The Promise of the Child

Part 11 (updated daily)

Virginis

Looking up at the vaulted-walls unfolded something in the observer's mind, expanded it somehow. Sotiris never tired of gazing upwards, and had never sat or spoken to anyone without taking time to glance around him just once more as he considered the business before him. A person, no matter how philosophically minded, could stare into the ink of the Void without comprehension, pupils unmoved by what they hadn't been constructed to parse, but looking at this was different. It was like peering inside one's own eyeball, scooped of its vitreous jelly and with only the raw nerves left clinging to the inner surface. Above him arced millions of square miles of islands the colour of autumn leaves, birthed by one enormous river delta that bled across the world in mint-green tributaries. Cloud patterns whirled and drifted, a great storm hanging like a bruise across one of the small inland seas above; there would be ships crossing that glittering bay, tiny galleons too small to see tossed and blown in the gale. Stationed at the centre of the world upon a network of colossal buttresses three thousand miles above, between him and the storm, was the small, silent Organ Sun. It was dim enough to look at, its tides of fire peeling apart at a thin black band running down one side to cast an amber shadow across a wedge of the Vaulted Land a few thousand miles over Sotiris's shoulder, high on one mountainous continent.

The dream still lingered, faint in his thoughts. As always, he'd awoken before the boat reached the harbour, but it was closer than it had ever been now. Close enough for the crew to start uncoiling heavy ropes and stand with them, smiling and waving. That was new.

Hytner, slumped back in his chair, was looking at him.

'I did suggest that we stop at Henry James.'

Sotiris sat up straighter, rubbing his eye with a knuckle. 'Which book were we talking about?'

Hytner picked it up from the table, tapping the title. 'Portrait of a Lady. Didn't you read any of it?'

He tried to remember but came up blank. 'Weren't we on Dumas? Have we skipped some?'

Sotiris's friend stared back, apparently mystified. 'Last year, Sotiris. We read Dumas when I came to see you in Cancri.'

'Ah. Cancri. That's right. I was at the September House.' He scratched his neck and frowned incredulously. 'Almost a year ago.'

Hytner continued to stare, playing with the carnelian buttons of his frilled collar. 'Is something the matter?'

'Something the . . . ? No, nothing's amiss. Keep going.' He pointed at the book in Hytner's hand. 'What did you think of it?'

His companion sighed, slapping the tiny jewelled book resembling an ancient pocket Bible back on the table. 'I gave up at eighty pages.'

Sotiris smiled, stretching into his chair and watching the contented movements of the bees around them in the meadow. One drifted close enough for him to see its silver shell, beaded with orbs of fabulously expensive blue lapis: even the insects here were pampered beyond measure. Such things were of course modest in comparison to those in his home Satrapy – there the bees' robotic counterparts were each made from a single lump of gold, hollowed precisely to make a functioning drone capable of mindless pollination. But that was Cancri, where the concept of understated opulence simply did not exist.

He watched a speck rise and drift away from the surface flames of the sun, thinking about the harbour. Across the lawns, clothed Melius acolytes were playing something with bats and balls. Beyond them rose the Virginis cathedrals, great geometric shapes in the curved haze. He heard the umpire of the game announce something, watching the play come to a brief halt.

'That was out,' said Hytner faintly, leaning forward as if he meant to interrupt their play. He squinted, raising the flat of his hand to shade his eyes. 'He's allowed it, though.'

The two of them looked at each other as the Melius resumed their game. Eventually Hytner let out a long breath, the delicate cream lace around his chin trembling. 'I suppose you've heard from your friend by now? What mischief is he preparing down there? Or are you not allowed to tell me?'

Sotiris smiled at him and shook his head. 'I have received no letters from Maneker, though I know you won't believe me.'

Hytner returned his gaze to the game. 'So he departs for the Old World and doesn't even tell his dearest friend.' He hesitated, battling some internal dialogue. Sotiris could almost hear it. At last he gave in. 'What kind of Amaranthine has he become? What could they possibly have done to him to turn him so quickly?'

'He has been persuaded,' said Sotiris with a shrug, aware that the leisurely morning of idle talk was now at an end. 'Just as the Devout were.' He watched Hytner bridle at his words.

'The Devout, indeed,' he spat. 'If only His Venerable Self could be made to see that this edict should be reversed – have Maneker put away somewhere, a Utopia. At least exiled, removed somehow, and his followers punished for such presumption.' Hytner shook his head. 'This new business with the Prism should count for something.'

Sotiris blinked sleepily in the sunlight, brushing another of the glinting bees from his armrest. 'You think the Satrapies are in enough danger to warrant overturning an edict?'

Hytner's eyes narrowed. 'You don't? The Prism ridicule our borders, Sotiris, pilfering what they like when our attention is engaged elsewhere. If it weren't for the Vulgar and Pifoon standing armies, the Firmament would be overrun in months, if not less.' He leaned forward. 'Perhaps not even the Vulgar can be trusted any more, since the rumours of some new . . .' He searched for the words. 'Some new killing device being developed at Nilmuth persist.' Hytner regarded him gravely. 'These primates grow too big for their cage. Its bars must be strengthened.'

Sotiris raised his dark eyebrows. 'I don't believe the Prism – as they are now – could arrange a decent invasion force for all the treasure in the Firmament, let alone develop anything new that we haven't foreseen or manufactured ourselves.' He spread his hands. 'If you are so convinced, then surely all the more reason to let the edict stand, perhaps – why not allow this Pretender to try his hand at wielding the Firmament's might? Why be so eager to crush him before we've seen what he can do?'

Hytner compressed his lips to a thin, pale line before he spoke again. 'If you were not the most dependable of Perennials I would consider that a treasonous comment, Sotiris. Treasonous beyond belief. His Venerable Self can only be protected by a Parliament of peers now, he's too—'

Sotiris sat up slightly, exasperated. The man's silence lingered irritatingly in the air. 'Say it,' Sotiris replied at last. 'Go on. He's mad. Insane. Destined for a Utopia himself before too long.' He stared at his friend. 'I know it, you know it, twenty thousand Amaranthine damn well know it.'