John Wright - Orphans of Chaos

The final man was a figure from my dream. He had a metal eye in the center of his forehead: an orb of blue metal. It turned this way and that, not in keeping with the motions of his other eyes.

He was not a giant, as had been the one I saw in my dream. He was dressed in a stark, utilitarian one-piece suit, drab olive in color. He stood with his hands folded over the back of his chair, face expressionless, showing no sign of impatience. A name tag clipped to his breast pocket read: BRONTES.

There had been a stir of talk while I had been staring at the Lady with the mirror. I had not heard what it was.

The three-handed man on the cell phone was telling someone, “He sent word that he wasn’t showing up here. No. My question is, if his wife represents the volcanic position to us, should we take that representation as solid…?”

The Satyr, leaning to speak past the tall shoulders of the headless man, said to the foxes in kimonos, “Say, fellows, are you here representing your Skulk, or the whole Wood?”

The taller fox, a gray, answered in a fluting voice, “We have letters of accredition, extraordinary and plenipotentiary, from the Nemeian.”

“In that case, don’t agree to anything till you and I get a chance to talk later, private-like, eh?”

The other fox was thinner, red-brown. It said in a saturnine tone, “Whether we speak or are silent, what does it matter? The Great Ones determine our course.”

The gray fox snapped open a Japanese fan, and hid his muzzle behind it, while he made some whispered comment to his companion.

The Satyr shifted on his hooves impatiently. He said to his neighbor: “What about you, Haircut? There may be a third angle to this tug-o-war.”

The headless body reached out with its fingers and turned the severed head on its silver plate till it faced the goat-man. “You cannot imagine that I have much interest in what the Bacchants have to say.” His voice had a melodic beauty to it that echoed in the ear.

The Satyr waved his toothpick. “Who said I was talking about them? Did I say I was talking about them? Not all of us were on the side of the traitors when they stormed Olympus. I work for Nemestrinus.”

The naked woman with grape leaves in her hair leaned over and caressed the Satyr’s cheek. He jumped a bit, reddening with embarrassment.

She cooed softly, “Don’t waste words on that one, Billy. He will be the next Psychopompos, no matter what else is decided tonight. Both factions will promise to confirm him in the post. He’s the one the Unseen One likes. So why should he talk to you? He has nothing to gain and nothing to lose.”

The Satyr said, “A little chitchat never hurt nobody.”

She replied: “The Unseen One might be standing here in the room with us now, for all we know. Best not to annoy Him. No one wants Him to press His little wifey-poo’s claim to the throne, now do they?”

The other nude girl leaned forward, saying in a fluid voice: “Be careful, little tripod! Your third leg is shorter than your other two. It will not help you run away if the Unseen One takes it amiss that you annoy His servants.”

The goat-man looked annoyed. “Hey, if you are going to talk about my pogo stick, you call him Mr. Johnson!”

It was about this time that I realized, from his demeanor and slurred speech, that the goat-man had probably been drinking. Heavily.

The Satyr continued: “Heck! As for Him, what kind of Love Hotdog you think He’s packing anyway? Married to that sweet tart of His, and no kids after all these years? If’n the soil is fertile, maybe the seed is sterile, is all I’m saying, is all. And don’t tell me the Maiden ain’t fertile; she’s a fertility goddess! And how come she’s still a Maiden, if’n you catch my meaning? I ain’t afraid of no lord of ghosts, no ma’am. I figure, no matter how dread and horrible He is, who can be afraid of a guy with a dry stick, you take my meaning?”

The severed head said softly, “You are droll, tragamor. When you come to His kingdom, you will be met with many grins. They all grin, there.”

From some point more or less below where we hid on the balcony, there came the sound of a door opening, footsteps, the clang of a javelin on the floorboards.

I heard the voice, animated and bubbly, of the beautiful lady with the mirror. From the sounds, I could tell she had jumped to her feet.

“Harry’s—!” (At least, it sounded like “Harry’s.” She might have been saying “Airy” or “Air Ease.”) “Look, Aglaea, look who it is! Yoo hoo! Over here! Hi there! Hi! Do you think he sees me? Hello, darling! Euphrosyne, what do you think of him?”

I could see the women standing behind her, looking embarrassed and trying to appear at ease.

The maiden in white holding the pink bow and arrow leaned and said into the ear of her mistress, “My Lady Cyprian, the Lord Mavors is surely the archetype of manliness. But if we all know what men are like, surely he is that way, only more so.”

The Lady burst into a fit of giggles.

The helmets of the four metal men all swiveled to face (I assume) the door. From my point of view, it looked as if they were all turning toward me. Seeing all those gold and silver masks swivel toward me, their inanimate features all carved into happy smiles, beneath lenses that could never know expression, reminded me of a group of synchronized deck guns on a battleship, rotating in their turrets to cover an enemy.

The Red Soldier marched into view, crossed over to the table. He had slung back the links of his coif from his scalp, so that I saw his hawklike profile, hook nose, and blue eyes. He had a face so tranquil as to be almost expressionless, except for the hint of cruelty around his mouth, the hint of sadness in his eyes.

When he saw the Lady, though, the cruelty left his mouth; the sorrow left his eyes. The weather-beaten face suddenly looked years younger. And handsome. His eyes glittered and danced. He pursed his lips to keep himself from smiling.

There were murmurs and whispers around the table. Only the headless man did not seem disturbed. The three-handed man hissed into his cell phone: “Call you back!” Two additional hands came out from under the coat to fold up the phone and hold open a pocket to slide it into.

I took the opportunity to whisper to Quentin: “Do you know who these are?”

“We’re in a school run by the pagan gods of old,” he said in softest of whispers. “Now hush.” Without opening his eyes, he reached across and put a finger to my lips, to hush me. It was a funny feeling, having him touch my lips that way. “We don’t want to be turned into trees or something.”

The Soldier, Lord Mavors, his expression once again under his control, now stepped up to the seat opposite the Lady Cyprian. At once the arrangement of the table became clear to me. Half the table was for the Lady and her entourage, her robots and ladies and foxes, her tree-man, her goat-man, and men with extra eyes or extra limbs or a man missing a head. The other half of the table was reserved for the Soldier. He had no one.

He held up the javelin a moment, and dipped it toward the Lady, saying, “Ma’am.”

Cyprian acknowledged the salute by wiggling in her chair, and darted a heavy-lidded look at him. “Don’t you want to sit next to me?” She patted the chair to her side. Then she said to her handmaidens: “I bet he won’t! He’s toying with me! He’s so mean! Look at how cute he is!” Then, to him again: “You never write!”

I would have felt embarrassed for her, except that she seemed so cheerful, so obviously sure of herself, that she did not seem to notice the other people around her, listening.