The Malacia Tapestry Read online

  My pallor could be felt, creeping through me.

  'It's monstrous, unnatural!' I shook my head. 'And it's illegal.'

  'Far from being unnatural, as you call, it is commonplace when you have evil conditions. Poverty is more strong than morality. That's another reason why for the world must submit to progress. Misery must be decreased before everyone will choke to death on it.'

  I felt the blood flow back into my face until I blushed.

  'That old crippled casque-body! Are you pretending you don't blame him for what he is doing to Letitia? How do you think she feels?'

  Otto had turned away, as if to terminate our conversation. Now he turned back.

  'All I say is that unequal wealth begets unequal misery, and misery begets sin. All of us among the poor are victims alike. You should grow up and see things as they really are before your eyes.'

  'You still insult me! Even the rich know that misery and vice go together, and do their best to remedy the situation. But individuals are still individuals, and have individual responsibility for their behaviour, however unfortunate they may be.'

  'The individual is not important in the struggle,' he said. This time he did turn away, presenting his old bent back to me as he set Rhino to work.

  It was not only poverty that brought misery; wealth brought Armida a lot of unhappiness. Misery was a quality that had to be fended off with spirit, wherever it appeared.

  The proud scene restored my peace of mind. The guilds had paraded round the city and were now drawn up in their ranks along the Bucintoro, adding their bright banners and costume to the colours all about. From the merchants' palaces, various personages were emerging to loll on balconies; many of the women were wearing their most gorgeous gowns. They rested their little hands on stone balustrades, clutched posies to ward off the aroma of the crowd, and gazed down — their looks always at some point resting on me.

  My fears vanished. I had a role, the most dramatic of my career. I would perform it to the utmost. As for Bengtsohn, of course it was miserable to be poor, but the world was by no means as bad as he claimed. How could anyone with true heart gaze round the Bucintoro without feeling that heart beat faster with delight?

  As for Letitia, poverty or no poverty, she was simply a slut. I would prove myself worthy of the fair Armida, so beauteous and so kind — our recent tiff was purely Letitia's fault, and should be smoothed over the next time I had Armida within arm's reach. At that thought, my chest swelled for all the world like the seven silk bags expanding above my head.

  Hoytola and the young Duke of Renardo came over. The latter nodded obligingly to me and I bowed. He was taller than I, with the proper arrogance of his class. When he spoke, it was with gentleness.

  'You're looking confident, de Chirolo. Congratulations. You have stirred up much envy among my company, who wish for the honour that is yours; but I tell them that the matter is not under my control.' He nodded at Hoytola.

  'One is a little old to sail aloft oneself,' said Hoytola, defensively. He asked me if Bengtsohn had explained how everything worked.

  'The principle is new on this scale,' he said, tapping the largest barrel with a gold-tipped cane. 'In these barrels we have a mixture of iron filings and water which can be stirred by the turning of yonder handle. Then Bengtsohn and his men pour in the sulphuric acid through the funnels. The resulting chemical mixture causes hydrogenous air to be expelled, lighter than ordinary air. The hydrogenous air extends upwards through this rubber hose and fills the balloon, displacing the heavier ordinary air just as bad drives out good.'

  He tapped his chin with the knob of his cane as we stared up at the great sack, which was now well expanded and pressing against its enclosing wooden framework.

  'The sack is made of silk, with rubber solution applied to it inside and out to render it air-tight,' Hoytola said. 'The harness dangling underneath will enable you to have some control over the balloon when it floats free. It will be released when one pulls the cord over here, which draws bolts from the framework and causes a whole section to fall away. As with this major balloon, so with the six smaller ones.'

  'Very ingenious,' I said. The stallion was now being led along from the other end of the platform and fitted into the harness below the largest balloon, while, from the opposite direction, a priest was approaching with a look only priests can manage — rehearsed, I don't doubt, from their observations of the dead.

  Hoytola ventured to clap me once on the shoulder.

  'It is all absolutely foolproof, my boy,' he said. 'The balloons have been filling slowly for two days. In case of misadventure, the priest will administer the last rites to you. One wishes you well.'

  After the last rites, a choir burst into song and the assembled multitude applauded. The black horse with the silver shoes was harnessed and induced to stand on a small platform before I climbed into the saddle. Bengtsohn came and slapped the small of my back before pulling on the dangling cord Hoytola had mentioned. The bolts snapped back, everyone fell silent. The upper section of the wooden cage opened. The balloon began to rise. Rhino and an assistant hurriedly corked off the barrel and stood back. Rhino saluted. The reins and harness about me tightened, squeaking as it did so. Rhino's monstrous face fell away. I was airborne!

  My mount moved restively, but it was so secured that it could not shy or rear; in fact, I was safer on it in the air than I would have been on the ground.

  I looked about in rapture. My eyes met those of a fair charmer on one of the balconies. She threw me a posy of pink flowers which missed by a good margin; women are rarely accurate in such matters. I raised my hat in reply and a cheer went up from the crowd. Again I looked down, seeking a glimpse of my friends and my sister. It made me dizzy. I gazed upwards instead.

  Hoytola's hydrogenous balloon was swollen like a drunkard's stomach. It was made of silk panels coloured alternately blue and black, Malacia's colours. Stubby wings of papier mâché had been attached, together with a ferocious buglewing's head of the same material, with open beak and gleaming silvered teeth. I could gauge what impression this contrivance made by the great 'Oooh!' which came up from the throats of the crowd as we drifted between the buildings.

  The balloon rose steadily. Such breeze as there was came from the east. I adjusted my seat more comfortably and had time to take in the glint of sun along the Toi and the ships nestled there, their decks peppered with upturned faces. On the far bank of the river the vineyards began in endless array, fading into distance. The entire Bucintoro lay beneath me.

  We reached the level of its highest towers. From these towers graceful figures detached themselves, swinging towards me with strong pulses of their wings. I waved my hat at them. They waved back.

  These guardians of Malacia, the flighted people, were soon fluttering about me — six of them, three men, three women, dressed simply in a sort of loin-cloth apiece. They made no distinction for gender with regard to clothes, so that the women were bare of breast. At all three of the females I gazed appreciatively. They were young and beautifully formed — their kind lose the gift of flight once youth is over, after which they have to walk the earth like the rest of us. They smiled and called, sporting in the air with abandon like otters in a rock-pool.

  Hydrogenous exhilaration filled me. What luck, what good fortune was mine! How I longed for Armida to be with me, that my happiness might have banners!

  With my pretty friends fluttering about me, fanned by breezes from the strong pulse of their wings, I drifted across the city in a westerly direction.

  There lay Stary Most to my right, smudged by smoke from its chimneys, with Satsuma and the river beyond. Below was St Marco's. The balloon sailed between its twin towers, on which more flighted people stood, saluting, laughing, darting into the air. To my left was the prison, and the university with Founder's Hill behind, crowned with the rambling pile of the Palace of the Bishops Elect. Everywhere, pinnacles, spires and hundreds of statues, springing from balconies, pediments and roofs.

/>   We were still rising, the winged ones tugging impatiently at the ropes of the net which contained the balloon. Ahead — beyond a sprawl of slums — I could see the line of palaces and castles which marked Malacia's old line of defence; Chabrizzi, ancient Mantegan, Dio and the magnificent Renardo. Beyond them lay the foothills of the Prilipits, concealing the lines of our Turkish enemy. Towards that enemy the balloon drifted, helped by my winged escort.

  If I wished for Armida, I could not help wishing that Bengtsohn was also with me, seeing for himself how wonderful our little world was. Everything delighted from this lofty viewpoint, even the slums, even the tannery and the slaughterhouses hugging the bend of the river. Riding my silver-hoofed mount, I saw our city-state as a whole, working like an open watch. I saw every part depending on every other, ticking away the millennia in a perfectly arranged manner.

  Twisting about in the saddle to see everything, I was over whelmed by high spirits. I gave out a cheer for the city, and the beautiful creatures accompanying me cheered too.

  One of the flighted men called to look ahead. As we rose above the palaces and the fortifications that girdled Malacia, we gained a glimpse of alien tents. Soon the camp of Stefan Tvrtko was in full view.

  The enemy forces were drawn up on the banks of a stream which the summer heats had sucked to a trickle.

  Tvrtko's eastern lines contained the cannon with which he maintained his desultory bombardment of Malacia. Behind the cannon was what looked more like a small town than a military base.

  The tents had been formed into streets and squares. The grandest tents were situated in the middle, the most magnificent belonging to Tvrtko himself; a Turkish love of symmetry had placed it in the precise centre of its attendant tents. Trees had been planted round it; they were dying from lack of water. Carrion birds sat in their branches, rising up at our approach overhead.

  Behind the camp was a rag-taggle arrangement of shacks and skins. These housed the hangers-on which attach themselves to armies — Arabs, Circassians and other nomads hoping for loot, Serbs, Greeks, Armenians, Jews, all working to extract some profit from war. A great array of horses and camels could also be seen, their picquet lines straggling along the course of the stream.

  Out of the tents poured little figures which shaded their eyes to look up at us. I stared down at the king's tent. There was no sign of him, although a group of three richly dressed figures came out to stand and gaze upwards like the rest. We moved near enough to see that two of the trio had great black beards and black moustaches.

  To feel hatred for these people was impossible, although I did my best. In miniature they delighted me.

  One of the flighted women directed my attention to a patch of land on the other side of the stream. There a number of wooden posts surmounted by turbans had been raised, along with more ordinary headstones. The camp cemetery already had its permanent inhabitants. Mourners in the cemetery looked up at us in startlement and headed for the cover of trees.

  Some shots were fired at us from the camp, but it was clear that the bloated buglewing overhead, with a living man and horse riding under it, struck fear into their hearts. The forces of Tvrtko were reminded of what ancient forces they opposed; their superstitious minds would work dreadfully at this omen.

  We sailed over the tents, and had satisfaction in seeing numbers of our foe fall to their knees or run for shelter.

  When we had made a circuit of the camp, my companions tugged the balloon in the direction of safety, and it began once more to drift back over the city. It was arranged that I should descend into the Bucintoro to the same platform from which I had sailed.

  And now we saw the second part of the Malacian plan — that part, I believe, which had been born in the dark, insanitary head of that terrible councillor in the black coat with the capacious pockets who had come by night to the exhibition gallery. The six smaller balloons were sailing in our direction, towards the Turkish lines, each one bearing a dangling man.

  These dangling men were naked. They were of a curious colour. Their faces were distorted, their heads sought unnatural positions on their chests. Here was the explanation of the long, black wagon which had stood beside the platform, guarded by two masked gentlemen in black. That wagon had delivered six bodies from the mortuary.

  The plague moves fast in summer sun; like a reptile, it needs warmth for greatest energy. And it travels best among besieging armies, where conditions are insanitary. The hosts of Tvrtko had already enjoyed a visitation; but someone in Malacia had devised a way of speeding their enjoyment. These corpses would land among the sable tents and spread their corruption in impartial distribution.

  My balloon passed slowly among the dead as they swung from their harnesses. With tousled head and frosted eye, the dead men went to pay a last visit to the enemy and, if possible, accompany him to the dark hinterlands where their ghosts now found sojourn. I knew, as we returned above the bronze domes of St Marco, that the cheers along the waterfront would drown out the distant screams from the foothills.

  How exactly it came about I cannot decide, but somehow it was Andrus Hoytola whose name was toasted, who was called hero, on the occasion of the Festival of the Buglewing. He it was who made the speech from the platform while I was hustled away with the horse.

  However, he had no knowledge of the extent to which I became the hero of his daughter Armida's heart. Even Bedalar cast nourishing glances upon me. That evening, while the fountain of Stary Most ran with the Bishop's wine, Armida played truant with me. The two of us, with de Lambant, Caylus and other friends, pledged each other to youth and love and friendship, long life to Malacia, and death to all who interfered with the natural and happy order of affairs.

  Book Two

  A Feast Unearned

  We were staggering rather drunkenly through the dark streets of Malacia, de Lambant and I, each carrying our guitars, and occasionally attempting a ballad. Night was wearing thin about its edges. The second day of the Festival of the Buglewing was over; the bird was on its way towards the third, and nothing was left but dawn.

  When Armida and Bedalar were confined to their respective family circles, de Lambant and Portinari and I roistered with our friends in the town until our money ran out. Otto's zahnoscope had been put away during the festivities, but word and an honorarium had come from Pozzi Kemperer, by way of one of his uglier servitors, that there would be work for us as soon as autumn approached. Our credit was restored. We were welcome again in Truna's.

  Some time during the course of the evening — it had stretched on for ever — we serenaded both Armida and Bedalar under their windows. Slops had been thrown at us at the Hoytola mansion, and a dog set on us at the Nortolini mansion.

  So we tottered back through the lanes of Stary Most. We had lost the portly Portinari. We were out of money and mischief, and unwilling to go to bed. We sang, and were also out of voice.

  We were crossing a footbridge over the Rosewater, a stinking ditch despite its fragrant name, when Guy exclaimed and looked over the parapet into the swirling water.

  'De Chirolo, fancy a swim? There's a body down here, quick!'

  I looked into the flood and saw nothing.

  'Your reflection.'

  'By the bones! He must have sunk again. He went rolling under the parapet. A man without a head.'

  'Your reflection.'

  'I saw him. Man without a head.'

  'Either it's an omen or you're drunk. There's nothing there.' He looked ghastly. A dim lamp lit the bridge. As we stood and stared at each other, making sure our own heads were in place, a cock crowed.

  Arches of old warehouses met here in ruinous corners, leaning against each other for support. Forgotten aberrations of architecture rested their ancient cheekbones against one another. In a derelict potter's shop, shapes of unglazed pitchers stared out at the world like blank faces, while furtive animal lives littered the dead doorways with bones and rubbish. It was an appropriate place in which to encounter corpses.

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sp; Glancing about, I saw over my shoulder no corpse but the apparition of a beautiful woman. I nudged de Lambant. The woman stood erect and commanding, clear of eye, ample of breast, her golden hair plaited in two plaits which dangled to her nipples. She wore a loose, white gown which hung from one shoulder, leaving a breast naked and covering the rest of her body down to her feet. A helmet was on her head. She carried a burnished shield.

  'De Lambant!' My whisper rasped my throat.

  The striking creature appeared to shimmer. As I took a step towards her, she rippled like a reflection in water and was gone. Where she had been stood an old man, an ancient husk, upright, skeletal, without a wisp of hair on his head. He bore a staff and stared fixedly beyond us. His eyes blazed.

  'The demon drink again,' I said. 'I could have sworn I —'

  'Swear not,' cried this aged figure. 'Whoever swears becomes less than the man he was. You will be here only a minute.'

  'We aren't even staying that long. We're off home,' de Lambant said, but the old man spoke again, unmoving in the deep penumbra of his arch.

  'I come from the far north and I go to the deep south. I pass by the misty windows of your life like a crane in flight, making for the Sahara marshes, and tomorrow shall have left your city.'

  'We are out of money, I'm sorry,' I said, feeling bolder now, for the mouthing of such platitudes as his was a habit common among the ancients of Malacia. 'We were hoping you might stand us a drink. Or introduce us to your lovely daughter.'

  'You witnessed an illusion, young fellow. Nor was it my daughter who visited you, but Minerva, mother of us all. She holds special meaning for you.'

  'What special meaning?'

  'She is wisdom. You must be visited by wisdom…'

  'Come on, de Lambant,' I said, for Guy showed every sign of forming himself into an audience of one. 'I've had enough advice recently, and would prefer to run my own life, whichever way the cranes are heading.'