by Ada Palmer
Faust’s eyes rarely grow wide. “You haven’t met?”
“I heard about Canner turning up as a Servicer a couple days ago, and stalking Tully Mardi. I guessed Madame must be connected to it somehow. That’s Mycroft Canner, isn’t it? I recognize the notch out of their ear.”
Faust summoned me with a flick of his fingers. “Poor Outsider, the only one who’s had to make do without Mycroft’s services all these years. To be strict, though, it isn’t through Madame’s good offices that we have Mycroft, it’s thanks to our excellent and unique Prince, Jehovah Epicurus Donatien D’Arouet Mason.” His eyes glittered. “Which name will you use for our dear scion now, Perry? As one of Madame’s elite, you’re entitled to use something more personal than ‘the Prince D’Arouet,’ but you must pick carefully—everyone is judged by which they use. Dibs on Donatien.”
“Dibs?” Perry frowned. “Why do you get dibs on one?”
“As one of the candidates in the initial debate over who the child’s father was, I got to contribute a name. But you weren’t around twenty-one years ago. Tough luck.”
Perry did not answer, for I had drawn close enough to be inspected. His face grew slack before me, a distanced awe, like a child gaping at a cobra in a zoo. “Incredible. Madame really does collect the worst of us.” More words were on his lips, but others snuffed them.
“Twenty-nine years!” It was a woman’s scream, shrill through the closed and paneled doors.
A man’s voice followed. “Bryar! It’s not as if I conspired against you personally.”
“Twenty-nine years you’ve been controlling the CFB and you never said a word to me! Not one!”
“Her Excellency Cousin Chairwoman Bryar Kosala,” the crier announced, finishing just as she burst in, a tidal wave of satin and accusations.
“You knew!” she shrieked. “And now you’re too coward to show your face!”
“My Lord,” the crier called behind her, “the Compte Déguisé.”
This title heralded, not a man, but two servants wheeling a chaise. A manikin lounged in it, sporting a coat of green velvet, a burgundy-violet waistcoat, a strip of black mask, and, through loudspeakers, the voice of the Anonymous. “Bryar, be sensible!” he pleaded, desperation clear despite the computer’s modulation. “You know I’m not hiding from you, I’m hiding from the Outsider. You expect me to reveal myself now, of all times?”
Faust laughed even as Perry scowled.
“It’s not as if I actively conspired to take control of the CFB,” the Anonymous continued. “It’s Danaë and Julia Doria-Pamphili you should be angry at, they’re the ones who actually tried to take it away from me and use it for their own ends. I didn’t take it to abuse it, and really I didn’t even take it, I … inherited it.”
“Inherited?”
“Exactly. This isn’t about us, Bryar. The Anonymous has directed the CFB for over a century, and I’ve been the Anonymous a lot longer than we’ve been together.”
“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” Her voice cracked. “Not only has the person I loved been secretly dictating my political actions for thirty years, but other people I didn’t even know were doing it before them!”
The manikin’s bearers fled before Bryar’s wrath like hounds from a whip, leaving the chaise and toy Anonymous to plead alone. “What was I supposed to do? It’s not a system either of us could fix.”
“How about, ‘By the way, darling, your life is a lie’?” Faust cut in, smiling.
The bouquets of lace and satin which dripped from the half-sleeves of Kosala’s gown were not cut to accommodate the brandishing of fists. “Felix, I swear, if the words ‘I knew the whole time’ come out of your mouth, I’ll show you something your numbers say I shouldn’t be capable of! Probably involving my foot and bits of you that don’t want to meet it!”
Faust swished his dregs. “I can see why Madame wanted Mycroft here as chaperone tonight. Mycroft, pour the Chairwoman a glass of sherry, would you? There’s a good monster. Perry, care for seconds?”
“Perry?” Bryar realized only now that the quiet figure half screened by tiers of canapés was neither Spain nor MASON. “Why didn’t you tell us Perry was already here?”
The Outsider tiptoed forward. “Sorry this is coming on an awkward night.”
I had never seen Bryar’s eyes so cold.
Perry managed not to wince. “Good to see you, Chair Kosala. I know you know this already, but you look wonderful in a dress.” He paused, hoping for a smile. None came. “And that’s the Anonymous over the intercom?”
“We say Déguisé here,” Faust corrected, “the Comte Déguisé. Déguisé, may I present Prime Minister Perry.”
Silence is harshest when the speaker has no real face.
“It’s an honor to meet you, Monsieur le Compte.” Prime Minister Perry gave ample pause, but the voice behind the puppet did not stir. “I realize,” he almost stammered, “it will take you longer than the others to trust me, but I can’t tell you how thrilling it is to actually be able to talk to you, negotiate with you, get input. I’ve admired you my whole life. You’re the voice of sense in all this.” Again the Prime Minister paused, tense hands fidgeting with the buttons on his pocket flaps, but, again, silence. “And you control the CFB?” he continued. “That’s strange news. It’s not a problem if you’re a Cousin, but you’re not a Cousin, are you?”
“That matter is not for you to worry about,” the Anonymous warned. “It is between Chair Kosala and myself. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, My Lord Count,” Faust corrected. “The forms don’t all drop just because you’re inside, Mister Prime Minister.”
“Of course, Headmaster. My apolog—”
“His Grace,” the crier interrupted, “Ganymede Jean-Louis de la Trémoïlle, Duc de Thouars, Prince de Talmond, President of the Humanists, with His Excellency Chief Executive Director Hotaka Andō Mitsubishi, and Her Highness Danaë Marie-Anne de la Trémoïlle Mitsubishi, Princesse de la Trémoïlle et de Talmond.”
If divine Aurora, called Eos by we from whom the Romans stole her, limped to Olympus freshly wounded by a dart from vengeful Aphrodite, and crossed Zeus’s threshold leaning one arm on Helios her golden brother, and the other on her dark companion Night, so her rosy dawn veil was framed by soft darkness on one side and sun-fire on the other, I doubt if even virgin Artemis could resist a blush. Perry staggered at the sight, and his gaping face glowed in the light reflected by Danaë’s kimono, which shimmered with the subtle, mingling colors of the dawn, each thread awakened to brightness by reflections from Ganymede’s gold as he pressed against her, careful as a guide dog. Andō, on her other side, had one arm locked around her waist, the loose black of his formal hakama and kimono darkening his limbs like storm clouds. Even I staggered.
“You’re sure you want do this?” Ganymede settled his sister onto a sofa with meticulous care, like a gardener transplanting roses. “You don’t have to stay tonight if you don’t want to.”
“I should be here.” She pulled the pair of them down around her like shells around a tender scallop. “I must greet our guest.”
No starving man has ever stalked a loaf of bread so fixedly as Perry’s eyes locked on Danaë. “I hope I’m more than just a one-night guest, Pr-incesse,” he corrected, tripping over the syllables. “But are you all right? You seem unwell.”
“My wife is tired.” Her husband sat forward, blocking as much of Danaë as possible from the Outsider’s view. “That is all. Mycroft, brandy.”
I delivered the glass to the Duke, who held it as his sister alternated between timid sips and resting her head against his golden coat. No, tonight’s coat was something more than gold. Have you seen yellow diamonds, reader? The sunburst brightness that mocks gold, “You dull, opaque old metal, you’re barely fine enough to coat the outside of my treasure box, while I, I capture the light itself, slice it into shards and turn it into me!”
I have spoken with several doctors hoping
one could identify this prescient illness which affected Danaë before the day’s dooms showed their faces. One proposed anemia, another that she sensed the anxieties of her adopted children, but I suspect it is simply a sensitivity, like orchids, or old men’s knees which tremble at the scent of danger in Fate’s breath. The skill is natural enough in this creature, who maintains herself ever on exhaustion’s threshold, so her favorite weapons, hysteria and fainting, remain keen.
“His Majesty,” the crier began anew, “Isabel Carlos II, King of Castile, of Aragon, of Navarre, of León, of Galicia, of Granada, of the Canary Islands, of Jaén, of Córdoba, of
Mallorca and Menorca, of Murcia, of Algeciras, of Seville, of Toledo, of Valencia, of Gibraltar, of the Algarve, of the Two Sicilies, of Jerusalem, of Sardinia, of Corsica, of the Indies and Mainland of the Ocean Sea, of the Islands and Mainlands of the Ocean Sea, Archduke of Austria, Duke of Burgundy, of Athens and Neopatria, Count of Barcelona, Count of Flanders, Lord of Biscay and of Molina, and former Prime Minister of the European Union.”
We will forgive the King of Spain if tonight of all nights he did not have the patience to wait through his full list of titles before entering. He nodded in geritocratic order to the others, first to Faust, then Bryar, then the Anonymous, and last the trio, pausing to frown his sympathies at Danaë, but all these he passed, stopping only at Perry. “Welcome inside, Prime Minister.” He offered his hand. “You have worked very hard to get here. I hope to see that energy do the world much good.”
Perry trembled as he took the king’s hand. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I doubt you can believe me, but I’m sorry I had to come here at your expense. I have far more respect for you than for anyone else who’s ever set foot in this room…”
“Careful,” Faust objected.
“… and I hope I’m right that you will see brighter days when this is over.”
Spain accepted the glass of manzanilla I had waiting for him. “Thank you, Prime Minister. Membership in this circle represents a common hope that we with power may do more good for the world as colleagues than as adversaries. I hope you will embrace that.”
Duke President Ganymede is never so cross as when he is forced to sit through the titles of a true king. “If Your Majesty wants Perry to dig their claws out of your heir,” he jabbed, “you should just beg and have done.”
“Ganymede!” It was Andō who scolded the Duke this time, though Danaë too dug reproachful fingers into her brother’s lace. “Spain is not our enemy.”
“No, but dynastic troubles are. If Perry really meant well by His Majesty, he’d get his claws out of the Crown Prince. Do you know how many nights this month Leonor Valentín has—”
The crier’s voice rose once again. “His Imperial Majesty Cornel MASON, Princeps Senatus, Pater Patriae, Praeses Maximus, Dictator Perpetuus Imperatorque Masonicus, and Madame D’Arouet.”
The hostess entered on the Emperor’s arm, the breadth of her skirts keeping him at a civil distance. MASON always seems grim at Madame’s, his suit of imperial gray transformed from grave to ominous as military flaps and cording replace the plain Masonic cut. Today the darkness spread to Madame as well, the salmon damask of her gown trimmed with festoons of black lace, as when a state funeral fills a mourning city with its trappings.
“Dearest friends,” Madame began, her chilling portrait face offering its perfect portrait smile. “You are, you know, my dearest friends in the world. I cannot say how much it means to me to have you all gathered around me like this. I like to think this little world I have created enables communication which would otherwise be segregated by the walls that protocol erects between us. Here you are friends, not governments. You can speak honestly, care, cooperate, help each other as friends should, with patience and compassion instead of laws and faceless treaties. I hope to see you all remain friends tonight, setting aside personal allegiance and vendetta to help each other weather these grave days.”
“Madame!” Kosala cried, red-faced. “You shouldn’t share other people’s secrets with the company without asking them. I don’t want—”
Madame shushed the Cousin Chair with an open palm. “I was not speaking of your situation, Bryar. We are all of us, I think, aware that something is threatening the Cousins. We love you, Bryar. Not just Déguisé, we all love you, and owe you and your Cousins an incalculable debt for your help and charity and most humane activities around the world. You know you have but to ask for help for it to be yours, and the time for that will come soon. But, for the moment, I was not speaking of your trouble, but of something graver.” Her eyes turned on the Outsider with a glistening and fragile sympathy. “I am sorry, Prime Minister, to load crisis upon you on your first visit. This should have been a time for you to enjoy the warmth of friendship, not to see it tested right away.”
Perry nodded stiffly, his nub of ponytail hissing against his velvet collar like a drummer’s brush. “It is all right, Madame. I did not join this company for the company. Go on.”
Gratitude in tear form sparkled in the corners of her eyes. “There is no one in this room, our newcomer aside, who has not at some point employed my Son, not in the individual offices He serves for each of you, but as a polylaw. He investigates what no other can be trusted to investigate, and we rely on Him to settle in secret what is best kept secret. He has found an exception.”
“An exception in whose opinion, Madame?” Andō challenged. “Yours?”
She shook her head. “Yours. We all drafted the rules together of what crimes were too great to remain concealed even if exposure might harm the commonweal.” Madame’s throat quivered like a puppy’s as she swallowed hard. “Remember, friends, we are friends.”
“His Imperial Highness,” the crier called at last, “the Prince D’Arouet.”
Are you surprised the crier stops short, reader? That no encyclopedia of titles trails after Jehovah’s name? A list of His offices in every Hive would fill a paragraph, and with His full name and the styles bestowed by His pedigree the list would outstrip Mason’s and approach Spain’s. I think in early days it was Madame who chose not to remind each Power how many others laid claim to the Child, but it is now Jehovah’s preference; He is offended enough by the time it takes to move from one location to another, and cannot stand to lengthen the delay.
Jehovah entered smoothly, His suit pure black as always, black buttons, black lace, black striped minor’s sash, even the embroidered vine-work black on black and restful to the eye like shadow. “The illusion that the human race is capable of peace is over.”
Doubt and fear shot from eye to eye around the room like electricity; hyperbole does not come from His lips.
“What do you mean, Epicuro?” It was Spain who spoke first, Spain least shaken, perhaps because all the others had secrets enough to fear that He referred to theirs.
“For two hundred and forty-four years peace between the Hives has been maintained by the Humanists and Mitsubishi, by employing the Saneer-Weeksbooth transportation network as an assassination system.” He did not look at anyone, nor raise His voice as He spoke the revelation flatly. “Europe joined the conspiracy one hundred and twenty years ago. The victims total two thousand, two hundred and four. Your long supposed peace is made of murder. The Seven-Ten list theft was engineered to lead us to this truth.”
How fiercely all in the room wished they could imagine that Jehovah would joke.
“What is this, Jed?” Kosala asked first, mumbling like one not fully wakened from a dream. “An assassination system? You mean criminals inside the Hives are—”
“The Hives themselves. Their leaders.” Still He looked at no one, but His gaze seemed to accuse the air itself, and the defective race that breathed it.
“Whom have they been killing?” Caesar asked.
Jehovah turned slow eyes upon his Imperial father. “Human beings.”
“Why?”
“World stability.”
“You have proof?”
“Yes.”
&n
bsp; Behind Jehovah the crier announced, “The Honorable Mycroft Guildbreaker, Prases Minor, Nepos Imperatoris, Familiaris Regni, Ministerque Porphyrogenis, and the Reverend Father Dominic Seneschal.”
The two wore the formal livery Madame had designed for this room, Dominic his black suit, Martin a light gray uniform, corded and military to match his Emperor’s, with white cording on his right shoulder to represent the white sleeve of his Ordo Vitae Dialogorum. The pair brought printed lists on paper, and handed one to each Power within the room, ready to be kept forever as evidence, or destroyed at once, as the holder willed.
“Who knew about this?” Kosala asked. “It’s some low-level conspiracy, right? It can’t have been the leaders, they…” She winced as she found her eyes already straying to Andō and Ganymede. “You didn’t know, right? Andō?”
Would he have tried to lie, I wonder, had he not raised his eyes to find Jehovah’s staring at him? Men tell me that Jehovah’s eyes look dead, a blackness which focuses on nothing and reflects nothing, lightless as the emptiness of Space. They must, I think, be atheists who say this, for, to me, the black of heaven that we see behind the stars is more alive than anything.
“This system is older than its current leadership,” Andō began, “remember that. We inherited this, one of the powers of our offices. We could no more abandon it than you could throw away that black sleeve, MASON.”
Caesar’s eyes fell to his left hand. “Have you killed Masons?”
“One thousand and twenty-one Masons,” Jehovah supplied, “seven hundred and eighty-two Cousins, two hundred and fifty-six Brillists, twenty-eight Hiveless, and one hundred and seventeen Europeans in the years before Europe joined the conspiracy.”
“I want Andō to answer, Fili.”
Never let it be said that the Mitsubishi Chief Director cannot meet Caesar’s iron gaze. “I have a duty to my Hive as you do, MASON. This is part of it.”
“That’s right,” Perry chimed in. “It’s like the Emperor’s duty to torture their successor, or how the Déguisé inherited all the duties of the Anonymous, even the shady ones.” He avoided Bryar’s hot glance. “We didn’t create this system. You think we want the world to be dependent on murder?”