Kassais took the opportunity to lean over and murmur in Vyle’s ear. ‘Are you entirely certain this is wise, dear cousin? Letting another ship enter port, as it were?’
The Shrike Lord’s expression did not so much as flicker at Kassais’s show of impudence. ‘You should take lessons from Yegara, you share the same strange compunction to tell me my business within my own hall,’ Vyle growled back. ‘Would you have me turn a troupe of Harlequins away from my door and hang the consequences? I am not so great a fool as that!’
By this time the Harlequin had thrown open the doors with a mighty heave. They revealed the scene outside utterly changed from the dour dressed stone of the Confluence. There was now a woodland scene beyond, a green clearing basking in bright sunshine. Two figures rose from the centre of the glade. One was tall and clad in scarlet finery crowned with a golden mask. The other was slight and wrapped in a hood and mantle that seemed to be spun out of shadows. As this one rose it could be seen that her featureless oval mask shone like quicksilver.
‘Well met, my friends,’ the figure in red said in a marvellous, mellifluous voice that seemed to carry to every corner of the hall. ‘I am Ashanthourus, king to an ancient land now lost. This is Cylia, my inspiration and my queen.’
Taking Cylia by the hand Ashanthourus advanced into the hall itself, and the throng of Vyle’s guests gave back before his approach like frost before the sun. The fragrance of wildflowers drifted into the hall and with it came the sound of songbirds. Other figures suddenly appeared behind him and came streaming in through the doors bearing garlands, ribbons and floating silk banners. Moment by moment the orange hall was metamorphosed from a place of umber shadows into a bright, garish space that was wild and primitive in its aspect.
‘I thank you for your welcome of my errant servant, Lo’tos, and your acceptance of our Masque,’ Ashanthourus said to Vyle, and then nodded behind him. ‘Allow me also to introduce Hradhiri Ra and… Motley.’
The Shrike Lord looked and saw his own throne was now occupied by a slight figure dressed in archaic clothes covered in tiny diamond panes of black and white – the pattern known as motley, Vyle remembered. Behind the throne stood an imposing figure in a long coat and skull-faced helm – this would be the troupe’s Death Jester. Vyle smiled bleakly at the sight.
‘Greetings, Death,’ he said soberly to Hradhiri Ra. ‘I’ve always thought you stood at my shoulder, now I see that is true.’
‘Death stands at the shoulder of every mortal,’ the Death Jester rasped. ‘They are born only to wait for the touch of his bony fingers before passing from this realm. Today, tomorrow, it matters not – death comes for every mortal in the end.’
Kassais laughed aloud at that. ‘Perhaps in the world of mud you occupy that is true, but in the eternal city death has no dominion,’ he said.
‘Oh, I’d have to take issue with that,’ Motley said with a knowing grin. ‘I’d say the dominion of death is stronger in Commorragh than almost any other place in the universe. What you’re saying is that some people there simply don’t feel the pinch too often, but that isn’t true either. Everything, and I mean everything , dies one day. The real question is whether you can come back afterwards.’
‘Quiet, fool!’ Ashanthourus snapped. ‘These fine nobles have no patience for your philosophical blather! Get yourself gone from this company until you are called upon.’
Motley rose with a quirking smile, and bowed elaborately to all present – including the trays of shellfish – before sauntering away, whistling as he went. By this time the entrance to the hall had entirely disappeared behind gauzy draperies and loops of wire wrapped with a matching mesh. The overall effect was of a narrowing cave in natural rock, or the twisting heart of a tornado seen from
The Shrike Lord’s expression did not so much as flicker at Kassais’s show of impudence. ‘You should take lessons from Yegara, you share the same strange compunction to tell me my business within my own hall,’ Vyle growled back. ‘Would you have me turn a troupe of Harlequins away from my door and hang the consequences? I am not so great a fool as that!’
By this time the Harlequin had thrown open the doors with a mighty heave. They revealed the scene outside utterly changed from the dour dressed stone of the Confluence. There was now a woodland scene beyond, a green clearing basking in bright sunshine. Two figures rose from the centre of the glade. One was tall and clad in scarlet finery crowned with a golden mask. The other was slight and wrapped in a hood and mantle that seemed to be spun out of shadows. As this one rose it could be seen that her featureless oval mask shone like quicksilver.
‘Well met, my friends,’ the figure in red said in a marvellous, mellifluous voice that seemed to carry to every corner of the hall. ‘I am Ashanthourus, king to an ancient land now lost. This is Cylia, my inspiration and my queen.’
Taking Cylia by the hand Ashanthourus advanced into the hall itself, and the throng of Vyle’s guests gave back before his approach like frost before the sun. The fragrance of wildflowers drifted into the hall and with it came the sound of songbirds. Other figures suddenly appeared behind him and came streaming in through the doors bearing garlands, ribbons and floating silk banners. Moment by moment the orange hall was metamorphosed from a place of umber shadows into a bright, garish space that was wild and primitive in its aspect.
‘I thank you for your welcome of my errant servant, Lo’tos, and your acceptance of our Masque,’ Ashanthourus said to Vyle, and then nodded behind him. ‘Allow me also to introduce Hradhiri Ra and… Motley.’
The Shrike Lord looked and saw his own throne was now occupied by a slight figure dressed in archaic clothes covered in tiny diamond panes of black and white – the pattern known as motley, Vyle remembered. Behind the throne stood an imposing figure in a long coat and skull-faced helm – this would be the troupe’s Death Jester. Vyle smiled bleakly at the sight.
‘Greetings, Death,’ he said soberly to Hradhiri Ra. ‘I’ve always thought you stood at my shoulder, now I see that is true.’
‘Death stands at the shoulder of every mortal,’ the Death Jester rasped. ‘They are born only to wait for the touch of his bony fingers before passing from this realm. Today, tomorrow, it matters not – death comes for every mortal in the end.’
Kassais laughed aloud at that. ‘Perhaps in the world of mud you occupy that is true, but in the eternal city death has no dominion,’ he said.
‘Oh, I’d have to take issue with that,’ Motley said with a knowing grin. ‘I’d say the dominion of death is stronger in Commorragh than almost any other place in the universe. What you’re saying is that some people there simply don’t feel the pinch too often, but that isn’t true either. Everything, and I mean everything , dies one day. The real question is whether you can come back afterwards.’
‘Quiet, fool!’ Ashanthourus snapped. ‘These fine nobles have no patience for your philosophical blather! Get yourself gone from this company until you are called upon.’
Motley rose with a quirking smile, and bowed elaborately to all present – including the trays of shellfish – before sauntering away, whistling as he went. By this time the entrance to the hall had entirely disappeared behind gauzy draperies and loops of wire wrapped with a matching mesh. The overall effect was of a narrowing cave in natural rock, or the twisting heart of a tornado seen from
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