later then,” and then he glides off.

A similar sentence is passed on Imperial Violet from Spectrum for its maltreatment of Constance – again the entire House being included.

But then Celadon is called forward, forced to proceed on its knees. I have never been comfortable with public humiliation, but notice an air of expectation in the room, an eagerness like the start of a cockerel fight – peaking at the approach of 'the Spirits of Terebithia' – a greasy-looking faintly yellow-green liquid with a noticeable smell like a stagnant stream. The charges in Celadon's case are 'assault on the person of Lady Constance of House Amber' and the sentence is death – to be carried out by Constance herself. To her credit, she looks shocked and uncomfortable with this, but apparently refusal is not an option, especially with Swayvill's cackling interest in the spectacle.

A glass of the liquid is handed to her and presented to Celadon, who refuses it. There is a short and unedifying episode in which Constance has to bend its head back and force it to swallow the poison, which appears to dissolve the unfortunate being.

Not long after, all that remains of Celadon is dripping upwards from a pool of liquid on the floor. Swayvill's spiteful, “At least Amber are useful for something,” prompts a ripple of sycophantic laughter which seems to lull him back into senile inattention.

Rolovians of Jesby announces that Sorpovin of his House is missing – he stops short of outright accusations, but implies heavily that non-Royal Coalition had something to do with it. He may be right, the path of politics here seems even more twisted and violent than back home. The path is filling up with those manoeuvring for position in advance of what is expected to come.

And the interest is further sustained by the announcement of Lord Brand – in Chaos, even the dead can have a social life. For some reason, this provokes Rolovians to protest to Mother but I don't know why. I keep an eye on her, but unsurprisingly she does not need my help.

Time does not really exist here – but a close simulation of it is moving inexorably to The Moment on which Destiny hangs. The security is more intense than I have seen it – all are searched twice before being allowed to proceed, and the line moves slowly – eventually it gets to William, then Lord Torc and finally Darig.

Odd, Darig is searched one more time than all previous presentees. It feels faintly artificial, slightly stilted, as though I have woken in a temple play by mistake. The surreality is heightened by a ghostly figure, drifting through the throng like a curl of smoke – although faint, it is recognisable instantly as my tutor from the Opera. He drifts to behind the throne, completely ignored by Swayvill and I'm not sure if anyone but myself can see him. Until I notice Margrath's eyes move to track his progress – not just me, then.

Distracted, I almost miss Darig's big moment – Swayvill wakes up enough to recognise Darig, but only gets out a strangled, “You! Murde...” before Darig, launching into a snake-fast attack, buries a dagger he definitely shouldn't have had in Swayvill's eye. The circle of Rimlords around the unfortunate king seem as theatrically shocked and frozen as could be expected in a play, his demons, however, were obviously not given the script, reacting far more quickly – yet still too late to prevent it.

I see William leap to Darig's side but this is not needed – as Swayvill's body crumbles into a fine yellow dust, the tutor walks through the throne, lifting a glowing sphere up which, like a wind lantern, floats gently upwards towards the Abyss. The head demon then presents its weapon to Darig in an obvious act of – surrender? Loyalty? Salutation? – and then vanishes. The other demons follow him.

The throne is pushed back, disturbing the dust and Mantissa announces that, on the fulfilment of the prophecy, the Ball will commence. I have a slightly hysterical train of thought trying to adapt the phrase 'the dust of his passing' into a witty couplet, but calm myself down enough to reject this concept – not least because I am really no poet and also because I recognise my incipient hysteria. It's not as though it was unexpected, but it is the first murder I have actually witnessed and the shock was greater than I thought it would be.

The arrival of Lady Fiona was a welcome distraction – I see Havelock guiding her through, on horseback. She looks travel-stained and weary, and not a little bloodied – also, shorter than I expected. Mandor, wasting no time, oils over to offer her facilities to 'freshen up', which are accepted gracefully. I note her sweeping the room with a glance as she leaves, her attention drawn to those obviously important and male. As Mother has often warned me, Fiona is no ally – her support is fleeting up until she gets what she wants. Family is indeed a source of strength in hard times, is it not?

But this is a Ball, and thus one may dance. I smile and walk over to Rama, who extends his hand in welcoming acceptance, as we find a spot playing suitable music.

As we dance – formal, slow, uncomplicated – we talk, of the events at Darig's training, of our conversations at the Alhambra, as yellow dust eddies around our feet, coating our shoes. He presses me politely for a suitable title – aware that 'Steward' was not entirely satisfactory, I cast around for a better offering.

“I think that I would like to name you… Vizier” I begin – feeling that to be insufficient, I add “and Major Domo extraordinaire.”

Oddly, it is his moustache which informs me first of his pleasure at my choice – it seems to almost preen itself although this is probably just the side effect of his broad smile. He pronounces himself humbly pleased with these titles as we finish our dance.

We part ways and I procure a glass of greenish liquid which tastes like white wine. At a bit of a loss, I look for Mandor, but he is nowhere to be seen.

As I do so, my eyes meet those of Lady Zae. We both seem to be at a loss, so shrug and move towards each other – she gives me a gift, of an ornate ivory haircomb set with emeralds, and asks me if I wish to dance. It is a fast-moving, complex dance, to which I am not told the name but it seemed to have an element of competitive dancing included – one dancer performs, the other copies then both dance, each attempting to outdo the other.

It is fun, even Zae seems happier – though still rather sad underneath. Afterwards, all talk seems to be of the succession – House Zigo support Tubble of Chanicut though Zae shows no enthusiasm for the House's candidate. Looks are nothing in the Courts, but looking like a bipedal toad would have put me off as well. We part, I watch her disappear into the crowd with an odd sense of loss. I so want to make her happy, though I doubt I would ever be able to.

There is poetry from Bragi of the Aesir – the beginnings of the Courts, it is a beautiful poem though I remember very little of it.

Mandor is bustling around the room, he smiles on noticing me, but not to ask for the promised dance. He is 'tediously busy' with 'so many factions' and asks if I have seen Merlin who is 'annoyingly absent'. I can't remember who Merlin is (though the name is familiar) so I have to advise that I am unable to help. He tuts distractedly and moves on.

Someone from House Torquemada – aided by the alcohol freely available, one suspects – announces that the House will 'lead the crusade against the heretics' – said heretics being House Amber, it is fairly easy to infer. Some applaud, some ignore and I'm not sure I didn't hear a snort of derision. Although that might just have been William being diplomatic.

Dirk approaches, looking uncharacteristically furtive and asks me to dance in a somewhat desperate manner, adding in a whisper that I would be 'doing him a favour'. There have been more flattering requests for my company, but the reason for his distress is made obvious when Maria Marevna of House Winter strides onto the floor, looking for him. She looks rather put out at his having a dance partner, even as Dirk tries to hid behind me (valiantly, but not successfully, given our relative sizes), but fortunately does not stay to voice her objections.

Apparently, he was, on Caine's orders, to give Maria the unrestricted pleasure of his company – in Dirk's opinion, to please Cymnea – but this is made rather difficult by the fact that Maria scares him (as does Cymnea, but she at least has shown no interest in dancing with him). I am suitably sympathetic, and don't laugh until he is well out of earshot, and then softly.

So the dancing stops again – for another poetry reading, this time from House Sindiata. The performer is Akira – she of the duel – wearing a white kimono, her face covered by a mask of despair and loss. Back home, white is the colour of death, I am reminded – I wonder what it means in her culture. Then I see the knife, carried on a red cushion and the two attendants, swords drawn.

Of the many odd things I have seen, suicide as public entertainment has to rank as one of the oddest.

A short, self-pitying poem is recited – Akira is not one to take defeat pragmatically, it seems – but the last lines impact on my distracted consciousness…

“Our foes keep the Alhambra;

But their eyes will not enjoy”

With these words, she plunges the knife into her stomach – and the pain starts behind my eyes!

I vaguely remember the attendants cutting her head off, but the pain has transformed into agony and I feel as though my eyes are being forced from my head by some tremendous pressure. I hear screaming from somewhere as I fall to my knees, clutching my face.

The screaming is my own!

I remember only an eternity of pain as though my head is in a vice. I cannot close my eyes. I try to change, to shift, but I am too new to it, the pain is too much, I cannot concentrate. There are voices, concerned voices, what can they do to help? I do not answer, I do not know, my eyes are being pushed out, the pain is all-consuming and the screaming will not stop.

But in an instant of ecstasy, the pain diminishes and I look up through streaming eyes to see Melvyn. My saviour, half-made, a semi-fluid approximation of my dearest friend. Holding eyeballs in his hands. His eyeballs! Eye sockets empty in his face.

Oh Melvyn, by the Dark Lady, by the skulls on her necklace, Melvyn.

You did not need to do that for me.

The room reels, I feel I may faint. I whisper, “Thank you!”

And then he is gone, flowing away to wherever he has come from. The eyes remain. Someone, I think it is William, calls for water and the eyes are put for safekeeping. It strikes me as amusing, but I do not smile. If I smile, I will laugh. And if I laugh, I will not stop.

Rama escorts me to a quiet place, and apologises that he has commitments. Constance comes over – I have never seen that look of concern on her before.

I dissemble, I just need a bit of a rest, I will be fine. She leaves.

I hear screaming – not mine, thankfully – and her voice, raised, then a wild man of the woods runs past, matted hair and dirty loincloth flapping as he runs, marks on his back like a badly written T. I definitely don't remember seeing him before, I wonder who he is and why Constance was so angry with him?

If Constance had been Akira, I doubt I would still be alive.

I meditate, calming myself, accept what happened as far as I can, accept I am still alive. I feel somewhat better and return to the Ball…

To find Dirk dancing with what seems to be a human piranha-fish whilst Mother is dancing with Tubble. As piranha-woman manoeuvres Dirk behind T’Mer of Tubble, Dirk moves swiftly to stab him – I do not think anyone else notices. Especially as T’Mer burns like a temple flare on the Feast of Krishnava.

The path of politics has become even more perilous. Or more blatant!

Talking of politics, Mandor approaches, smiling, and requesting our dance 'if I'm recovered'. I reply that I am, and it would be my pleasure.

Mother would be proud. We dance – he is a very good dancer, and I get the feeling this is one of the rare times that he is indulging in an activity just for the pleasure of it, not for any future advantage.

We at least get to the end of our dance before he is interrupted. Rolovians of Jesby grovels, distraught, pleading with Mandor to 'save him'. I retreat to a polite distance, but not so far that I cannot hear as Mandor manipulates him into giving up the Rimlord status of his House. I really would not like to incur his displeasure.

Fortunately, immediately afterwards, Gauri calls him into the Star Chamber, so any embarrassment at my eavesdropping is averted.

Fiona, looking immaculate, steps forward and begs our leave to say a few words. She has been advised of Delwin's death, and recites a poem in his memory. It is very moving, despite my newfound antipathy to poetry.

And then, surprisingly, Suhuy appears to accept my dance request. I had almost forgotten it, having issued it merely out of politeness, assuming that he would be far too busy, but how could I resist the charm of his gruff 'Suppose I better had and get it over with'? Too much flattery may turn my head.

I jest, I am aware I am really quite honoured. He is an adequate dancer in a stately sort of way, and has no interest in conversing. Until he draws my attention to cracks in the floor, muttering something about Darig. When pressed, he mentions that Darig has gone back in time, and something about Havelock's reading of the cards.

Typical of the redheads not to mention something which may be important – but I do remember the Hall of Memories and the time-travelling Darig. I suppose he had to go back to set up the events which culminated at the beginning of the Ball? – If that doesn't happen, would it be like a waterwheel spinning without water? Is that why there are cracks?

I only hope it is successful – Suhuy wanders off at this point, muttering something I do not catch apart from the word 'busy'.

The rumour mill, however, grinds along well on its grist of scandal and gossip – apparently House Jesby are no longer Rimlords, having been replaced by House Alhazred.

A consequence of this can be seen immediately as poor Rolovians is hacked to death by two disgruntled House members – and so Mother, as she informs me in aggrieved tones, is 'homeless again'. I offer her accommodation in the Alhambra for the time being, which she accepts with a resigned sniff. I assume Indra would be happy to have her, but it needs the assent of whoever gets the kingship and that could take a while. I am honoured to be of service, memsahib.

I leave her to her own devices, and meet up with Margrath, who asks me to dance. I do seem to be a popular partner tonight, this is the sixth dance tonight! He asks after the Alhambra, I tell him that another House has offered to complete the restoration, and thank him for his kind efforts so far – he seems pleased.

I think sometimes Margrath tends to be overlooked, not being the martial type can do that for the sons and grandsons of Amber. A shortsighted policy in my view, but no doubt others will argue it has worked thus far. Pouting out that is a pointless exercise tonight. Tonight I will dance because I am still alive and I still have my eyes, because I have friends.

The Ball seems to be winding down somewhat, when Darig stomps into the Hall – he looks as though he has been through a tiger pit – and heads straight to the refreshments, draining two large glasses in close succession.

He looks around and informs the remaining throng that he has not had a dance all evening. I notice Constance regarding her shoes with all-absorbing interest – would it hurt her that much to dance with her cousin?

Apparently so. I, however, am still willing to dance, and thus I do.

Seven dances in one night. An auspicious number, for tonight at least.