“Ice cream!”
The demand rose from the Servicers around me even before the applause had died. Oh, they discussed the performance, too, the first-timers especially, moved by the event, and by seeing three world leaders dignify it with their attendance. But a person’s reflections on the foundations of our world are private, and I will not intrude on yours by offering those of a lowly Servicer.
“Ice cream! Ice cream! Ice cream!”
The chant was powerless to call the Censor away from the dais as he waited for Cousin Chair Bryar Kosala to teeter over to him on her mad high heels and plant a light kiss on his cheek. “You said you couldn’t make it!”
“I was wrong.” Vivien gave her a practiced squeeze, though they clunked shoulders briefly, since the costume shoes made Chair Kosala eight centimeters taller than the couple was used to. “You were great, again.”
“Really great!” Jung Su-Hyeon Ancelet-Kosala demanded her rightful hug in turn.
Vivien stepped back so he could admire spouse and ba’kid together, especially what the gendered period costume did to Bryar’s figure. It was striking, the crisp outline hugging breasts and hips which we usually saw only through the contoured drapery of a Cousin’s wrap. The deep blue of the suit fabric enhanced the subtle amber underglow of Kosala’s deep Indian skin, and the extra height exaggerated her tall, imperious beauty, the long chin, long nose, and high forehead which make her face commanding and otherworldly, almost stylized, like a mask or statue staring down at you from some lofty other-realm. “I hate speaking in this dome, I can never tell if someone else is talking over me or if it’s just the echo.”
“No one was talking,” Vivien assured. “I think most of them were actually listening. Not me, of course.”
She gave her spouse a mock shove, then saw the crowd of Servicers approaching. “Oh, hello there, [Name], [Name], [Name]…” I cannot list my comrades’ names here; Chair Kosala herself, as Servicer Program Director, has censored them. “I won’t ask if you liked it since you’re bound to say you did, but tell me, was my diction clear on ‘tax bracket back taxing’? I always muddle that.”
My comrades were staring at the faces, so often seen on newscasts, now abruptly real.
“I don’t remember, Chair Kosala.” I answered, honestly. “If it had been conspicuous, I would remember.”
She did not have a smile for Mycroft Canner. “What is it? You’re all staring at Vivien as if something’s supposed to happen.”
The least timid of them answered, “The Censor promised us ice cream.”
“What, only ice cream? No hot fudge, or whipped cream, or strawberries? We can’t have that.”
Vivien rolled his eyes.
Chair Kosala reached to comb his dreadlocks with her long fingers, not because the locks were actually mussed, but because she still enjoys the feel of them. “Be sparing with the Romanovan budget, dear, not ours. Come on, everyone. Vivien’s getting us super-deluxe sundaes!”
Cheers drowned the Censor’s joking groan.
“Terry, Kirabo, you come too,” she called the actors over. “Your Majesty, would you care to join us?”
The King of Spain smiled across at us from near the podium. “Thank you, Chair Kosala, but no, I have another obligation. Mycroft,” for privacy’s sake he addressed me in Spanish, “¿did La Trémoïlle summon you to their party tonight?”
I replied in Spanish. “Yes, Your Majesty, they did.”
“¿What excuse did they give?”
“A very flimsy one, Your Majesty, not worth repeating.”
Spain frowned. “I spoke to J.E.D.D. Mason about this invasion of the Saneer-Weeksbooth bash’.” Of course, His Majesty did not say “Jed Mason,” but as I approximate Spanish with English, so I substitute the name you recognize for one you would not. “They see more in this than just a prank.”
“Then I believe it,” I answered. “Thank you for broaching the question; someone had to.”
“Yes. Until tonight, Mycroft.”
I bobbed my slouching bow. “Until tonight, Your Majesty.”
Chair Kosala and the Censor watched as Spain graced me with his words, but they would not intrude. As for my fellow Servicers, most here knew me well enough not to be surprised, and the rest would mistake me for a Spaniard.
An aide came now, and offered the Cousin Chair sane shoes in trade for her costume heels. “To the sundae bar!” she cried, and strode down the aisle like Athena before her armies, bodyguards holding the flanks like victories. She usually has at least four guards, though on this crowded day I spotted ten, glad of their numbers as the convicts schooled around their ward.
I did not follow the happy band of princes and paupers, united here by the magic of sugar and cream. Only Su-Hyeon noticed that I lagged behind. “Mycroft, you coming?”
“I’ll catch up. We have only honored four of our heroes today. I should pay my respects to the rest before departing.”
Hearing my reason, Su-Hyeon joined me. We visited each tomb around the dome in turn, rereading epitaphs, admiring busts, and contemplating the many different human foundation blocks which formed our world. It was somewhat satisfying, but only somewhat. Jung Su-Hyeon Ancelet-Kosala is a good person, a worthy successor to the Censor and deserving of a place on a legitimate Seven-Ten list someday. But Su-Hyeon, like you, reader, would not have understood if I explained that the grave I most wished to honor was not there in the Pantheon.
CHAPTER THE NINTH
Every Soul That Ever Died
“Thisbe, I love you!”
“Go away or I’ll call the police.”
“We have something special here, Thisbe! Something eternal! I know you felt it too, that night on the cliffs. How can you throw that away?”
“We don’t have anything, you have an obsession. Now leave, and if I ever catch you around here again I’ll have one of my ba’sibs break both your kneecaps.”
“You’re torturing me, Thisbe!”
“You brought this on yourself.”
“I can’t live without you!”
“Then go away and die!”
The witch swept in through the front door of the bash’house with a bounce in her gait and a smile on her lips, as if she had a mouth full of chocolate truffle. Did I forget to tell you Thisbe is a witch? I know you won’t believe me, but she is, a real witch, mistress of secret hexes that can warp the soul into whatever parody she wills. Did you not see, on first meeting, how her impulse was to steal Carlyle’s memory with her pill-potions? That was a witch’s instinct, as is the pride she takes here in a discarded lover’s pain. You find it strange that I trusted a witch to guard Bridger? I would not bring any normal child to her, but for Bridger Thisbe was the perfect guardian. To Thisbe every secret, from her brother’s security passwords to my name, is another chapter for her spellbook arsenal, and Bridger is the greatest spell of all.