WikiWorld

by Paul Di Filippo

  I was not alone of course. Scores of supplicants in varying degrees of dress streamed toward the public entrances of the Palace, eager for adjudications, adjustments and arbitrations regarding their individual Templates. These petitioners would be dealt with efficiently by the vast bureaucracy, legions of clerks and counsellors trained in the logic and rigours and precedents of continuity.

  It was only the rarest of extraordinary circumstances that would bring a case to my individual attention.

  Close to the Palace, my course deviated from the masses, as I headed for my private entrance.

  There I encountered one of the familiar doormen. I had never bothered to learn his name over the many years of our brief morning ritual, but his ruddy, sweaty, bulbous-nosed face was as well-known to me as my cousin Pim’s. In his elaborate braided uniform he was obviously sweltering.

  “Welcome, Grand Consistor.”

  “Don’t you have a cool drink handy?” I asked, as he nodded me inside.

  “No, sir. Begging your pardon, the iced-tea cart is late this morning, Grand Consistor.”

  “That certainly won’t do. I’ll attend to this matter immediately. Meanwhile, buck up!”

  “Yes, sir! Very good, sir!”

  Inside the private stairwell leading directly to my chambers, blessed coolth descended on my own glistening brow. I could feel the sweat in my thick beard begin to chill down.

  Yards of shelved books, just a fraction of the extensive corpus of continuity studies, greeted me intimately as I entered my high-ceilinged office, as did the attractive, neat surface of my polished wood desk, the overstuffed ottoman and several leather chairs, and the paintings on the walls, including my favourite: Glassco’s classic Nymph Vaulting Auroch, depicting a bare-breasted young girl and her ceremonial bovine dance partner.

  I went immediately to the annunciator on my desk and depressed a key. “Goolsby! Are you there?”

  The voice of my assistant, Goolsby Roy, answered immediately. “Never far off, Grand Consistor. Welcome to the Palace this fine oven-like morning. How can I be of service?”

  I explained about the guard and the delayed commissary cart. Goolsby promised to repair the lapse immediately, and administer the proper disciplinary actions as well.

  With that task off my mind, I settled down to the day’s routine business.

  First I pored over a dozen abstracts, prepared by Goolsby, of recent papers in continuity studies. I was disappointed to find the various theses rather shallow and myopic. And these emanated from major figures in the field!

  Once more I was struck by the long interval since I had last been surprised by a truly intriguing paper. The savants who worked to explicate the laws of continuity had of late entered a period of mere refinement, I felt. Real discovery of new principles, or even of major extensions of old laws, had ground to a halt. I was forced to consider acknowledging that perhaps the science of continuity, after centuries of intense study, had reached its apex. Perhaps from here on out, it would be all trivial elaborations of the well-known.

  Template Formation. Climacteric Deviance. Communal Cross-linkage. Societal Channeling. Isolate Invariance—

  How boring! Necessary, yes, even essential to the daily maintenance of society—but no sense of mysteries being revealed.

  But no—I could not yet bring myself to forecast a future of stasis for the discipline to which I had devoted my life.

  My own talents lay not in original research, but rather in synthesis and application and interpretation of results obtained by others. The imposition of orthodoxy, the establishment of the canon. These were the skills of the Grand Consistor. Otherwise, I surely would have been labouring with all my wits to expand the core of our discipline.

  My unrewarding studies occupied me till lunch. Mealtime creeped up to take me unawares. The first notion I had of the hour occurred with the entrance of Goolsby Roy. Dressed in his yellow livery, my rail-thin assistant, his pale complexion and sparse, straw-coloured hair making him resemble the protagonist of Nando Pfing’s The Poet’s Queer Quandry, carried a tray. Plates topped with metal domes from which issued hints of steam and fragrance suddenly demanded all my attention.

  Goolsby set the tray down on my desk, a sardonic smirk on his saturnine face. “For once the cooks have managed not to render the veal into something resembling a child’s rubber teething ring. Enjoy, Grand Consistor.”

  I fell to my meal heartily, listening all the while to music from the Palace’s orchestra piped in over the annunciator.

  After Goolsby came to remove the disordered tray, I composed several letters in response to high-level queries from Lessor Consistors who oversaw regional branches of the Great Continuity, in every district and city of the Crossfoyle ekumen. Just as I was inditing the last one, Goolsby reentered my chambers. He looked unnaturally flushed and discomposed.

  “Grand Consistor, I beg your pardon in advance. There is a most persistent woman with an incredible—”

  He paused to gather his wits, and address the problem formally.

  “A petitioner has been shunted up through all the proper channels until reaching your office. The first such instance this year, as you well know. Although her petition is incontestably invalid—more so than any other I have ever encountered—she has refused to accept any lower dispensations. She insists on seeing you. Today. Immediately.”

  I pondered this development. Not completely unprecedented, this woman’s claim on my attention seemed to have disconcerted Goolsby inordinately.

  “Is there any other detail you’d care to convey, relating to this petitioner?”

  “I—I prefer that you examine her yourself, Grand Consistor.”

  “Very well. By all means, send her in.”

  Goolsby stepped out, and within moments my visitor was striding boldly in.

  I apprehended a woman of nearly my own age. Plainly, she had been possessed of a striking beauty during her youth, a beauty which had not entirely fled her with the arrival of middle-age. Tall, dark-haired, her complexion darkened by sun and freckled, she wore an expensive outfit that betokened good taste but also a desire to stand out in a crowd. A short gold vest over a blouse coloured green as the sky; a calf-length skirt printed with geometrical tilings that formed confusing illusory patterns; and a pair of sandals that laced all the way up those otherwise bare calves. She carried a slim satchel of the finest lizardskin. Her violet eyes flashed like gemstones. Her painted lips were quirked in an expression of disdain.

  Thus, my first encounter with Margali Gueths, the woman who was to destroy the Great Continuity.

  Coming right up to my desk, the woman drew to a halt, almost quivering with the fervour of her errand.

  “You are Jallow Yphantidies.”

  This was no question, but rather an assertion I was being challenged to deny. Her usage of my personal name rather than my title was a shocking breach of decorum. But I chose to stifle my indignation and respond politely. From the first, something about this woman’s intensity intrigued me. Perhaps my exhibition of good manners could establish our intercourse on a more congenial plane.

  I arose and extended my hand. “Indeed, you have found the man whose loving parents christened him thus. But more formally, I am known as the Grand Consistor.”

  She did not shake my hand. “Rest assured that I care neither for the man nor the office. But the latter is the obstacle in my way, and I sought to shatter the façade by addressing the human behind it.”

  What fire and pluck! I calmly withdrew my proffered hand and said, “And you have done so. Now, if you’ll please take a seat, perhaps both the man and the office can consider the matter that brings you here.”

  As if suspecting manacles ready to spring from the armrests, she occupied a chair adjacent to my desk, and I too sat.

  “May I know your name, madame?”

  “Margali Gueths. I am a widow. My husband was Juvian Gueths.”

  “The smilodon-fur magnate. Of course…. Please accept my cond
olences for his passing.”

  Margali Gueths waved away my sentiment. “Save your vicarious sorrow, Mr. Yphantidies. Juvian was a poor excuse for a husband. He had a mistress in every city of the ekumen. Bad enough, but he also kept me on an exceedingly short leash. My social duties were manifold, and my pleasures few and far between. I cherish his death as my chance finally to be free.”

  “I regret to learn of this prior discomfort in your life, Mrs. Gueths. But assuredly, with your portion of the estate, you will now be equipped to enjoy yourself.”

  “Ah, but that is precisely the rub, Mr. Yphantidies. I am not willing to settle for a portion of the estate. I intend to have it all. Gueths Furs, Traplines and Entrepôts will not pass from my hands. I intend to control my husband’s enterprises, not pass them on to someone chosen by the Great Continuity.”

  I sat stunned. My reluctant tongue failed to provide any words that could meet this blunt statement of rebellion. Ultimately, I fell back on a scientific approach.

  “Mrs. Gueths. I assume your satchel contains the documents relating to your case….”

  “Yes.”

  “May I see them, please?”

  She extracted a thick sheaf of papers and handed them over. The familiar cream-coloured bond and coloured stamps of official Continuity documents radiated an almost tangible reassurance to me. I swivelled my seat and partially reclined in my high-backed chair to peruse them. Out of the corner of one eye, I saw Margali Gueths continue to seethe.

  Here in my hands were summaries of the Templates of both Juvian Gueths and his wife. Columns and columns of figures across dozens of characterological categories. I focused immediately on the codes relevant to business acumen. Acquisitiveness, entrepreneurship, prescience, steadfastness, compromise…. From there, I turned my attention to other graphs, diagrams and family trees. Daguerreotypes and clippings from public records. Test results. Affidavits from friends, family members and acquaintances. And still, only the hundredth part of what Continuity knew about this couple.

  The precise data conveyed its meaning swiftly to my trained eyes. But I lingered over the documents rather longer than I needed to, hoping to wear Margali Gueths down further. But I could soon see that my tactic was backfiring, as the fiery woman only grew more exasperated with my dilatory perusal. I turned to face her, and handed back her papers. I stroked my beard meditatively before speaking.

  “Mrs. Gueths, I will not insult you by simply reiterating the cold facts that I’m certain you’ve already heard from a dozen of my subordinates. Simply put, there is nothing in your Template which fits you to manage a business. Continuity demands—”

  The sharp report of her small fist on the surface of my desk caused me to jump. But it was her words that drained the colour from my face.

  “Templates and Continuity be damned! No one knows the operations of my husband’s business better than I! Studying those operations was the only dry and dusty hobby I was ever allowed. I’ll be cursed if I allow myself to let all that torturous study go to waste now, just because your tinpot organization thinks that it can predict my failure! I’m tired of spending my life jammed into one of your little boxes!”

  Margali Gueth’s attractive bosom was heaving, her face flushed. I felt some small empathy for her, but the feeling was drowned in my larger indignation at her blasphemy against the Great Continuity.

  “Mrs. Gueths, no one is attempting to jam you into a box of our making. The parameters of your daily life are innate and inherent in your own character. They have been forming themselves since your birth, and are by now, at your advanced age, practically immutable.”

  Margali Gueth’s scowl informed me that perhaps my choice of the term “advanced age” to describe her current station in life was impolitic and gauche. I sought to recast the argument in more abstruse terms.

  “All that the Great Continuity does is quantify and codify the implicit patterns and tendencies of an individual’s life, and attempt to offer some guidance.”

  “Guidance! You call issuing demands and orders that interfere in the most intimate portions of a person’s life mere ‘guidance?’”

  “The Great Continuity boasts no enforcers, no Continuity Police—”

  “No, of course not! All of society is your enforcement tool. Any nail that sticks up gets instantly hammered down.”

  “Mrs. Gueths, please. Consider your words. Consider our nation’s history. You are forgetting the inefficiency and dangers that preceded the establishment of the Great Continuity. When any individual could impulsively follow any path, whether he or she was constitutionally fitted for it or not, society was like a machine composed of random, ill-adapted parts. Waste, confusion, frustration, hostility reigned. Since the establishment of the Great Continuity, our ekumen has become a smoothly operating organism that conduces to the maximum happiness for the largest number.”

  “And what of those who disagree with their classifications, with your ‘guidance?’ Those who wish to follow their deeper, unchartable impulses?”

  “They must correct their behaviour, for the good of all.”

  Margali Gueths leaned in closer to me. I could smell her sweat.

  “Your system insures the maintenance of the status quo. There is no room for change or innovation or social movement.”

  I began to lose my temper. “A ridiculous charge. Was I, for instance, born into an ancient lineage of Grand Consistors? Of course not. My parents were a draper and a seamstress. My own particular talents were identified early on, as is the case with all children, and I worked hard to cultivate them.”

  “Ha! You were chosen by the elite and groomed as their pliable tool.”

  I began to splutter. But before I could address this absurd accusation, Margali Gueths launched another assault.

  “You are just trying to limit me because I am a female! You don’t want a woman running a sizeable business, having all the privileges of a man!”

  “Now you’ve reached the heights of illogic. There are numerous women entrepreneurs. What of Velzy Spindler?”

  “The milliner? She owns three shops in Hanging Dog. I doubt she grosses in a year what Gueths Furs nets in a day. No, it’s obvious to me now. Your Great Continuity is dedicated to keeping women in a subservient position. That is why I am being stymied in my quest for simple justice.”

  She concluded her tirade and slumped back in her chair. Her expression, blended of wrath and despair, challenged me to refute her.

  Was Margali Gueths a simple egomaniac, a selfish, mercenary individual looking to justify herself with spurious and superficial logic? Or was she sincerely confused, operating out of a true sense of injustices done to her? After a moment’s reflection, I chose to believe the latter interpretation. That judgement allowed me to put aside any sense of personal affront, and work toward what was best for this woman and society.

  Surely this woman’s unhappy marriage must have fostered a sense of life’s unfairness in her. But she was mistakenly transferring this personal grievance to a larger system that did not merit such an attack. It was up to me to persuade her of the wrongness of her perceptions.

  I decided to attempt a tactic I had seldom had occasion to employ before.

  Standing, I said, “Mrs. Gueths, I would like you to accompany me elsewhere in the Palace, where I can show you something that might convince you of the inaccuracy of your statements.”

  This offer obviously proved unexpected. She stood up hesitantly. “I—I can’t imagine what that thing could be.”

  “That is precisely why you need to see it with your own eyes. Are you game?”

  My last question stiffened her spine and caused her pride to flare. What a woman this was! If only I—

  But even the Grand Consistor is subject to the dictates of his personal Template.

  “Of course I’m game. Lead on, Mr. Yphantidies, lead on!”

  I conducted Margali Gueths to the door of my office, swinging it open for her—just in time to catch Goolsby Roy hurriedly
reclaiming his desk chair in the anteroom. Plainly he had been eavesdropping. I could hardly object, since it was precisely such fussy attentiveness that made him such a good assistant—and the habit formed a well-known part of his Template.

  “Mr. Roy, please field all matters that arise. Mrs. Gueths and I are going to the Vaults.”

  Goolsby’s eyes widened. “Very good, Grand Consistor.”

  I conducted Margali Gueths out of the anteroom, whereupon we found ourselves at the head of the busy Travertine Staircase, up and down which dozens of Continuity employees scurried, their arms full of documents.

  We went down, saying nothing to each other. My underlings gave respectful nods of their heads as they encountered me. But the deference seemed not to impress Margali Gueths with my stature, but rather render her more disdainful of me.

  On the ground level, we crossed three wings of the Palace and approached a door guarded by two doormen. They let us pass, and we descended further, down and down and down a set of steps more utilitarian than the noble public spaces. Here, the employees we encountered were all young messengers shuttling the documents that the more senior Adjudicators and Consistors had requested. Every last one of them practically fainted at seeing their Grand Consistor in their midst. Their reactions made Margali Gueths grin and chuckle ironically.

  But her humourous attitude evaporated when we debouched from the stairwell and into the Vaults.

  The barrelled ceiling of the Vaults, upheld by an army of regularly spaced pillars, reared some fifteen feet above our heads. No walls interrupted this measureless cavern, but the ranks upon ranks of dark wooden shelving, cresting some distance short of the roof, had a similar effect.

  We looked down one aisle. Its terminus was invisible, dwindling to a vanishing point.