"I sometimes wonder," said the Iron Orchid as Jherek's landau carried them away from Shanalorm, "where all the current craze for Dawn Age discoveries is leading."
"Leading, my life?"
"Artistically, I mean. Soon, largely because of the fashion you began, we shall have recreated that age down to the finest details. It will be like inhabiting the 19th century."
"Yes, metallic magnificence?" He was polite but still unable to follow her drift.
"I mean, are we not in danger of taking Realism too far, Jherek? One's own imagination can become clogged, after all. It was always your argument that travelling into the past rather spoiled one's conception — made the outlines fuzzy, as it were — inhibited creativity."
"Perhaps," he agreed. "But I am not sure my 'London' is harmed from being inspired by experience rather than fantasy. The fad could go too far, of course. In the case, for instance, of the Duke of Queens…"
"I know you rarely favour his work. It can be extravagant sometimes, a little, I suppose, empty, but…"
"It is his tendency to vulgarize which disturbs me, to pile effect upon effect. I think he showed restraint in his 'New York, 1930,' for all the obvious influence of my own piece. Such influences might be good for him."
"He, among others, could take it too far," she said. "That is what I meant." Then she shrugged. "But soon you'll set a fresh fashion, Jherek, and they will follow that." She spoke almost wistfully, almost hopefully. "You will guide them away from excess."
"You are kind."
"Oh, more!" Her raven face lit with humour. "I am biased, my dear! You are my son!"
"I heard that the Duke of Queens had completed his 'New York.' Shall we go to see it?"
"Why not? And let us hope he'll be there, too. I am very fond of the Duke of Queens."
"As am I, for all that I do not share his tastes."
"He shares yours. You should be more generous."
They laughed.
The Duke of Queens was delighted to see them. He stood some distance away from his design, admiring it with unashamed pleasure. He was dressed in a style of the 800th century, all crystal spirals and curlicues, beast eyes and paper bosses, with gauntlets which made his hands invisible. His sensitive face with its heavy black beard turned upwards as he called to Jherek and his mother:
"Iron Orchid, in all your swarthy beauty! And Jherek! I give you full credit, my dear, for your original inspiration. Regard this as a tribute to your genius!"
Jherek warmed to the Duke of Queens, as always. His taste might not have been all it could be, but his generosity was unquestionable. He determined to praise the Duke's creation, no matter what he thought of it privately.
It was, in fact, a relatively moderate affair.
"It is from the same period as your 'London,' as you can see. Very true to the original, I think."
The Iron Orchid's hand tightened momentarily on Jherek's arm as they descended from the landau, as if to confirm the validity of her judgement.
"That tallest tower at the centre is the Empire State Apartments, in lapis lazuli and gold, built as the home of New York's greatest king (Kong the Mighty) who, as you know, ruled the city during its Golden Age. The bronze statue you see on the top of the building is Kong's…"
"He looks beautiful," said the Iron Orchid, "but almost inhuman."
"It was the Dawn Age," said the Duke. "The building is just over a mile and a quarter high (I took the dimensions from an historical text-book) and a splendid example of the barbaric simplicity of typical architecture of the early Uranium Centuries — almost too early, some would say."
Jherek wondered if the Duke of Queens were quoting whole from the text-book; his words had that ring to them.
"Are not the buildings crowded together rather?" said the Iron Orchid.
The Duke of Queens was not offended. "Deliberately," he told her. "The epics of the time made constant references to the narrowness of the streets, forcing people to move crabwise — hence the distinctive 'sidewalk' of New York."
"And what are those?" said Jherek, pointing to a collection of picturesque thatched cottages. "They seem untypical."
"It is the village of Greenwich, a kind of museum frequented by sailors. A famous vessel was moored in the river. Can you see it?" He indicated something tied to a jetty, it glinted in the dark water of a lagoon.
"It appears to be a gigantic glass bottle," said the Iron Orchid.
"So I thought, but somehow they managed to sail in them. Doubtless the secret of their locomotion has been lost, but I based the ship on a model of one I came across in a record. It is called the Cutty Sark." The Duke of Queens permitted himself a smirk. "And that, my dear Jherek, is where I have had the privilege of being imitated. My Lady Charlotina was so impressed that she has begun a reproduction of some other famous ship of the period."
"I must say that your sense of detail is impressive," Jherek complimented him. "And have you populated the city?" He screwed up his eyes the better to see. "Are those figures moving about in it?"
"They are! Eight million of them."
"And what are those tiny flashes of light?" enquired the Iron Orchid.
"The muggers," said the Duke of Queens. "At that time New York attracted a good many artists, primarily photographers (called popularly 'shooters,' 'muggers,' or sometimes 'mug-shotters') and what you see are their cameras in action."
"You have a talent for thorough research," said Jherek.
"I owe much to my sources, I admit," agreed the Duke of Queens. "And I found a time traveller in my menagerie who was able to help. He wasn't from exactly the same period, but close enough to have seen many records of the time. Most of the other buildings are in lurex and coloured perspex, favourite materials of Dawn age craftsmen. The protective talismans are, of course, in neon, to ward off the forces of darkness."
"Ah, yes," said the Iron Orchid brightly. "Gaf the Horse in Tears had something similar in his 'Canceropolis, 2215.' "
"Really?" The Duke's tone was unintentionally distant. He was not fond of Gaf's work and had been known to describe it once as "over-eager." "I must go to see it."
"It's on the same theme as Argonheart Po's. 'Edible Birmingham, Undated,' I believe," said Jherek, to turn the subject a little. "I tried it a day or two ago. It was delicious."
"What he lacks in visual originality, he makes up for in culinary imagination."
"Definitely a Birmingham of the mind," agreed the Iron Orchid, "and for the palate. Some of the buildings were blatant copies of My Lady Charlotina's 'Rome, 1946.' "
"A shame about the lions," murmured the Duke of Queens sympathetically.
"They got out of control," said the Iron Orchid. "I warned her that they would. Not enough Christians. Still, I thought it drastic to disseminate it, merely because the population was eaten. But the flying elephants were lovely, weren't they?"
"I'd never seen a circus before," said Jherek.
"I was just about to leave for Lake Billy the Kid, where some of the ships are being launched." The Duke of Queens indicated his latest air car, a vast copy of one of the Martian flying machines which had attempted to destroy New York during the period in which he took an interest. "Would you like to come?"
"A wonderful idea," said the Iron Orchid and Jherek, thinking that one way of passing the time was as good as another, agreed.
"We shall follow in my landau," he said.
The Duke of Queens gestured with one of his invisible hands. "There is plenty of room in my air car, but just as you like." He felt beneath his crystalline robes and produced a flying helmet and goggles.
Donning them, he strode to his carriage, climbed with some difficulty up the smooth side and settled himself in the cock-pit.
Jherek watched in amusement as there came a roaring from the machine, a glow which was soon red-hot, a shower of sparks and a considerable amount of blue smoke, and then the contraption was lurching upwards. The Duke of Queens seemed to specialize in exceedingly unstable methods of transport.
Lake Billy the Kid had been enlarged for the occasion of the regatta (this, in itself, was unusual) and the surrounding mountains had all been moved back to accommodate the extra water. Small groups of people were gathered here and there on the shore, staring at the ships which had so far been presented.
They made a fine collection.
Jherek and the Iron Orchid landed on the white ash of the beach and joined the Duke of Queens who was already talking to their hostess. My Lady Charlotina still wore several breasts and an extra pair of arms and her skin was a delicate blue; for decoration she had a collar from which trailed a few gauzy wisps of various colours. Her large eyes were alight with pleasure at seeing them.
"Iron Orchid, still in mourning I see. And Jherek Carnelian, most famous of metatemporal explorers.
I had not expected you."
Slightly put out, the Iron Orchid unostentatiously changed her skin colour to a more natural shade.
Her gown became suddenly so blindingly white that they all blinked. She toned it down, murmuring apologies. "Which of the boats is yours, dear?"
My Lady Charlotina pursed her lips in mock disapproval. " Ships, most venerable of plants. That one is mine." She inclined her head in the direction of an immense reproduction of a woman, lying stomach-down in the water, her arms and legs spread out symmetrically, a crown of gold and diamonds upon her wooden head. "The Queen Elizabeth."
As they watched, a great gust of blackness billowed from the ears of the model and from the mouth (barely above the surface) there came a melancholy tooting.
"The one beside it is the Monitor, which carried off some virgins or something, did it not?" This was smaller than the Queen Elizabeth; the vessel's bulk representing a man's body, its back arched inwards, with a huge bull's head on its shoulders. "O'Kala Incarnadine simply can't rid himself of his obsession with beasts. It's sweet, really."
"Are they all of the same period?" asked the Duke of Queens. "That one, for instance?" He pointed to a rather shapeless ship. "It looks more like an island."
"That's the S.S. France," explained My Lady Charlotina. "It's Grevol Lockspring's entry. The one just streaming towards it is the Water Lily — I'm sure it wasn't a real plant." She named some of the other peculiarly wrought vessels. "The Mary Rose. The Hindenburg. The Patna. And isn't that one beautiful — stately — The Leningrad? "
"They are all lovely," said The Iron Orchid vaguely. "What will they do when they are assembled?"
"Fight, of course," said My Lady Charlotina in excitement. "That's what they were built for, you see, in the Dawn Age. Imagine the scene — a heavy mist on the waters — two ships manoeuvring, each aware of the other, neither being able to find the other. It is, say, my Queen Elizabeth and Argonheart Po's Nautilus (I fear it will melt before the regatta is finished). The Nautilus sees the Queen Elizabeth, its foghorns disperse the mist, it focuses its funnels and — whoosh! — the Queen Elizabeth is struck by thousands of little belaying needles — she shudders and retaliates — from her forward ports (they must have been her breasts; that is where I've put them, at any rate) pour lethal tuxedos, wrapping themselves around the Nautilus and trying to drag it under. But the Nautilus is not so easily defeated … Well, you can imagine the rest, and I will not spoil the actual regatta for you. Almost all the ships are here now. I believe there are a couple of entries to come, then we begin."
"I cannot wait," said Jherek absently. "Is Brannart Morphail, by the by, still residing with you, My Lady Charlotina?"
"He has apartments at Below-the-Lake, yes. He is there now, I would guess. I asked him for help with the design of the Queen Elizabeth, but he was too busy."
"Is he still angry with me?"
"Well, you did lose one of his favourite time machines."
"It hasn't returned, then?"
"No. Are you expecting it?"
"I thought, perhaps, Mrs. Underwood would use it to come back to us. You would tell me if she did?"
"You know that I would. Your relationship with her is my abiding interest."
"Thank you. And have you seen Lord Jagged of Canaria recently?"
"He was supposed to come today. He half-promised to contribute a ship, but he is doubtless as lazy as ever and has forgotten. He might well be in one of those strange, unsociable moods of his. He retires, as you know, from society from time to time. Oh, Mistress Christia, what is this?"
The Everlasting Concubine fluttered long lashes over her wide, blue eyes. She was clad in filmy pink, with a pink hat perched on her golden hair. Her hands were dressed in pink gloves and she was presenting something which rested on her outstretched palms. "It is not an entry, exactly," she said, "but I thought you might like it."
"I do! What is it called?"
"The Good Ship Venus." Mistress Christia smiled at Jherek. "Hello, my dear. Does the flame of your lust burn as strongly as ever?"
"I am in love, these days," he said.
"You draw a distinction."
"I have been assured that there is one." He kissed her upon her perfect nose. She tickled his ear.
"Where do you discover all these wonderful old emotions?" she asked. "You must talk to Werther — he has the same interests, but does not pursue them with your panache, I am afraid. Has he told you about his 'sin'?"
"I have not seen him since my return from 1896."
My Lady Charlotina interrupted, placing a caressing hand upon Mistress Christia's thigh. "Werther excelled himself — and so did you, Everlasting Concubine. Surely you aren't criticizing him?"
"How could I? I must tell you about Werther's 'crime,' Jherek. It all began on the day that I accidentally broke his rainbow…" And she embarked upon a story which Jherek found fascinating, not merely because it was really a very fine story, but also because it seemed to relate to some of the ideas he was himself mulling over. He wished that he found Werther better company, but every time he tried to have a conversation with the gloomy solitary, Werther would accuse him of being superficial or insensitive and the whole thing would descend into a series of puzzled questions on Jherek's part and recriminations on Werther's.
Mistress Christia and Jherek Carnelian strolled arm in arm along the shore while the Everlasting Concubine chatted merrily on. Out on Lake Billy the Kid the ships were beginning to take up their positions. The sun shone down on blue, placid water; from here and there came the murmur of animated conversation and Jherek found his good humour returning as Mistress Christia drew to the close of her tale.
"I hope Werther was grateful," he said.
"He was. He is very sincere, Jherek, but in a different sort of way."
"I need no convincing. Tell me, did he —?" And he broke off as he recognized a tall figure standing by the water's edge, deep in conversation with Argonheart Po (who was, as always, wearing his tall chef's cap). "Excuse me, Mistress Christia. You will not think me rude if I speak to Lord Jagged?"
"You could never offend me, delicacy."
"Lord Jagged!" called Jherek. "How pleased I am to see you here."
Handsome, weary, his long, pale face wearing just a shade of a smile, Lord Jagged turned. He wore scarlet silk, with one of his usual high, padded collars framing a head of shoulder-length near-white hair.
"Jherek, spice of my life! Argonheart Po was just giving me the recipe for his ship. He assures me that, contrary to the gossip, it cannot melt for at least another four hours. You will be as interested as I to hear how he accomplished the feat."
"Good afternoon, Argonheart," said Jherek with a nod to the fat and beaming inventor of, among other things, the savoury volcano. "I was hoping, Lord Jagged, to have a word…"
Argonheart Po was already moving away, his hand held tightly by the ever tactful Mistress Christia.
"…about Mrs. Underwood," concluded Jherek.
"She is back?" Lord Jagged's aquiline features were expressionless.
"You know that she is not."
Lord Jagged's smile broadened a fraction. "You are beginning to credit me with prescience of some sort, Jherek. I am flattered, but I do not deserve the distinction."
Disturbed because of this recent, subtle alteration in their old relationship, Jherek bowed his head.
"Forgive me, jaunty Jagged. I am full of assumptions. I am, in the words of the ancients, 'over-excited.' "
"Perhaps you have contracted one of those old diseases, my breath? The kind which could only be transmitted by word of mouth — which attacked the brain and made the brain attack the body…"
"Dawn Age science is your speciality, rather than mine, Lord Jagged. If you are making a considered diagnosis…?"
Lord Jagged laughed one of his rare, hearty laughs and he flung his arm around his friend's shoulders.
"My luscious, loving larrikin, my golden goose, my grief, my prayer. You are healthy! I suspect that you are the only one of us that is!"
And, his usual, cryptic self, he refused to expand on this statement, drawing Jherek's attention, instead, to the regatta, which had begun at last. A vile yellow mist had been spread across the sparkling sea, making all murky; the sun had been dimmed, and great, shadowy shapes crept, honking, through the water.
Jagged arranged his collar about his face, but he kept his arm round Jherek's shoulders. "They will fight to the death, I'm told."