IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE

by

Dolores J. Nurss

Volume I: Welcome to The Charadoc!

Chapter 4

IN THE MANSION

OF

SOSKIA PESHAWR

Friday, February 14, 2708.

In the Mansion of Soskia Peshawr

Friday, February 14, 2708

(Something has gone wrong.)

I spread my arms wide and feel them slide between sheets as smooth as slipping back into sleep. The occasional characteristic flaw of Charadocian silk provides just the right touch of texture to keep me from gliding straight off the edge into dreams. I curl my knees and straighten them again just to feel that fabric as I move, all over my body.

I open my eyes to cherubs ascending ever higher into dawn-flushed, sunlight-gilded clouds. I blink in surprise, then realize that they don't move, they pause mid-cavort in a mural painted in the ceiling's plaster. Last night I only had eyes for bed, the mottling of the native fiber like shadow-patterns from sunlight through leaves. Now a predawn glow effulges through the window, just beginning to disclose the room to sight; I went to bed much earlier last night than it felt.

I slip my feet into a pair of pretty pink damask slippers, little clouds beneath the feet. They have an absolutely charming custom around here of stocking a dresser in the foyer of every house with items that a guest might have need of, free for the taking--a hospitality-bureau, they call it. I vaguely remember finding these slippers there last night, amidst the fans and handkerchiefs and little bottles of toiletries.

I had enjoyed a bath the night before, but after a summer evening in the tropics I'd surely welcome another. I pad naked into the bathroom attached to my bedroom. I turn golden handles to fill a small marble pool with steaming water. Then I adjust it to a cooler stream and add the scented oils provided--something said to duplicate the perfume of the rainforests nearby, the resins and the flowers and the fruit and the deep, soft earth. Then I sink in all the way to my chin, my hair fanning out across the water, and oh, no cherub in any gilded heaven could feel half the pleasure that I do now!

(This looks like the place. I wonder how many backs broke under all those marble blocks to get them up here?)

Just as I work up the shampoo to a great cumulus of lather, I hear a knock upon the door. "Madam? May I come in?" They must have heard me stirring. I never have to ask for a thing around here.

Two maids enter, gasping as one. "Madam!" one cries. "You mustn't wash your hair on this of all days!"

I hear the other whisper, "Perhaps it doesn't apply to Tilián. Perhaps she's born to luck and nothing can hurt it."

They hasten to pour ewers of fresh water on my head, cascading down my face and flooding all the suds away. In between gushes of water I notice how they look like me, and yet don’t. They have my angular face, but sharp blade noses, my color but not my build; they and most Mountainfolk stand short, with compact limbs. For some reason my father stood tall and rangy, though we may never know where those genes came from, and I take after him that way. I still look little next to Jonathan, however, tall as he stands by anybody’s standard.

Now one maid throws open a window, to let in a sweet breeze and clear out the steam, while the other pours a cooling rinse all over me, then towels me off in terry velvet so thick it's almost cotton fur. "Such hair Milady has!" my attendant exclaims as she gently runs it through the towel again and again. "So long and glossy!" She piles it up on top of my head, still wet, holding it in place here and there with jeweled hairpins, then brings out a Charadocian device that blows warm air onto my head till she dries up every strand. I don't have to do a thing except sit there. She tucks me into a lightweight robe as the other sets breakfast for me out on the little wrought-iron table on the balcony.

(I could get work here. The turnover rate's high, and I've learned the skills. Perhaps as a maid?)

I nibble at something delicately flaky, filled with bits of poultry, nuts, and berries dried and plumped out again in cooking. I hear the splash of running water as one maid cleans up the tub, and hear the whoosh! of the other one changing sheets. Every single night they change the sheets!

(Yeah, maid's the thing. That would put me in the perfect position.)

A sudden shiver surprises me. Immediately a maid comes out with a throw for over my shoulders.

(I could get away with a lot before they caught me, as a maid.)

* * *

(So much to prepare for! But we mustn't let the gossips say that Soskia Peshawr knows nothing about how to welcome an ambassador, must we? Oh, they're hanging the garlands wrong again, the loops aren't all of the same size. I point, there and there. All right, that's better. What--dust on the piano! "Dust!" I cry “Take care of it.”

“Is milady sure?” a mouse of a maid asks.

“Of course I am sure!”I snap. “I said it, didn't I?” They always forget the legs of the piano if you don't watch them like a guard-dog.

No, no, no, no! I shout orders and the fruit bowl goes back to the kitchen. We mustn't bring that out till the last minute, give the guests icy, juicy fruits to succor them after the day's heat--why, it'd shrivel and draw fruit-flies in no time if they just left it about like some decoration. And--careful with that! I shout just in time to prevent my great-grandmother's portrait from toppling all the way to the floor. Can't anyone hang banners without dislodging objects from the wall?

What? Are they out of their minds? Don't sweep the floor today, you'll sweep the luck right out the door! Too late, too late, oh my, the party will be a flop and it'll all be the fault of the servants! They should've done it the day before; now what shall we do?

My oh my, but all of this shouting and bustling and especially that damnable dust is getting to me. I wheeze as I sit down to catch my breath. I feel the inhaler placed into my hand and I put it to use with instant relief. Ai, these parties barely give me the space to breathe! A cool, ruby glass of fruit-juices appears on the table at my elbow, frosted with condensation--just the thing to rinse that bitter epinephrine taste from my throat. I don't think anybody realizes just how hard I work.)

* * *

This petal dress doesn't hamper me nearly as much as I expected. My arms actually feel quite free underneath the fabric, naked next to my skin, hands slipping out only when they must.

I follow a trail of servants coming and going, in with boxes, out with the trash of unpacking, dust tracked on the carpet, all the way to Jonathan's new office. Not a one of them looks at me; they just sway out of my path like some unfelt wind pushed them that way.

"No, no, not there! I said I wanted those books over here, in these shelves by my desk." I hear Jonathan shouting, then the crash of dropped books and flapping pages, and then a sigh. "Never mind. Everybody take a break. Why are you still here? Break, I said. Go flirt with the kitchen help or something. I don't need you for awhile." A stream of bemused servants flood past me; some grin incredulously, while others look disturbed.

When I enter he says, "Close the door behind you, Deirdre." He unfastens his blousing at the neck till he can work his shoulders out of it, then lets the whole garment flop down from his waist. He still has good muscle under there, even if he has gotten slightly paunchy over the years. "Don't tell anybody I'm doing this," he says, as he starts to shelve his books himself. "But I can't get anything the way I want it by telling others what to do."

I start to gather up books from the boxes for him, but he says, "No, don't do that, Deirdre. Those petals will draw dirt like a feather-duster." I take a seat and watch him work, feeling troubled once again.

"Jonathan, I'm really trying, but..."

"But you don't like the caste system around here." He reads the spines on some volumes of a collection, then changes their order on the shelves. "That's good," he says, his back to me. "That means we’ve trained you well. Here, have some of this." He hands me some candied bits of fruit. "It's traditional for fathers to give daughters sweets today, in return for the sweetness they get. Always follow tradition, Deirdre, wherever you go."

"But..."

He hands over some coins. "Put these in your pocket--you'll find the pockets sewn on the inside, next to your hips." He pushes a box close to some shelves. "Anyway, it's not actually castes in the same sense as what you encountered in Duerlongh--more like class. People can move up and down at will, you know."

Then he shakes his head at all the stacks around him. "Me, I'm having trouble adjusting to the complete lack of an adequate information system around here--they certainly have the power for it." He grabs up two more volumes and puts them in different bookcases. "But they prefer the archaic dignity of well-stocked shelves, and binders of real leather, with fading gilded lettering." He grins over his shoulder at me. "So you see, cultural immersion doesn't come easily even for me--and I've always loved these people."

"But this isn't about aesthetics over convenience. This is about people's lives."

"Books are about people's lives. Aesthetics and convenience make no sense without people to affect."

"But it all seems so unfair!"

"Of course it's unfair." He sets a stack of books down on his desk and leans on them. "But you perceive that injustice through a stranger's eyes. You must first immerse so deeply into the culture that it all seems normal to you, if disturbing. Something you want to change because it's yours. Then, if and only if you act as a Charadocian, you may take very gradual, natural steps to change that disturbing norm--from within."

He studies some titles, earranges some other works to make room for them, then pushes them into place. "Besides, it's not like anybody actually suffers; this is incredibly rich country, Deirdre; it can't help but grow enough for everyone. And mineral wealth, too, rare metals you can't find anywhere else. Now what's that doing over there, huh?" He removes a book from one shelf and places it on another. "And when you get right down to it, the Meritocracy makes a certain sense--let everyone rise or sink to their personal level, then give the most votes to the people who pay the most in taxes. It just needs some enlightened adjustment--okay, a lot of enlightened adjustment--but the system basically works."

He hoists books up to a shelf so high that even he can barely reach it, grunting with their weight. "I figure it could take a couple generations. That's why I'm retiring here--so that I can spend the rest of my life guiding the reform." He wipes his brow on his forearm. "Deirdre, open up that window, will you? I don't want the place to smell like sweat." He dusts off his hands and checks the label on another box. "I immerse into the ruling class, because we're the only ones with enough influence in this country to have any impact at all." Pulling open the box, he says, "I know these people. They will come year by year to vote responsibly; all we have to do is move their nascent sensitivity."

"Yet you can't even let the servants see you shelve your own books."

He pulls out texts and then looks up at me. "Now who would pay attention to anything I said if they deemed me eccentric?"