I will spare you the next part. You may assume that Carlyle stayed with Bridger in the garden for another hour, leading him through the hypotheticals of Nirvana, Gehenna, Guinee, Mictlan, Hell, of nothingness, of reincarnation, of souls returning, souls merging, souls evaporating, no souls at all, presenting many options and leaving many open doors. Their conclusions were neither solely Bridger’s nor solely Carlyle’s, but discoveries made striding hand in hand through theology’s well-trodden ground. When I returned that evening to find Pointer alive and well among his comrades, with no memory of his dead hours but a sleeplike sense of warmth and darkness, I thanked Carlyle in my heart for Bridger’s smiles.
Carlyle is gentle, reader. I am not. As you follow me to President Ganymede’s party and the truths beyond, remember that, as your historian, I cannot let kindness restrain me when I choose which doors I open for you, and which doors I close.
CHAPTER THE TENTH
The Sun Awaits His Rival
I give you the Renunciation Day party of Ganymede Jean-Louis de la Trémoïlle, Duc de Thouars, Prince de Talmond, President of the Humanists. Versailles was not so gilded, Paris so chic, Hollywood so glamorous, nor Babylon so infamous as the town of La Trimouille since the Duke’s return. The French Nobility was officially disbanded on June the twenty-third 1790, but nostalgia is more powerful than any law. So, when this young stranger bought up a clump of lots unworthy of the name ‘estate’ and declared himself to be the Duke returning to his ancestral lands, the locals rejoiced at this opportunity for fame and tourism. The line of Dukes de la Trémoïlle officially died out some centuries ago, but there are always bastards and lost cousins waiting for a fortuitous conjunction of wealth and DNA testing to reinstate them. The family home had not survived, so the Duke built a fantasy palace, period in style but too opulent, the gilded woodwork too elaborate, chandeliers too huge, halls too labyrinthine, fields of sculpture and topiary stretching too far beyond what the eye can take. So stunning is the ostentation of the place that Ganymede’s fellow Humanists have forgiven him for spurning the Hive capital of Buenos Aires to remain here in what was—until the Duke’s arrival—European turf. Photographs taken at La Trimouille are blurred by too much light, recordings ruined by too many happy voices, but to stand there blinded by a world of unbroken gold is worth the fortune one must spend to get there. It always costs a fortune, reader, for if time is money, then the hours spent gaining influence enough to receive an invitation means that every guest has paid a fortune.
Only Ganymede is not drowned out by such a backdrop. No thread of fabric touches the alabaster of his skin that is not silk or finer, and no cut of garment graces his figure that Louis XIV would not have worn. His cuffs drip with lace, his waistcoat swarms with embroidery, a monarch’s costume to make Dominic seem the servant that he is. The Duke wears no colors but gold, ivory, or sometimes blue, but even true spun gold seems somehow pale beside his golden mane, which shimmers like the Sun around his shoulders. The blue of his eyes is beyond sky blue, beyond sea blue, beyond amethyst, a ferocious blue like the blue of diamonds and star sapphires, the Hope Diamond, the Star of Asia, gems who leave behind a history of murder. Clothed so, he embodies the age when a peasant, glimpsing such beauty through the window of a passing coach, might think that all his toil is worthwhile if the sweat of his back allows so noble a creature to grace the Earth. Nude he is a god.
«Mycroft, good. Walk with me, I want to talk with you.» The Duke spoke French with me, the leisurely, satisfied French of one tired of pretending he is not bitter at his Hive for preferring Spanish.
«Yes, Your Grace.»
The Duke President led me along one of his long galleries, where masterpieces jostled for space on the damask-paneled walls. The party was young yet, a mere few hundred notables chatting in corners, or listening to echoes from the great hall, where Ting Ting Foster teased the Royal Belgian String Quartet by constantly segueing from one aria into another, forcing the strings to shift course like children behind a fickle kite.
«I spoke with Ockham Saneer today,» the Duke President began, pretending to scratch his cheek so the lace of his cuff veiled his mouth from lip readers. «Apparently you were at the house during Martin’s intrusion.»
«Yes, Your Grace.»
«Was Martin cooperative?»
«Very cooperative, Your Grace. Martin is offering every courtesy, and taking every opportunity to avoid establishing any bad precedents.»
«But not so with Seneschal.»
I struggled to keep my voice soft. «Dominic came to the house?»
The Duke paused to smile at a trio of Humanists who had strayed close enough to eavesdrop, but dispersed like startled pigeons at his glance. How magnanimous of the President, they must have thought, to grant a glimpse of heaven to this lowly Servicer.
«Mercifully,» he continued, «the only person the bloodhound saw was Lesley Saneer, but I’m not happy having any of my people exposed to him, especially not the Saneer-Weeksbooth bash’. That’s why we’re going to settle this ourselves.»
«We, Your Grace?»
«I’m lending you my eyes and ears tonight. You will channel my tracker through yours, see and hear what I see and hear. I need you to tell me whether Sniper is behind this.»
«Sniper?» The thought, obvious now, had never crossed my mind. «It’s not impossible.»
The Duke President nodded. «I wouldn’t put any stunt past Sniper. If this is just the prank of some enterprising Mafioso, then Ockham and Martin can take care of things, but if Sniper did this I have to know. I’ll give you a nice, close look, show you the expressions Sniper won’t show the cameras, then you’ll know.»
«You place too much stock in my abilities, Your Grace.»
He turned his back, the bright tails of his pleated coat almost brushing my knees. «You know no one listens when you say that, Mycroft. You may rest in the kitchens as you watch. I’ll summon you to report when the party’s done. You don’t have to be absolutely certain, your best guess will be sufficient. Give me a direction to set my own hounds; I shall do the rest myself.»
«Yes, Your Grace.»
«And Mycroft,» he called, «if anyone asks, I called you here to look for cheaters in the betting pool. Tell no one you spied for me tonight, not Ancelet, not Spain, not Andō, not Caesar, no one.»
«Your Grace, if a Certain Person asks … »
«Make sure that doesn’t happen. We have to bury this, Mycroft.» His eyes flashed their diamond-deadly sparkle. «I don’t need to point out that, if the public eye turns on that bash’, it will mean the end of your comfortable little arrangement with Thisbe Saneer.»
I squeezed my hat, comforting in my hands like a child’s doll. «I know, Your Grace. I’ll do my very, very best.»
«Good. Now, off to the kitchens with you. Sniper won’t show until I’ve gathered enough notables in one place to set up a worthy entrance.»
I was well installed on my stool beside the ovens by the time the Duke President reached his first targets, whom he had spotted in the Salon des Conquêtes. There was already a crowd within, but as he entered President Ganymede pressed a finger to his lips to silence all who spotted him. The lesser guests knew what he must want, and left the Duke a clear path toward Cousin Chair Bryar Kosala. She had shed her costume from the Pantheon, and was back in a Cousin’s wrap, this one less a robe than a chaos of marbled scarves, a dozen shades of green, whose silk-soft chaos made her, if not the most elegant of the present elite, certainly the most comfortable. Censor Vivien Ancelet stood behind her, back to back, still in his purple uniform, the couple trying not to feel awkward among the evocative masterpieces in the aptly named gallery. In stone, in oil, in chalk, the room was crammed with First Nights: Antony and Cleopatra, Romeo and Juliet, Achilles and Patroclus, Don Juan with a variety of beauties. Jupiter appeared in his many amorous transformations, the bull carrying off Europa, the swan coiled suggestively between Queen Leda’s thighs, and the shower of gold descending to impregnate the ancient princess Danaë locked in her father’s tower. These were not innocent nudes, nor even half-innocent like a classical Aphrodite pretending to cover herself with an ineffective drape. These were all fully sensual, not yet in the actual act of sex, but so intent upon it one could think of little else.