“I recall the same scrolls,” commented an azure philosopher with covetous eyes. “Loyan declared braised wyrmling a delicacy.” He sighed and turned away. “Alas, the Interactionist Mode prevents operation; to avoid negative consequences, one must also avoid the good, refraining at all from any decisive action.”
Reddimak rubbed his beard before nodding sharply. “And thus is the Interactionist Mode proven inferior to the Inevitabalist Mode. Observe: a meal of braised wyrmling strikes my fancy. Thus, the potential outcome is now not only desirous, but inevitable as well. Since resisting the Wheel of Karmic Totalities results only in suffering, I must pursue with activity to achieve this end.”
The citrine philosopher stepped off the road, only to be stopped by a compatriot in green. “Hold, Reddimak. The Perceptive Mode forces me to note that there is a man in the branches above. Perhaps the wyrmlings are his?”
Reddimak yanked his sleeve away. “Flummery. The fellow is obviously going to hang himself. As this outcome is clear enough to be noticed, it is inevitable. Thus, any claim to ownership is void. Efficiency demands I proceed as planned. Also, to you in the tree: a reverse lock-knot is considered ideal for short, sharp stresses upon any makeshift rope.”
The coterie of philosophers applauded at this logic, then discussed the point among themselves. Reddimak hunkered low and spread his arms, moving slowly to the closest wyrmling, a clumsy thing with huge floppy wings.
“Aha!” cried the philosopher, snatching the creature by its tail. “And thus is dinner, and my outlook—”
The little dragon howled in surprise. It curled up and bit Reddimak in the groin. The citrine philosopher yelled, hurling the wyrmling beside its siblings. As one, they rumbled menacingly, small flames flaring from their nostrils.
Reddimak fled back to his companions. They fought among each other, then fled as a group down the road. The mists slowly swallowed their hysterical shouts and brightly colored robes.
Hristomarth returned his attentions to the sallow branches. Suicide was forbidden to an Illuminate, but he was no Illuminate anymore. Any current evidence was circumstantial—the amulet in his satchel was a trinket, the silver sword at his hip broken. Hristomarth had pulled a particularly promising branch to hand when he realized that the eighth traveler still remained below.
“Excuse me?” she called. “Do those creatures really belong to you?”
Hristomarth paused. Peering up at him was the stoutest woman that he had ever seen. She stood four cubits tall and appeared capable of breaking a man in half. Yet she was neither ogrish nor beautiful, being quite remarkably plain.
He laughed frantically. “In the final accounting, it is perhaps more appropriate to say that I belong to them.”
She stepped aside as a wyrmling tottered past, murmuring to itself. “All right. But why are you trying to hang yourself?”
Hristomarth threw down his makeshift noose. It landed on a wyrmling, who eyed it speculatively before attempting to eat it.
“Because they are terrible!” he shouted. “They won’t leave me and won’t leave me alone and think I am their mother or some such thing, who tried to kill me, it must be noted. They’ve eaten all the food I had and all the food I could steal and even all the food I could trap, which is a disagreeably disgusting way of acquiring sustenance. I haven’t even two coins to rub together anymore, you claw-footed fiends!” He shook a fist at the wyrmlings below. “And they’re absolutely terrible as prospective pickpockets. They can barely tease a purse from the belt of an unconscious man without waking him!”
Hristomarth quieted, panting. The woman watched him with eyebrows raised.
“I was only traveling with those philosophers for company,” she said. “Now I return to Jocund Township after trading with the Lumberings at Whelmshell Beach. Why don’t you join me? I’m a blacksmith, not a cook, but there should be hoffa cakes. We are also celebrating our pageant!”
Hristomarth rolled from his place among the branches and dropped to the ground with surprising agility. He bowed low, the broken sword shoved through his belt poking out past his satchel. “I would be happy to take advantage of your hospitality,” he said. “I am Troupemaster Hristomarth Rofolio, and I haven’t eaten in—”
He toppled as the first wyrmling crashed into his legs. The rest dove on top, trapping him beneath a mass of scales, claws, and tongues.
“Genna Myrmidon,” said the woman, smiling in amusement.
HRISTOMARTH SCREAMED THROUGH HIS hoffa cake.
The buttery pastry proved an effective gag, easily covering his cry beneath the wyrmlings’ own unhappy caterwauling. They clawed at the bars of the cage, trying to escape even as he shoved the last one inside. It bit down harder, so that he screamed and slammed it against the bars, stunning it. Hristomarth pulled free, and Genna Myrmidon shut the door, shaking the cage with a clang.
She snapped a lock into place as Hristomarth pulled the cake from his mouth. “Well,” he said, shaking his again-injured hand. “That should take care of them.”
They stood in the yard of Genna’s smithy. It was a cheerless structure, just like the rest of Jocund Township—all square, gray little buildings roofed with thatch. Decoration was nonexistent. For all Genna’s excitement about a pageant, Hristomarth had seen only one concession to any celebration taking place: a pageant wagon in the street before the smithy.
It was monstrous. Six great wooden wheels supported a two-story hemisphere of creamy papier-mâché. A staircase cut up the back of the hemisphere to its flattened top. Cloud-shaped cutouts dangled over the side while little mannequins in fool’s motley hung spread-eagled across the wheels. Altogether, Hristomarth supposed it resembled the moon. A mule was harnessed out in front.
“They’re not very happy,” said Genna. “Surely they don’t need to be locked up?”
Hristomarth turned back from the pageant wagon, firm of purpose. “Your sentiment is misplaced, dear woman. Their nature is wholly deceptive! Treat them not as individuals, but a singular mass of scales and talons with an unpleasant reptilian musk. This task is made simple by the fact their mother never named the little beasts.” He shook his head. “Let us make the subject academic. If you would loan me the cage, a cart, and directions to the nearest pond?”
Genna stared at him. “How uncharitable! A good leash is what you really want. I’ve got a couple I could rework. But if you haven’t named them yet, it’s no wonder they’re unruly.”
Hristomarth lifted one eyebrow. “Beg pardon?”
“Oh, yes,” she replied, nodding. “Children here in Jocund are named within their first moon. It’s important. A person doesn’t know who they are until they have a name.”
“Really.” Hristomarth rubbed his chin. Beliefs were strange in Darmx region. Yet perhaps temporary nicknames would make the wyrmlings into more individually manageable woes. At least, until he could find another way to get rid of them, since Genna obviously wouldn’t loan him a cart.
No. Ridiculous nonsense. “The idea lacks virtue,” he said. “Monsters must be eliminated. Even the vile Illuminates were correct in that.”
Genna regarded the cage. The wyrmlings quieted down, one of them even pausing as it gnawed the bars to look back at her with large, soulful eyes. “They really don’t seem monstr—”
“What is that great contraption in the street?” asked Hristomarth.
“Oh!” said Genna, sufficiently distracted. “That’s the wagon for our annual pageant! It’s mostly wood and papier-mâché, but I did the ironwork myself.”
Hristomarth gestured with his hoffa cake. “But what does it represent?” he demanded. “Is it ... the moon? Why those little mannequins? A single mule cannot possibly pull it along.”
“It’s not supposed to,” said Genna.
His rejoinder died as a shockingly gorgeous woman appeared from behind the pageant wagon. She was slim, with such a delicate complexion that it could have been the glaze from some dollmaker’s porcelain creation. Five great raven-colored br
aids fell down past her shoulders like ropes of spun night, sharply contrasting her costume dress of owl feathers studded with tiny bronze faces. Even her eyes were striking, a shade of sapphire gazing out hungrily at the world.
Hristomarth felt faint. His world shrank to a narrow point. If nothing else on this trip to Jocund Township, at least he had finally seen true beauty. He had to learn her name. No. More than that. He had to impress this woman. Bedazzle her more than any other suitor she might ever know. Dimly, he heard Genna Myrmidon sigh heavily.
“Ruined!” cried the gorgeous woman. “It’s all ruined!”
She stomped aimlessly into the smithy yard, three men chasing after. One wore the taxidermized semblance of a unicorn, the next was short and awkwardly encased in a lacquered lungfish outfit. The third raced before them both, a husky fellow wearing a dress and mounds of costume jewelry.
“Dearest diva,” wheedled the fat man, bracelets clattering as he wrung his hands together. “Let us be philosophical.”
“Hetman Winge!” said Genna. “I’m back from Whelmshell—”
“Rosilia,” continued the hetman, ignoring her. “All may not be lost without your muse. Have you considered the fine art of self-motivation?”
“What?” croaked Rosilia, turning violently. “To merely prance about? To act?” She slapped the hetman, knocking free his crown. “I am to channel the very the Spirit of Senselessness! The heart of the Jocund pageant play!”
The man in the lungfish outfit waddled forward. “Loveliest Rosilia,” he intoned nasally, “never has there been a more suitable diva. Let me prove it, with a stanza of ninety-seven lines.”
“Doggerel!” cried the false unicorn. “Your verse is as stunted as your legs, Turble.”
“I’d be a better muse than you, Iollo!” screamed Turble.
“You perfidious post-aquatic!”
“Untrustworthy ungulate!”
Iollo started forward. Turble ran into Rosilia as he scuttled away, knocking her up against the cage. One of the wyrmlings reacted instinctively, biting down onto her outfit. She yelled, agitating the rest of the little monsters.
Hristomarth saw his chance. He leapt into action, shoving his hoffa cake through the bars atop the wyrmling. It let go of the diva’s dress, yowling as the others piled on it to hunt for crumbs. Hristomarth took Rosilia’s hand and pulled her away. Then he adjusted his sword, doffed his battered hat, and knelt before her in a smooth, courtly manner.
“Most radiant lady,” he said, “sumptuous greetings in accordance with all the respect and deference a personage such as yourself should be accustomed to. Know that even great Tophe would smile to watch your step upon the earth, which places a certainty of leal servitude from my own lowly self.”
Rosilia stared, bewildered. “Who are you?”
“I,” he said, bowing low, “am Hristo—”
“And what are those stinking things?” she cried, cringing away from the cage.
“They’re dragons!” said Genna. “In a circus. Isn’t that amazing? And this is Hristomarth Rofolio, their troupemaster.”
Hetman Winge peered at him suspiciously. “The man appears a bedraggled reprobate. With a pickpocket’s fingers and a broken sword. You say he runs a circus?”
Hristomarth glowered peevishly. “Of diminished prospect at the moment,” he admitted. “And the wyrmlings are only a momentary infestation.”
“You just need to name them,” added Genna. “And maybe a good, stout leash—”
“But pray,” continued Hristomarth to Rosilia, “what issues could trouble such loveliness?”
The diva remembered her distress. “Ruined!” she cried, pulling free from his grasp and throwing her hand across her brow. “An aurochs trampled my muse, and the pageant is about to begin! I am bereft of inspiration. Also, there’s an awful mess.”
“Oh no,” gasped Genna. “Poor Eual.” She paused. “Or was it Hulde this year?”
“I don’t remember,” replied Rosilia, shrugging.
Turble looked away innocently. “Someone must have applied burning pitch to the aurochs’s tail,” he said.
“And then Hulde tripped into its path,” added Iollo.
The two snickered to themselves, pausing to glare daggers at each other. After a moment, they included Hristomarth as well.
Hetman Winge wrung his pudgy hands. “Tragic, indeed. Funerary rites will be held later. For now the corpse must remain behind a convenient wood shed. The pageant must continue! I am certain that his unquiet spirit shares this sentiment and will hold any rancor until the end.”
Hristomarth raised an eyebrow, distracted despite himself. Angry ghosts were no pleasant matter. “Why is this pageant of such importance?”
The hetman stared. “It is only of the most sincere spiritual significance! I had thought our pageant famed throughout Darmx. Surely you have heard of it?”
Hristomarth made a placating gesture. “In passing, certainly. However, I am a stranger to this region, hailing originally from the Land of Charke.”
“Charke is not so distant.”
“Perhaps to the novice traveler. Distance can be deceptive!”
“Hmph.” The hetman frowned. “You claim to be a showman. Since you may appreciate nuance, I shall elucidate.” His bracelets clattered as he folded his hands behind his back. “Thus and so, it came to pass in a previous age that Great Beast Croth wrought much devastation throughout Darmx. The reason? A mystery. Personally, I suspect excessive inebriation. In any case, many afterwards became dispossessed.
“One such was Obregon Chull, a layabout who performed only the simplest of tasks for the most immediate rewards. His first inclination following Croth’s passing was to nap. Upon finding no suitable place, he became despondent. What exists in this world that cannot be laid low? If nothing has permanence beyond the carousing of an ancient monster, how can anything so ephemeral as meaning exist?
“It was the first serious thought Chull had ever experienced. He ceased his wastrel ways, became an ascetic, and traveled for many years. Eventually he found his answer. While observing the moonrise from the peak of Mount Wirh, he was subsequently attacked by a dragon.”
“An unfortunately common occurrence, it seems,” said Hristomarth.
The hetman ignored him. “This sparked an epiphany in Chull. ‘What is the meaning of this life?’ he asked. The answer he found was profoundly simple: there is none. Existence is a senseless parade of ruckus and commotion. Now, such an outlook might prove terminally depressing to the cognition of the common man, but Obregon Chull held this terrible truth at bay until founding Jocund, whereupon he revealed it along with a proving miracle. Specifically, by forcibly devolving into the diminutive state of a lungfish and spending his remaining days in a nearby pond. Now every year we celebrate with a pageant—three stops throughout town while the story is sung in verse.”
Rosilia stamped her foot. “And everything is ruined without my muse!”
Turble and Iollo both fell to their knees.
“Great diva, my poetry—”
“No! I have spent years learning the necessary craft!”
Hristomarth shook his head; the tale of Obregon Chull seemed to invite befuddlement. But the scent of opportunity brought him quickly to his senses. “What is included in this position?” he asked Genna.
The big blacksmith rolled her eyes. “The muse passes the diva her basket of fishing bait, for distribution after each stop.”
“The role is ceremonial,” added Hetman Winge. “Following the pageant, if it please the diva, she is wed to the muse for one year.”
Hristomarth wanted to shout for joy. This was better than he could have hoped for. No need for cunning plans or clever deceptions. No need to woo the diva. All he had to do was secure the ridiculous role.
“Well,” he said as he replaced his hat, “most illustrative. Such boundless transformative nihilism is certainly celebratory. But perhaps I have a solution to your troubles?”
“Oh?” asked H
etman Winge.
“What?” gasped Turble and Iollo together.
“Why, it’s obvious! Your diva needs a muse, and it just so happens that I count among my skills those of ‘freelance motivator.’” He clasped Rosilia’s hands again in his own. “Dearest lady, allow me to offer you a surety of accessing that wonderful artistic wealth that I can so obviously see filling your soul to its very pinnacle, shining out and down upon us mere mortals like a bonfire upon creeping worms.”
The diva peered down at him, her gaze lingering on his maimed hand. Then she shrugged. “Whatever. Just don’t be late!”
Hristomarth bowed to hide his smile. “I am ever your humble servant.”
“But he can’t!” cried Turble.
“It’s impossible!” agreed Iollo. “He hasn’t ascended through the necessary lesser roles within the pageant!”
Hetman Winge made a cutting gesture. “Rosilia has chosen. Hristomarth! Your position as muse is hereby confirmed. But your wyrmlings must stay locked up. Nothing can disrupt the pageant!”
Hristomarth bowed low. “I had honestly not considered anything else.”
The hetman grunted in approval, then left the smithy yard. Iollo and Turble stomped after him, imploring angrily. Rosilia scowled at the wyrmlings before leaving as well.
Hristomarth felt as if he were on a cloud. “Such loveliness!” he said.
“If you say so,” said Genna.
“Oh, come now,” said Hristomarth. “Your horizons may be bound by this unrelentingly provincial township, but I can vouch definitively for her quality.”
“She can’t sing.”
“So? What means that beside her beauty?”
“Hristomarth—”
“No, I owe you thanks for bringing me here. Your ways are quaint, and frankly more than a little bizarre, but I find they agree with me. I especially look forward to the next year.”
“Hristomarth!”
“Yes?”
“Where are your wyrmlings?”
There was an unnatural quiet in the yard. Hristomarth peered warily back to the cage, only to find it empty, the door hanging ajar. The lock was unfastened and much scratched around the keyhole.
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