“Then there’s a conspiracy?”
The Vice President tried to make his nod feel sage. “I don’t know if it’s a prank or if someone is expecting profit, but when three of the lists are targeted, that’s not coincidence. It may be time to rethink the gambling, and what it incentivizes. Even without thefts and substitutions, the pressure on the columnists makes objectivity almost impossible.”
Cornel MASON scowled. “Quid facit Anonymus? Modone attentionem a Sakuram Nigrem avertit? (What is the Anonymous doing? Just drawing attention away from Black Sakura?)”
If so, it was brilliant. With interference in the Anonymous’s list and Gordian’s, Black Sakura would virtually drop out of the public eye, and with it Kohaku Mardi’s fatal numbers, 33-67; 67-33; 29-71. Even the Mitsubishi might be saved. I answered, “Fieri potest, Caesar. (It could be, Caesar.) Quotannis discipuli iocosi aliqui Brillem indicem surripere temptant, et nihil refert. (Every year some student prankster tries out stealing the Brillist list and it comes to nothing.) Causa necessest si hoc anno Magister Faustus populum operam dare vult. (There must be a reason if this year Headmaster Faust wants people to care.) Beneficium alicui necessest. (It must benefit someone.)”
MASON nodded. “Causa gravissima necessest si Anonymus mendacios vulgat. (The cause must be serious if the Anonymous is publishing lies). Hos quoque ecce. (Look at this too.)” At Caesar’s will the Vice President vanished, replaced by the newest chart:
I took my time in thinking, my toes tracing nervous circles on the stone. It was brilliant. The substitution was so plausible, just what an anti-Mitsubishi conspirator would have altered to make it feel like all the lists were ranking the Mitsubishi low. The “altered” list was the real one, I had no doubt—we had worked with it in the Censor’s office. The Anonymous was retro-fibbing, swapping in a list that made the Mitsubishi come out better, and, by crying, “My list was targeted too!” drawing attention away from poor Black Sakura. He found a way. The Censor’s powers could do nothing, but the Anonymous had found a way.
MASON turned again to me. “Non tibi imperio ut prodas aliquod de officio Censoris, sed solum oppinionem tuum: quid possum facere ut curros protegam? (I will not order you to betray anything from the Censor’s office, but only your own opinion: what can I do to protect the cars?) Custodesne Saneer-Weeksbooth bash’domi ponere debeo? (Should I send guards to the Saneer-Weeksbooth bash’house?) Discipulosne mittere ut doceant et pro Sicario aliisque substituant? (Should I send students to learn and substitute for Sniper and the others?) Aut ab Utopianis petere debeone, ut parent sustinere ipsi totam systemam mundi si iste bash’ cadat? (Or should I seek from the Utopians, that they prepare to sustain the entire global system if that bash’ fails?)” The Emperor looked to the window, where we could see the cars landing across the city like a rain of constant meteors. His fists clenched. “Non vacuus sedebo et permittebo hic jocus mundum meum accidere. (I will not sit idly and let this prank wound my world.)”
Jocuvn hunc non arbitror, Caesar (I don’t think it’s a joke, Caesar),” I answered, not quite daring to meet his eyes, “sed aliquid sinisterius, et credo ut vos omnes non prius placebimini quam omnes Septem apud Matronam conveneritis (but something more sinister, and I think that all of you will not be calm until all Seven convene at Madame’s). Omnes suspectum habetis ut unus ex Septem hanc perfidiam coniuraret. (You all have suspicions that one of the Seven planned this treachery.) Omnibus convocatis, invenire poteris si recte sentis. (When everyone has been called together, you’ll be able to discover whether you guess right.)”
It is maddening, is it not, my non-Masonic reader, watching the Latin slip past incomprehensible? It is worst with Latin, too, for it was by chance you were not raised to speak French or Japanese, but no one is raised on Latin. Latin is a choice. Hives are strengthened by having a tongue, so MASON chose the language of Rome, of Empire, of Power, simplified to make it easier. It is no race’s language anymore (not even Martin Guildbreaker dared study Latin before his Annus Dialogorum), so all Masons, whether new converts or the sons of Emperors, are equal as they sit down in those classrooms, the true sancta sanctorum of Masonic mysteries, which teach the tongue of power, as potent for Martin as for Machiavelli and Montaigne. It was your choice, reader, whether or not to heed the myth and study Latin; now you pay the price. (I didn’t have the heart to cut this.—9A)
I oversimplify; One living among us was raised on Latin. “Salve, Pater. (Hello, Father).” J.E.D.D. Mason entered from an inner room, announced by the guards saluting their Porphyrogene. “Mater salutem dicit. (Mother sends her regards.)”
A common father smiles at the arrival of his son, but MASON’s face does something deeper, graver, like a ship’s Captain peering at the morning sky to see what weather it might bring. “Salve, Fili (Hello, Son),” the Emperor greeted. “Bene investigatio estne? (Is the investigation going well?)”
No emotion accompanied His almost-whispered words. “Canis abest. (The dog is missing.)”
“Abest? (Missing?) Dominicus? Cur? Quamdiu? (Why? How long?)”
(This is where Mycroft started to supply Masonic Latin translations of the Prince’s rather bizarre Latin, but I’ll try my best to give you the sense of the Prince’s actual words.)
“Nescio (I don’t know),” the Son answered. “Ni ampliorem quam cimicem olfaceret non peccaret Dominicus. (Unless he smelled [something] larger than a bedbug, Dominic would not sin.)”1
The Emperor frowned. “Credisne ut in periculem sit? (Do you think they’re in danger?)”
“Nullo cursus pacto. (A very strong form of ‘No.’) Non ciccus est hic nebulo vero fidus canis. (This scoundrel is not [the membrane around a pomegranate seed, i.e., a negligible thing], [but/truly] the dog [is] faithful.) Quod superest, tibitemet non lucubrandum’st. (That aside, you yourself [emphatic] should not burn lamp oil late at night.) Brevi procaciam conivere potes. (For now, you can blink at this mischief.)”2
MASON searched his Son’s face for some sign of how He truly took Dominic’s absence, for it is hard for a father to believe that any child would not feel something at the absence of his most constant companion. His face showed nothing. Have you ever in a museum, reader, seen a case of lizards or small frogs, and you cannot tell in their stillness whether they are alive or models until you press your cheek against the glass and look for breath stirring their sides? Here you would have to do it with a Man.
“Non sufficit. (Not enough.)” The Emperor turned. “You could make a new car system, couldn’t you?” Like magic, reader, hear lightness in his English, as when Hector, breaker of horses, after days handing out death to foes around Troy’s ramparts, comes home at last to lift his child in his arms. No, it is not to me he speaks. See there, brilliant in the corner, the nowhere children, Aldrin and Voltaire.
The pair glanced at one another. “A new system, Caesar?”
“Everyone is paying too much attention to the Seven-Ten lists, and not enough to the cars. The Seven-Ten lists are nothing, an embarrassment. The cars are the bloodstream of civilization. You have your own system, your own computers. If the Saneer-Weeksbooth bash’ goes down, could you take over running transport for the world?”
They looked at each other through their vizors. I will never tire of studying the space station which Aldrin’s Utopian coat makes of Alexandria. It is not new and cold like a fresh-launched shuttle, but a patchwork, bits of mismatched hull barely space-tight. An ancient space station, if you can imagine such a thing, used, battered, and remade, like the museum wing of the ISSC, where field trips pause to see the original parts of the station that grew appendage by appendage into the current city. That is Aldrin’s Alexandria. Voltaire’s I avoid looking at—exquisite as it is, I cannot bear seeing the capital in ruins.