Death Dances, Page 2

  The Thief, meanwhile, had woken from a similar dream, up in a dirty flea-tip, and at once, in a cruel clear voice that was not to be denied, exclaimed that linen must instantly be changed, floors scrubbed, and an unaccountable quantity of chicken feathers removed from the hangings.

  Ruffians and knife-boys leapt to obey with alacrity. One crouched fawningly at the Thief's blue slippers. He asked if he was needed to read her anything.

  "Read?" she kicked him flying. Her pale face was flushed and her black eyes shone with relaxed malevolence. "I can read quite well for myself, you damnable ant. Was I not temple-trained?"

  The kicked cut-throat beat a retreat. How could he have been so aberrant? The whole slum quarter sang of her learning, yearningly.

  While the Priest who guarded the Flame had been writing poetry to it all night, adrift in intellectual space. Or so it seemed he had, only once contrastingly drifting into a peculiar dream, doubtless of vast psychic import, when he could be bothered to interpret it—but he had cast it aside on waking with a rather military shrug.

  Now, standing over it, he regarded the sacred Flame, just immortalised in his verse, with eyes that matched the fire and blond hair which did not. Eventually, leaning forward, he blew the Flame out.

  "Yes," said the Priest, with gentle satisfaction. "And there you have it." And striking flint and tinder, he lit the Flame again, nodded at it, and walked from the chamber.

  Outside, he found a novice on duty, waiting to take up the poet-Priest's guardianship whenever he felt inclined to abscond. This often happened, as the novice would explain. This one Priest was noted for such behaviour. And for other actions. For example, exactly today, striding to the temple treasury with an idle yet undeniable salute at its sentries, he flung open the coffers. Going out on the street he began to distribute largesse to the deserving, (and sometimes, to the beautiful). "Every temple, even ours, should have its oddity, its wayward matter," the High Priestess had declared in glowing defence of the poet. "We are admired for our tolerance. Besides, his writings and verses are nonpareil." They were rather captivated, too, by his lack of guilt over anything.

  And last of all, the Captainess of Three Twenties, which she already had some plans to increase to Six Twenties before high summer, had left her inn and gone home. Home to that family of hers so rich it was ludicrous. They were somewhat in awe of her. It was not very usual to have one's daughter enlist in the armies of Idradrud, and then to become celebrated and successful there. But she had a way with men, the Captainess. Riding into battle, with her dark hair under helmet and war-plumes, her green eyes feral, and her sword-hand rock steady, she had inspired an exceptional sort of fright in many an adversary.

  Her kindred welcomed her this morning with uneasy open arms, almost as if they had expected someone else, and were bruised by the medals clanking on her delightful breast. (It was said, the last enemy general she had whipped across seven hills.) But now she only seemed inclined to push her brothers in the lily-pond. And there they went, splish-splash.

  * * *

  Those who got their living in an immemorial way along the river of Idradrud, these had had a busy night. What a catch—gems, cutlasses, military insigniae… and—chicken feathers?

  It would appear a harlot had been murdered by a mad client and pushed in the water from her balcony. It turned out a thief had been attacked by rivals and dumped there, with a hole in his back, and a little fowl clinging to his collar. It seemed a priestess had grown insane and run from her temple to suicide in the unsavoury depths. It transpired an army captain had done likewise.

  And yet, is there not something not quite right with the bodies the traders in death have fished from the river? Brought in by net and oar alongside the narrow boat, or raised up by the hair through panting divers bursting the surface, muddy from the river's bottom, and with shells in their beards—cadavers, such as one expects, but skins unsolid, faces washed too expressionless—"Just take the jewels, the coins and knives, the rings, the medals, and sword—Why philosophise? Why quibble? The river does that to corpses. But quick—strip them quick—before they melt away altogether and are gone."

  And over there in the Pink House, Kreet bangs open the door and roars at his visitor: "Late again, you dog of a lord!" And thrashes a truly grisly whip, (to loud approving cackles from somewhere), and the lord—in startled, horrified misgiving and ecstasy—flops on his face to get his money's worth—and never did he recall such enthusiasm in his treatment formerly—

  And along there, in an alley two feet wide, Sume; who has recently tattooed on the ankle of an enemy: Sume likes me, Sume picks the pockets of sozzled merchants as she asks them the hour, or the way to the blue temple of the Flame, to which she has no intention of going. And presently points out an exquisite boy, who blushes, at which Sume says to her loving homicides: "Bring me that one, for later," and smiles, oh-so-softly-eyed—

  And up there, in the blue temple a moment ago mentioned, Mhiglay is sitting with his feet on the High Priest's inlaid table, oblivious to duty, the table, and the High Priest, writing nonpareil poetry on an orange skin, proudly and fondly watched on every side—

  And in the topmost lower mansion of Idradrud, where gold statuary crowds the roofs, Bitza is having a 'mock' duel with an opinionated uncle, and he is in grave fear of his life—

  And it is of no use asking what goes on. Asking what arrangement, precisely, led to this. Or if perhaps we are not all involved in it and simply do not recollect, or have been, or will be…

  Ask Death. There she is, down in the groves just beyond the city, where the myrtles grow with snakes around their boughs. Death, pretty as a picture, in between the wild white trees. Look, you can see what she does. Death dances, with her shadow—and why should she not have one?—and all the stars in her hair.