John Wright - Orphans of Chaos

And everyone (except the golems, whose masks were immobile, and the man with his head on a plate, whose expression was composed) were looking nervous, agog, or annoyed. The Satyr wore a look of naked fear. Even the foxes had both opened their fans to hide their muzzles, despite that their faces could not show expressions.

But no one looked surprised.

The Soldier spun the heavy javelin lightly in his fingers, and drove it point-downward into the floorboards (bang!) so that it trembled upright next to him. He slung the shield over the arm of the chair, to keep it at hand, pulled the katana, scabbard and all, from his web-belt, and laid the sheathed blade on the table before him. Then he sat down.

He said to the Lady Cyprian, “You have to write letters to get letters, ma’am.”

“I think my husband rips them up!”

“Ah… yes ma’am. Can’t blame him. Seeing as how you humiliate him in public, and all.” The Soldier folded his hands on the table. “Any word from the boy?” he asked curtly.

“Which boy?”

“Our son.”

“Nope! Still missing! I hope he’s OK. Don’t you hope he’s OK?”

“I hope for your husband’s sake, that he is, ma’am.”

“You don’t really think Mulciber killed him, do you? I’d hate to have you think that. Please don’t kill my husband. I like him very much. And he makes me things.”

The Soldier said nothing, but turned his head to give Headmaster Boggin a cool stare.

Boggin took that as an excuse to step forward and nod politely toward both sides of the table. “Your Ladyship, Your Lordship, honored Visitors and Governors, please take your seats. Perhaps we can begin.”

Her Ladyship said, “I love beginnings. Beginnings are always the times of magic, of unknown delight, full of promise and expectation. Consummations are also much to be desired. Maybe we can have a dance after, or something.” She waved her hands at the people, things, and animals on her side of the table. “Sit! Sit!”

The metal men held the chairs for the ladies, and the Satyr held a chair for one of the nude women, but he must have goosed her, because she turned and slapped him. The metal men did not sit down, but kept their empty, smiling masks turned toward the Soldier, their dead lenses trained on him.

Boggin took his position halfway between the Soldier and the Lady, with Mr. Sprat and Mr. ap Cymru standing to either side behind his chair.

The Soldier pointed with his finger at ap Cymru. “What’s that one doing here?”

Boggin said smoothly, “He is part of the staff, Your Lordship. Originally part of your Father’s staff, Your Lordship, may he rest in peace.”

“Amen,” said the Lady Cyprian, and everyone on her side of the table (except the golems) said “Amen,” in unison.

Quentin, who was still lying on his back with his eyes closed, put his hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh. He found the idea of ancient Greek gods saying “Amen” funny, for some reason.

The Soldier said, “Do you know what he is?”

Boggin said, “He comes very highly recommended, Your Lordship, and—to be frank—I was not sure if I had the authority to discharge him. The unfortunate passing away of your Father left certain affairs in disarray. I could make this an item on this evening’s agenda, if Your Lordship wishes…?”

The Soldier gave the slightest shake of his head, and turned to look back at the Lady. “Let’s stick to what we came to talk about. Time’s short.”

Cyprian, elbows on the table, was hunched behind her little mirror, with only her glittering eyes peeping over the edge. She was impishly aiming her mirror at him, tilting it this way and that, to send little triangles of light, reflected from the chandelier, floating over the Soldier’s lean cheeks, flashing in his eyes.

Cyprian said playfully, “We are all surprised to see you, dear. No one knew you were coming yourself. You didn’t send Fear or Panic?”

He squinted, and for a moment, looked so amused, and annoyed, and filled with masculine power, that I was sure he was going to get up, walk across the room, throw the Lady Cyprian over his shoulder, and carry her off right there and then. Or kiss her. Or both.

Instead he said drily, “Fear sometimes scares people.” Then he turned to Boggin and said, “Boreas, get on with it.”

Boggin said, “Well, then. Your Lordship, Your Ladyship, Visitors, Governors. We all know the tragic events in Heaven of recent history have left matters somewhat in, shall we say, flux. When the rebels, led by your Lordship’s brother, Dionysus…”

“Half-brother,” said the Soldier.

“…Your Lordship’s half-brother, were defeated at Phlegra, certain hostages were taken from the pits of Tartarus, as a pledge of good behavior for the Titans whom Lord Hermes Trismegistus, the Swift God, and the Lady of Wisdom, Tritogenia, had released…”

The Lady Cyprian said in a soft cooing voice: “Boreas, your speech is fine, and you are right to be proud of it. There is at least one girl who has heard your voice who entertains sweet thoughts of you. But, I pray you, enough. We need no reminding of what we already know.”

Her tone was much less playful when speaking to the Headmaster than when speaking to the Soldier. Her tone was still sweet and kindly, but it was clear she was addressing an underling.

I sensed, rather than heard, a disappointed noise from Quentin. He had been dying to hear what everyone already knew. He may have even been counting on Boggin to provide the background to what was going on. But now the Lady Cyprian had cut that off.

She continued: “These are the words of the Maker. This is what my husband says: on no account are the Children of Chaos to be killed. The Uranians would rise up from the Pit should that happen.”

The Soldier said, “I concur.”

And he put his hand on the table, stood, and picked up his sheathed sword to tuck it through his web-belt again.

Headmaster Boggin said, “But Your Lordship, Your Ladyship!”

The Soldier was adjusting something on his belt, and spoke without looking up. “Don’t kill the children. Everyone agrees. Talk is over. What’s the problem?”

Boggin was speechless for a moment, and made a gobbling noise.

Quentin now, unable to resist, turned and opened his eyes, keeping a hand between himself and the Lady. Quentin grinned to see Boggin so discombobulated.

It was Mr. ap Cymru who spoke up. His voice had a nasal twang to it. “So the Butcher and the Tinker agree to keep the little wolf pups alive! No one makes a decision, and nothing gets done! Another year goes by, and the pups get a little older, and a little bigger. Hurrah for compromise! But one day the pups will turn into wolves, and eat the sun and the moon, and what do we do then?”

Headmaster Boggin said sternly, “Thank you for your considered opinions, Taffy, though this may not have been the proper, shall we say, venue, for airing them.”

The man with floating hair, whose robes were made of weightless blue, spoke up. “It is not wise to annoy the Great Ones, Laverna, or whatever you are calling yourself these days, now that you are a man.”

The Soldier was in the process of unsticking his javelin from the floorboards. He wiggled it back and forth once or twice. “Thank you, Corus, but some of the Great Ones don’t get in a snit one way or the other. Let him—her—it—whatever, talk.” With a pop, the javelin came loose from the floorboards. To ap Cymru, he said, “So talk, Laverna. What’s eating you?”

Ap Cymru said, “Milord Mavors, you know the situation is unstable. No one expected, when we forced the Uranians to assume the shape of human babies, that the impersonation would be so exact. So exact, that they did what human babies do, and grew up. The potions, the prayers, the spells we use to keep them under control were meant to control children, not grown adults.”