Even Sniper stared in puzzlement. “Yes. Yes, that sounds good?” He looked to Ockham.
Ockham: “Agreed. Thank you for coming, Council Mason. Thank you for doing what you can to keep this out of the public eye, and to shield us from high politics and Hive leader idiocy, which seems to be primarily responsible for the day’s fiasco. But thank you just as much for leaving us to handle our own ourselves.”
J.E.D.D. Mason paused, but did not turn. “It may not help. Secrets pour out like water, even from a single hole.”
Now curiosity bested even Sniper. “What do you—”
Ockham shook his head. “Stop, Cardigan.” How Sniper hates that name. “Just let them go.”
All under Ockham’s command watched in rapt but disciplined silence as this strangest of Princes padded away on His nearly lifeless feet.
Carlyle was not under Ockham’s command. “How … how did you do that?” He gave a little running chase, to catch the Visitor in the barren trophy hall.
J.E.D.D. Mason’s slow gaze fell upon the Gag-gene. “You cannot be this bash’s sensayer.”
The comment struck strangely, but Carlyle managed a smile. “I’m new.”
“What befell your predecessor?”
Too uncomfortable. “How did you know?” Carlyle pressed. “Back there? You knew. Confession, karma…” Even after all was already exposed, the sensayer would not speak the forbidden names of Faiths. “Did you look at their files? That’s a horrible abuse of privacy.”
“No files.” Even as He spoke, J.E.D.D. Mason neither sped nor slowed, but made for the exit with the steady minimum of motion most practical for human limbs. “He … yappari … premenda…” His eyes searched Carlyle for nation-strat insignia. “You speak only English?”
This Cousin raised by Cousins nodded.
“Then I cannot sufficiently explain.”
“But—”
J.E.D.D. Mason’s feet still sought the door. “What name was given you, sensayer?”
“Carlyle Foster.”
“What happened to this bash’s real sensayer?”
Carlyle blinked. “They passed away. Recently.”
“Be careful with this bash’, Carlyle Foster. I exit now, because I Love Truth, so I perceive I am a danger to this bash’, and it to Me. That is clear, as clear to Me as it was clear which of those loyal soldiers inside feared karma and which sin. You too seem to love Good, and Dialectic at least, if not raw Truth. I advise you to part from this bash’ before you harm each other. But I recognize your right to incur risk in service of your vocation”—He lowered His voice—“and your Maker.”
Carlyle screamed inside at this last and deepest violation of that special privacy which is the last thing in the world our cautious public still calls ‘sacrosanct.’ It was no easy thing to distill his objections into words, so he watched in silence as this famous Stranger—as strange as He was famous—made His soft retreat. The Tribunary Guards followed Him closely, and one paused, turning back with a frown and gentle gesture of apology for her Ward’s strangeness. Moments later the Utopian car took off, and J.E.D.D. Mason had vanished as abruptly as He had come.
What then? It was too much, His strangeness, much too much. They needed answers, all of them. Once the drill troops were dismissed and the house secure once more, each bash’member turned to his favorite oracle: Ockham and Sniper to their prisoners and their President, Cato and Eureka to their computers and their surveillance tapes, while Carlyle and Thisbe raced down the flower trench, to me.
CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH
Tocqueville’s Valet
Thisbe’s summary had far less detail than my reconstruction of the scene, but it was enough. “He can’t find Dominic?” I cried.
“ ‘He’?” Thisbe repeated, scowling. “What’s up with you and J.E.D.D. Mason, Mycroft? No lies!”
I had not heard myself slip. “Martin and Dominic work for Them.”
“That isn’t what I asked.” I feared Thisbe more as she hid behind the black curtain of her thick Indian hair, leaving me no chance to read her face. “They talked about you very familiarly. You know this person well, you knew the investigation was in their hands, you knew they might come here, but you didn’t give us any warning they were…” Adjectives failed her. “… like that!”
Bridger, still in my lap, winced at Thisbe’s harshness. He had heard her summary, the Major too, still seated on the rooftop of the dollhouse beside us, with the fascinated soldiers in the plastic rooms below.
“Are you okay, Mycroft?” Bridger asked, furrowing his smooth, young brow. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine.” I mussed his hair, using the gesture to disguise the moment when I whispered in his ear. “Start packing as soon as this is done.”
His eyes went wide, but, good boy, he nodded.
I met Thisbe’s glare. “I see you’ve made the unilateral decision that Carlyle Foster is allowed to know where Bridger lives.”
That mistake stilled her a moment, and she looked around, as if only now seeing the dollhouses and books and playthings piled in the secret cave. She turned to the veteran beside me. “Sorry, Major. I forgot. But I think we’ve all decided we can trust Carlyle now.”
I let my voice stay dark. “That’s not your call, Thisbe.”
The Major shifted in his doll chair. “Done is done. You are the bigger question at the moment, Mycroft. What is there between you and this … we’re talking about a Hiveless Tribune?”
“Among many, many other offices.” Thisbe loomed over me. “Including that they’re Cornel MASON’s child.”
“Bash’child or real child?” the Major asked.
Thisbe glared at his un-modern denial that the bond between ba’kid and ba’pa is as ‘real’ as blood.
I supplied the truth. “Adopted son.”
“And heir?” the Major asked.
Thisbe indulged in a chuckle. “No. Can’t blame you, Major, it’s a modern thing, but Masonic Emperors aren’t dynastic. They’re never succeeded by their children, it’s a rule. A porphyrogene is usually a Familiaris, but they’re the only Familiaris who can’t become Masonic Emperor.”
The Major frowned pensively as he wrapped his head around that one. “So, adopting a child makes them ineligible. Interesting choice. Now I want to know even more about this boy an Emperor would choose to hold so close, but block from the succession.”
Thisbe would not give an inch. “It’s not just the Masons. I knew vaguely about J.E.D.D. Mason, everybody does, but I read more on the way here. I knew they were Romanova’s youngest Tribune but—”
“Second youngest,” I corrected. “In 2299 Cahya Rattlewatch was elected Blacklaw Tribune at the age of fifteen. It doesn’t even require passing the Adulthood Competency Exam.”
Thisbe punished my derailment by firing up the screen that sat beside the Major and loading J.E.D.D. Mason’s profile from last year’s Romanov Seven-Ten list. “They have some kind of insider advisor or legal position in five Hives besides the Masons! Europe, the Cousins, Brill’s Institute, the Mitsubishi, and us too.”
I avoided her gaze. “All the Hive leaders have known J.E.D.D. Mason since They were a small Child, and all the Hive leaders are impressed by Them, rely on Them, and trust Their council. That’s why everybody gives Them offices, and that’s why They were trusted with investigating this crime that threatens all six.”
“Why? Why does everybody trust them when they act like that? Confession? Karma? And their assistants, Dominic and Martin, how cultish can you get?”
I knew better than to meet her eyes. “Martin’s real name is Mycroft Guildbreaker.”