"Oh!" breathed the Iron Orchid, peering out from the cabin of the locomotive and shielding her eyes against the light, "How clever he is! How delightful!"
Jherek pretended to be unimpressed as he joined her on the footplate, his opera cloak swirling.
"It's pretty," he said, "and striking, of course. The Duke of Queens is always striking."
Clad in poppies, marigolds and cornflowers from throat to ankle, the Iron Orchid turned with a smile and wagged a finger at him. "Come now, my dear. Admit that it is magnificent."
"I have admitted that it is striking. It is striking."
"It is magnificent!"
His disdain melted before her enthusiasm. He laughed. "Very well, lushest of blooms, it is magnificent ! Without parallel! Gorgeous! Breathtaking! A work of genius!"
"And you will tell him so, my ghost?" Her eyes were sardonic. "Will you tell him?"
He bowed. "I will."
"Splendid. And then, you see, we shall enjoy the party so much more."
Of course, there was no doubting the Duke's ingenuity but as usual, thought Jherek, he had overdone everything. The sky had been coloured a lurid purple as a background and in it swirled the remaining planets of the Solar System — Mars as a great ruby, Venus as an emerald, Herod as a diamond, and so on — thirty in all.
The residence itself was a reproduction of the Great Fire of Africa. There were a number of separate buildings, each in the shape of some famous city of the time, blazing merrily away. Durban, Kilwa-Kivinje, Yola, Timbuctoo and others all burned, yet each detailed building, which was certain to be in perfect scale, was sculpted from water and the water was brightly (garishly, in Jherek's opinion) coloured, as were the flames. There were flames of every conceivable, flickering shade. And among the flames and the water wandered the guests who had already arrived. Naturally there was no heat to the fire — or barely any — for the Duke of Queens had no intention of burning his guests to death. In a way, Jherek thought, that was why the residence seemed to him to lack any real creative force. But then he was inclined to take such matters too seriously — everyone told him of that.
The locomotive landed just outside Smithsmith, whose towers and terraces would crumble as if in a blaze and then swiftly reform themselves before the water fell on anybody. People shouted with delight and giggled in surprise. Smithsmith seemed at present the most popular attraction in the residence. Food and beverages, mainly 28th century African, were laid about everywhere and people wandered from table to table sampling them.
Dismounting from the footplate and absently offering his hand to his mother (whose "Geronimo" was sotto voce because she was becoming bored with the ritual) Jherek noticed many people he knew and a few whom he did not. Some of those he did not know were plainly from menageries, probably all time-travellers. He could tell by the awkward way in which they stood, either conversing or keeping to themselves, either amused or unhappy. Jherek saw a time-traveller he did recognise. Li Pao, clad in his usual blue overalls, was casting a disapproving eye over Smithsmith.
Jherek and the Iron Orchid approached him.
"Good evening, Li Pao," said the Iron Orchid. She kissed him on his lovely, round yellow face. "You're evidently critical of Smithsmith. Is it the usual? Lack of authenticity? You're from the 28th century, aren't you?"
"27th," said Li Pao, "but I don't imagine things would have changed that much. Ah, you bourgeois individualists — you're so bad at it. That's always been my main contention."
"You could be a better 'bourgeois individualist' if you wanted to be, eh?" Another menagerie member approached. He was dressed in the long, silver skirts of the 32nd century whipperman. "You're always quibbling over details, Li Pao."
Li Pao sighed. "I know. I'm boring. But there it is."
"It's why we love you," said the Iron Orchid, kissing him again and then waving her hand to her dear friend Gaf the Horse in Tears who had looked up from her conversation with Sweet Orb Mace (whom some thought might be Jherek's father) and smiled at the Iron Orchid, motioning her to join them. The Iron Orchid drifted away.
"And it's why we won't listen to you time-travellers," said Jherek. "You can be so dreadfully pedantic. This detail isn't right — that one's out of period — and so on. It spoils everyone's pleasure. You must admit, Li Pao, that you are a trifle literal minded."
"That was the strength of our Republic," said Li Pao, sipping his wine. "That was why it lasted fifty thousand years."
"Off and on," said the 32nd century whipperman.
"More on than off," said Li Pao.
"Well, it depends what you call a republic," said the whipperman.
They were at it again. Jherek Carnelian smoothed himself off and saw Mongrove, the bitter giant, all overblown and unloved, who stood moping in the very centre of blazing Smithsmith as if he wished the buildings would really fall down on him and consume him. Jherek knew that Mongrove's whole persona was an affectation, but he had kept it so long that it was almost possible Mongrove had become the thing itself. But Mongrove was not really unloved. He was a favourite at parties — when he deigned to attend them. This must be his first in twenty years.
"How are you, Lord Mongrove?" Jherek asked, staring up at the giant's lugubrious face.
"The worse for seeing you, Jherek Carnelian. I have not forgotten all the slights, you know."
"You would not be Mongrove if you had."
"The turning of my feet into rats. You were only a boy, then."
"Correct. The first slight." Jherek bowed.
"The theft of my private poems."
"True — and my publishing them."
"Just so." Mongrove nodded, continuing: "The shifting of my lair and its environs from the North to the South pole."
"You were confused."
"Confused and angry with you, Jherek Carnelian. The list is endless. I know that I am your butt, your fool, your plaything. I know what you think of me."
"I think well of you, Lord Mongrove."
"You know me for what I am. A monster. A horror. A thing which does not deserve to live. And I hate you for that, Jherek Carnelian."
"You love me for it, Mongrove. Admit it."
A deep sigh, almost a windy bellow, escaped the giant's lips and tears fell from his eyes as he turned away. "Do your worst, Jherek Carnelian. Do your worst to me."
"If you insist, my darling Mongrove."
Jherek smiled as he watched Mongrove plod deeper into the holocaust, his great shoulders slumped, his huge hands hanging heavily at his hips. Dressed all in black, was Mongrove, with his skin, hair and eyes stained black, too. Jherek wondered if he and Mongrove would ever consummate their love for each other. Perhaps Mongrove had learned the secret of "virtue"? Perhaps the giant deliberately sought the opposite of everything he really desired to think and do? Jherek felt he was beginning to understand. However, he didn't much like the idea of turning into another Mongrove. That would be an awful thing to do. It was the only thing which Mongrove would truly resent.
However, thought Jherek as he strolled on through the flames and the liquids, if he became Mongrove would not Mongrove then have an incentive to become something else? But would that new Mongrove be as delightful as the old? It was unlikely.
"Jherek, my delicious fancy! Here!"
Jherek turned with a crack of his russet cloak and saw Lord Jagged of Canaria, a mass of quilted yellow, his head barely visible in his puffy collar, signalling to be joined at a table of fruits.
"Lord Jagged." Jherek embraced his friend. "Well, cosy one, are your battles ended?"