The End of All Songs
- Автор: Муркок Майкл
- Серия: Dancers at the End of Time #3
- Год: 1976
- Язык: английский
- Жанр: Научная фантастика
Электронная книга - «The End of All Songs». Краткое содержание книги:
But as the pandemonium progresses, some delicious and long-held mysteries are revealed and some distressing omens appear on the horizon. Due to circumstances beyond their control, immortality - at least as far as the immortals know it - will never be the same again.
"I had more faith," said Sweet Orb Mace, brushing black curls from her little face. "I knew that you would not wish to spoil the happiest day of my life, dear Jagged."
She received a dry bow from Jherek's father.
"Well," briskly said the Duke, "we leave now to our honeymoon (scarcely more than an asteroid, really), and so must say farewell."
Amelia, with a gesture Jherek found almost shocking, it was so untypical, threw her arms about the jolly Duke and kissed him on his bearded cheek. "Farewell, dear Duke of Queens. You, I know, will always be happy." Sweet Orb Mace, in turn, was kissed. "And may your marriage last for a long, long while."
The Duke seemed almost embarrassed, but was pleased by her demonstration. "And may you be happy, too, Mrs. Under—"
"Carnelian."
"—wood. Aha! Here are our wings, my dear." Two automata carried two large pairs of white feathered wings. The Duke helped his bride into her harness and then slipped into his own, stretching his arms to catch the loops. "Now, Sweet Orb Mace, the secret lies in taking a good, fast run before you commence to beat. See!" He began to race across the ground, followed by his mate. He stumbled once, righted himself, started to flap the great wings and, eventually, succeeded in becoming wildly airborne. His wife imitated him and soon she, too, was a few feet in the air, swaying and flapping. Thus, erratically, they disappeared from view, two huge, drunken doves.
"I hope," said Amelia gravely, "that they do not get those wings too sticky." And she smiled at Jherek, and she winked at him. He was glad to see that she had recovered her spirits.
Mistress Christia ran past, tittering with glee, pursued by four Lat, including Captain Mubbers who grunted happily: "Get your balloons down, you beautiful bit of bone, you!"
She had already allowed her knee-balloons to slip enticingly half-way towards her calves.
"Cor!" retorted Lieutenant Rokfrug. "What a lovely pair!"
"Save a bit for us!" begged the Lat furthest in the rear. "Don't worry," panted the second furthest, "there's enough for everyone!"
They all rushed into the cathedral and did not emerge again.
Now, in small groups, the brides, the grooms and the guests were beginning to go their ways. Farewells were made. My Lady Charlotina and Brannart Morphail passed overhead in a blue and white enamel dish-shaped boat, but Charlotina was oblivious of them all and the only evidence of Brannart being with her was his club-foot waving helplessly over the rim of the air-car.
"What do you say, Amelia?" softly asked Lord Jagged. "Will you accept my invitation?"
She shrugged at him. "This is the last time I intend to trust you, Lord Jagged."
"It could he the last time you will have to, my dear."
The Iron Orchid mounted the swan first, with Amelia behind her, then Jherek and lastly Jagged. They began to rise. Below them, near the cathedral and amongst the tents and booths, a few determined revellers continued to dance. Their voices, thin and high, carried up to the four who circled above. Amelia Carnelian began to quote from Wheldrake's longest and most ambitious poem, unfinished at his death, The Flagellants . Her choice seemed inappropriate to Jherek, but she was looking directly at Lord Jagged and seemed to he addressing him, as if only he would understand the significance of the words.
So shall they dance, till the end of time,
Each face a mask, each mark a sign
Of pride disguised as pain.
Yet pity him who must remain,
His flesh unflayed, his soul untried:
His pain disguised as pride.
Lord Jagged's face was impassive, yet he gave a great shrug and looked away from her, seemingly in annoyance. It was the only occasion Jherek had ever detected that kind of anger in his father. He frowned at her, questioning her, wondering at the peculiar smile on her lips — a mixture of sympathy and triumph, and of bitterness — but she continued to stare at Jagged, even though the lord in yellow refused to meet that gaze. The swan sailed over forests now, but Amelia continued with her Wheldrake.
I knew him when he offered all,
To God, and Woman, too,
His faith in life was strong,
His trust in Christ was pure…
Jagged's interruption was, for him, quite abrupt. "They can be delightfully sentimental, those Victorian versifiers, can they not? Are you familiar with Swinburne, Amelia?"
"Swinburne? Certainly not, sir!"
"A shame. He was once a particular favourite of mine. Was he ever Laureate?"
"There was some talk — but the scandal. Mr. Kipling refused, I heard. Mr. Alfred Austin is — was — our new Poet Laureate. I believe I read a book of his about gardens." She chatted easily, but there remained an edge to her voice, as if she knew he changed the subject and she refused to be diverted. "I am not familiar with his poetry."
"Oh, but you should look some out." And in turn, Lord Jagged quoted:
"Very rousing," said Amelia. The swan dipped and seemed to fly faster, so that her hair was blown about her face. "Though it is scarcely Wheldrake. A different sort of verse altogether. Wheldrake writes of the spirit, Austin, it seems, of the world. Sometimes, however, it is good for those who are much in the world to spend a few quiet moments with a poet who can offer an insight or two as to the reasons why men act and think as they do…"
"You do not and Wheldrake's preoccupations morbid, then?"
"In excess, yes. You mentioned Swinburne…"
"Aha! Goes too far?"
"I believe so. We are told so. The fleshly school, you know…"
Lord Jagged pretended (there was no other word) to notice the bemused, even bored, expressions of the Iron Orchid and Jherek Carnelian. "Look how we distress our companions, our very loved ones, with this dull talk of forgotten writers."
"Forgive me. I began it — with a quotation from Wheldrake I found apt."
"Those we have left are not penitents of any sort, Amelia."
"Perhaps so. Perhaps the penitents are elsewhere."
"Now I lose your drift entirely."
"I speak without thinking. I am a little tired."
"Look. The sea."
"It is a lovely sea, Jagged!" complimented the Iron Orchid. "Have you only just made it?"
"Not long since. On my way back. He turned to Jherek. "Nurse sends her regards, by the way. She says she is glad to hear that you are making a sensible life for yourself and settling down and that it is often the wild ones who make the best citizens in the end."