by Ada Palmer
«You’re serious?» Julia asked.
«Always, but about what in particular?»
«You’ve really found proof of the existence of God?»
«Yes.» He fired the answer like a shot. «Yes I have, and here’s the bargain: if you wait and don’t start snooping after it yet, I’ll show you, soon, as soon as I’m done with what I need it for. But if you start interfering, then I’m going to hide it from you, and I know you could track it eventually, but I can make that take a long time. You’ll have it sooner, much sooner, if you let me bring it to you when I’m ready.»
She sighed. «That’s a lot to ask of a sensayer.»
«I know. I’ll make it up to you.»
«Mmmm.» Such a contented purr. «And what else have you to confess today?»
«Not much. I tortured some thugs, broke into some houses, stole some things, took three prisoners, tormented and traumatized a child, started to seduce a married woman but didn’t bother finishing. You know I don’t think I’ve broken my vow of chastity once this week, except just now.»
She sounded worried. «That’s not good for your health.»
«I’ve been busy. Besides»—I heard here the creak of a straining chair or table—«the world is settling down. There aren’t many left who are rebellious enough that I need to get on top of them, and not many with the authority to force me underneath.»
They laughed together, though I’m sure the joke was more in how they lay than what he said.
«Julia, I need your help.»
«With what?»
«A few things. First, what can you tell me about a Cousin sensayer called Carlyle Foster?»
«Carlyle? They’re one of mine.»
«One of your what? Students? Parishioners? »
«One of mine one of mine.»
Knowing Julia as I did, I had suspected so much, but it was good to be certain.
«Oh, that’s too bad.» He laid more kisses now, a series of them with a steady rhythm as if progressing inch by inch along some part of Julia like footsteps. «Are you fond of her?»
«One of my best, extremely sweet and loyal, and credulous. I’ve no other moles that good at seeming benign. Why, has something happened to Carlyle?»
«Not yet, but may I have her?»
«Once? Or in general?»
«I need to break her. Make her mine.»
«Oh, please don’t,» Julia crooned.
«I don’t see a way around it.» Furniture creaked again as their weight shifted. «It’s a small world and we’ve learned so many techniques from one another. It’s inevitable we’ll get in one another’s way from time to time.»
Julia’s voice turned coaxing, like a child’s. «Can’t you hold off a bit? Carlyle’s in the middle of a mission.»
Dominic enjoyed this laugh. «Using her in your chess game with Danaë, are you? Making a move on the Saneer-Weeksbooth bash’? Good target.»
«Mmm. Frustrating target. They’ve been impregnable with that stubborn Esmerald Revere refusing to let any of them have even one session with anybody else. You remember the one time I tricked Cato Weeksbooth into coming here?»
«Of course.» An even darker laugh. «It was the same when I showed up at the house, ran for his life. Good instincts, the clever little thing.»
«Yes, that’s … ouuh.» She lost her breath here, as at the touch of a good masseur. «That’s—mmh—why I need Carlyle there, no one can fake harmless like Carlyle because Carlyle isn’t faking. That bash’ is a fortress; only a mosquito can get through.»
«Was it you who got Esmerald Revere to snuff herself?» Dominic asked.
«No, that wasn’t me. Pure good luck, or someone else, but not me.»
His voice turned black. «It wasn’t luck.»
«Who, then?»
«I don’t know.»
Julia sighed. «I think someone threatened to kill Cato Weeksbooth if they ever talked to me.»
«Could be. You know I’d kill most of my minions if they ever talked to you.»
She chuckled. «Flatterer. Is it someone in the bash’, do you think? Ockham Saneer?»
«I don’t know.»
From my view behind the door’s crack I caught a glimpse of one of them, an arm, and maybe Dominic’s ponytail as he tilted back in a chair.
«Come on, you spent time there,» Julia coaxed. «I know you can smell a killer.»
«Not when my nose is too full of God. Besides, Ockham Saneer stinks to high heaven of killer legally, it’s hard to scent anything under that.»
«What about Sniper? Wouldn’t it be great if it were Sniper?»
I heard a smack of skin on skin, and something in their motion shifted, fabric rustling with subtle struggle as their silhouettes passed across my line of sight.
«Which are you after, anyway?» Dominic asked. «The cars or Sniper?»
«Hm?»
«In the Saneer-Weeksbooth bash’.» Kisses slowed his speech again, drier and more breathy than before: an animal nuzzling. «Those two … little set-sets … could feed you dirt on … the whole world … second only to … the tracker system … but on the other hand … Sniper is … Sniper.»
«I’m after both.»
A skull clunked against wood. «That’s avarice, that is,» he snapped. «A sin.»
«I suppose it is. Which are you after?»
«Neither. I need Carlyle for unrelated business. But if you had to pick, or … let me put it another way: can I have Carlyle if I give you Sniper?»
«You can have your pick of all my creatures if you give me Sniper!»
I heard a sharp inhalation, the beginning of a word, or of an ecstasy? «I won’t cheat you, Julia. Carlyle Foster is more than what she seems. You should know what you’re trading away before we seal the bargain.»
«I know what I have, Dominic. That’s why I took them as a student in the first place. Carlyle de la Trémoïlle. Even has a dick between their legs to make them a legal heir. Does Ganymede have any other bastards?»
«She’s not Ganymede’s bastard, she’s Danaë’s. But no, the Duke has no bastards I know of, so little Carlyle de la Trémoïlle is heir presumptive.»
«Mmm. Must qualify as an Earl or something, have you looked it up?»
«Doesn’t matter; theological titles trump.»
«Ganymede’s heir…,» Julia crooned. «Is there a father? My best guess was incest, but if you say the child isn’t Ganymede’s … »
«There was a father, but Madame does not tolerate the … spoiling of her creatures. I would have burned the corpse myself, but Hotaka Andō Mitsubishi had that privilege.»
«Ah. Strong man, Andō. So what does Dominic want with the little prince … de … la … Tré … mo … ïlle?» Kisses or little nips punctuated Julia’s syllables. «Is Ganymede getting a bit too independent for Madame’s tastes? Needs a tighter leash?»
«Actually, my needs are unrelated to the Cousin’s birth.»
«What are they related to? This universe’s God?»
«Later.»
«Tell me?» Another creaking. «Tell me now.»
There was a long breath’s pause and then a sudden … I cannot call it a dash or rush since they stayed in the same place, but I heard some fierce and almost violent shift, someone breaking free of a hold perhaps?
«I said later. But my offer stands. Carlyle de la Trémoïlle for Sniper?»
«For Sniper? Anything.»
«Done!» I heard a rush of paper. I doubt, reader, that Mephistopheles has ever plunked a contract on a table with greater zeal. «Here, look at these.»
I heard shuffling through pages. «A child’s drawings?»
In my efforts to stay silent I bit down on my hand hard enough to leave a mark.
«I have a kid I have to break. Fast,» Dominic continued. «I figured my dearest teacher could give her floundering student a few pointers.» Whatever motion Dominic made to sweeten the flattery made Julia gasp. «You remember I flunked child sensaying twice; they’re just too alien, these neutered lit
tle monsters.»
«Mmm. I remember. It’s so fun flunking you.»
The sound Dominic made has no better name than ‘growl.’
«Interesting.» Papers rustled one by one. «The iconography is like a young child’s but the hand-eye coordination is too good. How old’s this kid?»
«Older than ten, less than fifteen, I’d say. I don’t know when these drawings were done, though.»
«Mmmm. Short blond hair?»
«That’s right.»
«Usually draws themself wearing blue, that’s reasonably standard. How old’s the ba’sib?»
«Ba’sib?»
«Or sister? This one. See, here is the kid’s depiction of themself, and they appear over and over with this second kid in red with long curly hair.»
«A sister?» The paper crunched as if he nearly ripped it. «I’ve heard no mention of a sister.»
«Wait, the attributes are varying. The hair was red there, here it’s got blue streaks, and here they have wings. I think you’ve got yourself an imaginary big sister here.»
«Perfection!» he half-shrieked. «Twenty seconds and you have it, my exquisite Julia! Let me leave fresh offerings at your divine altar!»
The ardor of his thanks would not let her speak for some few moments.
«You can use that?» she asked.
«Oh, yes. God’s as good as mine.» Another pause before his words grew fast and serious. «I have your word you won’t start poking, right? I swear I’ll bring you the proof when I’m ready, but if you probe, or if you breathe a word of this to any living soul, I swear by Lord God Jehovah Himself I’ll kill you, dearest Julia, even you.»
She took a long, smug breath. «Too late.»
«What do you mean?»
«It’s too late not to breathe it to another living soul. I’ve got a witness hidden in the closet.»
Anger drove the voicing from Dominic’s breath, leaving it shallow as a ghost’s. «What?»
«You never asked if we were alone in the office, barging in like this. At this close distance I’m quite sure they’ve heard every syllable.» Her voice played, not laughter but its beginnings peppering her syllables. «You know what I use that closet for.»
«A spy?»
«We’ve had quite a session today, too: proof of God, Jehovah, Jehovah’s universe, Carlyle de la Trémoïlle … »
Dominic took one long breath to steel himself, and then a second. «Julia, Julia, you clever stupid bitch.» Furniture crashed across the room, a sound of shattering, a body hitting wall or floor, and I heard the croak of a throat losing all breath at once. «Why now?» Dominic screamed. «If you wanted me to kill you I could’ve done it any time, why now? The one week that I don’t have time to get away with murder!»
She struggled to gain breath enough to whisper. «To see that look on your face.»
Violence shattered another fixture of the office. «Damn it! I really would’ve shown you, too! You’re a week away from seeing God, Julia! What stupid time is that to make me … damn it! Damn it and damn you!» I heard the hiss of cold steel being drawn.
«Oh, don’t I at least get to watch you kill my witness first?» Her voice still teased like a disappointed playmate. «I’ve always wanted to see you do the deed in person.»
«You think this is funny, bitch? I don’t have time for … Fine. I’ll count that as my teacher’s last request.»
The sword made a strange, strained singing as it turned from target to target.
«The key’s on the bookshelf,» she volunteered, «no sense you wrecking the door.»
A fresh crash must have been some part of him striking some part of her. «You try anything while my back’s turned and I’ll flay your face off and show it to you.»
«Mmm. You would, too, wouldn’t you?»
I backed up as the key clicked in the lock.
«Your spy’s lucky I don’t have time for anything elaborate, just a … Mycroft?»
At first Dominic was just a looming blackness with a sword, but my light-starved eyes soon adapted to the glare enough for detail. He had removed his jacket and his gloves, baring the black of shirt and waistcoat, but the rest of him was fully clothed. Rain had undone his ponytail, letting the black-brown tresses fall damp around his brow and neck, framing a face which was a mask of horror and delight. He laughed, Julia with him, uproarious belly laughs, both of them doubling over as laughter’s agony wracked their guts.
«Mycroft Canner!» Dominic repeated. Even the sword hung loose in his fingers as the great joke had its day. «Oh, my dear Julia, what a cruel and fabulous thing you are! Come here!» He hefted her from the litter of broken coffee table where he had flung her, and landed a kiss which threatened to maul her face in its enthusiasm.
Julia reveled in her victory kiss, eyes dancing at the tickle as he lapped the blood his wrath had spilled from her lip. «Mmm. You’re welcome, though I wish you hadn’t smashed the office so.»
«I’ll have it fixed.» He flexed his shoulders. «Oh, you brilliant woman, I feel as refreshed as if I’d had a good duel! And thou, Mycroft!” He switched to English here, tucking his sword point under my chin and reeling me toward him like a hooked fish. “I thought I’d have to go on a long hunt for thee, yet here thou art, delivered in the flesh. So much less effort, not that thou couldst have hid from me for long, couldst thee?”
A tap of the blade against my shoulder bade me kneel, and I obeyed, tucking my hands behind me like a prisoner and keeping my eyes on the floor. “No, Brother Dominic.”
Julia had fresh eyes for me now that I seemed to matter. “I didn’t know you needed Mycroft.” I dared a glance up at her, and saw that she still wore her socks, while her jacket and open shirt clung to her arms and shoulders like a cicada’s half-discarded skin.
“Everybody in the world needs Mycroft,” Dominic gloated, “but they’re not getting him anymore. He’s coming home like a good slave, and not leaving until I say so.” The rapier traced my jaw line. “No more playing around with toys for thee.”
I could not afford to let tears fall here. “Yes, Brother Dominic.” Trust the Major. The Major is the most experienced tactician to walk this Earth in centuries. Trust the Major: Bridger will be safe.
“You’re not still using Mycroft, are you?” Dominic asked Julia, letting the sword hang limply in his hand, as a violinist lets his bow droop when he stops to chat. “I wouldn’t want to interfere.”
“No, Mycroft’s done with confession for today.” Julia drew close enough to pet my head, gently, as one does for an old dog no longer strong enough for vigorous scratching. “They’ve had a hard day today, our Mycroft. You know the last surviving Mardi just came back from the Moon.”
Dominic’s brow twitched. “Is that so?”
“Mmm. Tully Mardi. Exposed Mycroft in the street in front of a dozen people, with the Servicer uniform in plain sight no less. Mycroft will need our protection even more now than usual, poor thing. And I’d recommend switching them from an outdoor pet to an indoor pet; outside’s not safe anymore.”
Dominic laughed darkly. “Such a thoughtful protectress thou hast in Julia, Mycroft, when she’s so cold to everybody else. It’s quite unfair.” His light kick showered me with shards of desk. “Clean up this mess. This is thy fault after all, is it not, stray dog?” His actual words were ‘Chien errant,’ in French, his common title for me.
“Yes, Brother Dominic.”
“Apologize to the Pontifex Maxima for ruining her office.”
“I apologize, Your Holiness.”
He sheathed his blade. “Now, work.”
I dared not raise my eyes, but could see Dominic’s smile reflected in a fallen cup as he watched me crawl. Dominic has never sodomized me, hard as you may find that to believe. He gets no satisfaction subjugating something which has never shown the faintest hint of fighting back.
But thou must fight back, Mycroft. Would that be your advice here, my brave reader? Fight for thy freedom. So much hangs upon thee at this moment, not jus
t Bridger but innocent Carlyle, brave Sniper whom these perverts’ dark deal threatens. Save them! This is thy moment, when thine oppressor’s blade sleeps in its sheath. This Dominic may be a master swordsman, but thou, thou art Mycroft Canner.
No, reader. Your visit to my era is brief, but I must live through tomorrow, and the next day, and the next of my long penance. Dominic is the seneschal who controls access to that house in Paris which has been my harbor, longer than Cielo de Pájaros. If Bridger were unguarded, for him I would destroy myself, but Bridger has the Major, and the Major defeated even me. As for Carlyle and Sniper, worthy as they are, I will not do them short-term good at the price of sacrificing all my future usefulness. Perhaps I could overpower Dominic, escape for now, but I would have to return someday, and soon, to face his waiting discipline. I do not fear short-term retribution—pain and degradation I accept to save good men. But rebellion against Dominic would forever forfeit my place as a trusted servant at Madame’s. A cell would wait for me the next time I braved her threshold, where forever after I would wait like a tool in its box, ready to be used but impotent to start tasks of my own. I must have the freedom of that house, reader, I must. I can work there, for all the Powers, for Earth—no, not for Earth, for Him, reader, for Him, for Ἄναξ Jehovah. This is the first time that I have shown you my own title for Him, Ἄναξ (Anax). It is Greek, of course. Old Greek. ‘Lord’ is a feeble translation. Think of the trial-weary Trojans, with the smoke of the war fires rising around their walls, year in, year out, and the prophets warn them, soon, soon, soon the day of death and slavery will come to swallow Troy and all her children, yet, in spite of Fate, remaining pious at heart toward that one power that has shown them loyalty and kindness, the grateful Trojans raise their hands in prayer to distant Lord Apollo. Then they use Ἄναξ, and so do I.
