An oblong table, covered with a blue drape, stood ready under the porch: the four painted wooden figurines, delicately juxtaposed by the hands of skilled technicians, musical automata built three centuries earlier, stored in the university's glass cases like odd toys, gathering dust until someone, cleaning out old offices of paperwork, had found their ignition keys and operating diagrams, scattered among musty invoices.

  The most talented mechanics had been hired to refurbish the automata. For once, Attan Ze Kosh thought contentedly, the university had funded something beautiful and worthy, instead of fueling rivalries and giving away unearned money with no results to those who boasted of experiences that had never been verified.

  As he approached the porch with the lady under his arm, Attan Ze glanced sideways at the Masterat protagonist of the lucky find, a humble mover the mayor himself had invited. He had nothing to do with Iliqualoti's prize, but he had a right to see what wonder he had unearthed.

  A gangly man, awkward in what must have been a rented blue suit, silently leaned his shoulders against a column as if to prop himself up. His saffron-yellow mane shot out in all directions. Perhaps he regretted accepting the invitation, slipping into this environment so foreign to him, but soon, Attan Ze was sure, he would change his mind. The music, the atmosphere, the knowledge that he owed it all to himself would make this evening, though stressful, one of the most important memories of his existence, one of those moments that in old age —four or five years from now, poor creature— he would recall with shining eyes and a sigh of satisfaction.

  The figurines, placed on a base resembling a low white box and connected by cables on their backs, represented four animals that only vaguely resembled as many real creatures. Two birds, one wiry with a striped belly and the other with puffy plumage and two huge yellow eyes above its hooked beak; a blue dog grinning and showing human teeth; and a kind of crimson-striped white cat, almost all wrapped in a very long, twisted tail.

  Of course, a thorough cleaning of all the gears and contacts had been necessary, but the most delicate matter had been the restoration of the machines' power reserve. Rector Miarull was just explaining this.

  “As even children know, automata should always be left active. It may seem like a waste of energy, but actually the reserves are made to recharge themselves during the operation of the machines, with their movements, with the heat of the environment.”

  The children may have known this, but Dame Lapui exhaled a verse of astonishment as she placed her hand on her ample bosom, as if a truth of historic importance had been revealed to her. The mayor stood and listened patiently, his eyes wandering over the ornate capitals of the white marble columns.

  “The batteries of any automaton that has been out of service for a long time undergo a rapid and often irreversible deterioration: the gelatin not only discharges but also dries out, deteriorates, and must be replaced. As you can imagine, these old automata were not equipped with the universal battery model installed according to the Bourod specifications established thirty-four years ago...”

  There was a wave of giggles in the audience.

  “Our amazing electricians had to rebuild batteries from scratch to fit the non-standard casings of these cute little machines, which are all different and require different power supplies. Am I right?”

  With a broad smile, the rector asked someone in the group of technicians still surrounding the table —really busy smoothing out non-existent wrinkles in the curtains and moving cables one hair at a time— for a confirmation. He had to get it, because he kept going, looking more and more radiant.

  “Well, ladies and gentlemen, let's enjoy a preview of this show, which, I remind you, will not be available to the general public until the next theater season opens! But first, allow me to introduce with a few words what we are going to hear...”

  Ah, no. Attan Ze Kosh refused to put up with it any longer. The rector's cadenced voice became an indistinct sound, as insignificant as the flesh of the lady who pressed against his right side like a lukewarm pillow.

  Gelatin. Blue powder. Everything brought him back.

  “A steady chant to which four other voices provide a playful counterpoint...”

  Dust extracted with acid washes from the translucent black ore found in the mine. Clusters of dark, purplish globules embedded deep in the heart of the rock, like clusters of juicy berries ready to give energy, to release it in a controlled way in batteries capable of amplifying up to three hundred and twenty times the energy of an industrial plant.

  The soul of everything, indispensable to their daily life.

  “...ancient and mysterious text, never deciphered...”

  And how did the Zerafians fit into this picture? What value could the powder have for creatures who did not even use electricity, who lived clinging to the northern wall of Faspath, growing like a honeycomb of insects, without real technology, incomprehensible and alien?

  The war with Nelatte had never been a real declared conflict, but rather the kind of no-holds-barred battle one could have with wild animals that occasionally raided the roost.

  Maybe it was all a big misunderstanding. Maybe their sabotage of the mine was not really a hostile act, but merely an attempt at exploration, a curiosity about the holes in the rock that opened up as a result of the controlled explosions, a desire to understand where the sounds of the vibropumps, which on some days resembled human moans, were coming from.

  What if the earth was really screaming? What if every crack, every opening, every wound was a cry of pain?

  He passed a hand over his face in a distracted gesture, and sweaty fingers gripped his other arm.

  Lapui's worried mouth looked like a crushed flower.

  “Are you well, Your Excellency? Tired?”

  The mayor reassured her with a quick gesture of his head and a calm smile.

  She snuggled even closer, her pungent scent tingling his senses.

  “They're starting, let's listen,” she whispered excitedly.

  The owl-like bird's wings flapped, a loud hiccup shook the fake dog, and a jingling melody, playful and light, delighted the audience's ears. It came from the base; none of the automata were playing yet. An introduction to the melody. Attan Ze recognized it and smiled.

  A pause of silence, very short, to get the best attention. Then a synthetic voice, a grave bass voice, began to scan the syllables of an obsolete language. The cat jumped up first, with a timid meow that gradually became more insistent, the owl emitted a faint wail, the dog punctuated repeated notes, the other bird —a cuckoo, he now understood— trilled its call higher than all.

  The bass echoed in the bowels, stubbornly reciting in long tones what sounded like a prayer. The dog and the owl were indistinguishable in the merry chatter, the one providing rhythm and the other harmony, the cuckoo continuing, sometimes varying his accents. The only semblance of melody was in the cat's ever-changing verses. The automaton twisted its long tail like an endless screw around its body and moved its small head.

  All five voices ended together: the dog rose to his feet, stuck out a funny, boundless tongue, the owl opened his wings to flap them with the sound of wood against wood, and the cuckoo bowed to the audience.

  A new fleeting silence, and the end was entrusted to a repetition of the pealing introduction from just before.

  The echoes of the last arpeggiated chord were still reverberating on the stone walls when applause broke out from the group of academics, tentative at first, but then spreading to the rest of the audience. The amused and enthusiastic comments did not diminish even during the intervention of the rector, who was still trying to explain something about the piece he had just heard.

  A warm, not entirely pleasant, consciousness had risen from the floor and enveloped Attan Ze Kosh. The mayor backed away from the crowd with slow steps until he caught a slight breeze of cooler air and the discreet intonation of the singing sands reached his ear again.

  He had been enjoying the night until a moment ago. What had happened now?

  It was a feeling in his chest, a flicker similar to the sting of a nagging memory. The idea that he had deliberately forgotten something. That there was an unpleasant task waiting for him, a heavy or even painful one, that he had put off for a long time, put it back in the drawer of annoyances, but that now he would have to face it and there was no way to avoid it.

  He tried hard to hide his irritation as Lapui hurried to catch up with him. She simply would not let him go. There was no point in wandering around with his eyes closed and sighing.

  The rector received congratulations, triumphant as if it was all his doing.

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  Luoth was strolling with two women under his arm when the shapely widow offered him a pastry to bite right off her fingers.

  The Masterat in the corner was flushed, hot from wearing too heavy a dress, but also visibly moved. He left the column and walked to the double doors without turning around or greeting anyone.

  That was enough to calm him down. Attan Ze gave the lady a charming smile that made her tremble and shrink, twisting the fringed edge of her wide silver shawl.

  He could not resist the temptation to tease her.

  “The ancient and mysterious text sung by the bass voice in a steady chant is just a joke,” he revealed to her. “The magnificent rector is making fun of us.”

  “Really?”

  “It was a group of students who put this little show together. Do you know what it actually says?”

  He glanced at the rector, who was still talking to the last few people around the slot table. Just the kind of pompous professor the students had wanted to mock. Well, physical flaws aside.

  “'Never trust a hunchback or a cripple, and if you find a one-eyed man good for anything, mark it in the history books.'”

  The lady blinked a few times, her mouth ajar. She burst into a laugh so sudden that it startled him and attracted the attention of the neighbors. She had not believed him. What a joker, she probably thought. Just as well.

  “But do you know Dr. Iliqualoti well? Are you close?” she asked him.

  The mayor nodded. Tiredness suddenly overcame him. He had no desire to stay. A quick greeting and off he went...

  “I studied here, you know,” he replied in a polite but hurried tone. That was more or less true. Happy years. A long, long time ago.

  The woman opened her arms, so enthusiastic.

  “History, art, ancient languages, even science! You are a man of a thousand interests!”

  “I like to wander,” he admitted. Before he could escape, she had already taken his hand. Was she planning to rest it on her half-naked chest?

  “With all you've got going on, I don't know how you can find the time to study subjects so far removed from your work,” she chirped.

  She planted her gaze in his, and in that moment he could hear her thoughts, her shrill voice clear and loud, giggling and lascivious in his mind.

  You are golden and smooth all over, aren't you? Don't you have a single hair on your entire body?

  She did not tug at his hand, but her soft grip seemed impossible to overcome without resorting to a violent and certainly very rude yank.

  Attan Ze Kosh also replied in silence, winking at her.

  No, but I have feathers.

  The lady's face went from ruby red with excitement to a deathly pallor in less than an instant, her breath choked as if from an asthma attack.

  “Oh...”

  She dropped the Mayor's hand to claw at her chest and throat, and when she finally managed to draw in enough breath to let out a groan as she staggered backward, blood began to ooze from her nostrils.

  “Oh! Oh!”

  Damn it!

  Attan Ze sprang to his feet and grabbed her before she hit the floor, scooping her up and leading her to a small sofa as a noisy crowd began to comment on the scene.

  “How are you feeling, madam?” he encouraged her with a gentle tap on the back of his plump hand.

  Other ladies had come by. A handkerchief was offered and some pillows were arranged behind Lapui's back.

  “Poor me! A dizziness... a feeling of sickness... this drink is too strong for me, I'm afraid,” she squealed.

  When she saw the vermilion stains on her handkerchief, she barely suppressed a cry.

  “Breathe, breathe!” was the rector's advice, and he opened his mouth wide and inhaled as if to teach her.

  Lapui lifted her gaze back to Attan Ze, studying him for a few moments, holding her wrist as if she did not recognize him. Then her wide, moist eyes seemed to bulge, the sweaty skin of her cheeks now grayish under her makeup. A young girl wrapped her arm around her shoulders, words of comfort barely whispered.

  Attan Ze Kosh straightened, took a step back. It was not supposed to be like this. His bland telepathic abilities had always been limited to receiving the thoughts and emotions of others, at random moments, without control. Amused spectator, no obligation. But Dame Lapui had heard him now. There was no other explanation for the panic, horror, and indignation he read on her shocked face.

  More offended by the violation of her thoughts or by the sly retort she had received?

  The mayor feigned a slight coughing fit to cover his mouth and hide the laughter he felt rising inexorably inside him, on the verge of overflowing like the froth of a carbonated beverage.

  Never ask questions you don't want to know the answer to!

  He stiffened in fear that he had somehow sent that remark into the minds of the audience as well. But he saw no change in the scene. Most of the guests hovered around Lapui's couch, generous with advice and exhortation, words of comfort, fans, glasses of water.

  Attan Ze caught the rector's gaze in a silent goodbye. Miarull nodded gravely. The mayor took his leave with a hasty bow, even though no one else was looking at him. But his steps towards the double doors were calm and measured.

  Had it not been for that last incident, he would have had a nice evening in a cozy setting. The music of the sands, the glass dome above him, the darkness of the night beyond —they all reminded him of something.

  The sense of urgency grew. Someone or something was trying to get his attention by shaking him, making him miss a step, spilling his glass.

  He had to face it.

  With his hand in the air toward the door handle, he hesitated and looked up again. Music. Dome. Darkness outside. Murmur of people. He turned on himself, slowly, to take in the whole environment with his gaze.

  The Gates were missing. The Nine Gates. And the huge Plant. Its fruits...

  He tilted his head back and began to laugh.

  Metz O Bar.

  Who invented this nickname? Who wanted to turn this sacred place between worlds into a real drinking establishment?

  Probably himself.

  Just as he was the one who had written the mechanical chime song.

  That too was a joke.

  On the name of the Plant.

  A play on words.

  °°°

  Seluma spent many frantic minutes in a haze of fear and despondency before deciding to back away, hissing an expletive. What had gone wrong? Furious, she recoiled up the coils of the shell and back to the chambers she inhabited.

  It was not the unnecessary loss of the cup or the sacrifice of the expensive wine that bothered her. Failure seemed to be a bad, bad sign, as if reality itself and the knowledge she so desperately sought had slammed the door in her face with contempt.

  This had never happened before.

  In her rest room, she stretched out, relaxing to regain her composure. But once again something shook her, a bubble imploding inside her. This inner turmoil would not subside...

  The appearance of her husbands caught her completely off guard this time. Panting, she missed most of their bickering. For once, they had appeared not to scold or embarrass her, but to fuel a violent diatribe of their own.

  “Enough!” she tried to shout, with an effort that drained her of so much energy that she was reduced to an immobile mass. The two heads screamed at each other, shaking her.

  “I told you, it's your fault!”

  “I may be at your mercy, but you cannot force me to agree!”

  “So you force us to do what you want, damn you!”

  “I can't help the way I feel! I don't want to go back there!”

  “Seluma, listen—for the sake of Water!”

  The left head, the one ready to blame the other for the botched experiment, had finally noticed the state of its host and was even more ready to renew its contempt for the companion.

  “You, what have you done to her now?”

  “Me?! You scream in her ears like a madman!”

  In the new silence, Seluma floated, on the verge of losing consciousness. Trying to keep a grip on reality, she let her body relax even more. She sagged completely, barely held up by the stiffness of the corset, and the two heads nearly collapsed, slamming into hers. The third protuberance, on her back, was a burning spot that stimulated her intermittently.

  “Seluma, he did it, he resisted the summoning with all his might. I had nothing to do with it, you know,” the first head, Marghi, continued.

  “Look, I always resisted, even the other times, and the portal opened anyway,” Myriaky's pained murmur interrupted.

  “Of course,” she finally whispered, pulling herself together. With a sigh, a serious vibration in the back of her throat, she tried to compose herself. The more she straightened, enlarged, retreated, the more the heads shrank. In the end, only the two faces remained, splattered like decals over her, and the mouths still rattled.

  “That has nothing to do with it,” Seluma concluded to silence them. “Either it opens or it doesn't, it's not up to us. It's not the right time. We'll try again.”

  Would she try again? At the moment, she did not even feel able to reach the hollow that formed her bed. She suspected that this terrible fatigue, much more intense and debilitating than usual, was not natural. Perhaps it was an extra toll to pay.

  The usual sacrifice was no longer enough, she thought with a shudder.

  What does the Lord of the Nine Gates want from me?