It was a breathtaking view. At that moment I was sorry there was nothing in the world to preserve the memory. My eyes voraciously devoured the hundreds of candles that glowed in their gilded stands. The hall was so vast that I could barely see where it began and where it ended. The walls were decorated with pictures painted by bygone artists. The ceiling arched high above the stone floor. The servants in their bright city-coloured costumes bustled among the guests, offering liqueurs in ornamental goblets. The women were veiled in the most beautiful supplexes that I have ever seen, as the silky material wound around them in a medley of complex folds that brought out their curves. Their long, lustrous hair was decoratively plaited, while their slender necks were adorned with jewels. They stood around in small groups, being admired, wooed and loved. There were so many of them! If I’d been a man I would not have been able to choose.

Even through the thick glass I heard laughter. It struck me they had all been preparing for this evening for days and possibly weeks. I admired their harmonious movements and gestures. I tried to imprint everything happening in front of me in my memory. For a moment I closed my eyes and yearned to be one of them. For once in my life to have a fine hairstyle and glossy hair. For once in my life not to wear the mantle.

— — —

Somebody suddenly caught me by the mantle and drew me back sharply. I let out a cry and with my other hand fumbled for the master.

A voice came out of the darkness. “What’s the rush, you dirty…?” A knife point appeared close to my eyes. It was not made of glassite. Or blacknesse. It was made of ordinary metal. But that was not the point.

“We do apologize, sir”, the master meekly started, beginning to bow. “We apologize if we have disturbed your peace and quiet. We had work…”

“How dare you hang around here? How come you are not shut up in your burrows where you belong?” the limping man interrupted the master. His face was distorted with anger and contempt. A badly healed scar stretched across his unpleasantly elongated face to his thinning, colourless hair.

“What have you got in that rag on your back, old man?” he enquired, walking up close to the master. “Give it here!”

The master stepped back a pace and his right hand reached for his back, where he felt the weight of glassite, as if he wanted to protect the stone.

“We have a task from the Faj himself, sir. It is important…”

At this moment a blow fell on the master’s face and his head turned sharply to one side. I immediately felt blood.

Agadon tumbled to the ground as he held his broken nose. I wanted to kneel down to him, but I was afraid to bend over.

“I don’t give a damn about your task, you skunk, and I don’t care a toss about the Faj. You’ve got some glassite there, haven’t you? Give me that rock! We’ll look after it better than you…”

The leader stepped towards the master. Agadon was holding the stone firmly and refused to give it up, while the man started kicking the elder in the stomach. I exhaled sharply and tried to come up with some way to help. Nobody noticed me.

Just as I was beginning to succumb to despair and about to cry out, I felt somebody’s presence behind my back. At that moment the men froze and they all suddenly drew back. At last I was able to bend down to the master and help him back to his feet.

“Really?” a deep voice rang out, dragging along like something viscous and hugging the darkness all around. It was earnest and in its own way pleasing. But it was definitely not the kind of voice that was to be resisted. It was as firm as the stone walls that surrounded the city.

The master and I turned round all at once, but we only saw a tall figure clad in a steme that came down to the ground. The rest was drowned in the darkness.

“I have the feeling that this is a master with his apprentice. They DEFINITELY know what to do with glassite, while you do not,” the deep voice boomed.

“What do you want?” the men’s leader blurted out, once he had managed to find at least a little courage, but he still kept close to his croneys. “We’re not going to share them! We saw them first! Find your own munts!”

“But I like these,” answered the one behind us, and I swallowed audibly.

What is actually going on here? Does this man want to protect us, or is he after a piece of glassite himself?

The knife appeared in the leader’s hand again. But before he managed to make any move, something whistled through the air and an arrow pierced his shoulder. He groaned, and although the wound was not fatal, he fell to the ground. The other two turned round, leaving their leader to bleed in the darkened street, and ran off back to their cradles.

Something gently moved me to one side and the man in the steme passed by. He grabbed the leader by his dirty shirt, raised him with a single hand high above and thrust him against the wall. Then he caught him by the throat. As he squeezed, a choked rattle could be heard and the leader’s legs started swinging above the ground.

“Clear off, or I shall finish you off,” the man in the steme ordered in the same calm way that my mother used to send me to bed in the evening.

The leader did not wait to be told again. When the grip on his throat eventually relaxed, he carefully stood up again and tottered off, nursing his wounded shoulder with his good arm.

The man in the steme watched as he fled, until he had disappeared into one of the special cradles, and then he turned to us. Unfortunately, his face remained hidden in the shadow. He was still clasping a small autoshoot. When he noticed I could not tear my eyes away, he hid it beneath his steme.

 

(Translated by Melvyn Clarke)