Chaos Child by Ian Watson

Author:Ian Watson [Watson, Ian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Ciencia ficción
Publisher: BernyBenuyas
Published: 1993-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

Nine

Jester

A few weeks later, Rakel brought word about a trio of amazing new performers who were drawing audiences to a theatre in the Mahabbat district.

Two of these acrobatic artistes were clad in kaleidoscopic motley, the hues of which changed from moment to moment. These artistes also wore holo-masks which could display a whole gamut of personae. In repose, the faces which these masks displayed were affably human. No one ever saw their actual faces of flesh and blood behind the masks.

The third member of their tiny troupe wore a skull-mask. White bones decorated his black costume. What a grin that skull exhibited! How frolicsome its wearer could be. He was the one who spoke Imperial Gothic, though not the dialect of Sabulorb itself. Much could be accomplished by mime. What fine mimes his companions were.

‘Everyone seems to assume they’re human,’ recounted Rakel. ‘Bit tall, maybe. But with arms and legs and heads in the right places.’

These exotic artistes had arrived in Shandabar by camelopard caravan from the city of Bara Bandobast across the Grey Desert. They must belong to some nomad tribe.

Rakel’s informant about these performers was Mardal Shuturban. The man was still ravaged by the fratricide of his brother. His thumbs bore scars where he had finally torn them free from the bones of Chor’s skull. Mardal believed that by some unknowable sorcery Tod Zapasnik’ had saved himself and Mardal too from death during the delirium in the Sensuality Suite. Sly brother Chor had hoped that the snake-woman would snoop upon Zapasnik’s mind. The plan had gone unimaginably wrong. What did it matter if Chor’s finger had been bitten off impatiently? Compared with what Mardal had done to his brother’s eyes and frontal lobes, a finger was a trivial matter.

Mardal had babbled impetuously to Rakel. He was deeply disturbed by his experience. At the same time, a criminal could not afford to convalesce. Mardal had seemed on the verge of proposing some kind of alliance with Rakel’s powerful and scary patron. ‘Oh my brother, oh my brother!’ he had wailed. ‘Oh my wise, thoughtful brother!’

Why was Rakel asking about exotic artistes on behalf of Sir Tod? Chor might have had an inkling of why. Chor was dead. Zapasnik was an enigma.

Had Rakel really entered the courthouse? Members of the caste of garbage collectors who were allowed limited access to bring away toxic ashes from an incinerator had heard cooks talking about a murdered judge. No need for Rakel to say a word about it unless she wished to! Ah, how hot it was right now. How one sweated. Never before in living memory had anyone perspired so much in Shandabar – outside of a chamber of sin in the Mahabbat district! In the Grey Desert dust was dancing thermally.

‘Oh brother mine, brother mine!’

Ah yes, those strange artistes... Mardal would keep watch on them for Sir Tod; but he would do nothing impetuous.

‘Obviously,’ Jaq said to his companions, ‘the eldar Harlequins are searching for the stolen book.’

Rakel’s eyes had widened at this new revelation.

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