Memory Seed (7 page)

CHAPTER 7

One night, when Graaff-lin was asleep (and dreaming, judging by the whistles and snatches of erotic poetry that could be heard), Zinina explored the house in its entirety, cataloging in her mind all useful objects, means of escape, damp patches, fungal infections and other domestic niceties. She ended up in the loft. From here, she could see boats on the sea. People were leaving Kray by sea, of course, the idiots, because it seemed to them the only means of escape. Every week would see some new rumour of a land of sanctuary found across the ocean. But that was all nonsense. Anyhow, the sea was as dangerous as the land, with its giant turtles, fang-fish, and strangling kelp, not to mention the infected filth and bacteria. Every boat and ship ended up sliding into a luminous grave. Morning tides brought corpses to the shore, glowing softly like a line of nebulae at a vast galaxy’s edge.

She returned to the ground floor and for a moment opened the front door. She wanted to feel what it was like to be safe inside a house. And for a few seconds, as she caught the whiff of ammonia and the softer smell of methane, and saw lights from reveller encampments reflecting off the two great prongs of the Cowhorn Tower, she felt a pang of love for the city. Kray was her home. The Cemetery nearby had been her nursery, for a short time. She was a free woman of the city now, an independent. It was up to her to make meaning from her life and from what little future remained.

~

The Nonagon Room became quiet, save for the tapping of fingers on leather note pads.

The combination of high, domed ceiling, walls as thick as a grain barn’s and floor tiled with maroon-veined marble hexagons meant that sounds echoed, acquiring resonance. This was a chamber of authority. The majority of its central area was taken up by a circular table, topped with sumptuous crimson leather, gold-edged and set with a jumble of papers, small hand pyuters and goblets of mead. Around this huge surface sat eight people. One more sat upon the table.

Each chair was individual, though each consisted of an ebony frame, felt-backed, carved with flowers and scimitars. It was in colour and design that they varied. One was grey and green, another white, another maroon; one was huge, one moderate, one boasted sidearms like the wings of a bat.

An impasse had brought the silence. The nine glanced at one another.

The Portreeve shifted in her chair. ‘We must make a decision.’ She scratched her scalp, took a sip of mead, then continued, ‘I would not have independents working in defender groups. It is a matter of principle. Independents reject the bounty of the Citadel. Let the fools suffer. If the families they come from were even a little less respected in the city, I would convert them all to revellers by abolishing the class entirely.’

Ammyvryn sat up straight. ‘We could put off the decision until next week. Why don’t we all consider the problem for a few days, then discuss and vote next time?’

‘Why should we put it off?’ the Portreeve countered. ‘I’m becoming irritated with things not getting done. We have months in which to act, Ammyvryn, and you counsel waiting?’

General agreement, voiced in whispers and nods, followed this remark. The Portreeve, her dark eyes narrowing, her thin mouth pursed, sighed, then picked up the metal dolphin at her side and shook it like a bell. It tinkled.

‘We shall keep defender groups pure,’ she concluded gruffly. ‘Now, item twelve. Felis priestesses giving trouble. Uqeq?’

Uqeq, a short woman of middle age, somewhat wrinkled and wearing too much make-up, cleared her throat then read from the pyuter screen in her hand. Her voice was clipped and taut, almost spiky in tone. ‘Felis temple report. Three priestesses there have been preaching to Krayans in the streets of the Old Quarter, in a manner that could constitute an incitement to riot. They are being monitored by agents disguised as new acolytes. Once the truth of the possibility that they are using cats as spies within the Citadel has been validated, they will be sent under Gugul Street, having first been interrogated. If they are not using cats as spies, they will be immediately destroyed. Further report to come.’

The Portreeve nodded. ‘Better make that report soon. What’s been the public response to these feline speeches?’

Now she could not read, Uqeq became less coherent, stuttering as though she was repressing a number of psychological tics. ‘Um, they listen. They listen. There’s definitely more agitation this month, Port-tr-tr-treeve. Soon there’ll be riots.’

‘Riots?’

‘As the green wave comes south. There’ll be refugees. Lots of them, now that Highgate is breached. Huge social unrest. Riots.’

The Portreeve nodded. ‘Anything else on the cat-lovers?’

‘No.’

‘Excuse me?’ said Katoh-lin, fingernails drumming on the table. ‘We are going to leave it, mmm, mmm, at
that?
’

The Portreeve frowned. ‘You find my decision controversial?’

Katoh-lin blinked and glanced at the seven other faces, all turned to her. She said, ‘Uqeq making some bland report will achieve nothing. Mmm, mmm, we cannot on the one hand decide now on the composition of defender groups, and, mmm, on the other wait days, possibly weeks, before dealing with the cat clergy.’

Quiet Omaytra, small and pale in her low black chair, said, ‘It’s a good point, and well spoken.’

These words did not please the Portreeve. Firmly she said, ‘The majority at this table support my view, that further information is required.’

‘Information,’ Katoh-lin scoffed, sitting back and throwing a pen upon the table to indicate that this was her final word. ‘Information indeed. What, mmm, mmm, we require is
knowledge.
'

‘My decision stands,’ said the Portreeve. She paused. ‘And that is final.’ Ringing the dolphin again, she said, ‘Item thirteen. Progress with respect to the plan and the noophytes.’

Deese-lin stood up and began waving her arms about as she spoke. She always did this. ‘I told you I should have been the first item. I have news! You never listened to me, though I’m the prophet of the conscoosities. Kraandeere! Jilvers kom nachs hujks and veert-un spjiks to you all.’

The Portreeve waved at Deese-lin’s chair. ‘Sit down. What news is this?’

‘The conscoosities are febrile!’

‘The noophytes, noophytes are febrile, I, I say,’ Spyne added. She sat in a wicker dish on the table, being a womanikin – a reminder of the genetic madness of previous millennia.

‘Febrile?’ came mutters around the table.

‘What does febrile mean?’

Shaking as though in a fury, Deese-lin, sweat beginning to run from her flushed scalp and face, tried to continue her flurry of words. Occasionally sentences would separate from one another, and the Portreeve would have to make her repeat their gist.

‘You always bawl me out!’ she said. ‘I told you there would be trouble. The conscoosities say that the time is close. The jump.'

‘The, the jump, jump,’ said Spyne, nodding her tiny head.

Deese-lin pointed at the Portreeve. ‘Guiners, guiners! There are twenty voices all advising you and you don’t listen. They say you must hurry. Hurry, kraandeere! In months this city will be dead and gone, they’ve foreseen it all, and they never lie.’

‘Is what you’re trying to say,’ asked the Portreeve, ‘that we must hurry?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Spyne added.

‘Then sit. You may visit my personal chamber afterwards, Deese-lin. And bring evidence with you.’

There were looks of alarm at this. ‘Your chamber?’ Omaytra said. ‘But what about us?’

‘I don’t follow,’ said the Portreeve, shaking her head.

‘Why should we miss out on discussions concerning the plan?’

‘Deese-lin is febrile,’ answered the Portreeve, allowing herself a small smile at her jest. ‘She is temperamental–’

‘I’m sane!’ Deese-lin protested, her arm-waving violent enough to knock over a goblet.

‘Sane, sane,’ Spyne echoed.

The Portreeve sighed. ‘This becomes unseemly.’

Uqeq, pointing at Omaytra and Katoh-lin, said, ‘You stay out of this. Leave the Portr-tr-tr-treeve alone.’

The Portreeve rang her dolphin. ‘Item number fourteen. Hurry it along now, I’ve got supper in a few minutes. The Dodspaat priestess situation.’

Katoh-lin controlled her wavering voice. ‘Much as before,’ she reported. ‘I am watching her riverside house, mmm, mmm, very carefully. Unfortunately she has special pyuter circuits, and even Uqeq’s superlative agents can’t overhear her network conversations. It’s most vexing.’

‘D-d-d-damned aamlon priestess,’ Uqeq stuttered.

‘But is she dangerous? asked the Portreeve.

‘Most assuredly. She has murdered before. But what she is doing through the serpents I don’t know. Mmm, mmm, mmm, we must watch and learn–’

‘Haul her in,’ came a few voices.

Katoh-lin slapped her hand upon the leather table-top. ‘No! That would be a terrible, mmm, mistake. We must discover what she is doing first. What if she is of some illegal group? What if she is a Holist?’

‘Katoh-lin is correct,’ said Surqjna in her silky voice. She had tanned skin and penetrating brown eyes. ‘The priestess must be watched. There’s nothing we can do at the moment.’

‘Agreed,’ chorused Ammyvryn and Omaytra.

‘Lunacy,’ retorted Uqeq.

‘We’ll debate that when the time comes,’ said the Portreeve in a loud voice, glaring at Uqeq and at the fidgeting Deese-lin. ‘At the moment, it seems that she has just discovered some way of attracting the attention of the noophytes, yes?’

‘Mmm, yes,’ agreed Katoh-lin.

‘Right. If she manages anything more damaging, we’ll make her a priority. For now she’s an interfering body. However, if any of you do happen across her, she’s to be killed instantly.’

Surqjna drew in a hiss of breath, and Katoh-lin said, ‘But–’

‘That’s all,’ said the Portreeve, ringing the dolphin. ‘Fifteen. A break-in. Pyetmian.’

Pyetmian, a fat woman wearing black and red silks and a brimmed hat, said, ‘We can’t trace it exactly, Portreeve. Somebody got into a service tunnel and did some damage. It was an insider who knew how to disable the hatch alarm. It’s impossible to say how far she got. I’ve sealed the access hatch and had the area monitored. More than likely she came from the Power Station.’

The Portreeve nodded. ‘Have everyone at the Power Station who would have been in the right area at the right time sent to Uqeq’s dungeons.’

‘Yes, Portreeve.’

The dolphin rang. ‘Sixteen and last. Water shortages. Pyetmian again.’

Pyetmian nodded, glancing at a pyuter at her side. She had the air of an efficient matron. ‘We must divert much more from both Water Stations,’ she said. ‘The Krayans can stand it. l’ll have estimates of the new amounts required by us sent to you all.’ She paused, surveying the eight people around her. ‘In principle, do you agree? I don’t want to cause trouble in the city.’

‘Trouble?’ came voices.

Pyetmian shrugged. ‘Hopefully we’ll be out of Kray soon, if Surqjna and Deese-lin and the noophytes and everyone else works at full tilt. But you never know, ordinary people outside might get agitated. We’ve seen what a few miserable clerics can do. Think what might happen if Taziqi and the Goddess clerics become belligerent.’

The Portreeve clicked her tongue, obviously irritated. ‘Tsk, tsk, don’t mention that wobbling slug to me. The Goddess temple won’t spoil the plan, you have my word on that.’

Pyetmian shrugged, playing with a pen and studying the tabletop. Around the table there was an atmosphere of suspicion – glances, fidgeting fingers, sour faces.

The Portreeve stood. ‘Anything else?’

Ammyvryn said, ‘Yes. One small matter. My daughter.’

‘Your daughter. Arryquyn? Aryquellen? Is it urgent, I’m late for supper.’

‘I just wanted to say that she’s to be watched.’

‘Why?’ asked Katoh-lin and Surqjna simultaneously.

‘Because. There are spies everywhere.’

‘Very well. Spies or no spies, the meeting is closed until next time. You may all leave the Nonagon.’

~

Zinina left the house and hurried into Pine Street, the site of the nearest working wall-screen. Bypassing console security with a pin, she dialled ten numbers.

A querulous voice answered. ‘Hello?’ It was Qmoet.

Zinina spoke in jannitta. ‘It’s me. Any luck with the Citadel data I sent you?’

‘Ky and Eskhatos are working on it. You got more?’

‘No. I’m planning though… oh, hang on.’ A cat had prowled into view on the window sill above and to the left of her, an old moggy by the look of it. Zinina raised her needle rifle and killed it first shot. It dropped into a puddle, splashing water out and leaving a halo of wriggling orange worms. ‘I’m planning a second mission,’ she continued. ‘I think we’ll have Arrahaquen along this time.’

‘Are you
sure?
’

‘I know, I know, she’s Ammyvryn’s daughter. No, she seems totally genuine, Qmoet. I know my instincts. She’s genuine or I’m a man. Actually I even quite like her. A bit.’

Qmoet stayed quiet. The line crackled and Zinina noticed the blue edges of the screen fading. ‘Not even a hint of a plot behind Arrahaquen?’ Qmoet said at last.

‘Nothing. C’mon, she left us a
ficus
plant as security!’

‘You keep sending in the data, huh? We’re glad you told us about noophytes, but we still don’t know what they are. Must be a very old word.’

‘Talking of which, have Ky or Gishaad-lin had any luck with that word, “dwan”?’

‘No.’

Zinina cursed under her breath. ‘It must mean something. Listen, Graaff-lin told me she made this recording from a serpent, and it said “dwan” was a heart word that the likes of us shouldn’t use.’

‘We’ll see what we can find out.’

‘I’ll call again when my mission’s set up.’

‘Take care, Zin.’

The line went dead, and the screen speakers fizzed at her, as though in revenge at her illicit ways. Zinina removed her pin from the data port. A scrap of silver paper lying on the screen caught her eye. She picked up the scrap and examined it. It was a square of foil that looked as if it had held a tablet. She sniffed it.

Menthol.

Startled, Zinina stared at the foil, then turned to scan the street, half expecting to meet the gaze of somebody else. There was no watcher. A few defenders hunched dejected over their cannisters of verticide passed by. The windows of every house she could see were shuttered. Disconcerted, Zinina began the walk back to Graaff-lin’s house. The foil she stowed inside her kit.