Burying the Shadow (21 page)

‘Hadith!’

She covered
her eyes with her hands. ‘I’m sorry. I know. I know.’

By this time,
I was very concerned for her. ‘You must take a measure of brandy,
my dear. Compose yourself. Under the circumstances, I think it
would be best if I sent Tamaris to the Carmen Tricante straight
away with a message. Meanwhile, I will escort you home and speak to
the Sarim on your behalf.’

‘Thank you,
Gimel. I will never be able to repay this favour.’ Hadith wearily
put her head in her hands and let me take control.

That should
have been an end to the matter. The Tricantes should have
discreetly exterminated the nuisance. Plans went horribly awry,
however. Two days later, after careful investigations had been
made, Hadith’s doting admirer - a man revealed to be Oro Mervantes
- was annihilated by Perdina, a young woman of the Tricante family.
Unfortunately, Mervantes’ mistress, a woman named Rosalia, had
become aware of her lover’s interest in Hadith. She had been making
jealous investigations of her own, observing her lover’s apartment
from concealment, hoping to catch him
in flagrante
. On the
night in question, while surveying Oro’s rooms from a neighbouring
building, she witnessed Perdina entering Mervantes’ apartment by a
rear entrance. Supposing this cloaked and furtive female to be her
dreaded rival, Rosalia silently followed Perdina at a distance.
Thus, the Tricante was caught red-handed; a knife in her hand;
Mervantes, throat slit, at her feet. Regrettably, Rosalia had the
presence of mind to crack Perdina over the head with a bed-warmer,
before running out into the street, where she fell to her knees,
screaming for whoever could hear her to fetch the judiciary. A
semi-conscious Perdina was subsequently taken into custody,
whereupon the Judificator of Sacramante discovered he had an
embarrassing situation on his hands.

The judicial
system of the city is, of course, run by the patrons, so it should
have been a simple matter to discreetly compensate the murder
victim’s family with no further questions asked. However, the
grieving mistress would not let the case rest, and recruited
Mervantes’ brother Zalero to her cause. Between them, they kicked
up a tremendous fuss, and demanded the execution of Perdina
Tricante. All the patrons’ efforts to subdue the situation were to
no avail. Encouraged by Rosalia, Zalero Mervantes embarked upon
investigations of his own, and consequently published a pamphlet on
the affair, which he distributed in the streets. He raised
excruciatingly uncomfortable questions. What was the motive for
Perdina’s crime? Using Rosalia’s evidence, he did not believe it
had been the action of a lunatic; it had been too premeditated.
Inspection of Oro’s journal did not disclose any romantic
attachment to Perdina, but it was rather revealing concerning his
infatuation with Hadith Sarim. Winsome poems asked the beloved why
she shut herself away in the atelier courts. Why were her people so
distant and aloof, as if they had a thousand secrets to keep?
Zalero considered these questions himself - although unlike his
unfortunate brother, he was starkly devoid of any sentimentality.
He concluded it was more than a coincidence that Oro had been
murdered after falling in love with an artisan. It was as if his
eyes had suddenly been unsealed, after a lifetime of blindness. He
realised no one ever had any relationship with the artisans, no-one
saw the interior of the atelier courts. What secrets were hidden
there? Who exactly
were
the artisans? What race were they?
Where had they come from? And why did the ruling families of
Sacramante do so much to protect them? Had Perdina Tricante been
involved with Hadith Sarim herself, thus murdering Oro out of
jealousy, or were her motives darker, and less obvious, than
that?

His inquiring
pamphlet was widely read by Sacramantans and, according to reports
we received from the patrons’ agents, the question upon every
non-patron’s lips was simply: why have I not stopped to think about
these enigmas before?

An emergency
meeting of the Parzupheim was called, attended by elders of many of
the patron families and the Kaliph Izobella herself. The most
significant point addressed was the practicality of ridding
ourselves of Rosalia and Zalero’s unwanted attention, by
exterminating them. Or had they made themselves too visible to the
public eye for that to be a safe option? If they died, or
disappeared, would others take up the flag of their activities? It
was a desperate moment. One eloim even advocated that we should
take Zalero and Rosalia into our confidence and elevate them to the
ranks of the patrons in the hope they would understand the greater
implications and let the matter drop. Few of the eloim, and none of
the patrons, thought this was a good idea. Rosalia and Zalero were
too incensed and excited for the subtly addictive properties of
being supped to affect them.

Our familiar
reality had changed; humanity had begun to question our existence.
Sadly, Izobella resolved that, in her opinion, there was only one
way to safeguard eloim secrecy; Perdina Tricante must be sacrificed
to the executioner’s blade. Even then, there was no guarantee such
drastic measures would be enough to satisfy the Mervantes.

Understandably, the Tricantes objected strongly to the Kaliph’s
suggestion. They could not countenance Perdina being executed for
something her family had ordered her to carry out. They pleaded for
reconsideration. Yet, there seemed no alternative. Some patron
families supported the Tricantes, others pressed for a passionless
resolution of the problem. The meeting fell into disarray, forcing
the Parzupheim and the Kaliph to call for an adjournment.

Later the same
day, Perdina herself resolved the situation by taking her own life.
She left a note claiming she had murdered Oro out of jealousy,
which given that she must have been in an unhinged frame of mind
when she wrote it, sounded convincingly hysterical. The Mervantes
were quickly heaped with palliative compensations; money,
privileges, goods. Perhaps that would be enough. Of course, it was
not.

Zalero had
indeed woken up. He had transcended all the subtle restrictions
placed upon his people, and set about incubating a racial hatred
for the artisans throughout his society. He insisted that his
brother’s death must not be in vain; something sinister was going
on in the atelier courts and he intended to discover what it
was.

The eloim
prudently abandoned all street performances and withdrew into the
atelier courts, appearing in public only in establishments
frequented exclusively by patrons. Perhaps unwisely, under the
circumstances, the patron families insisted that Zalero and Rosalia
were public nuisances and demanded their incarceration in the
judicial stronghold. Naturally, this caused a furore, although many
Sacramantans took the opposite stance, speaking out for the
artisans, and urging us to return to public performance. The fact
that we were wary of doing so only provoked further suspicion.
Mervantes’ followers - a minority, but loud-voiced - complained
about the artisans’ privileges and riches. They declared we were
nothing more than maggots in the heart of Sacramantan society,
barring anyone who was not of our race - people who could
undoubtedly be just as successful, given a chance - from attaining
prominence in the creative fields. Could it not also be said that
the artisans’ selfish dominance of the Arts possessed distinctly
political overtones? Who in fact, inquired Mervantes’ followers,
really reigned in Sacramante, while the Bochanegran dynasty clearly
danced exclusively to artisan tunes? Money poured into artisan
coffers from the vaults of the old Sacramantan families, they said.
These same families would not sponsor common people and, as their
old money controlled all the galleries and theatres, would not
contemplate the exhibition of unsponsored work - never mind the
purchase of it. Mervantes’ people declared that this situation
effectively prevented anyone who was not favoured by the old
families making a living as an artist or performer. This was, of
course, true to a degree, and the way both patrons and eloim wanted
things to be, but we could hardly admit that. However, we did not
actively suppress natural flair in the un-supped, and would, should
an individual case merit it, elevate a talented person in rank,
absorbing them into patron community.

Zalero and
Rosalia, with their rebellious demands, undermined the delicate
status quo. Even after they had been imprisoned, demonstrations
were staged beyond the atelier walls, non-patrons marching up and
down, demanding that the gates be opened and that poets and artists
of their own be allowed to take up residence.

Everyone was
thrown into profound anxiety, and I paid a visit to the family
stronghold, hoping to be reassured by my father.

Clear morning light
fell into the small, comfortable room Metatron used as his private
study. Beyond the windows, the Metatronim garden bloomed in
profusion beneath a serene summer sky. The whole scene was one of
tranquil contentment and it was hard to believe there was anything
amiss in the world, looking out there.

Metatron
embraced me warmly, offering me brandy and a seat beside the
window. His voice sounded blithe although his face betrayed his
anxiety.

‘Are the
un-supped right?’ I asked him. ‘Has the time come when they no
longer need us? Is our star on the descendent?’

Metatron sat
down beside me and gripped my arms firmly. ’Gimel, beloved
daughter, do not lose your faith! Do not let despair into your
heart, for it is certain I shall need your help in the near future.
I believe all this upheaval is merely another result of the subject
we discussed before. Someone, somehow, has upset the equilibrium.
It is this that has allowed Mervantes to wake up and view things
with an objective eye.’

I wriggled in
his hold. ‘But where is all this leading us, Metatron, where?’

My father
relaxed his grip and dropped his eyes. ‘Sadly, I am concerned it
might lead us, once again, to war.’

I could not
bear the thought of that, and stood up quickly, needing to make
some physical movement. I pressed my hands against the window
glass, wondering if I dared to break it, and whether the pain of
cutting my flesh would lessen the pain of terror in my heart. ‘And
if it does?’ I asked. ‘What then? Do we have a chance? In
comparison to humanity, the eloim are few on this world. They would
overwhelm us, no matter what dark verses you might dare to
quote!’

Metatron
pulled my stiff fingers away from the window, and gently pushed me
back into my seat. ‘Gimel, you know as well as I do that we fought
for our lives once, and could, if necessary, do so again. We might
have become indolent over the years, but we are not powerless,
although I sincerely hope it will not come to war.’

‘I don’t see
how you can prevent it!’ I said. ‘For years, you have talked of
taking action and yet have done nothing but use the patron agents
as spies. You have succeeded only in gathering a collection of
folklore tales! Forgive me, but I fail to perceive how this can
help us now!’

‘That
information has been more useful than you think,’ Metatron said
stiffly. ‘I am sure that if we can remove the disruptive influence
at work in the world, the situation will calm down, and we will be
able to resume our activities unmolested.’

His words did
not reassure me. ‘I am not so sure,’ I said. ’We are interlopers in
this world; it is not ours. Therefore, the question has to be
asked: do we even have the right to fight to remain in it?’

Metatron
looked at me in disbelief, almost anger. Then, his expression
changed to one of great weariness. ‘Gimel, forgive me, I sometimes
forget how young you are. Let me explain. We have given so much to
these people,
so much
. It was through Lord Sammael’s love
for humankind that we, his followers, lost our power in the old
world. We did not have to follow him here, Gimel. We could have
stayed in our natural realm, but Sammael convinced us humanity was
in peril, so what could we do but give him our support? The traitor
Mikha’il sent all his legions against us, we suffered great losses,
yet we adhered to our beliefs - for the sake of humanity, not just
for ourselves. Essentially, we relinquished everything we had to
live here among the people.’

If his
explanation was designed to appease me, it failed. ’Do you know, in
some ways, I’m beginning to think Avirzah’e is right!’ I said.
‘Your words have only served to remind me how little gratitude
we’ve received for our sacrifice! Humanity thanks us with war! With
hatred!’

Metatron’s
voice was gentle. ‘Remember, we gave in love, Gimel. And the
Tartaruch is
not
right. You must never think that. There is
nothing to be gained by going backwards.’

My
conversation with Metatron threw me into greater turmoil. I could
not speak to Beth about it; his reaction to the Mervantes affair
had been to shut himself away in his brush court and apply himself
mindlessly to his work. If I attempted to confide in him, he only
grunted in reply, and then changed the subject. I was tempted to
shout at him, shock him into facing reality. Hiding behind a canvas
would not save him if the Sacramantans ransacked the atelier
courts. Feverishly, I considered fleeing Sacramante. Perhaps I
might reveal myself to Rayojini and live, for a while, on the road
with her, until the situation in the city was resolved one way or
the other.

During those
days of anxiety and fear, I know I was hard on Rayojini, nipping
her heels from a distance, somehow transferring my helplessness
onto her through persistent assaults on her mind. Other times,
weighed down with guilt, I would attempt to soothe her and bring
her pleasure, but she had become so adept at coping with me, it was
easy for her to repel my gentler approaches.