Now we’ve got something else to cover up – Quennel is root-bound. I noticed it immediately because I’m so close to him and to Nash – another Canopus emanation. If Tara realized that the rapid growth of Canopus branches was causing a concurrent growth of its roots, she’d want to emanate immediately, to repot it.
Maybe Tielo can expand the pot.
Beat glances in my direction, rolls his eyes. Beat is on Tielo’s tree. Beat knows Tielo as well as anyone – which isn’t all that much. I guess we shouldn’t expect too much from that quarter.
I have an ulterior motive in volunteering for this mission. Quennel has been forming a little scene up at Evan’s, and I want to check out the new branches, maybe see if I can get my roots into that soil. As I settle into my seat on the hovercar, I take stock of my opportunities:
Cord: A bit rough around the edges, the adventuring type. From the way he’s looking around, checking out the least little thing, I get the feeling that he’ll be in everybody’s business in no time flat. A good candidate for what we’ve got going, but Beat is giving him the eye. I really don’t want to cross swords with Beat.
Jonah: A young man with disheveled medium brown hair, a childish grin, a pert nose. His clothing looks sporty and nautical, white trousers, a navy striped shirt and boat shoes. He’s charismatic but seems a little shy – or maybe coy. With Evan and Dermot in our scene, he’d fit right in.
Poole: A dark man wearing a sleeveless t-shirt and leather vest which reveals an elaborate vinework tattoo on his left arm. This is the kind of guy who would get into a fight in a bar – or maybe he’s the bouncer. Oh wait, when Oliver was up in Ophionia, he noted that Poole’s residence was a brewery. That sounds potentially useful, but I’d give odds that he’s going to end up in bed with Stephen. Just watch him join Ace’s scene.
Simon: He’s refined and elegant, wearing eyeliner and the elaborate frills and lace common to men on Skarsia. It’s not a type we see around here much, but Tara spent half her youth surrounded by men like him. He’s probably a handful – since men were so badly abused and oppressed on Skarsia, they learned all sorts of tricks to get their way. Probably best not to mess with him.
Selby: Selby is a whip-thin man in a peacoat who is fidgeting, fighting to control his natural energy. There’s something about him that screams artistic-genius-and-attention-whore. Maybe he reminds me a bit of Driscoll. He’d be too high maintenance in a group where Quennel is the same type but makes sure all the focus is on Evan.
Templeton: He’s sitting with his arms folded, executive and efficient, maybe a bit intimidating. Maybe a lot intimidating. I am not going to make a pass at this guy, nonono.
So Jonah, then.
Beat is making a speech: « It’s time for us to undertake the great quest that will bring you to maturity and incorporate you fully into our number. The task you have been assigned has a special importance. Ailann has written a message which will hopefully forge diplomatic relations with the Sultana of Celadon, and it is our job to deliver it. The successful completion of this task will result in the recognition of one of you and open the path to adventure for all of us. Now we’ll have a moderately long train ride ahead of us, so you can catch some rest. »
Jonah quickly dozes off, curled up and snoring. Guess I’ll have to wait to make my move. Simon also naps, but in a more elegant, purposeful manner, perhaps getting his beauty rest. I can’t believe that they’re really sleeping – with Tara on the train! Either they are incredibly green branches, or human bodies are more feeble than I’d imagined.
Cord is hopping from seat to seat, curious and excited. Templeton is also watching everything, but his attitude is hyper-vigilant. It’s creeping me out.
« Look! » Cord points out the window. We’re crossing over a body of water, and a multitude of mollusks are emerging, lining up on the shoreline, marching in a tenfold formation to create a bridge.
« Oh, they do that every afternoon, » says Beat. « That’s why it’s called the Gulf of Bridging. »
« It’s amazing. Life is amazing! But I wish we could’ve gotten out to look around at some of the places we passed through – Treasure Beach, Squirrelworld – they sound so exotic. »
« Maybe later, » says Tara. « We’ll never get to Celadon if we kept getting distracted. »
« I wish I had a camera or some kind or recording device. But even that would be inadequate. I want to remember all of it. »
Poor Cord – he can’t understand why Beat thinks that’s so funny. Beat sits next to him, puts his arm around the perplexed sapling. « Don’t worry – you will. »
Did I call it, or did I call it? There’s a reason I’m named Solomon.
Well, if Beat is making a play for Cord, and Jonah is sleeping, I’m going to sit next to Tara.
Celadon is a remarkable place – the buildings seem to be made of ceramics, sparkling green in the brilliant sunlight. It reminds me of Quennel’s memories of Oakley City, composed completely of fabric. Oakley City seemed created in response to Quennel’s imaginings, his impulses. I wonder what – or who – Celadon is responding to?
When we step off on the platform, it is covered with vines. « Looks like they sent a welcoming committee, » says Beat. Cord looks confused. « The vines, » says Beat. « The vines are sentient plants, just like we’re sentient plants – at least in part. »
« I don’t feel like a plant, » says Jonah, scratching his head.
« They aren’t real plants, » I add. « They’re Davy’s puppets – like everything else which seems to be alive inside of the pleroma except us. Real plants feel quite different. When you emanate into the physical world, you’ll see how different they feel. »
« These vines were sent as messengers, » says Beat. « They’re telling us to head to the palace in the center of the city. »
« Buildings aren’t usually made of ceramics, are they? » asks Templeton.
« It depends, » says Tara. « Technoceramics are quite versatile – a lot of the floors in Court Emmere are made of them because they’re resistant to laser and impact damage. Or in a more traditional vein, there are places on Sideria where the buildings are synthslip. It’s a logical evolution of adobe. The unusual thing here is that the buildings are glazed. They look like ancient vases. »
Not far from the station, we emerge into an enormous market square. The streets are full of people coming from many areas of the pleroma: costumed holome characters from Squirrelworld, bounders from Rustbucket, merchants from Renfaire and NEUranus. But every stall in the marketplace is selling the same thing – enormous, luscious green grapes. It does look appetizing, but perhaps a bit repetitive for my taste.
And then Selby runs off into the crowd. « I’m going to go shopping. You can’t get produce of this quality everywhere! »
Tara grabs Beat by the arm. « Should we follow him? »
« I’ll go. The rest of you deliver the message to the Sultana. »
She looks to me expectantly. It seems that I’ve become the de facto head of the expedition. It’s a strange sensation – I’m usually relegated to a consultant role. I glance around, taking in the surroundings. It’s not like I actually know where we are going, but the city center is dominated by an enormous building with elaborate towers. It seems a fair candidate for a palace, and so I head in that direction.
« Let Templeton approach the Sultana, » says Tara. « He’s been waiting longest for his quest achievement. »
« That’s not true, » Simon rebuts. « Jonah has been waiting longer than any of us. »
« Templeton was in the first hatch, » says Poole.
« You wouldn’t understand. You didn’t have to wait at all. »
« He’s talking about how long we’ve been in the cenote, » says Templeton. « In all fairness, you and I are practically interlopers. Jonah can go before me. »
This is fortuitous. « All right, then the rest of you wait here. I’ll go up with Jonah and give him a little coaching. » I put my hand on his shoulder, steering him up the stair.
« I’m glad you’re going with me, » he says. « I’m a little shy. »
« Just be polite. We’ll kneel before her, and you can introduce yourself as a messenger from the archons, and then hand her the parchment. » I smile at him reassuringly. « You know, when we get back to New Merenis, you’re welcome to hang out with some friends of mine. »
Jonah smiles and looks away quickly – it’s hard to tell if he’s flirting or nervous.
We enter an anteroom, covered in tapestries of vineyards. Beyond is the throne room – or perhaps, more accurately, trellis room, as the Sultana is draped elegantly across a golden trellis studded with rubies.
I have never seen such a luscious looking bunch of grapes in my life. Very juicy.
The walls of the room are also covered with trellises made from various precious metals and gemstones. It’s likely an indication of status among the nobles of the court. We kneel on a rich velvet carpet of green and gold. Jonah looks up, then averts his eyes, probably from shyness, but it passes well enough for respect. « Greetings your majesty. I am Jonah, messenger of the archons, here to deliver a response to your petition. » He holds out the parchment roll. Vines extend from the central trellis, wrapping around the message, then retracting back to the Sultana.
“Jonah del Eden’d, Ipsissimal Herald for Her Eminence the Matriarch of Skarsia. 77th to emanate, 60 in the color scale, resonates to 281. 1.758 meters tall, cock size 15.89 cm when erect, apparent age 24. Intermediary. Totem is Crescentia cujete, the calabash tree, fixed star is Baten Kaitos, the belly of the whale. Esoteric symbol is the Etruscan letter 
. Dessert is puree of nau’gsh soup with buttercado mousse. Function is administrative attainment, proto-conscious tendency is modesty, designated Coy. Blazon is lozengy cornflower and argent, a whale, proper.”
Jonah looks at me wide-eyed, then grins. « You’re the clever one, aren’t you? »
Please admit your party, says the Sultana. Jonah starts a little – now that he’s recognized, he can participate fully in the pleroma, which seems to include conversing with telepathic grapevines.
« Run down and get Tara and the others, » I whisper. « Tell them to kneel. »
In his absence, I introduce myself. « Greetings, your majesty. I am Solomon del Eden’d, Grand Logothete of Skarsia. I and my companions are at your disposal to resolve the current situation. »
The others enter. Poole, Cord and Simon kneel. Tara, pointedly, does not kneel. Templeton glances at her, then bows stiffly.
« Greetings, your majesty, from Tara del D’myn, Marquesa of Dolparessa, Empress of Sideria, Matriarch of Skarsia, the Terran protectorate, Nightside, Shambhala, Circinus and the Borderlands, Nuncio to the Combine of Sentients. »
Tara has used all the titles on the Sultana. I see…there is a female equivalent to the cock size measurements on the trading cards.
Ah. I suppose it was to be expected that the real ruler is a woman. Your servant has said that you are prepared to assist us. Is this true?
Tara nods.
I’m certain that you have seen our market – the result of our labor and fruition. As of late, we have faced constant raids by brigands. Our vines serve as protection from most any enemy, save for one – Nightingale the Robber. He produces a sound – a whistling noise – which paralyzes their movement.
I was trying to explain about the legend of Nightingale when I was rudely interrupted, chatburls Dermot. When Nightingale whistles, flowers lose their petals, forests bow down, leaves and grasses become entangled, and all the people fall dead.
That doesn’t sound promising. Priority one is to protect Tara – but don’t let her know what’s going on, or she’ll take unnecessary risks. She’s reckless when her honor is at stake.
« Oh no! » cries Jonah. « That sounds terrifying! »
« Sounds like it’s time to kick some bird-butt, » says Tara.
Templeton eyes me suspiciously. « The archons said something, didn’t they? What aren’t you telling us? »
Great. And it’s hard to tell whether Jonah is really frightened, or just playing for Tara’s sympathy.
« Nightingale’s power seems to be sonic, » I muse. « Since the Mover has a purpose for everything he does, I can only assume that’s the reason Beat is on this expedition. Perhaps his sonic powers can cancel out Nightingale’s. »
We find Beat in the courtyard, with a firm grasp on Selby’s arm. Selby’s other arm clutches an enormous grocery tote full of grapes. « These are a perfect balance of tart and sweet, » he says. « They’re delicious fresh, but they’d be even better for winemaking. »
« I’m not much for wine, » says Poole. « I’m a beer man, myself. »
« It seems like this situation has been going on for some time, » says Tara. « But has it really? Do things happen in the pleroma when there isn’t someone there to pay attention? Or is it more like a simulation, where it’s paused unless there’s a player present? »
« Does a tree fall in the forest if no one is there to hear it? » I ask rhetorically. « That question is such narcissism on the part of humans. The tree knows. In this case, I would guess that the pleroma continues with or without us, since the trees are dreaming it. »
If the trees are having a nightmare, it’s in our best interest to stop it, burls Hurley.
But why would the trees be having a nightmare? The last time they did…
Invaders.
But the telepaths were clearly enemies. This time, the rogue sparks…maybe the trees are just calling our attention to them, letting us make the judgement. Come to think of it, a dragon tends to call attention to itself.
I wish Hollis were with us, but he’s root-bound. I suppose it’s up to Tara anyway. After all, the dragon – Stavros – turned out to be beneficent.
“All the people fall dead,” doesn’t reassure me, though.
At the outskirts of the city lies a forest of emerald green. Interesting – that means chlorophyll, not kyanophyll. But the trees are not identifiably any species from earth – they look more like illustrations from a children’s book. Beat and I take the lead in case of trouble. No sooner do I set foot upon the path leading into the shadowy boughs then the air is sliced by a shrill, sharp whistle.
I’m still alive, which is surely something. But the leaves on the trees – I can only describe their reaction as being similar to when the hair on my arms stands on end.
Beat steps forward, holding up his hand, indicating that he wishes us to remain silent. Templeton points to a shape in the trees; Beat nods.
« It’s a bird! » exclaims Jonah. Stealth doesn’t seem to be his strong point. He’s supposed to be an intermediary, but he seems decidedly lacking in the sort of discretion which would make for a good messenger. Then again, Patrick and Oliver are diplomats, so it might be redundant to have a third. Jonah’s title is Ipsissimal Herald – maybe his function is to state the obvious, and to state it loudly.
Maybe he’d be better off with Davy, who could use an interpreter.
Beat opens his mouth, and a deep, resonant tone reverberates through the woods. The whistling stops, then starts again, changing its oscillation until it hits a harmonic against Beat’s rhythmic pulse.
« He’s the spark, » I murmur. « And he’s synchronizing. »
The bird hops onto the ground in front of us, transforming into a humanoid form with a bird head. He continues to whistle, riffing off Beat, who starts to syncopate against the pattern.
« This is amazing! » says Cord. « I wish I could record it. »
Gah, just get the achievement already.
I think it’s time for some answers. I shoot a glance at Beat, who falls silent. « Why did you attack the people of Celadon? » I demand.
The bird-man stops whistling and places the tips of his wings against his hips, in a posture I could only call indignant. « I did no such thing! I would never resort to the baseness of violence. »
« You raided the markets of Celadon. »
« The stalls were left unattended, so we paid in kind. »
« The stalls were attended by grape vines, » says Selby. « It’s a good thing Beat was with me, because they’re not really communicative. They trade the grapes for fertilizer. »
« What do you mean, you paid in kind? » I ask.
Nightingale indicates a flask in his doublet pocket. « We make wine. Come back to our campsite, and I’ll share some with you. »
« But you did attack the Sultana’s soldiers, » Tara presses. « She said that you froze the vines in their tracks. »
« Aren’t vines always frozen in their tracks? » asks Nightingale. « My whistling certainly wasn’t intended as an attack, my good woman. I was only singing at nightfall, the way nightingales always do, to attract a mate. »
Tara sighs deeply. « I think we can fix you up. »