The Poems of Madam Albithurst: Lord Pulkwark's Ball

The Galaship Ruskinolam was a mighty vessel, large enough to entertain hundreds of the most exacting and particular lords and ladies from across the Myriad Worlds. Different wings on different decks had their own climates, designed to keep the different races comfortable, or uncomfortable, as their proclivities leaned.

For those who found the average, or should I perhaps say median climate tolerable enough, or perhaps had some method of preventing the worst of their adverse affects to such atmosphere, gathered in the central ballroom. The room was taller than most trees I have seen, and wide enough to require two chamber-orchestras at either end to ensure that the reveling attendees did not miss the subtle overtones of the chosen music. The skill required for both orchestras to play in perfect unison was worthy of note. I am always impressed by such displays of devotion to ones’ passion and craft.

All along the walls, climbing like castle spires towards the sloping ceiling, were pillars of ancient design and style, carved from stonewood polished near black, contrasting the shimmering silver tendrils that curved and spun along the wall. Crystal cylinders glowed with brilliant red and yellow light, the multitude of facets cracking along the walls like bolts of lightning.

There was no dinner-time, nor breakfast, nor luncheon meal on Lord Pulkwark’s Galaship. Only a massive table that ringed the central ballroom, filled to bursting with roasts, broils, frys, root-pastes, sauces, sautés, coddles, poaches, sears, casseroles, wines, ales, ciders, and more besides.

I am not particularly well versed in the finer and more detailed efforts of hosting, but Mr. Porist was certain that there would have to be no fewer than twenty chefs in the kitchens, all cooking their own specialties in the depths of the Galaship, to every scale of quality. Exquisite and delicate for those who demanded proper presentation over substance, thick and pedestrian for those who preferred a more earthy repast.

I will not regale you with the countless conversations nor sensations that I involved myself in, as they either were pedestrian enough as to require no description, or were suitable for their own Poems, some of which I have already created and await your delectation as the nearest Grandiose Guild library.

However, I will say that it was here that I had my first taste of Illiskan Cream. A delicacy among many cultures, Illisk milk is curdled and churned for days on end until a thick film is formed. Once collected and seasoned with Eil honey and pepper, it is pooled on wax paper to dry, and then spread on thin crisp bread.

It begins with a tang, an assault on the tongue. The urge is to recoil, to pull away from the thick creamy substance and spit it out into the air, but you mustn’t. The spice soon fades, crested by a wave of sweet thickness, tickling the edges of your mouth and coating your inner cheeks. The spice doesn’t vanish, however, constantly breaking through like pebbles cresting the surface of the waves, tiny seeds of peppery savor, pulling back and forth between the sweet and the spice.

The aftertaste brings the soothing creamy mildness, hints of the assault that are not but recent memory. An aloe balm on the delicious bee stings of the mouth. It is only now that the raw germ of the bread, toasted lightly, provides a solid bed for the flavorful flowers to bloom, a musty scent that serves only to heighten the clean and eloquent flavors.

As a side note, I should convey a simple warning to anyone who happens to meet a Sensate and feel a need to strike up any measure of conversation. A Sensate is not a connoisseur. It is a difference of scope, rather than kind: Connoisseurs delve deeply into the world of a specific type, whether soup, wine, foreign cuisine, or the like. Sensates dive into the world of sensation. Of all kinds. To call a Sensate a connoisseur is akin to calling a theatrical actor a liar, or a brave soldier a murderer. While there is, in fact, truth in such labels, it is a base reduction of a mere portion of a beautiful and powerful profession.

Lord Pulkwark, for all his extravagant exaggeration, was not incorrect in his admiration for his guests. Dukes and Duchesses, Earls and Earlesses, Archdeacons and Marchionesses traveled across the floor, talking, eating, and dancing as etiquette and inclination demanded.

For my own self, I found my time well spent chatting with a particularly tall Esquin who happened to own a small band of merchant ships. Eager to ask my advice about various ports of call, I was able to regale him with fascinating tales of the many places and peoples I had seen, instilling in him an unseemly mercantile passion.

When at last I could extract myself from his pointed conversation, I walked to Mr. Porist, who had been likewise entailed in a conversation. It was clear, even at a casual glance, that Mr. Porist was delighted with his company. “Madam Albithurst,” he said as I drew closer, “Forgive me, but I simply must introduce you. This,” he turned to his companion, a well-dressed insect-folk of green chitin and roving eyes, “is Mx. Image, Marq of the Circumvexing Hill.”

“Charmed, Madam,” the Marq extended a curving claw in greeting. “I was just speaking with your friend Mr. Porist here about the Tides of Three Shades, and what we hope to find there, when we finally are given the opportunity.”

“So it was you that our host mentioned,” I nodded politely. “Forgive me, but he did not mention you were insect-folk.”

“And called me sir, or Marquee, I’ll bet,” Image’s claws clacked in resignation. “Forgive my confusion, but I simply cannot understand your soft-skin proclivities for sex. Such strange ways of demarcating your different etiquettes. You do not call your leaders King or Queen based on their diet, nor on whether they sleep on their backs or their side, yet whether you bear children or not defines your etiquette in so many different ways. I frankly cannot keep it all straight.”

“It can be quite confusing to those who do not live with it daily,” I admitted. “I hope you don’t think me terribly rude, but I would love to hear your name in your own tongue. I know I will never be able to pronounce it, but I do so enjoy hearing your language.”

“Not at all, Madam,” Image rubbed xer antennae and shifted xer thorax before sending xer mandibles into an array of clattering and chattering squeaks. Once xe had finished, it continued in a more understandable dialect: “Of course, the translation is imperfect, and I wouldn’t dream of boring you with an explanation of the literal meaning. Image is perfectly suitable, and is importantly easy to pronounce.”

“Indeed it is,” I nodded. I found out at a later time xer name roughly means An Image of Pure Whetstone Underwhich the Moon. “Oh, but forgive me, I have not introduced my full self, either.”

“There is no need, Madam Albithurst,” Image shook xer broad head. “I have heard of the Grandiose Guild of Sensationalists, and my new friend has explained that you are one of their illustrious order. I have heard much of the exploits of your kind, and indeed once visited a guild library in what was, at the time, a misguided attempt to understand your people.”

“Did it not suffice?” I was disappointed to hear it.

“It taught me much,” Image shrugged, xer elytron clapping open and shut, “but I am afraid we are of two different species, and the sensations your poems describe have little analog for those of my people.”

Now to hear this, I was incensed. To think that we of the Grandiose Guild could not transcend the barriers of mere racial diversity was an insult to the profession. Besides, I could think of no less than three separate insect-folk who were members of the guild, and had written most eloquent poems regarding mating rituals, laying eggs, and farming. While I would never be so crass or impolite to profess a belief that I knew the insect-folk thereby, I certainly would never say an empathy was unobtainable.

But such contradiction is impolite, so I merely nodded and steered the conversation towards more calm and polite topics, such as the food, the music, our shared bemusement at our host’s bombasity, and the curious nature of the sudden ominous war brewing between the Archonarchy and the Tentative Alliance.

My efforts ultimately proved fruitless, as Mx. Image raised a fore-leg after a moment, a gentle interrupt. “Forgive me, Madam Albithurst, but I have been paying close attention and trying to glean the truth of this situation, and must ask a fairly impertinent question. Are you female?”

Now this was a question that had many answers, but I had no desire to embarrass the poor thing, so I simply affirmed the correctness of xer assumption. It was, after all, accurate enough for a layperson.

“Then it is improper for me to ask the question I wish to ask. I know this, because I have spent a great many years among the soft-skins of the Myriad Worlds, and I have learned a great number of insults, quite accidentally. Never the less, my curiosity drives me onward, and so I must ask if I may be allowed to inadvertently insult you?”

“I have been insulted a multitude of times,” I said, patting the poor thing on the fore-claw, “intentionally and otherwise. Please, say your piece.”

Mx. Image clapped xer back again in a quick shrug. “I must ask you if you mind if I take a look at the ring on your hand. The particularly large one.” I am ashamed to say I had quite forgotten the gift given to me by Lady Quixtactictle, and so it took me a moment to recognize what Image was referring to. Once I had divested myself of the large gem, xe stared at the ring most intensely before giving a click of xer mandibles and brushing xer eye with a long forelimb. “Yes, just as I thought.”

“What did you think, may I ask?” I did not wish to be impolite, but the ring had been such an oddity, that Image’s confidence was intriguing.

The Marq held the ring up to the light. “This gem is a Polyamtrix. I have not seen its like among the soft-skins for many years. Do you mind if I ask where you acquired such an item?”

“Certainly not,” I said. “Why, I was only just given this ring by a friend of mine on Grand Junction.”

“Is she one of we hard-skins?”

I had never considered Lady Quixtactictle’s skin to be hard at all, but I knew what Mx. Image was really asking, and so I said; “I’ve never been truly sure. She is, however, frightfully cosmopolitan, and I have no doubt that she has a great number of insect-folk friends. Is this Polyamtrix a tool of your people, then?”

Mx. Image looked as surprised as xer chitinous skin allowed. “You do not know? It is indeed hard-skin technology. A Polyamtrix is a method of containing information in a prismatic multi-faceted dimensional space. Usually recovered through a proper application of luminosity and a proscribed angle and rotation. Are you saying you did not know this?” I did not, and was not ashamed to admit it. “Well,” Image continued, “if you have a flashlight with a narrow beam, I might be able to extract whatever information is therein contained.”

“I have one,” Mr. Porist interjected, slipping his hand into his vest and pulling out a tiny silver rod. “You twist the end here to tighten the beam.”

Image flicked the light on and twisted the end back and forth between two of xer forelimbs. “Hmm…Not tight enough. I will need a thinner beam.”

“You could use a magnifying glass,” Mr. Porist suggested, pulling just such a device from his other vest pocket. “How’s this?”

“Ah,” Mx. Image took the glass and studied it carefully. “Yes, I think this will serve. If you three would care to join me in a less populated place, we might see what secrets this gem holds.”

As luck would have it, we only had to wander for a few moments before we discovered an uninhabited sitting room with a relatively empty wall. Mr. Porist dimmed the lights while Mx. Image gripped the ring, magnifying glass, and flashlight in three separate claws. Carefully positioning the flashlight and magnifying glass, our new friend turned on the beam and brought the ring into position.

What a dazzling array of lines and shapes glittered across the wall! As Image twisted and turned the ring about, shining the light at different angles and in different sides, the shapes shifted about on the wall like a kaleidoscope, making me quite dizzy.

How wonderful the experience was! There is a beauty in mystery, though you may think it odd to hear me say it. Yes, again I must insist that I do not dream. I did not imagine what might be hidden within the depths of the crystal. Instead, I embraced the facets, shining in the dark. Glittering stars floating in the solid clear. Behind each an unseen. It is a difficult skill to master, for the first thing any being wishes upon noting an unseen is a desire to know. But this is not the way of the Sensate. We do not dwell in the realms of discovery. We simply embrace the not-seeing.

The hereandnow was hidden behind a molecular structure of imprinted information. It was cracks and fissures in perfect placement. It was a construct as intricate and detailed as a clock-work bird, and its silence was as carefully conducted as the bird’s song. It was beautiful, and I loved it, even knowing it was not what I saw.

“You see,” Image said as xe turned the gem about, moving it back and forth, “the many flaws induced in the gem manipulate the light when it is shone through, like mirrors in a fun house — such strange things, your soft-skin eyes, to be fooled by such tricks. At the right angle, distance, and intensity, the light will provide us with whatever message was — Ah! There!”

Like a lit match flaring in reverse, the lines were suddenly clear and detailed, the letters now sharp and clean. Mr. Porist clapped his hands to his chest. “That was amazing! Can I try?”

“I do not think it will work for you,” Image cocked xer head, keeping one eye on the wall, the other on the gem. “The stone must be held quite still; so still that even the flowing blood in your soft-skin veins will disturb the message, and it will appear to be no more than mist.”

“Fascinating,” I admitted as I focused my attention to the message projected onto the wall. I did not recognize any of it, but it was clear that Mr. Porist did. “What is it?”

“It looks to be Blueprints,” Mr. Porist answered. “Of a kind. A portion, at any rate. Perhaps there is more. Mx. Image, if you could adjust the angle of…Yes, there! That’s the next page. And the next is…there.”

As Image slowly turned the ring and the strange pictures flickered past, Mr. Porist muttered to himself with his fingers on his curved chin. At long last, he heaved a sigh. “I don’t understand most of this, but it is incredibly complicated, whatever it is.”

“Quite clever, indeed.” Image turned an eye towards me. “And you say your friend gave this to you?”

“A dear friend,” I admitted, “who is now being held by the Anointed Bulwark on suspicion of espionage with the Archonarchy.”

“Ah,” Image nodded without moving xer gaze from the wall. “That would explain it, then.”

“Yes,” Mr. Porist agreed with a nod. “I think that this blueprint is…well, a portion at least of the great construction.”

“A portion?”

“It’s certainly incomplete,” Mr. Porist answered. “I can’t quite tell what it is they’re making. Some of these instructions are…obscure. Confusing, at least. And in multiple languages.”

“This here,” Mx. Image said as the blueprints shifted again, “is in the hard-skin language of Ckee. Hardy industrialists, who here are detailing a complex chemical formula. This,” the page turned, “is a strange language I do not recognize.”

“I do,” Mr. Porist stepped forward. “This bit here is geometry, very complex. This bit here, I don’t recognize the letters, but this bit next to it is Old Grophwii. I learned it in school. Let me see if I can translate it.”

And this is what he said:

“Far out over the mountain range to the east of the sun when it rises, lay a single forgotten egg. There, it lay for seven years and a fortnight, after which it split into three halves. The first half became woman and walked the earth with thick clawed feet and a burning red eye. The second half became dog, and ran across the hills with a spark in its tongue and a howl in its teeth. The third half became itself, and in so doing caught the eye of great God-One. God-One took the egg-half which had two siblings, and gave unto it a blessing. ‘Here,’ said God-One, ‘is the secret to happiness. You and you alone shall know of it, and tell the secret to no one.’ Then God-One took the egg-half which had two siblings, and divided it into the seven parts. The seven parts became the Myriad Worlds, and of its many people, God-One saw the birds of Hightop struggling to fly. They did love God-One, and gave thanks for the blessing of the Myriad Worlds, and so named their worship the High on High, which —”

“This is a blueprint?” Image broke in, xer voice tinted with amazement. “In all my many years serving as Marq of her Majesty, speaking with nobles from countless kingdoms, I have never once heard of anything created from such poetic words such as this.”

“No?” I was amused at xer amazing naivete. “Among the Arcwhite kingdoms, and many Myriad Worlds beside, the foundation of any creation is a story. Can you tell us, Mr. Porist, what this story tells you?”

Mr. Porist wiped his nose with a quaking hand. “This great construction, whatever it is the Archonarchy is building, they need the Encinidine to complete it.”

“Are you certain?” Image asked, shifting the light back through the other pages.

Mr. Porist rubbed his hands together, shuffling back and forth on his feet. “I have heard this story before. Its very old, and is only remembered by a few of the ancients. The High on High, the Chamber of the Unimaginable, the Legueon Counting House…”

“Surely,” Image coughed as only an Insect-folk can, “even the Archonarchy wouldn’t dream of opposing the High on High directly. To steal even a piece of the Encinidine, why…”

“Steal, no,” I doubted anyone would be so foolish, “but to find? How could they be at fault then? If the High on High failed in any one their charges, how could they claim the right to the Encinidine?” It was, in fact, the exact line of reasoning that I myself had used to justify my setting off in the first place.

“Do you suppose,” Mr. Porist cast a worried eye in my direction, “that the Archonarchy killed the Duke, then? Perhaps they used some strange magic to learn where he hid the Encinidine, and killed him so it would no longer be protected?

“It is possible,” I was forced to admit, “but if so, who killed the Aeolam of the Twelve Hands? And how did Lady Quixtactictle get her hands on this Polyamtrix? I don’t know,” I heaved a weary sigh, “but this is all beginning to feel very political.”

“Well, as Marq of the Circumvexing Hill,” Image pulled at xer collar, combing the fabric straight. “I do everything in my power to avoid political situations. Nevertheless, it appears that there is some trouble afoot, and the Archonarchy means to cause it.” Image cleared xer throat again. “I don’t suppose that you, Madam, are patriotic enough to risk your own life for the well-being of peace-loving innocents everywhere?”

“No,” I admitted, “though I am quite willing to risk my life for other reasons. Mr. Porist, I find this conversation has quite invigorated me. I don’t suppose that you are willing to find some manner in which to resume our journey?”

“I would be delighted,” Mr. Porist grinned, ears wobbling at his shoulders.