Master of Formalities

by Scott Meyer

  “Yeah,” Ebbler said. “That’ll be fine.”

  Kreet said, “Yes, it will.”

  Glaz shot Kreet a look that stopped his talking but did nothing to kill his smile.

  “All right,” Barsparse said, “We have a lunch to prepare. Shly, Umily, Kreet, go make sure the dining room is set.”

  Glaz, Shly, and Umily left. As they rounded the corner, Ebbler saw Shly put an arm around Umily’s hunched shoulders. Though Kreet halfheartedly followed them to the door, he lingered there, not wanting to miss what would happen next.

  Barsparse said, “Gint, you work for me. You and Ebbler are equals, but he knows the plan for this service, and I don’t have time to reformulate everything, so he’ll delegate half his duties to you for this meal. After that, you take orders from me. Understood?”

  “Yes, Chef,” Gint said.

  Barsparse nodded, then retreated to the corner of the kitchen where she had the ingredients of a particularly tricky Cappozzian sauce ready for assembly.

  Ebbler smiled up at Gint, nervously.

  Gint smiled down at Ebbler with no nervousness whatsoever. He said, “I should introduce myself. I am Gint, Umily’s man.”

  Ebbler looked shocked and hurt. “Gint, we’re friends,” he said. “We’ve worked here together for years.”

  “Oh,” Gint said. “Sorry. When the science corps regenerated me, they gave me memories and skills that would help me survive, but removed memories that were useless. Clearly, they deemed our friendship useless.”

  Ebbler took a moment to glare at Kreet, who was snickering by the door, then turned back to Gint. “Let’s get to work,” he said. “If you’ll julienne the onions, I’ll get to work on the rice.”

  “Julienne?” Gint asked. “What does that mean?”

  “Oh,” Ebbler said. “I guess the science corps removed that. It’s a way of cutting the onions. See you cut it in half, then you make dia—”

  “Cut the onions,” Gint said. “I understand.”

  “Well, there’s more to it than that. It’s not hard, it’ll come right back to you.” Ebbler stepped over to the cutting board and picked up an onion to demonstrate.

  “It’s cutting onions,” Gint said. “I can cut onions. They might not look as fancy as yours, but what does it matter as long as the onions get cut up?”

  Ebbler said, “It’ll only take me a second to show you.” He picked up a chef’s knife, and then his world became a painful blur. In the time it took him to blink, his hand was in agony, he was on his back on the floor, and Gint was standing over him, holding the chef’s knife.

  Roused from her concentration by the noise, Barsparse looked over, then asked, “What happened? What’s going on over there?”

  Gint tilted his head slightly, never breaking eye contact with Ebbler, daring him to tell Barsparse anything.

  Ebbler did not take the dare. Instead, Kreet, who had witnessed the entire thing, said, “Ebbler fell. Gint’s helping him up.” Kreet could barely contain his delight, but he wasn’t trying very hard.

  “Shouldn’t you be in the dining room, Kreet?” Barsparse asked.

  Kreet agreed, apologized, and went on his way with a smile on his face and a song in his heart.

  Gint reached down with the hand that wasn’t holding a knife, grabbed Ebbler by the collar, and hauled him to his feet.

  “Are you hurt, Ebbler?” Barsparse asked.

  Ebbler answered, “No, Chef.” His eyes were locked on to Gint, who was looking down at him as if he were a bug.

  “Good,” Barsparse said, turning back to her sauce. “Be more careful. The kitchen can be a dangerous place. Now let’s get back to work.”

  “Yes,” Gint said quietly. He brought the blade of the chef’s knife up between himself and Ebbler. “Do you still feel that I need instructions on how to use this?”

  54.

  Wollard would have been amazed at the efficiency with which he was processed, if he’d had the time.

  He stepped out of Prindle’s transport, took a moment to enjoy the cool air and magnificent view, then stepped through the arch to place himself in the guards’ custody.

  A door slammed down behind Wollard, sealing him inside with the guards. He started to recite the full formal greeting, but hadn’t yet finished pronouncing the word know before one of the guards interrupted him.

  “Disrobe,” the guard said.

  “I’m sorry?” Wollard said.

  “Disrobe,” the guard repeated.

  “Don’t you need to ask—”

  “We already know. There’s no information you can offer that we don’t already have.”

  “But,” Wollard sputtered, “I may—”

  “No,” the guard said, “you may not.”

  “It’s poor form to interrupt,” Wollard said.

  “It’s poor form to waste people’s time. Disrobe.”

  Wollard did as he was told, slowly and miserably. There was still a glimmer of hope in his mind that disrobe didn’t mean getting entirely naked. He took off his jacket, then looked to the guards to see if this satisfied them. It did not. He repeated this with every layer of his clothing until he was no longer wearing any. He felt terribly exposed and vulnerable, because he was.

  One of the guards scooped up Wollard’s clothing, removed Wollard’s papers, and placed the rest of it in an unmarked canister.

  “What’s going to happen to my clothes?” Wollard asked.

  As if to answer his question, a bright blue flame filled the canister, incinerating its contents instantly.

  “Hey,” Wollard cried, “those were mine!”

  The guard said, “Yes.”

  Wollard turned to the other guard in the hopes that he’d be more reasonable, or at least less snide, but the second guard was no longer in the room. Woollard heard the first guard laugh, but when he turned back, that guard was also gone. For an instant he saw part of the wall moving as a well-camouflaged door closed behind the man.

  Wollard had a quiet moment to examine the room in which he was now standing, alone and naked. The room seemed to be a perfect cube. The walls were lined with dark, polished stone tiles with straight seams and cracks that made it easy to hide various doors. The floor had a dimpled texture, like it was covered with tiny dents. He suspected they weren’t dents at all, but small holes.

  Wollard touched the wall. It was cold. So was the fluid that sprayed out of the holes in the floor with great force and absolutely no warning.

  The pressure pushed Wollard into the center of the room. He closed his eyes and mouth tightly, but enough fluid got into his mouth, (either through his lips, or, alarmingly, his nasal passages) for him to taste it and know it was just water.

  The barrage continued for several seconds, then ended as abruptly as it had begun. Wollard had time to take one good, deep breath before the nozzles began pumping more chilled, pressurized water at him, this time mixed with detergent. Wollard was instantly covered in thin greasy suds. Inevitably, he slipped and fell while struggling against the spray. He lay sprawled on the floor as the cold soap solution poured over him and drained through the floor.

  The soap cycle ended, and Wollard had just enough time to groan before the next phase, which incorporated a fine grit into the spray, presumably to exfoliate his skin. Then he got another clean water rinse, followed by an onslaught of fast-moving hot air, which felt good at first, but then made Wollard’s skin dry and tighten like old paper.

  Wollard pulled himself into a seated position with his knees pressed against his chest. He sat there, just panting, trying to slow his heartbeat. Every square centimeter of his person felt clean and bruised.

  One of the wall tiles above him tilted back, forming a ramp. A loose pile of fabric slid into the room and fell to the floor. Wollard picked it up. It was a rough beige sack. At first he couldn’t understand why the
y would have given him such a thing, but then he saw that the sack had three large holes, one in the bottom and two in the sides, and it all became unpleasantly clear.

  He stood up and pulled the sack on over his head like a shirt. It allowed his spindly arms and legs their full range of motion, and was just long enough to cover the parts of him he needed covered. It was a garment designed to spare his modesty, but not his dignity.

  Several of the tiles along one wall folded inward, forming a door to a darkened chamber beyond.

  Wollard looked around for any sign of where to address a question, then turned his head to the ceiling, because he didn’t have any better ideas. “Am I meant to go in there?” he asked.

  Nobody said anything to answer him, but the wall opposite the door started to slide toward him, forcing him forward.

  Wollard walked through the door.

  He emerged into a cylindrical room, fifteen feet across. The floor and walls were rough, cold stone. The ceiling was so far above him that he could only tell it existed at all because there was a single pinpoint of light beaming down, and logic told him it must be hanging from something.

  Wollard looked up, shielding his eyes from the light, which, though dim, was by far the brightest thing in his universe. As he did so, something fluttered down between him and the light. Wollard recognized the rectangular shape and realized that it was a set of papers. Once he caught them, he saw the discolored spot where the official seal of House Jakabitus had been removed. They were his papers.

  Wollard looked up toward the light and said, “Thank you.”

  The spot of light was instantly drowned out, lost in a solid disk of blinding brightness emanating from the entire surface of the ceiling. Now Wollard could discern that the curved stone walls surrounding him extended thirty feet above him, but ended several feet before the blinding white light. He shielded his eyes again, but he could see well enough to make out the shadowy forms of five people, or at least the heads and shoulders of five people, spaced evenly around the circumference of the circle, all looking down at him over the sides of the wall.

  An amplified voice, presumably belonging to one of his observers, said, “You are Wollard.”

  “Yes,” Wollard said, shouting to be heard by his distant audience. “I am Wollard.”

  “That was not a question,” the voice said. “We know who you are, why you’re here, and where you will go next.”

  “You have me at a disadvantage,” Wollard said, which was a genteel way of saying that he wanted to know to whom he was speaking.

  The voice said, “Yes, we do.” It was a clear and effective way to say that they didn’t care what Wollard wanted. “You, Wollard, have been summoned to the Central Authority to be scrutinized.”

  “Yes,” Wollard said.

  “We are the ones who will scrutinize you,” the voice said.

  “Ah,” Wollard said. “Good. And how should I address you? What are you called? Do you have a title?”

  “We are the scrutinizers, and that is all you need know.”

  “I see,” Wollard said. “I apologize. I had assumed you’d have some more graceful title.”

  “You dare to start your scrutiny by criticizing our title?” the voice thundered. “Where do you get the gall?”

  Wollard cringed. “I’m sorry. I meant no offense. Perhaps if you started the scrutiny with the full formal introduction—”

  “And now you lecture us on civility and form,” the voice blustered. “You who just openly mocked us?”

  “I’m sorry!” Wollard cried. “I’m sorry!”

  “Yes, you are sorry, and you will remain sorry. Wollard, you stand accused of breaking our most sacred rule, a transgression of which we already have incontrovertible proof. If you are found guilty by us of doing the thing we know you did, you will endure the loss of your rank as Master of Formalities and all of the privileges with which it comes.”

  “And then what will happen to me?” Wollard asked, squinting up into the light.

  “You will be free to go about your life.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes, but I will point out that one of the privileges that Masters of Formalities in good standing share with all Arbitration officials is the ability to leave this planet.”

  “So, if found guilty, I’ll be stranded on this planet with no friends or family and nothing to do for the rest of my life?”

  “You’re right about having no friends or family, but are mistaken about having nothing to do. You will be assigned a job.”

  “What kind of job?”

  “A menial one. The kind of job one does not do voluntarily.”

  “That’s if I’m found guilty.”

  “Yes,” the voice agreed. “You stand accused of telling a blood member of a Great House that he could not do a thing. Did you do this?”

  Wollard said, “Yes, I did.”

  “Excellent,” the voice said. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

  “But!” Wollard shouted, “I can show that there were extenuating circumstances, and I can explain my reasons!”

  “Fine,” the voice said. “We will hear your testimony; it is only good form, after all. But be aware that having done something in a specific situation and for specific reasons does not change the fact that you did it.”

  55.

  While smaller than the banquet hall, the palace’s formal dining room was ancient, opulent, and designed on the general principle that the larger the table, the better the food tastes.

  As protocol dictated, Lady Jakabitus sat at the head of the table, with Lord Jakabitus at her right hand on the longer side of the table, and Rayzo beside him. Had there been more people attending, Lord Kank would have been seated at the far end of the table to show Lady Jakabitus honored him highly, making it impossible for her to converse with him at all. As this was a smaller gathering, proper form allowed for him, as a guest, to sit wherever he chose, which was on Lady Jakabitus’s left, across from Lord Jakabitus.

  Novich stood along the wall behind Lord Kank, waiting to advise His Lordship should a question of protocol arise. Phee stood alone behind Lady Jakabitus, as Migg had been sent to fetch Hennik, whose presence Lord Kank had requested.

  At first, the idea of exposing herself and her family, let alone a visiting lord, to Hennik had filled Lady Jakabitus with dread, but during Lord Kank’s tour of the palace she had found him to be remarkably understanding and very pleasant company, despite his stern demeanor. He listened, he understood, he commiserated, and instead of questioning her decisions, Lord Kank praised her fortitude in enduring the unforeseen consequences of those decisions.

  “So, it was a kind of sausage?” Lord Kank asked.

  “Yes, made from only the nastiest parts of a creature that was long dead,” Lady Jakabitus explained.

  “And it was prepared in front of the guests?”

  “Yes, it was like a form of theater.”

  “The smell must have been horrendous.”

  “Worse than you can imagine,” Lady Jakabitus said, surprised by how much the memory amused her.

  “I wonder, could your chef provide Novich with the recipe?”

  “Of course,” Lady Jakabitus said. She thought it a fairly obvious joke, but an inoffensive one, and it was only good form to play along.

  Lord Kank shook his head in disbelief. “I am most impressed. A lesser person would have done away with the Hahn long before it came to that, but not you, Lady Jakabitus.”

  Her Ladyship said, “It was tempting, but ridding ourselves of Hennik would have been counterproductive in the long term.”

  Lord Kank turned to Rayzo and said, “I wonder, young Master Rayzo, if you understand the strength your parents have shown. They could have dispatched this Hahn on a whim, but they did not, because the path to great reward often leads through great difficulty.”r />
  Rayzo thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I think I know what you mean.”

  “Yes,” Kank said. “I’d wager you do. You should visit Cappozzi, all three of you. I think you would find it quite worthwhile.”

  “Is it nice there?” Rayzo asked.

  “No,” Kank said, laughing. “The weather’s abysmal, the terrain impenetrable, and the wildlife both ugly and vicious, but the people are marvelous. We’ve embraced adversity, and it has made us strong.”

  “Do you purposefully make your life worse to make yourself better?” Rayzo asked.

  “Yes, my young friend. Well put. Why else would anyone wear this accursed suit?”

  “You don’t like your suit?” Rayzo asked.

  “This awful, stuffy thing? It’s miserable! People think we Cappozzi enjoy discomfort, but they misunderstand. We detest misery as much as anyone, but we enjoy growing stronger. Suffering breeds fortitude. That’s why I requested that the Hahn join us, so I can endure his wretched company and be strengthened by it, as your parents have been.”

  Lord Jakabitus said, “And Rayzo as well. In many ways, he’s suffered more than anyone since Hennik arrived.”

  Rayzo was happy to hear his father say that. “But I didn’t do it by choice,” he admitted. “It just happened to me.”

  Lord Kank leaned toward Rayzo. “I suspect that’s not entirely true. I bet there were times when you could have avoided him and chose not to, or you could have backed down, and didn’t. Even if I’m wrong, the great thing about suffering is that it makes us stronger whether we seek it out or not.”

  As if on cue, they heard the sound of Hennik shouting in the corridor. Migg entered, looking chagrined. The yelling continued, slowly growing louder.

  Migg bowed. “Apologies, Your Ladyship. Master Hennik was reluctant to attend. It was necessary to involve security.”

  Lord Kank rubbed his hands together at the prospect of seeing guards drag Hennik kicking and screaming into the dining room, but Hennik entered the room in an altogether different manner. He was sitting on the floor with his legs and arms folded, shouting invectives as the invisible utilitics slid him into the room against his will.