A Thousand Glass Flowers (The Chronicles of Eirie 3) (8 page)

She wanted no food and pushed the tray away, watching briefly that
it did not spill on her work.
But the carafe wobbled and then top
pled before she could grab it.
It clattered onto the tiles and she gazed at the mess on the floor, the tea soaking like ink, burning,
burning,
into loose sheets of paper
at the foot of the table legs.
Phaeton edged close to sniff.

‘NO, Phaeton!
No,’ she
pulled him away by the collar. ‘Stay away. Don’t touch.’
She crouched down and watched the liquid etching itself into the papery surface to
form a dark butterfly pattern.
She could smell an acrid taint.

Someone had sought to poison her.

Someone had poured vitriol into her tea and had no qualms about burning her throat, her windpipe, her stomach, and killing her in the most agonizing manner.

She stood up and backed away to the stair leading
to the tower, calling Phaeton.
He leaped after her as she fled up the steps, round and round past latticed windows that offered differing view
s from each of its four sides.
The heavy door at the top gave way to her urgent pushing and she leaned against it, her chest heaving, feeling as if she
teetered on the brink of…
sh
e heard the afrit’s voice…
‘
disaster’
.

The wind had unkind fingers, finding every inch of exposed skin and biting and then tunneling
under the silk to snap again.
Lalita’s eyes watered and she burrowed to the other side where the roof
of the tower provided shelter.
The keening reminded her of the widows by the cremation biers further downstream on the ri
ver Ahmad.
The goddess of rivers flowed and bent and tunneled through the sand and rock of the Amritsands, alternately trickling and roaring to Fahsi, and even now she could see the gold sheen of the water disappearing between the slopes of the undulating
horizon.
Thinking of Fahsi she fingered her pocket, her hands cold, her mind unwilling to deal with the truth of Salah’s warnings.

The small parcel crackled as she untied the string and pulled the ind
igo tissue away from the gift.
Layer upon layer of dyed paper fell open like petals until a glistening dome lay in her hand.

This then, was the Sultan’s fortune – a
millefiori
paperweight.
It glittered as a ray of light hit the convex curve and she h
eld it up and moved it around.
Tiny flowerheads danced
round the side of the dome.
As she examined it, she understood why the Venichese glassmakers were famous for their art and why they made spectacles for all those in Eirie who must see and how the world valued every sculpted piece of glass that emerged from every
fabricca
in the hidden
calli
and
rii
of the city.

Her paperweight consisted of a diminutive roundel at the centre o
f which was glass flower head.
A ring of blue and white flowers surrounded a circlet of yellow and white and finally a large circle of blue, yellow and
white flora enclosed them all.
Each petal was shaped from blown glass, cut and placed by the hand of a skilled artisan who
appreciated beauty and design.
If she looked carefully she could see a tiny piece of yellow glass tubing studd
ed the central seven-
petalled flower.

The weight of the object settled comfortingly in her palm, reminding her of Imran’s unspoken words:
‘
Ho
ld it, Lalita and think of us.
Feel that we are with y
ou and shall never forget you. Do not despair.
Look at the field of flowers and imagine you are amongst them.
’

‘
A simple gift.’
The afrit chose to materialize and added, ‘but pretty enough and a loving gesture.’

‘Yes,’ she turned toward him as he sat beside her, the size of a small boy, placing his arms around
black clad legs.
He was mercifully silent and this drew her attention m
ore than his abrasive chatter.
‘My brother
is
dead,’ she said.

‘But you knew this always, didn’t you?’

‘In my head I always knew but the heart begs otherwise until the truth is reve
aled.
Did you really know as well?’

‘Yes but you wouldn’t listen.’

‘Your way of tel
ling lacked something, afrit.’
She felt immeasurably lost in life, dwarfed by circumstance, clasping the pap
erweight in desperate fingers.
Around her and below, the gold cupolas and white rooftops of the palace stretch
ed far, the city farther still.
‘Do you know they tried to poison me?’

‘No! You say?’
He sat straighter, his interest sharpening.

‘It appears I am a threat to the other women and they begin their games.’

‘You sound qu
ite accepting of such a thing. How odd.
Do you want to die and leave your dog behind?’

‘No…
’

‘But?’
His questions rubbed at her.

‘I am one very ignorant woman who must eat if she wants to live and finish the Sultan’s commission.
They have appointed a
taster but what is the point?
Someone managed to slip in vitriol after the taster had finished.’

‘Vitriol!
They are no
t planning half-measures then.
I was
right, little disaster-damsel.
Why does an afrit create a tumult when Lalita lives in the seraglio?’

Lalita turned to look at the wight and he
returned her stare with a grin. ‘Oh come now. We could be friends, you know.
You need someone on your side, that’s for sure with endless months an
d years of lonliness and fear.
I can give you food that is safe and if needs must I can deal with all that is unsafe that comes through your door.’

Lalita’s eyes welled.
Perhaps this
was
a good day then, even though she had co
nfirmation of Kholi’s passing.
This strange little Other, as oft malicious as not, would be her help-meet.
I need not give up yet.
She sobbed, her backbone sagging just for a moment, just while she had someone to lean on.

‘I thank you, afrit.’
She didn’t care that to thank an Other might speed them away, she had to say it because her heart at this very mi
nute was so close to breaking.
But he had gone, leaving her to the wind and the hook-beaked kites and to her watery thoughts as she palmed the paperweight from one hand to another, closing her eyes and remembering good things.

Five days passed and in that time
, five meals arrived poisoned.
Every day she debated on how to reward the afrit.  He had a way of passing his hand over foo
d that appeared so appetizing.
‘It’s tainted,’ he would say and waft his hand and it would vanish to be replaced by other food, as delicious and sustaini
ng and safe as she could wish.
She walked in the gardens with Phaeton and Salah and always the little afrit was by her side, watching and guarding and her spirits rose.

Her work improved, a standard of text, drawing, painting and gold leaf t
hat exceeded her expectations.
The book became corpulent and on that sixth day of the week of the Venichese Ambassador’s departure, she heaved a relieved sigh as she realized she
had one story left to detail.
This book, this rendition of
A Thousand and One Nights
should have taken many months.
She had accomplished the impossible and almost completed it in four weeks – a solitary time of little sleep where her only conversation w
as with an afrit and a eunuch.
Rumour had it that the Sultan traveled in the north and for that Lalita was immeasurably grateful as it postponed what she knew was inevitable.

Laughter crept into her life, bubbling through her as she and
the afrit walked the grounds.
With or without knife-edged Salah, she was conscious of the curious looks that burned almost as much as vitriol a
s she promenaded with her dog.
She was sure the crisp eunuch partnered her so he that he could return to the odalisques and deliver snippets of acid information
from a position of authority.
He would say
to her, ‘They gossip, Lalita.
You
are immortal, Other, a spirit.
Those not as fanciful say you are just lucky,
insanely
lucky and your turn will come.’

She laughed out loud at this and the afrit chortled, Phaeton running ahead, sending a flock of white doves into the sky with
a lot of wing-clacking noise.
But when she turned her glance on Salah, she saw his eyes had closed to slits as if she found humour at his expense.

The next morning, she went for her daily bath and the ministrations of the ever-cautious mistresses and drifted back on a cloud of gardenia to her apartments, Salah leaving her
at the door.
The afrit had left the night before, promising her a bowl of fresh stra
wberries and yoghurt next day.
‘Phaeton,’ she called out as she opened the door, seeing the lattice screen into her sleeping chamber had been shifted.
Wonderful afrit.
She imagined her favourite fruit glowing red with a bowl of ho
ney-sweetened yogurt close by.
‘Phaeton, here!’

But the silence shouted
and her heart began
to beat as if it were whipped.
Salah’s eyes, his vicious words, his warnings flashed in front o
f her.
Never in Phaeton’s life had he reneged on a command from Lalita, springi
ng to her side no matter what.
She walked on feather-soft feet to the alcove, praying she would catch her beloved
companion asleep on the divan.
She longed to surprise him with a butterfly kiss on the nose that so often plunged its wetness into
her palm to give her strength.
‘Oh Phaeto
n, there you are, you lazy…
’

He lay on her bed as if he were surrounded in red silk.

Some infinitely evil hand had cut his throat.

She shook, barely able to stand as her door banged open and an armed eunuch f
ollowed the Kisla Agha inside.
Seeing the dog, he nodded to the guard and the fellow wrapped the body in the silk coverl
et and retreated out the door.
Lalita followed, wanting to wail, to snatch Phaeton out of the huge arms, h
old the body, never let it go.
‘Why
?’ she said to the Kisla Agha. ‘My work is good. The Sultan has said so.
Why did you kill my dog?’

The official looked back with no attempt at sympathy, indeed with contempt.
‘Be caref
ul how you speak to me, woman.
You are not such a favourite of the Sultan’s yet that you are above my discipline.’

But she hardly list
ened as he continued to speak. Her heart
which had suffered blow after blow, was now curling in upo
n itself.
She could feel
it, the beats hard and sharp.
She too was twisting up, dry and crackling
like a dead leaf from a tree.
Vaguely she heard the Kisla Agha as he finished.

‘Y
our pardon, what did you say?’
To wrench the civility from deep inside was almost impossible.

‘Your aunt a
nd uncle have been found dead.
The Sultan wishes you to attend him at the bird aviary immediately.’

The sounds of the aviary, chirruping and whistling, tweeting and
trilling, slid past her ears.
Even the mournful call of the peacocks, reminiscent of grief and
sorrow, elicited no response.
She could barely manage th
e obeisance before the Sultan.
Her mind seemed as blank as a new pressed page as she reeled from the outrageous turn of events.

‘I understand you have had significant losses today
, and I offer my condolences.’
The Sultan’s voice settled
in front of her, low and quiet…
perhaps even solicitous.

What do
es he see in me of my distress?
H
e cannot know what it is like.
Does he feel the pain I feel, as if I am slo
wly being disemboweled?
Does he feel the emptiness that creeps upon me
?
The madness?
A realization
illuminated her mind at that minute
.
No, he sees my eyes bright with tears, my lips swollen from biting them, my breasts rising and falling as I try to halt the wailing.
Her hand crept to her chest to cover it.