EIGHT
'Shit.' Beami pressed her head into her hands. Then, through strands of dark hair, she regarded the mess lying on her desk. Hybridization: the dangerous art of combining relics – also her area of expertise – and if she had tried to activate this particular blend she might have blown herself to pieces. That was because two copper sections of a charged Foroum relic didn't want to fit into this theoretical structure. A hundred different pieces of metal were scattered across the desk, so she scooped them all up and shoved them in a box waiting to one side. Leaning back in her leather chair, she groaned despondently. The Nantuk Development Company would have to wait another few months for its demolition device, which she hoped would be able to age stone so rapidly that it would become instant dust. In a room full of traders and government officials – even the portreeve himself – she had announced this as an improvement on what she'd developed before, and as representing by far the safest stage in the evolution of remedial work. They could, she promised, clear unsafe buildings within a day. Lutto's eyes had lit up and he spoke of a tempting subsidy.
But today's shoddy results had aged her a good few years. The bloody theory was there, all the equations blazed across the bits of vellum pinned on her wall like the graffiti of intelligence. So why wouldn't it work?
Stupid fermions. Stupid eigenvalues. Stupid ancient mathematics.
A lantern faded out, leaving her with just the other one, which hung against the far wall. Books and papers were littered everywhere, many of them irrelevant to her efforts, and some of them not really legal – but this was Villiren after all. Jars of elements and compounds, boxes of metals known or unidentified, the room was a spoil heap of junk to the untrained eye; but to her it offered a haven for relative independence.
Then, in the relative darkness, she contemplated seeing him again. She needed to get out: the thought of Lupus was a distraction.
This girl needed to talk.
How long was it now?
*
Away from her work, her social circle consisted of poets and libertines, artists and illegal priests, and those who wanted in on the scene. Their distractions were music and ad hoc plays, discussion and intense debate going on until the small hours, even though she never made it to such gatherings as often as she liked. All in all, it seemed unusual company for a cultist – a woman dedicated to technology – but she hoped she would find some of them in the Symbolist, a glittering little bistro crammed with wine bottles and candles and polished wood.
It was early morning, and perhaps some of them might still be hanging about from the evening before, hungover enough to sit still and listen to what she had to say. Deep in the Ancient Quarter, where the buildings leaned against each other for support, the entire mood of the city changed. This was a bohemian district, a place of distinct character, of an alien dignity. Of domes and spires and the Onyx Wings. Incense drifted from open fires beside which tribal prophets preached their doctrines openly. Rumel and humans mixed equally amongst the esoteric wares on display.
The Symbolist was deceptively small, a whitewashed building that looked out on an impoverished iren. As she approached, someone recognized her, an old man wearing faded garments, and with a distant look in his eyes.
Clasping both hands before her, he said, 'Please, you are a cultist, aren't you?'
'What's it to you?' Beami replied, sick of receiving this sort of attention.
'Please, save us from the imminent dangers. There are stories of war and terror-'
'Look, just piss off, all right? We're not your saviours. Stop trying to worship us.'
The old man collapsed to his knees and bowed obsequiously before her. How many times did people need telling? Beami just wanted to get on with her own life, not be venerated like some fake priest. She hurried on past him.
Inside the bistro, in a far corner, was Rymble, the short, skinny poet with annoyingly well-kept blond hair – and those wild shirts. Today's was a garish, orange flower pattern. Sprawled across a table, he sat up on her entrance, and called out jokingly from beneath his green half-mask. 'Beami! You miserable bitch! I bet you've not even got me some arum weed. I was going to immortalize you in a poem, but, alas, I shall refrain, and instead give that honour to a better-looking woman.'
'Your words are shit,' she replied. 'Perhaps try shutting up more often?'
'You'd only want to fuck me if I remained silent.'
'Your voice is a contraceptive, then?'
The same routine as usual, and all harmless. It was well known that Rymble was too afraid of catching syphilis to actually sleep with anyone; and they had grown so close that she had begun to appreciate his more elaborate and competitive insults. She loved him really.
Coffee was already being served for the morning shift, with fried flat-breads and kippers. This place never closed. Two young couples sat together by the entrance, hangers-on who looked inquisitively and hopefully at the art scene gathered here.
Suddenly it occurred to Beami that she didn't know what she was doing here. She had desperately wanted to speak to someone, anyone, and was now disappointed at the small crowd available. Today there was only really Rymble she knew well – until Zizi entered just then from the back, wearing her fur coat and high-heeled boots. Even in her fifties, Zizi was still one of the most glamorous women Beami had ever known. She'd made her name on the stage, still used her stage name, in fact. Her milieu was both theatre and choreography, and she was responsible for several dances that had become popular throughout the Boreal Archipelago. Then she gave up that passion for the love of her husband, a rich banker from Villjamur – who, after marriage, promptly left her for a younger woman. Zizi, lovelorn and with a shattered heart, never danced again. Beami considered herself as strong-minded as Zizi though, and it worried her to know that someone like her could give up a career for love. She never wanted to use her sexuality in order to get on in this patriarchy; she wanted to earn her place, and so Zizi's story always saddened her.
Knowing each other's moods so well, Zizi took one look at the expression on Beami's face, and the brunette woman immediately suggested they sit down and talk. While Rymble slumped into a slumber, Beami informed her friend in rapid whispers that Lupus was back.
A startled expression came over Zizi's face, then she said jokingly, 'Honey, you're far too pretty to be a one-man woman.'
'I'm not like that,' Beami snapped.
'Easy, darling.'
'Sorry. I'm just not that kind of woman. I know Malum and I have had some problems-'
'Problems? You bloody hate the man.'
'That's not true.'
'Well we all do. He's so weird, so sinister.'
'He's not. You just don't know him like I do.' On more than one occasion, the others had encouraged her to leave Malum, and one night Rymble had even kindly offered to venture into their house and stab him – then immortalize the act with poetry.
More seriously, Zizi continued, 'Look, I know you have your problems, but you either walk away from Malum now or you stay with him.'
Beami's mind was drifting.
'These situations can become increasingly dreadful if…' Zizi's expression softened as her intensely green eyes focused on something deep within her. 'Hang on. Why are you here? You didn't come all the way just to get some advice – especially if you'll be seeing him shortly.'
After a moment of reflection, Beami finally confessed, 'Perfume. I want to find one particular scent I liked to use. It was one Lupus adored me wearing. That sounds stupid, I know.'
Zizi grasped her hand. 'It says you've made up your mind already. But I say never let a man stop you – I say it all the time. I never knew Lupus, but don't give up everything for him. Don't let your passion for him ruin your life.'
'He's not that type of man. I'm already involved with one of those.'
