we descended the ramp to the ground floor, opened the front door, and stepped out into the bright yellow light. The suns were at the noon mark. A light breeze was blowing, sharp with citrus.
Overhead, a group—or perhaps I should say “school”—of whale-sized inflated membranes were pulling themselves over the city by means of filament-like dangling limbs. They were almost transparent and were emitting an airy piping. Ribbony things, like I’d seen before, were coiling along beside them.
Small chirruping creatures, like colourful marbles with corkscrew tails, were projecting themselves back and forth between the eaves of the houses.
“Hey!” a voice called. It was the tailor, squatting on his four legs beside the fountain in the square. He straightened up and raised four very large cloth bags. “I’ve been waiting. I’ve got your togs.”
Having been almost naked for so long, the satisfaction I experienced back in the house some minutes later, as I stood kitted out in a full suit, was enough to drive away the horrors of my nightmare. Admittedly, my new outfit wasn’t that of a gentleman, but the material was smooth and comfortable.
“From what is it woven?” I enquired.
“From a substance extruded by the Ptall’kors.”
“I wish I hadn’t asked.”
My boots were of Kaljoor skin and more comfortable than any I’d ever worn on Earth.
As Clarissa exited the room in which she’d dressed, I doffed my cloth cap, bowed, and said, “Good day to you, young sir!”
“Very funny,” she said, smiling. “I don’t care if I look like a gent. This suit is far more practical than skirts and corsets and all the ridiculous paraphernalia that goes with them.”
“Believe me, Clarissa, you are unmistakably female!” I replied, then immediately felt myself blushing at my uncharacteristic boldness.
She fluttered her eyelashes in jest, but I sensed she was secretly pleased, too, by my clumsy compliment.
The tailor checked us over to make sure everything fitted properly, then touched his fingers to his cap and made for the door.
“Wait a moment, please!” Clarissa called after him.
“Is there something else, ma’am?”
“Just a question. We’ve heard that Aristocrats are ‘taken.’ Could you perhaps explain to us what that entails?”
“By the Suns!” the Yatsill cried out, throwing up his hands in horror. “No! No! Such things mustn’t be spoken of by the Working Class and certainly shouldn’t be mentioned in the sight of the Saviour! My goodness! My goodness!”
He turned, practically ran to the door, and left the house without looking back.
“That was helpful,” I observed.
Moments later, the grocer arrived with three assistants and basket after basket of foodstuffs. He explained each item—the fruits, nuts, vegetables, and meats—then presented us with a case of cooking implements. Clarissa thanked him then asked him about being taken. He shrieked and raced away.
The furniture man knocked at our door. He’d brought a Ptall’kor into the square, piled high with furniture, which he and his seven helpers unloaded and carried into our new home.
Clarissa said to me, “I’ll spare him,” and let the Yatsill depart without interrogation. “Did you notice how they arrived one after the other, Aiden? I think it’s obvious from what we’ve heard so far that the Aristocracy transmits intelligence to the Working Class through some sort of telepathic channel. It appears they also bestow upon them a remarkable ability to be organised and efficient.”
“Perhaps being an Aristocrat has made you telepathic, too,” I suggested. “You knew Colonel Spearjab’s hunting party had caught one of those Quee-tan creatures before there was any evidence to suggest it.”
Before she could respond, there came yet another knock at the door and a Yatsill poked his mask into the vestibule. “’Scuse me,” he said. “I have a cab waiting outside for Guardsman Fleischer.”
“Um. That’s me,” I said.
“You’re to get into uniform, sir, and I’m to take you to Crooked Blue Tower Barracks for training. Colonel Spearjab’s orders.”
“Very well,” I responded reluctantly. “Wait outside, would you? I’ll be with you presently.”
The messenger withdrew.
“I don’t know how I’ll cope without you beside me,” I said to Clarissa.
“As best you can. And at least you have a home to come back to.”
I pulled a package from the bag the tailor had given me and unwrapped my uniform. To my dismay, instead of pulling from it the good old British reds, I found myself clutching French greys of the Napoleonic era.
“Clarissa! What the dickens is in that head of yours!”
“Oops!” she said, sympathetically. “Sir Philip Hufferton taught me a lot of history, Aiden, so think yourself lucky. You might have ended up in armour!”
I took