Aestival Tide by Elizabeth Hand Page A

hear the voice of Ucalegon shouting in its sleep…”
    Reive stepped back, uneasy.
    â€œâ€¦in the Undercity the rift is widening, soon it will breach the open sea and I will be free! but only come with me now, human child, come with me and prise the gates open, free me—”
    Reive shook her head, frightened to see the water roiling about the huge thing, the madness bleeding into his black and empty eyes. “We can’t,” she stammered.
    Zalophus raised his head so that she could see his long jaw, the row of spike teeth where parasites raced to feed upon shreds of flesh and dripping strings of plankton.
    â€œFree me!” he bellowed. From across the vivarium came high-pitched shrieks and whistles as the dolphins raced terrified about their tanks. “Soon the fissure will spread and my sisters will come for me, they are waiting in the icelands, they are waiting waiting waiting, FREE ME!”
    The voice exploded in a screaming howl. Crying out, Reive fell back as he leaped, fins cutting long troughs through the water, the great body blotting out the light so that she saw only his skull silhouetted there, the prow of his jaw, the cruel mouth grinding as he fell and bellowing crashed into the pool. A wave rushed onto the walkway and she fled, while behind her the last zeuglodon roared and wept.
    In the chambers of the Architect Imperator sat Nasrani Orsina and Horemhob Panggang. They were waiting for Hobi’s father to return from a meeting with Shiyung Orsina and the imperious Âziz.
    â€œI’m sorry he’s not here to see you,” said Hobi. He felt distinctly uneasy entertaining the exiled Nasrani alone. This close to Æstival Tide, one always sensed that something terrible might happen. Ten years ago, when he was only seven, Hobi had watched horrified as Âziz sentenced a boy his own age to death for crying during a purification ceremony. “But I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”
    He offered Nasrani another pickled apricot. “I think he’s gone to the ceremony at the palace. The—” He put the tray onto the floor and frowned. “The what-is-it, the Investiture.”
    â€œMmph,” replied Nasrani Orsina. At the word investiture he winced. He lay on a stack of pillows stiff with brocade and metallic trim. Not especially comfortable but sumptuous to look upon, the decor was in keeping with Sajur Panggang’s architectural theories. He took another apricot and drained a glass of Amity-in-Occis, a rare and powerful liqueur distilled from kelp and wormwood. “Eee s’a vern guh, Hobi.”
    Hobi (correctly) interpreted this to mean that the Orsina in exile found the potent fruit to be very good. “Thank you.” He nodded politely. Like his father he was small and slender, but more muscular. His mother had been a cousin-german of the Orsinate. From her Hobi had inherited slanted eyes of an amber color and the surprising delicacy of his features—a strong chin that still seemed childishly rounded beneath Hobi’s recent attempts at a beard, high cheekbones, and long hair the color of the oak—real oak—paneling of the sitting room. “My father is very fond of them—I think they were something Mother liked.”
    Nasrani nodded. “Do you miss her?” He sipped his liqueur, gazing at Hobi through slitted eyes. He was not unaware that the two of them were related: it was the eyes, mostly, that showed it. Tiger’s eyes, like Shiyung’s. She was the beauty of the family, and Nasrani had always thought it a pity that she had no living heirs. There had been a child, once. His child, he was certain; but the baby had been monstrous—a morphodite, Shiyung whispered to him months afterward. But that had been a long time ago. If the child had lived it would be nearly as old as Hobi now. Nasrani sighed and finished his Amity. The boy looked younger than the last time he’d seen him. He