The New Weird - Ann VanderMeer [188]
"Then we shall see, my boy," Doumani had said, "if you can sing the soul alive, as any Golden Songboy must."
The Tranquil Plaza is something of a misnomer, thinks Doumani as he swings the windows open. The crash of water from the cataract that feeds the great pool, the cacophony from the scores of stalls that fill the plaza, and the din from all the taverns that look out upon the bustling centre nearly drown the sound of Jazuh, Hrenuzi and Parl trying to shout each other down next door. Which is saying something. Doumani strides across the room to thump the wall.
"Enough! Save those voices for the Factors' Dance tonight or I'll have you soothing your strained throats by gargling ghaznal oil!"
The bickering of the boys dies down, though it makes little impact on the clamour that fills the room. Even without the Festival, the Tranquil Plaza is far from. tranquil. Still, for a man of music there's a part of him that finds peace in the discord of it all, the vibrant, verminous chaos of humanity. He saunters back to the window to take in the smell of dhosa and flowers, incense and sweat. There's a shuffle behind him, bare feet on wooden floorboards, then Ramazi is standing at his side, hand on his arm ― Doumani glances round to smile at the boy. Naked but for his gold-braided tunic, slim hips cocked, with the flirtatious disregard of one who knows he is the favourite, Ramazi yawns and angles past him to peer out the window. He laughs and points.
"Look."
Outside, a balloon floats across a sky already darkening from cerulean to indigo; caught in vortices and updrafts, cross-winds and calms, it bobs and bounces, floats and falls, spins as it sails nearer to them. A few more are visible here and there, drifting on their own paths.
"The Factor won't be happy," says Doumani, "if those were meant for the opening ceremo ―"
A shape darts from between two rooftops, black but glinting as if wet, a flap of wings, a flash of talons and teeth ― a dhajarah. It shrieks, slices a sharp turn in the air, scythes through the sky to slash out ― the balloon bursts ― the boy jumps ― and then the creature whirls up and away, all in an instant. A flutter of red rubber falls.
"Chuzdt," says Ramazi. He shivers. "Those things."
Doumani ruffles the boy's hair.
"There's no real harm to them," he says. "It's the salps you have to worry about, my boy."
But he's not entirely unperturbed himself. The random viciousness of a bad-tempered cat, he thinks, the lashing spite of a boy wounded by life and bitter for it ― some just can't help but strike out at whatever comes across their path. With a boy or cat, he knows, it's mostly a defence: don't come too close; don't try to touch me; I will hurt you before you hurt me. The dhajarah, like the salps from which they're born, though, are inscrutable in their aggression. They hunt for food and kill for territory, to defend their space, yes, but at times...at times their savagery is inexplicable ― a flock hurtling down to gouge the eyes out of a statue; a pair of them flapping and scratching furiously at a tavern door; a solitary predator lashing out at a red balloon for no other reason, it seems, than that it's there.
He puts it from his mind with a kiss of Ramazi's cheek.
"What time is it, lad?" he says. "Your replacement should be here for his audition soon, I do believe."
"What do you mean, replacement?"
He grins at the scowl and pout, the folded arms. Raises his eyebrows in mock innocence.
"Well, you are a little more brazen than golden these days, Ramazi," he says. "And our would-be Songboy comes with the blessing of Dseveh himself. Voice of a sura-bird, he says. And what with you sounding more like a cliff-gull every day.well.I may have to let you go quite soon."
He manages to hold the solemn pretence for a whole few seconds before