They were also dressed in simple white robes of a classical design. One of them held a sceptre on a pillow. One held a recurved bow of pale wood set with pink carbuncles, and a quiver of arrows fletched with red feathers. One had a jess and a leather guard on her wrist, like a falconer, but instead of a falcon, she held a white dove on her wrist.
Quentin pulled back. He turned himself on his back and put his elbow over his eyes.
I looked at him, puzzled. It was not until I looked at him that I realized something. I had been staring at the laughing beauty so earnestly, that I had not seen anyone else at the table, had not heard what they said.
I can tell in sort of an intellectual way if another woman is attractive or not. Sometimes. Sometimes, I am really surprised at which girls Colin, for example, would moon over, or which American movie starlets he would gather photos of, or write love letters to. But even I could tell this lady, this divinity, had a face to drive men mad. Quentin was covering his eyes to save his sanity.
My gaze was drawn back to her.
I had never seen an adult so unselfconscious in public. I have seen the Queen Mother and the Prince of Wales on television news, the Duchess of York, the King of Denmark, and the Prince of Monaco. They were royalty. They acted with gravity and polished politeness. This? This was something beyond royalty. A farmgirl in a barnyard could play this way, if she were surrounded by dumb animals, piglets and kittens and lambs. Because the farmgirl is still a higher order of being than even the noblest animal, and she can feel no shame in front of them, no more than a high cloud, or a distant star, can feel shame in front of a human.
I wished I could see if she would have that same rainbow effect the Red Soldier had. Unfortunately, there was nothing beyond her, from my point of view, aside from the chair she sat on, the floor. No light sources. Not even a reflection.
But I moved a little to one side, so that the marble banister blocked my view of her. That was the only way I could concentrate on the others gathered here.
The moment I saw them, I wondered how I could have not been staring at them. This was an odd group. A very odd group.
5.
Two foxes in Japanese kimonos stood behind their chairs to the Lady’s far left. They stood on their hind legs, like men. One of them was smoking a cigarette in a holder.
A man with no head was next. He was dressed in eighteenth-century garb: a great coat with a high collar, bloodstained lace surrounding his neck stump, two dueling pistols tucked through his belt. He had a long-necked guitar slung on a wide bandoleer over his left shoulder. On a silver plate, on the table before where he stood, rested his head. I assume it was his.
A bearded head it was, with long black locks. The eyes were open and looking back and forth. Every now and again the headless body would raise a hand and absentmindedly run fingers through the hair of the head, the way a man with a dog at his heel might pet it from time to time.
Next to him was a Satyr, with ivy wound around his goat horns. He had narrow features and lines around his mouth. He was shifting from hoof to hoof, and picking his teeth with a toothpick.
Two nude women were next, naked except for the grape leaves they had wound in their hair. They stood with their arms around each other’s waists, and occasionally whispered comments in each other’s ears.
Next was a man made entirely of metal. This golem was ten or twelve feet tall. The metal was silvery and black, and chased through with designs, images, and arabesques of the most cunning workmanship. The elbow joints were fretted like fish fins; the vambraces had pastoral scenes running up them. The helm was furrowed with whippet hounds; the crest was a lunging stag, every vein in its straining throat visible. Leaves and trees, maple and oak, ran in vertical stripes down the breastplate. The face mask was silver, a man smiling gently, surrounded by leaves and little birds growing from his beard. The hairs of the beard were separately etched in, overlaying with strips of silver, silver-gray, blue steel, black iron.
Beyond the metal man was another, this one of gold, inscribed with scenes of sailing ships, kings, rising suns. An eagle crest started from his helm. His beard was curled with golden flames.
Then came the three women, and the Lady with the mirror who was so beautiful.
Another gold man was beyond her, this one inscribed with mountain scenes, goatherds, pine trees. His crest was a dragon, each scale studded with a different gem.
Another silver man was next, this one done up in night images, moons and owls.
A man made out of bark stood behind the next chair, with leaves for hair. His face was carved from unpolished wood, scabby and black.
A normal-looking fellow was next, except he wore a folded robe of purest blue that floated and flowed around him. Clouds moved through the fabric. His hair also floated in the wind, except that there was no wind.
There was a man in scale armor. The scales were enameled with different shades of white, pale blue, dark blue, green, and black. He was young, and broad-shouldered, with long black hair. His helmet was on the table before him; it had a leaping dolphin for its crest. He did not look impatient, but he was pinching his nostrils shut, opening them, pinching them shut again, over and over. I do not mean he was touching his nose with his hand. His hands were clasped behind his back. When he turned his head to whisper some comment to the man dressed in the blue wind, I could see feathery dark lines of the gills behind his ear.
Next came two men in well-tailored business suits, dark blue pinstripe with narrow ties. Both had gold rings, tastefully expensive wristwatches, shining cuff links. One stood puffing a cigarette. Balanced on the back of the chair before him was the smallest computer I had ever seen, a folding thing no bigger than a large book. He was typing on it with both hands.
The other man, who was older, was speaking on a cell phone. They seemed to be men. Nothing extraordinary about them…
Until the one on the laptop computer, without taking either hand off the keyboard, had a third hand reach up from under his coat, take the cigarette between two fingers, and flick ash onto the carpet. From the way the hand blurred where it left his coat, I assumed I was looking at a three-dimensional intrusion from four-space.
Next was a busty dark-skinned woman, a Turk or a Hindu, perhaps, wearing a short red vest with nothing beneath it, a headdress of coins. She was a giant serpent from the waist down.
The final man was a figure from my dream. He had a metal eye in the center of his forehead: an orb of blue metal. It turned this way and that, not in keeping with the motions of his other eyes.
He was not a giant, as had been the one I saw in my dream. He was dressed in a stark, utilitarian one-piece suit, drab olive in color. He stood with his hands folded over the back of his chair, face expressionless, showing no sign of impatience. A name tag clipped to his breast pocket read: BRONTES.
6.
There had been a stir of talk while I had been staring at the Lady with the mirror. I had not heard what it was.
The three-handed man on the cell phone was telling someone, “He sent word that he wasn’t showing up here. No. My question is, if his wife represents the volcanic position to us, should we take that representation as solid…?”
The Satyr, leaning to speak past the tall shoulders of the headless man, said to the foxes in kimonos, “Say, fellows, are you here representing your Skulk, or the whole Wood?”
The taller fox, a gray, answered in a fluting voice, “We have letters of accredition, extraordinary and plenipotentiary, from the Nemeian.”
“In that case, don’t agree to anything till you and I get a chance to talk later, private-like, eh?”
The other fox was thinner, red-brown. It said in a saturnine tone, “Whether we speak or are silent, what does it matter? The Great Ones determine our course.”
The gray fox snapped open a Japanese fan, and hid his muzzle behind it, while he made some whispered comment to his companion.
The Satyr shifted on his hooves impatiently. He said to his neighbor:
“What about you, Haircut? There may be a third angle to this tug-o-war.”
The headless body reached out with its fingers and turned the severed head on its silver plate till it faced the goat-man. “You cannot imagine that I have much interest in what the Bacchants have to say.” His voice had a melodic beauty to it that echoed in the ear.
The Satyr waved his toothpick. “Who said I was talking about them? Did I say I was talking about them? Not all of us were on the side of the traitors when they stormed Olympus. I work for Nemestrinus.”
The naked woman with grape leaves in her hair leaned over and caressed the Satyr’s cheek. He jumped a bit, reddening with embarrassment.
She cooed softly, “Don’t waste words on that one, Billy. He will be the next Psychopompos, no matter what else is decided tonight. Both factions will promise to confirm him in the post. He’s the one the Unseen One likes. So why should he talk to you? He has nothing to gain and nothing to lose.”
The Satyr said, “A little chitchat never hurt nobody.”
She replied: “The Unseen One might be standing here in the room with us now, for all we know. Best not to annoy Him. No one wants Him to press His little wifey-poo’s claim to the throne, now do they?”
The other nude girl leaned forward, saying in a fluid voice: “Be careful, little tripod! Your third leg is shorter than your other two. It will not help you run away if the Unseen One takes it amiss that you annoy His servants.”
The goat-man looked annoyed. “Hey, if you are going to talk about my pogo stick, you call him Mr. Johnson!”
It was about this time that I realized, from his demeanor and slurred speech, that the goat-man had probably been drinking. Heavily.
The Satyr continued: “Heck! As for Him, what kind of Love Hotdog you think He’s packing anyway? Married to that sweet tart of His, and no kids after all these years? If’n the soil is fertile, maybe the seed is sterile, is all I’m saying, is all. And don’t tell me the Maiden ain’t fertile; she’s a fertility goddess! And how come she’s still a Maiden, if’n you catch my meaning? I ain’t afraid of no lord of ghosts, no ma’am. I figure, no matter how dread and horrible He is, who can be afraid of a guy with a dry stick, you take my meaning?”
The severed head said softly, “You are droll, tragamor. When you come to His kingdom, you will be met with many grins. They all grin, there.”
7.
From some point more or less below where we hid on the balcony, there came the sound of a door opening, footsteps, the clang of a javelin on the floorboards.
I heard the voice, animated and bubbly, of the beautiful lady with the mirror. From the sounds, I could tell she had jumped to her feet.
“Harry’s—!” (At least, it sounded like “Harry’s.” She might have been saying “Airy” or “Air Ease.”) “Look, Aglaea, look who it is! Yoo hoo! Over here! Hi there! Hi! Do you think he sees me? Hello, darling! Euphrosyne, what do you think of him?”
I could see the women standing behind her, looking embarrassed and trying to appear at ease.
The maiden in white holding the pink bow and arrow leaned and said into the ear of her mistress, “My Lady Cyprian, the Lord Mavors is surely the archetype of manliness. But if we all know what men are like, surely he is that way, only more so.”
The Lady burst into a fit of giggles.
The helmets of the four metal men all swiveled to face (I assume) the door. From my point of view, it looked as if they were all turning toward me. Seeing all those gold and silver masks swivel toward me, their inanimate features all carved into happy smiles, beneath lenses that could never know expression, reminded me of a group of synchronized deck guns on a battleship, rotating in their turrets to cover an enemy.
The Red Soldier marched into view, crossed over to the table. He had slung back the links of his coif from his scalp, so that I saw his hawklike profile, hook nose, and blue eyes. He had a face so tranquil as to be almost expressionless, except for the hint of cruelty around his mouth, the hint of sadness in his eyes.
When he saw the Lady, though, the cruelty left his mouth; the sorrow left his eyes. The weather-beaten face suddenly looked years younger. And handsome. His eyes glittered and danced. He pursed his lips to keep himself from smiling.
There were murmurs and whispers around the table. Only the headless man did not seem disturbed. The three-handed man hissed into his cell phone: “Call you back!” Two additional hands came out from under the coat to fold up the phone and hold open a pocket to slide it into.
I took the opportunity to whisper to Quentin: “Do you know who these are?”
“We’re in a school run by the pagan gods of old,” he said in softest of whispers. “Now hush.” Without opening his eyes, he reached across and put a finger to my lips, to hush me. It was a funny feeling, having him touch my lips that way. “We don’t want to be turned into trees or something.”
7
Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea
1.
The Soldier, Lord Mavors, his expression once again under his control, now stepped up to the seat opposite the Lady Cyprian. At once the arrangement of the table became clear to me. Half the table was for the Lady and her entourage, her robots and ladies and foxes, her tree-man, her goat-man, and men with extra eyes or extra limbs or a man missing a head. The other half of the table was reserved for the Soldier. He had no one.
He held up the javelin a moment, and dipped it toward the Lady, saying, “Ma’am.”
Cyprian acknowledged the salute by wiggling in her chair, and darted a heavy-lidded look at him. “Don’t you want to sit next to me?” She patted the chair to her side. Then she said to her handmaidens: “I bet he won’t! He’s toying with me! He’s so mean! Look at how cute he is!” Then, to him again: “You never write!”
I would have felt embarrassed for her, except that she seemed so cheerful, so obviously sure of herself, that she did not seem to notice the other people around her, listening.
And everyone (except the golems, whose masks were immobile, and the man with his head on a plate, whose expression was composed) were looking nervous, agog, or annoyed. The Satyr wore a look of naked fear. Even the foxes had both opened their fans to hide their muzzles, despite that their faces could not show expressions.
But no one looked surprised.
The Soldier spun the heavy javelin lightly in his fingers, and drove it point-downward into the floorboards (bang!) so that it trembled upright next to him. He slung the shield over the arm of the chair, to keep it at hand, pulled the katana, scabbard and all, from his web-belt, and laid the sheathed blade on the table before him. Then he sat down.
He said to the Lady Cyprian, “You have to write letters to get letters, ma’am.”
“I think my husband rips them up!”
“Ah… yes ma’am. Can’t blame him. Seeing as how you humiliate him in public, and all.” The Soldier folded his hands on the table. “Any word from the boy?” he asked curtly.
“Which boy?”
“Our son.”
“Nope! Still missing! I hope he’s OK. Don’t you hope he’s OK?”
“I hope for your husband’s sake, that he is, ma’am.”
“You don’t really think Mulciber killed him, do you? I’d hate to have you think that. Please don’t kill my husband. I like him very much. And he makes me things.”
The Soldier said nothing, but turned his head to give Headmaster Boggin a cool stare.
Boggin took that as an excuse to step forward and nod politely toward both sides of the table. “Your Ladyship, Your Lordship, honored Visitors and Governors, please take your seats. Perhaps we can begin.”
Her Ladyship said, “I love beginnings. Beginnings are always the times of magic, of unknown delight, full of promise and expectation. Consummations are also much to be desired. Maybe we can have a dance after, or something.” She waved her hands at the people, things, and animals on her side of the table. “Sit! Sit!”
The metal men held the chairs for t
he ladies, and the Satyr held a chair for one of the nude women, but he must have goosed her, because she turned and slapped him. The metal men did not sit down, but kept their empty, smiling masks turned toward the Soldier, their dead lenses trained on him.
Boggin took his position halfway between the Soldier and the Lady, with Mr. Sprat and Mr. ap Cymru standing to either side behind his chair.
The Soldier pointed with his finger at ap Cymru. “What’s that one doing here?”
Boggin said smoothly, “He is part of the staff, Your Lordship. Originally part of your Father’s staff, Your Lordship, may he rest in peace.”
“Amen,” said the Lady Cyprian, and everyone on her side of the table (except the golems) said “Amen,” in unison.
Quentin, who was still lying on his back with his eyes closed, put his hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh. He found the idea of ancient Greek gods saying “Amen” funny, for some reason.
The Soldier said, “Do you know what he is?”
Boggin said, “He comes very highly recommended, Your Lordship, and—to be frank—I was not sure if I had the authority to discharge him. The unfortunate passing away of your Father left certain affairs in disarray. I could make this an item on this evening’s agenda, if Your Lordship wishes…?”
The Soldier gave the slightest shake of his head, and turned to look back at the Lady. “Let’s stick to what we came to talk about. Time’s short.”
Cyprian, elbows on the table, was hunched behind her little mirror, with only her glittering eyes peeping over the edge. She was impishly aiming her mirror at him, tilting it this way and that, to send little triangles of light, reflected from the chandelier, floating over the Soldier’s lean cheeks, flashing in his eyes.
Cyprian said playfully, “We are all surprised to see you, dear. No one knew you were coming yourself. You didn’t send Fear or Panic?”
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