Memory Seed by Stephen Palmer Page B

necessary she would ignore temple customs in order to hear what the Dodspaat, in their wisdom, might have to say to her…
    It was early evening. Zinina was out, Arrahaquen working in the Citadel. Dressed for the city and standing in her hall’s green zone, Graaff-lin mentally checked her gear. From her kit she took a small mirror to check her mouth. There was a line of painful herpes sores on her lower lip, which made her look ill. Her skin was bad, cracked and pale, and her eyes seemed somewhat glazed over. The bags under them had bags under them.
    She opened the front door and stepped out, instructing the security pyuter as she did so. Alley floods had seeped into her garden, but these she overcame by means of wooden stepping blocks set out the previous evening during a lull in the rain. Once out she walked along two garden walls, then jumped down into the alley and set out eastwards for the temple. Living so close to the river was not easy.
    During the morning blustery showers of chilly rain from off the sea had crossed the city, but now a brown drizzle had set in, smelling of salt and decaying vegetation. All the streets and alleys were under water around here, many with vegetable matter and human refuse floating about. Patches of yellow were not only caused by rain, Graaff-lin knew.
    On more than one occasion as she walked along Onion Street she found herself dazzled by torches and reflections of light off the rippling ground, for, despite the time, the thickness and composition of the clouds today meant that it was dark as dusk. A thousand golden lines of rain fell illuminated by gyrating beams. People, as they went about their business, wore the usual plastic or treated cotton protectives, and long boots with elastics at the tops, but conditions today meant that some also wore face masks and one, Graaff-lin noticed, carried on her back a small respirator. Windows in houses showed the blue lights of bacteria tubes and vases with photoplankton in them, or the yellow of feeble gas lamps and burning wicks in sea-fat. Graaff-lin hurried on.
    Arriving at the temple she walked up its alabaster steps, today muddied by streams of water pouring between the marble pillars, halting halfway to catch her breath. She entered through the great double steel doors. Two guards with silver halberds and peaked caps gave the religious finger-wave of recognition. She ignored them.
    She stood for a few moments in the main concourse. Great white pillars – some, for this temple stood at the western edge of the Old Quarter, bearing Kray’s most ancient bas-relief leeks – rose up around her to the mural-covered groined ceilings. From all around came the breathy reverberations of a hundred voices, a morass of babbling sound with no single voice discernible. Balconies above seemed full of people. Down here though there were only a few, and the muddy tiled floor could be seen to its furthest extent.
    Graaff-lin moved on to the clerical chambers at the rear, but a voice called out, and she stopped and turned.
    ‘Graaff-lin, Graaff-lin, a moment, mmm, if you please.’ It was aamlon, and spoken by the High Priestess herself.
    Graaff-lin waited for her superior to approach. Katoh-lin was a small woman, bent by age, her head like a shrunken apple, her clothes so rich and ornate they seemed to hinder her movement. One eyelid flickered with a nervous twitch. Her right hand gripped a walking stick made from synthesised topaz and shod with gold; in her left she held the jewel-encrusted ear of her high office.
    ‘Haanjivree,’ Graaff-lin said, using Katoh-lin’s full title.
    ‘Come to my office,’ Katoh-lin said, her voice little more than a whisper.
    ‘Yes, haanjivree.’
    They walked away from the central concourse and into a maze of marble passages, ending in a small square. Katoh-lin stopped at a door, made a motion with the ear, and walked into her office as the door opened. Graaff-lin followed.
    Katoh-lin sat at her desk, a huge,