The door was opened by a warder in the blue of Joralemon. It matched the flag over the door and the purfling on Ossian Chimmeroon’s gabardine.
“Good evening, sir,” the warder said. “How may I help you?”
“I bear an invitation from Lord Semichastny,” said Harbourne, and made his explanations. He spoke plausibly and winningly. “And he wishes the entire . . . household here to make the most of his hospitality.”
“Why, that’s very generous,” said the warder. “Come right in. Did you say Lord Semichastny?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Harbourne.
“Lord Semichastny. Well, well. I never thought of him as a generous man.”
“Oh, he’s a very generous man. He is known widely for his generosity to orphans. And he has treated me as though I were a member of his own family. I’m confident that you’ll have a good time.”
With the door closed behind Harbourne, the warder said, “I’ll have your invitation put to the House. I almost wish I didn’t have the honor of duty. I’d like to go myself.”
Harbourne was pleased by the warder’s friendliness. He could feel the tension leaving his tightly bound stomach muscles.
“By all means, find a substitute and come,” Harbourne said.
“I’ll only be a few minutes,” the warder said. He showed Harbourne to a chair and handed him several brochures describing both the Monists and their philosophy and the special attractions of membership in Joralemon House. “You might read these to while the time.”
Harbourne did thumb the brochures, but found the illustrations unexciting and the textual argument uncompelling. He studied the parquetry floor until the warder returned. Then he stood.
“Yes,” he said.
The warder was apologetic. “I just came on duty,” he said. “I’m sorry to say that it escaped my notice, but tonight as it happens is Xochitl Sodality. It’s their night. No one else feels much like going out.”
“You asked them?”
“Oh, yes. I asked anyway and everyone said they didn’t think so. I was told to say thank you on behalf of everyone. Do keep us in mind for another time.”
“I understand,” said Harbourne, who did not understand.
“By the way,” said the warder. “What did you think of the brochures? The literature I gave you?”
Harbourne looked down at the brochures he still held in his left hand.
“Very interesting,” he said. And under the warder’s eye he put the brochures in his coat. He felt he had to do it.
* * *
It was around the hub of the night in the streets of Delbalso when a consolidated party of the Greens of Pierrepont, agreed on their Trog Marvel, met a much smaller party of the Blues of Joralemon, with no Marvel or Wonder at all. It was a party of three led by young—for the Xochitl Sodality—Badrian Beaufils, the same party from Joralemon encountered by Villiers earlier in the night.
And the Greens called out “Aha,” and made a point of showing their Wonder. They didn’t care. They felt secure.
And the Blues hung their heads, because they did care and they had no Marvel and the night was passing.
Standing amidst the original quartet who had co-opted him, and further surrounded by succeeding additions of Pierrepont Sodality members, Torve’s view of the world had been limited. But when the Joralemon Blues were encountered, the surrounding herd split wide to display Torve. And in that moment he saw Badrian Beaufils and recognized him.
And in that moment, Badrian Beaufils lifted his hung head to view the Greens’ Marvel. And he recognized the pen pal of whom Villiers had spoken earlier in the night. Torve the Trog was not only on Delbalso, he was here.
They bounded toward each other to the sweet accompaniment of hearty happy Christian bells and huzzahs from some in both Green and Blue, and they embraced.
“Hey,” cried Cohen, Newman, Zimmerman, and Rose. “That’s our Marvel!” And they believed he was.
When Badrian Beaufils understood, he was not happy. “Well, if Ossian Chimmeroon was bringing him to me, I don’t think you ought to have him. He’s my pen pal, after all.”
“Ah, but we saw him first as a Marvel,” said the four. “And Ossian Chimmeroon is no longer in the Xochitl Sodality.”
“What is problem?” Torve inquired of his friend. “World has many Wonders.” In the afterglow of bells he said, “There is Christian. Why not him?”
“A Christian?” said Badrian Beaufils. “What is marvelous about that?”
But one of his fellows said, “It’s not a bad suggestion, Badrian. The hour is growing late and for our presumption in setting out as only three we ought to return with something.”
“All right,” said Beaufils.
“We’ll watch,” said one of the Greens.
“Yes,” said Rose, feeling expansive with the issue won. “We’ll give you encouragement.”
They traveled in a large party up the streets to the Christian’s house. It was fronted by the blank face of his bell tower. There was an arched gate and a court within, but the gate was closed.
“Christians,” said Beaufils, looking at the closed gate. “They’re too exclusive. You notice there isn’t even a bell to signal the house.”
They milled about the street in front of the gate. Even if there had been a way to signal the house, it seemed that the Christian’s attention was on his chimes. They were ringing again.
“Is holiday, I think,” said Torve. He counted on four fingers three times. “Yes, is Twelfthtide. Old Christian day of holly. See you?” He held up his four fingers three times. “Is twelve.”
He called to his friends Zimmerman, Newman, Cohen, and Rose: “Do you know Epiphany song, ‘Twelve Days of Christmas’?”
“No,” they said. But they liked to sing in front of their fellows, so while the bells were ringing above them, Torve taught them the song—which, after all, has a simple tune and repetitive lyrics. They worked on their parts until the bells ceased and then they sang the song.
Torve’s memory of the words was imperfect, but the principle was clear, and he was followed by Rose, Zimmerman, Newman, and Cohen, and they by the rest of the Xochitl Sodality.
By the third “partridge in a pear tree” they had a visible witness in the bell tower. They persevered to the end of the song, however. And the man in the tower applauded.
Then Torve called up, “Hello. Is Wonders and Marvels night. Do you want to be a Marvel?”
“Me?” the man said. “You want me to be a Marvel? I never thought that would ever happen. Me a Marvel? How splendid. I’ll be right down to let you in.”
He came down and opened the gate. “Come in,” he said and Torve and all the Blues and Greens entered the courtyard. He was a ruddy little man and he said his name was Dodd.
“And I’m Badrian Beaufils. You’ll be our Wonder. We’re with Joralemon House. These other men are from Pierrepont.”
“My side is Joralemon?”
“That’s right.”
“Are you sure you mean me?”
“Oh, yes,” said Badrian Beaufils, feeling that an apology was owed. Then he offered, “I’ve always enjoyed your bells.”
“You have?” said Dodd. “I wasn’t sure that anyone listened. You really do?”
Several Sodality members, both Blues and Greens, assured him that they did. Dodd was delighted.
“Er, you are our first Christian,” said Badrian Beaufils. “Can you tell us your points of strength so that we can offer the best possible presentation?”
“Oh, but I’m not a Christian,” Dodd said.
“You’re not?”
“Oh, no. Not really. I’m a Christian historian. I don’t believe. I just keep track of things. Would you like to see my collection?”
They all agreed that they would, and Mr. Dodd took them inside. He apologized for the condition of things. The condition of things was largely piles. He got shipments of material all the time and never had it completely sorted.
He served them t
ea and biscuits while they looked. There were piles of surplices and wimples. There were candles and missals, collections plates, beads, lunules, censers, thuribles, aspergillums, and ciboria. The Xochitl Sodality found it a whole new world.
Then he took them to see his personal display. This room was much neater. He had a ring that had belonged to Pope Leo VIII, whose pontificate was disputed. He had a comparative wall chart of tonsure patterns. He had a religious scroll containing an apocryphal Christian gospel with an authenticated history all the way back to the beginning of the Common Era, and sufficient age to place its origin at the beginning of the era preceding. He had a putative piece of the True Cross, also of the proper age, and with a thousand years more documentation than the scroll.
“Is fascinating,” said Torve the Trog.
Before they were done viewing, Rose drew Badrian Beaufils aside and asked if he might not consider trading Wonders. He was thinking how effectively Dodd and his collection could be presented by a quartet singing “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” He didn’t even pause to consider from whom he had learned the song. Badrian Beaufils quite rightly turned him down out of loyalty to his friend Torve.
* * *
“I was expecting you at peelgrunt,” said Jules Parini.
“I was unavoidably detained, sir,” said Villiers. “I hope you weren’t inconvenienced.”
“Come in off the doorstep. We were at breakfast. Would you care to join us?”
“Thank you, no,” said Villiers. “I’ve eaten. Have the papers arrived?”
Parini said, “No, I’m sorry. The mails haven’t been delivered. I expect them at any moment. My sources tell me the delay may be due to some local Monist shenanigans. I was beginning to fear that you might have fallen into their hands.”
“As in fact I did,” said Villiers.
“Oh, that’s terrible.”
“Not really,” said Villiers. “I have no objection to Monists. They have an extremely good idea, but they are too single-minded about it. I won free quite honestly by touting my captors onto two willing astrologers whom all agree are far more marvelous than I—and more interested in the game. I did promise to attend the judging, if I find it possible.”
“Although I don’t have your papers,” said Parini, I do have news for you. I have the name of your assassin’s employer. Do you still have interest in it?”
“Yes, I do.”
“What was the figure we were speaking of?”
“The figure we were speaking of was twenty royals. However, sir, I have to tell you that the money was not where I expected to find it.”
“No?” Parini said suspiciously. He was not certain whether Villiers was bargaining with him, flighting him or speaking honestly.
“No. I lack the price of your information—unless you would apply my credit with you toward this assassin’s name. Are you sure the papers are on their way?”
“I am.”
“Then that presents a problem,” said Villiers. “I am a good deal less certain of ever coming together with my money.”
“Are you bargaining?” Parini asked. “You should realize that there is small room for bargain.”
“I recognize your price,” said Villiers. “I simply cannot presently meet it. Do you have immediate need for money?”
Parini was embarrassed by the question. He enjoyed boasting of the tuition payments at Miss McBurney’s as though they made small difference to his pocket. To admit of a need for money was painful, but still the prospect of a sojourn under the Winter-Summer Laws was even more painful to consider.
“Some small need,” Parini said. “Can you give me a draft, perhaps?”
This showed his incipient desperation. He didn’t usually speak of drafts to people who had dealt with him before and had some notion of what he did with drafts.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Parini,” said Villiers. “My only asset is an empty and undeveloped planet I have by bequest and could not bear to part with. All the rest is prospects and largesse, and the largesse is beyond my reach. However let me consider. Are you familiar with my uncle, Lord Semichastny?”
“Is he your uncle? I wasn’t aware that you were quite that prominently connected, Mr. Villiers.”
“Didn’t Zvegintzov tell you that? Yes, Lord Semichastny is my uncle. He has scheduled to give a party tonight, which, because of the interference of the Winter-Summer Laws, I suspect will not take place. He has as much as said that my money will be produced if I attend his masquerade.”
“I hadn’t heard of it,” said Parini. “My sources seem to have failed me.”
“He has need of guests and does not care particularly who they might be. On his behalf, I invite you and Mrs. Parini to the masque. Make what profit you can of the invitation.”
Parini’s feelings were mixed. He had passed as the offspring of a marquis to enter his daughter at Miss McBurney’s, but he preferred to operate at a lower and more comfortable level of society.
Villiers said, “As for me, I shall drum up the company for my uncle’s party, since he seems determined to have one.”
“And you will then pay me twenty royals for the name?”
Villiers said, “No. I have no great confidence in my uncle’s ‘as-much-as-saids.’ I can guarantee you nothing. Merely, I want the name and you need money. If we are to have a party, let it be one we can both enjoy.”
“Are you proposing partnership? Do I understand you?” said Parini.
“I’m suggesting mutual effort—you for your profit, I for mine.”
“A speculative venture?”
“A speculative venture. And if you should visit Lord Semichastny’s study to admire his ornamental rugs, you might have a look around for a draft to my name by the Duke of Tremont-Michaud.”
”I believe I understand,” said Parini.
They discussed the matter for some few more minutes and came to agreement. When Villiers had left, Parini returned to his breakfast.
The first thing he said to his wife was, “Villiers has changed. Five years ago he would have insisted on having the assassin’s name.”
“No money?” she said.
”No money,” he said. “I’m still to give him the papers when they come. We are to meet at Lord Semichastny’s country home. Where is Annie?”
Her place at the table was empty, the result of an altercation terminated by authority.
Mrs. Parini said, “I sent her to her room. She said poggar and hobyah and beng. I wish you would speak to her about it.”
”I will,” said her husband. “However, for now put on your best cherry-picking clothes. We are going to a party to raise money.”
* * *
The stars rolled apple-down-dilly in their courses overhead, painting tracks of white-gold across enfolding blackness. The night breath was sweet and heart-pounding. Sir Henry the Trog hopped through the streets of the town, minddancing with crystal cocoons, heartsprung.
He felt himself to be a Trog. He believed himself to be a Trog. It was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him. He didn’t understand it, but he didn’t want it to end.
He saw the world as he was sure a Trog must see it. Sharper. Clearer. In focus for the first time. It was a joy to run and hop and dance, to look and see things for the first time from a new angle. Close one eye. Close the other eye. Blink. Blink. And one world from two angles. Oh, so new, so rare.
The night was a frabjous treat.
Sir Henry the Trog, Sir Henry the Trog, hallah, hallah, hallah.
He had misplaced Lady Oliphaunt, but he hardly cared. Far more important, he had misplaced Sir Henry Oliphaunt and he was enjoying himself completely for perhaps the first time. Yes, yes, yes.
He exulted, caught in the grip of a major miracle.
But then his reverie was interrupted by someone thin and brown and dressed in Imperial Service uniform. The uniform of an Assistant.
It was Jerzy McBe, caught in the grip of his own miracle. His miracle was that he was still function
ing and doing his earnest best to do his duty, and it was a minor miracle.
The usual rule in any conflict is that the minor miracle should give right-of-way to the major, but Jerzy McBe’s miracle did not extend to the recognition that was Sir Henry’s due. McBe functioned—he didn’t think.
He said, after clearing his throat, “Halt, there. Hold, Trog. I wish to see your papers.” He raised his hand.
He wondered if it would make its throbbing noise again. He took absolutely no notice of a change in color from mostly-brown and white to the silks of an agrarian gentleman in gray and olive. Mere details. He had the principle of examining the papers of Trogs down by heart and he was as convinced as Sir Henry.
And soon he was more.
“I have no papers,” said Sir Henry.
“Aha, then I have caught you. Let me formally take you into custody.” McBe did not know the pertinent regulations, but he knew there were some, for he had been told.
“But I don’t need papers,” Sir Henry said, regaining some of Sir Henry Oliphaunt. “I’m the new Empire Administrator here on Delbalso. Straighten up there, young man, and show me some respect.”
“A Trog appointed Empire Administrator? I don’t believe it. They wouldn’t do that.”
Sir Henry said, “I am not a Trog. I am Sir Henry Oliphaunt. I am wearing a costume for a masquerade. Do you like it?”
McBe said, “Well, no, sir. It makes me uncomfortable. Are you sure you aren’t a Trog? You look like a Trog to me.”
There were differences for the trained eye, but not to the eye of Jerzy McBe. It looked like a Trog to him. He kept ducking his head back from it in nervous impulse.
“No, I am the Empire Administrator.” With emphasis, he said, “It can be quickly checked, Assistant.”
“Yes, sir,” said McBe. “But couldn’t you take off your costume and show yourself to me?”
“No!” said Sir Henry the Trog. He was not ready to come out. Not yet. Not with the new angles, the new sharp perspectives, the patterns yet to see.
McBe began to insist, and the harder he insisted the harder Sir Henry resisted. And the more Sir Henry resisted, the more determined McBe was to insist.
It was a conflict in miracles, McBe given energy by his, and Sir Henry determined to defend his new view of the world at all cost. The narrower McBe’s concentration, the better he functioned, and he narrowed his universe to the Trog. He brought out a restraint and began to maneuver to fasten it to the arm of the random Trog. Now that he had decided that it definitely must be the same old Trog up to its tricks, he was angry with it for having the nerve to suggest that it was anything so exalted as an Empire Administrator.
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