It took perhaps ten minutes-and all that time, Siebert held his hands in the air. At last there was silence-or near silence, as much silence as ten thousand are capable of accomplishing: the occasional sneeze or cough or low conversation. Ten thousand people stood, looking upward; waiting for Siebert to speak.
He began.
The Albertine Address
My name, if you haven't already figured that out, is Hamish Siebert. Death came for me this morning; but he and I got to talking, and got to drinking, and I left him under the table.
As he slid from his chair, I grabbed the handle of his scythe, because I'd always heard that the blade has a name on it, when Death comes for you. Maybe it says "Cholera," or maybe it says "Age," but it always has the name of the one who fells you. I squinted at the blade, and heldit to the light, but the name I read was not that of Guismundo Stantz.
So I grabbed Death's bony shoulder, and shook it a bit. "Charley," I said, "wake up, boy." And he did, a little, and asked me what I wanted.
Well, hell; what do you want? I've got a pretty fair idea. You want a chicken in the pot. You want the rent paid. You want the kids to stop whining. And most of the time, you just want the city to leave you damned well alone.
But some of you may have kept a scrappy little rodent, as a kid. And maybe you kept it not just to have a furry little thing to pet; maybe it meant something more. It stood for the neighbors who told you to get along home to your mother when it started to get dark, it stood for the bustle of the market and the ships at the dock, the swordsmen swaggering in velvet, and the blind beggars on the Tetrine Way who tell stories to the kids while Mom darts in to do some shopping. It stood for a city, our city, the city, once, of empire, and still the center of the human world. Most of the time, you want a chicken in the pot, and perhaps a wee dram after, but you also want something for Hamsterburg, something better than what she's got. You do, or you wouldn't be here.
Why are you here?
I know, of course; I'd be deaf if I hadn't heard you, the last hour or two. You thought Stantz had me killed. You came to avenge me.
You don't know how profoundly moved I am, how grateful I am for your assistance. In my short time as Lord Mayor, I've mostly met obstruction and resistance; I had just no idea that so much of the city believed in me, believed we could bring about the changes the city needs, cared enough to mourn me, let alone avenge my death.
But I'm not dead yet. And neither is your hamster, however long since you dug a hole for him in your backyard.
Death asked me what I wanted; and so I told him. I told him I wanted the city clean. I wanted an end to her decline. I wanted her governance out of the hands of the gens, who, however well they guided her in her youth, have descended into corruption; I wanted the city to serve her people. I wanted an end to dissension, and a unity of purpose in restoring the city to her former glory; I wanted the hamster perky, and not dead.
"Give me a corkscrew and a case of the red," Death said, "and I'll give you a little time."
A little time; that's all anyone has, a little time. I said yes, of course. And so I, and you, and Hamsterburg, have a little time left.
What are we going to do with it?
When I was a boy, my dad owned some stables up in the borough of Stuffel. When I got to be fifteen, he told me it was time I got to work in the family business. I told him that was fine, of course, figuring he'd give me a nice, cushy position, overseeing the hostlers, or buying the feed. After all, I was the boss's son. My dad took me out to the stables and handed me a shovel and a broom. "Start to work," says he.
I threw a fit, but he wasn't to be budged; he thought I should learn the business from the ground up. And so I did, though it wasn't so much from the ground up as up from the horse's arsehole. For the next three months, I was up to my knees in horseshit, day after day, and believe me, it did nothing for my popularity with the girls. And the job never ended: however much shit you shoveled, the horses were always making more.
I thought I'd never have a job as hard as that one, but that was before they made me mayor. I feel like I'm back in the stables, after all this time. However much shit I shovel, the gens are always making more. But, by all the gods, this stable needs to be clean, and if it's within my power, and it can be done in the little time I've got left, I'm going to clean it.
I've got some extra shovels, though. Care to lend a hand?
Good. There's a particularly noisome stench coming from one stall, over here. Over the stall is a plaque, engraved with the horse's name. And, funny thing, it's the same name I read on Death's own scythe.
The name of the horse is Gerlad von Grentz.
If we shovel a bit, I think we'll find some rats, buried in the muck. They've been going about the town, squeaking in people's ears. "Guismundo Stantz tried to have the Lord Mayor killed," they squeaked. "He'll try it again."
Wondered where that rumor came from, didn't you?
Now, why should the rats want to spread it? Because they wanted you here, today. They didn't expect Hamish Siebert to drink Death under the table; they expected him to fall. And they wanted you here, to storm the Lodge, to smash this Ministry. Why?
Because Guismundo Stantz, for all his faults, is a patriot. And he would never allow any of the gens to seize absolute power.
Gerlad von Grentz, say.
Oh, there's more to the plot, to be sure; there are a good many rats, down there in the manure. The noble House of von Grentz maintains its own army; it marches on the city. Von Grentz is allied with other gens of similar inclination; their troops march too. My death was to be their signal for rebellion.
But my Death has a weakness for strong drink. And I've got ten thousand friends, with shovels.
You can kill a rat with a shovel, if you move fast. You might have to whack it a couple of times. And rats are all we face.
I know, it's true; some of those rats are armed and trained veterans. And you, you're just civilians. Civilians, citizens, as are we all; Hamsteriana civitatis sumus. And they're rats. They expect an easy conquest, a city in unrest, thankful for the restoration of order; they don't expect angry men and women armed with spades. Rats are very bold, but are quick to flee the shovel's mortal smash.
Shoulder up your shovels, and ask yourselves this: Are you mice—or are you Hamsters?
Rats may be bigger, but we are the better rodents.
And we know how to shovel shit.
Von Grentz's stall isn't the only one that needs shoveling, but once we clean that one up, the others will be easier, I think. And you've got to start somewhere, when you've got a stable to clean.
A mile from here is the Maiorkest. The Mayoral Foot is there. I'm going to take a stroll, and join them. If you come along, I don't think the rats will bother us. If you come along, I think they'll slink back to their holes. All we need to show, I think, is that this city holds more Hamsters than rats.
Are you coming?
The crowd roared approbation.
Von Kremnitz wept in a veritable paroxysm of patriotic joy.
Kraki snored.
"Very nice speech, I thought," said Jasper. "I rather liked that last turn of phrase; classic example of chiasmus, wouldn't you say?"
"Chiasmus?" said Timaeus. "You old fool, when did you last study rhetoric? That was metonymy, and quite an effective use."
"Metonymy? Are you daft? I know chiasmus when I hear it. The gods only know what they teach you twits at university these days. Why, when I was a lad—"
Jasper was interrupted by Siebert, who appeared in the French doors, tossing a ring in his right hand. Spotting Jasper, he said, "I say, old man; do you mind if I use yourring to fly down to the crowd? I'll toss it up to you on the balcony, if you like."
"Oh, certainly," said Jasper. "Make a grand entrance, what?"
"Politics is at least half spectacle," said Siebert. "Come along then." He turned to walk back onto the balcony.
"Wait!" protested Sidney. "What about the statue?" Standi
ng in the doorway, Siebert blinked. "What about it .
"Why did you not use it to bolster your claim, my lord?" asked von Kremnitz. "Surely it would have been an effective element of your address."
"It is hard to exploit something you haven't got," Siebert said acidly. "We'll try to get it from von Grentz once this is over—"
Von Kremnitz whirled to face Wolfe. "You didn't tell him!" he said.
"Urn," said Wolfe.
Siebert hesitated, obviously not wanting to keep the mob much longer. "Tell me what?"
"Internal Serenity's,got it!" von Kremnitz said. "Wolfe stole it from the Drachehaus, out from under our very noses."
"I see," said Siebert. "Is this so, Magistra Wolfe?" "Well, yes," said Wolfe. "We thought it dangerous to permit von Grentz to keep the statue—"
"Quite so," said Siebert. "But as my ally, I do expect you to keep me informed of—"
"We didn't know you had an interest," said Wolfe.
Siebert sighed with exasperation. "I am Lord Mayor of this benighted cesspool," he said. "I do expect to be informed of events of striking political import. I shall expect Minister Stantz to explain himself. At considerable length."
"I'll tell him," said Wolfe.
"Mind you do," said Siebert. "And you may tell him, also, to surrender the statue immediately to these people."
Wolfe recoiled. "You're joking," she said.
"By no means," said Siebert. "They are its legitimate owners."
"Legitimate—but consider the political—" sputtered Wolfe.
"Enough," said Siebert with finality. "We can discuss it later, if Stantz insists. In the meantime, I must be off."
"Yes, my lord," said Wolfe forlornly. "Farewell."
"Ta," said Siebert jauntily, and departed. Jasper followed him onto the balcony, to retrieve his ring.
Out in the square, the folk were gradually filtering away. The sheer number of people meant it would no doubt take long minutes before the square was finally clear.
"Well, Magistra?" said Timaeus, pipe at a defiant angle. "Our statue, if you please."
Wolfe dithered for a moment, then shook her head. "Stantz has to make that decision," she said. "I couldn't just hand it over to you, even if I knew where it's stored."
"Fine," said Sidney. "Take us to Stantz."
"Tout de suite, " said Jasper.
"I can't," said Wolfe. "He's in the War Room! There's a rebellion on, or hadn't you noticed? He's up to his neck in planning—"
"Goodo," said Timaeus. "Then take us to the War Room."
"Not likely," said Wolfe. "You're not cleared. Besides, you're aliens! I can't think of a more drastic security breach than—"
"My dear lady," said Jasper, "the Lord Mayor did say to give us the statue `immediately,' did he not? I don't believe the word is susceptible to much interpretation."
Wolfe smiled at that. "You haven't done much business with government, have you?" she said. "There's `immediately' as in `this instant.' There's `immediately' as in `as soon as practical.' There's `immediately' as in `follow normal procedures but put this at the top of the list.' There's `immediately' as in `I want to be able to blame you for the delay, but please take as long as possible.' And then there's—"
"Oh, shut up," said Sidney. "Take us to Stantz. Do it now!"
Wolfe peered at Sidney. "Shut up yourself, dear," she said sweetly. "I'm not scared by gutter toughs like you."
"I kill her?" asked Kraki with interest.
"No, no, no," said Frer Mortise.
Kraki scowled. "Civilization," he swore. "In northland, you have dispute, you kill. Simple. Here you talk, talk, talk, nothing gets done."
"If we kill her," Timaeus said patiently, "she won't be able to tell us where the statue is."
"Yah, hokay," said Kraki, "but it be more fun."
Wolfe went to a bellpull that ran against one wall and gave it a yank. "I'll have you shown to the Green Room," she said.
"Oh, no you don't," said Sidney. "You're not gassing us again."
Wolfe scowled at her. "I'm not going to gas you," she said. "The Lord Mayor would have my head. But I can't take you to the War Room, so you'll just have to wait. In the Green Room."
"No," said Sidney. "Take us with you."
"Impossible," said Wolfe. "A messenger will be here shortly to take you there. Goodbye." She started toward the heavy doors at the ballroom's far end.
Sidney trotted along, waving urgently at the others to follow. "You can't get rid of us that easily," she said determinedly. "We're sticking with you until you get us the statue."
"Oh, come on," said Wolfe. "Can't you wait—"
"For how long?" demanded Sidney. "I've dealt with government. We could be in your Green Room for weeks. I'm not letting you out of sight."
"Sorry," said Wolfe. "I forbid it. You may not come."
"How do you propose to stop us?" demanded Sidney. "By force? Do you think the Lord Mayor will appreciate that? Bring us the statue, or we're coming along."
"I can't allow that," said Wolfe.
"Try and stop us'," said Sidney.
Wolfe contemplated that. "All right," she said. And turned into a shadow. She began to slide toward the door.
Sidney whirled to face the French doors; the morning sun shone brightly out there, rays slanting into the long hall. She looked down at her own shadow; it was etched clearly against the parquet floor.
Sidney sprinted after Wolfe's shadow, reaching for a dagger that—wasn't there. That's right, she realized; their weapons had still not been restored. She then raised her fists, holding them up against the light until they cast clear shadows against the floor. She threw a fist forward.... The first itself struck nothing, moving through empty space. Its shadow, however, smashed into-Wolfe's.
Wolfe's shadow recoiled.
Sidney struck out with her other hand. It felt strange, to box against nothing. For good measure, she kicked the air, her foot's shadow kicking Wolfe's.
There was a sense of magic transition; and then a corporeal Wolfe stood in the hall once more, a prominent bruise around one eye. She swiftly drew her blade and put its point to Sidney's neck. "Stop that," she practically snarled.
"I kill her now?" said Kraki.
"No, no, no," said Frer Mortise, Timaeus, and Jasper, practically in unison.
Kraki pouted.
Sidney spread her hands. "I've stopped," she said. "See?"
Wolfe breathed heavily for a long moment, then finally sheathed her weapon. "Oh, all right," she said finally. "Look, I really can't take you to the War Room. Why don't I take you to Stantz's office?"
Sidney considered that. "All right," she said at last.
IX
"Hallo, hallo, hallo," said the fat man.
He was, thought Timaeus, rather astoundingly corpulent. He had known Guismundo Stantz was supposed to be fat, but the sheer bulk of the man was impressive. The chair behind his desk was large, but even so, Stantz filled it to overflowing, folds of flesh squeezed between and over the arms. It was amazing, Timaeus thought, that the man could still walk.
"I thought you were in the War Room," said Wolfe.
"Pooh," said Stantz, waving a hand the size of a dinner plate. "The staff can handle things. Good as over."
Kraki wandered into the room and looked about in the dimness. He spotted the cheese, cut off a wedge the size of his head, and started gnawing. The others moved in more slowly, blinking at the oddly appointed space: the strange contraption lighting the papers on Stantz's desk, the innumerable speaking tubes, the newscrystal.
Wolfe snorted. "You've got more confidence in Siebert than I do."
"Perhaps so, perhaps so," said Stantz genially. "And who are these people, whom you have so gaily escorted into my sanctum sanctorum? No little breach of security, I might add."
"Friends of Siebert, apparently," said Wolfe.
"May we be seated?" asked Timaeus. Kraki, still munching on his cheese, was now examining the flask of syrup of greep that stood on the si
deboard, along with glasses and a pitcher of water.
"Of course, of course, please," said Stantz. "And might I inquire as to your business?" Kraki picked up the syrup of greep and unstoppered it.
"The Lord Mayor says they're to be given the statue of Stantius," said Wolfe.
"Difficult, that—I say, that's prime-quality greep syrup there, my man. Put it down, please, you don't quaff it like ale."
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