locate the right species first.”
They began walking down the nearest street, ice edged though damp in its centre. Manserphine found herself jumping as reflections appeared in glass panels to their sides. In these mirrors they looked very small; dwarfed by their environment. They came across a few small flowers, but these were data collectors and had no screens. Plants here were prickly, pale, often succulent or cactus-like, but their leaves and buds glowed under the touch of Manserphine’s hand. It was something she had never seen before, and it moved her, as if they were affirming a connection.
Soon she was looking down upon the beach itself, russet in morning light, with the sea rippling in a wriggling line. She looked to her left and saw a golden spire. “There it is!”
Carefully, they moved towards it, until the whole Shrine was visible. Inside a salt-encrusted wall encompassing an area of six acres stood the Shrine of the Sea, a series of golden onions massing up to one vast central dome, from which the spire emerged. It shone. Windows and external doors showed up as dark dots. Behind the Shrine they saw the ends of jetties, and boats moored in an artificial harbour. Manserphine, who had only seen the place in pictures, was impressed by its grandeur. She looked down at the wall. There stood the single entrance, the black gate that was Iron Maw.
“Look to your left,” Kirifaïfra said. “I see white and yellow flowers.”
They crawled down a sandy hillock to the strip of foliage Kirifaïfra had seen. Flickering lights inside the giant mimulus blooms seemed to greet them, and again Manserphine received the impression, as if from the echo of a vision, that they were aware of her, responding to her presence.
She thrust the thought aside. Time to explore. The miniature screens inside the newly opened flowers were insensitive to her insect pen, so she was forced to resort to the old standby of anther tickling. At times like this the network ecology could really annoy. Eventually, she had windows up that allowed her to view the types of information used and acquired by the less important sections of the Shrine. She noticed that the Shrine had been using great quantities of softpetal, but she did not have enough privileges to find out what they wanted it for. Sculpting of some description? She wondered where they found the stuff, and where the effluent went that followed its use.
“This is going to be difficult,” she said. “To find out important things I would have to get inside the Shrine. The flower networks around here are just too strange, not to mention quiet because it is winter.”
“Perhaps we could return in the summer,” Kirifaïfra suggested.
Manserphine sighed. She did not regret coming, in fact she felt a connection with this urb and its lonely Shrine, a connection growing stronger with the passing weeks; there was an as yet undiscovered ocean within her. But there were too many obstacles here, and she was an outsider.
But when five minutes later she noticed a sub-set of information refering to dresses, she learned a singular fact. The idea to create the softpetal impregnated dress had not originated in the Shrine of Flower Sculpture, rather it had been devised by Sea-Clerics and then shunted in disguise to Cirishnyan’s data beds. Yet another connection…
“Hola!”
They all span around. From the dune behind them came five women. Aitlantazyn had been looking down at the Shrine; now she turned around and flourished her scimitar.
“Hola, zeema ssoo!”
Manserphine pulled Aitlantazyn’s arm down. The women were dressed in sumptuous black cloaks and they wore silver circlets on their brows. These were cleric guards from the Shrine.
“Tell them we’ll go away,” Kirifaïfra urged.
Manserphine cleared her throat. “I’m not sure I can. I don’t speak their private tongue, only the dialect. This lot have probably never seen anybody from another urb.”
“Kanka graya! Ye, te,
They began walking down the nearest street, ice edged though damp in its centre. Manserphine found herself jumping as reflections appeared in glass panels to their sides. In these mirrors they looked very small; dwarfed by their environment. They came across a few small flowers, but these were data collectors and had no screens. Plants here were prickly, pale, often succulent or cactus-like, but their leaves and buds glowed under the touch of Manserphine’s hand. It was something she had never seen before, and it moved her, as if they were affirming a connection.
Soon she was looking down upon the beach itself, russet in morning light, with the sea rippling in a wriggling line. She looked to her left and saw a golden spire. “There it is!”
Carefully, they moved towards it, until the whole Shrine was visible. Inside a salt-encrusted wall encompassing an area of six acres stood the Shrine of the Sea, a series of golden onions massing up to one vast central dome, from which the spire emerged. It shone. Windows and external doors showed up as dark dots. Behind the Shrine they saw the ends of jetties, and boats moored in an artificial harbour. Manserphine, who had only seen the place in pictures, was impressed by its grandeur. She looked down at the wall. There stood the single entrance, the black gate that was Iron Maw.
“Look to your left,” Kirifaïfra said. “I see white and yellow flowers.”
They crawled down a sandy hillock to the strip of foliage Kirifaïfra had seen. Flickering lights inside the giant mimulus blooms seemed to greet them, and again Manserphine received the impression, as if from the echo of a vision, that they were aware of her, responding to her presence.
She thrust the thought aside. Time to explore. The miniature screens inside the newly opened flowers were insensitive to her insect pen, so she was forced to resort to the old standby of anther tickling. At times like this the network ecology could really annoy. Eventually, she had windows up that allowed her to view the types of information used and acquired by the less important sections of the Shrine. She noticed that the Shrine had been using great quantities of softpetal, but she did not have enough privileges to find out what they wanted it for. Sculpting of some description? She wondered where they found the stuff, and where the effluent went that followed its use.
“This is going to be difficult,” she said. “To find out important things I would have to get inside the Shrine. The flower networks around here are just too strange, not to mention quiet because it is winter.”
“Perhaps we could return in the summer,” Kirifaïfra suggested.
Manserphine sighed. She did not regret coming, in fact she felt a connection with this urb and its lonely Shrine, a connection growing stronger with the passing weeks; there was an as yet undiscovered ocean within her. But there were too many obstacles here, and she was an outsider.
But when five minutes later she noticed a sub-set of information refering to dresses, she learned a singular fact. The idea to create the softpetal impregnated dress had not originated in the Shrine of Flower Sculpture, rather it had been devised by Sea-Clerics and then shunted in disguise to Cirishnyan’s data beds. Yet another connection…
“Hola!”
They all span around. From the dune behind them came five women. Aitlantazyn had been looking down at the Shrine; now she turned around and flourished her scimitar.
“Hola, zeema ssoo!”
Manserphine pulled Aitlantazyn’s arm down. The women were dressed in sumptuous black cloaks and they wore silver circlets on their brows. These were cleric guards from the Shrine.
“Tell them we’ll go away,” Kirifaïfra urged.
Manserphine cleared her throat. “I’m not sure I can. I don’t speak their private tongue, only the dialect. This lot have probably never seen anybody from another urb.”
“Kanka graya! Ye, te,
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