Mountain of Black Glass (27 page)

Orlando was definitely feeling the effects of too much bright light. “So that's where he wound up. That's . . . um . . . that's interesting. But you said we had to get out of here in a hurry, and I don't feel too good anyway, so why are we standing here staring at some temple?”

“Because,” said Mrs. Simpkins as she took his elbow and turned him toward the ramp, “that's where you're going.”

 

D
ESPITE the fact that it was his own form that looked back at him from the mirror-window—the hard planes of his face as they had looked a century earlier, the silvery hair a little long but immaculately styled—Felix Jongleur felt as humiliated as he ever had in the dark days of his childhood, when he would kneel on the floor listening to the senior boys discuss his imminent punishment. He was unused to wearing any body but that of Osiris the God, even less accustomed to leaving his own virtual domains, and he did not like changes in his routine.

But there was nothing to be done about it. One did not become the oldest and arguably most powerful man on Earth without learning some of life's harsher lessons, and one of them was that there were times when pride must be put aside. He took a deep breath, or rather a series of cybernetically-controlled pumps did it for him, but just before he stepped through, a flash in the corner of his vision signaled a call on one of the emergency lines.

“What is it?” he demanded of the priest-engineer who appeared in the window. “I'm about to have a crucial meeting.”

“The . . . system,” stammered the bald acolyte, unprepared for his master's particularly snappish tone. “Set, I mean. He . . . it . . . there is a problem.”

“Again?” Jongleur's irritation was mixed with a healthy dose of fear, but he would not show that to one of his minions. “Tell me.”

“Set has been in K-cycle now for forty hours. We've never had one go much beyond half that long before.”

“How are the other indicators?”

The priest tried to find a respectful way to shrug, and ended up looking as though he were having a small seizure. “They are . . . mostly normal, O Lord. Things are running smoothly. There have been some small perturbations, but nothing beyond what we've been experiencing the past few months. But this K-cycle, Lord . . .”

Jongleur had a sudden moment of almost irrational terror that this low-level functionary might be seeing the temporary sim of mortal man in white tailored suit, but a quick check reassured him that the priest was experiencing the full glory that was Osiris. “Yes, yes, the length of the cycle is unusual. But we are approaching the Ceremony and making many unusual demands on the system. Watch the indicators—let me know if anything changes dramatically. But unless we have some kind of complete meltdown, I don't want to be bothered in any way for the next hour. Is that
absolutely clear?
”

The priest-engineer's eyes grew wide. “Yes, my Lord. Thank you, O He Who Makes the Grain Spring from the Earth . . .”

Jongleur ended the connection as the man broke into the first bars of the Grateful Leavetaking.

 

One thing Jongleur had to grant to his Grail Brother—Jiun Bhao had undeniable style. His virtual home showed none of the ostentation of others in the Brotherhood, no Gothic-fortress-perched-on-impossible-cliffs or Caligulean excesses of decor (usually accompanied by an equally Caligulean want of decorum.) Neither was it falsely modest: the financier's node presented itself as a graceful agglomeration of broad pale walls and subtle tiling, with dark accent lines so uncommon as to arrest the eye when they appeared. Here and there a work of art was set with seemingly casual offhandedness—a delicately painted Tou-ts'ai porcelain of a water-bearer, a droll bronze of a muzzled bear trying to eat a piece of fruit—but the overall effect was of clean lines and space. Even light and shadow had been artfully arranged, so that the height of the ceilings or the length of the cross-corridors could not easily be gauged.

In keeping with the lack of ostentation in his house, Jiun Bhao wore a gray-suited sim that reflected the truth of his well-preserved ninety years; as he appeared in the central courtyard and came toward Jongleur, they might have been two dapper grandfathers meeting in the park. Neither extended a hand. There was no bow. The intricacy of the relationship obviated the need for such things.

“You do me great honor, my friend.” Jiun Bhao gestured to where two chairs waited beside a whispering fountain. “Please, let us sit and talk.”

Jongleur smiled and nodded. “It is I who am honored—it is too long since I have visited your home.” He hoped the tacit admission of the change in their relative status would start the meeting off on the right foot. It was arguable as to which of the men was richer or wielded greater power in the real world—Jiun Bhao held entire Asian economies in the palm of his hand. The only rival to either of them was Robert Wells, but the American had never tried to build an empire of the sort both Jongleur and Jiun had constructed. But until now, Jongleur's position as the chairman of the Brotherhood had given him an undeniable edge, at least in anything to do with the Grail. Until now.

For some moments, both men merely sat and listened to the water. A small brown sparrow appeared from the indeterminate upper spaces of the courtyard, alighting on the branch of an ornamental plum tree. Jiun regarded the bird, who stared back at him in turn with the boldness of well-simulated innocence.

“I am reminded,” Jiun said as he turned back to Jongleur. “I hope you are finding time lately for peaceful contemplation, my friend. These are hectic days.” The financier spread his upturned hands in a gesture of surrender. “Life is a wonderful thing—it is only when we are too busy living it that we sometimes forget this.”

Jongleur smiled again. Jiun might be only a little more than half his own age, but he was certainly no fool. Jiun was wondering whether Jongleur was up to the job, here at the most critical point, and was both making a quiet inquiry and perhaps suggesting that he did not find the grasping Americans particularly sympathetic. “It is during times like this that I remember why we began this project, so long ago, old friend,” Jongleur replied carefully. “Quiet moments, when what we have and what we have made can truly be appreciated.”

“It is a good thing to share such a moment with you. As I said, this visit is a great honor.” Jiun spoke as if he himself had not all but demanded it, however well-disguised the suggestion might have been. “May I offer you any refreshment?”

Jongleur waved his hand. “You are too kind. No, thank you. I thought that you might like to know that I will announce a date for the Ceremony tomorrow, when we meet with the rest of the Brotherhood. The final step—or the first true moment, one might equally say—is only days away.”

“Ah.” Jiun Bhao's eyes were misleadingly mild, but even this simulation of his face was a marvel of subtle expression. Rumor suggested that in the early days he had ordered the deaths of competitors without ever speaking a word, signing the warrants by nothing more than a look of tired indulgence. “Splendid news. Then I take it the . . . inconsistencies of the operating system are now a thing of the past?”

Jongleur flicked nonexistent lint from his virtual suit to cover a moment of consideration. “There are one or two details still being pursued, but I promise they will have no bearing on the success of the Ceremony.”

“That is good to hear.” Jiun nodded slowly. “I am sure the rest of the Brotherhood will be pleased by your announcement. Even Mr. Wells.”

“Yes, of course. He and I have had our disagreements,” said Jongleur, amused at how the company and surroundings led one almost automatically to decorous understatement, “but we still share a single goal. Now we are ready to achieve that goal.”

His host nodded again. After a moment of silence during which Jongleur watched several small fish in blurry movement beneath the rippling surface of the fountain, Jiun said, “I have a small favor to ask of you, old friend. An imposition, I am sure, but I pray that you will consider it.”

“Anything.”

“I am deeply interested in the Grail process itself, as you know. I have been so ever since the first day you told me of your researches—do you remember? It is astonishing to contemplate how quickly the time has passed.”

Jongleur remembered only too well—Jiun Bhao and his Asian consortium had been a crucial bloc in the initial financing; behind the screen of polite discussion, the bargaining had been even more vicious than usual. “Of course.”

“Then you will understand my wish. Since the Ceremony is such a splendid occasion—unprecedented, really—I would ask you for the boon of perspective.”

“I'm afraid I don't understand.”

“I would like to be last. So that I may observe the splendor of our accomplishment before being caught up in it myself. Otherwise, the excitement will doubtless be so great that I will regret afterward all the details I have missed.”

For a moment Jongleur was off-balance. Did Jiun suspect some kind of double cross? Or—and here was a truly disturbing thought—did the Chinese magnate, with his vast resources, know something that even Jongleur did not know? But to hesitate could only fuel suspicion, if Jiun was feeling such a thing. “Of course. I had planned that we would all partake of the Ceremony together, but no favor is too great for one who has given me . . .
and
the project, of course . . . so much timely support.”

Jiun inclined his head. “You are a true friend.”

Jongleur wasn't quite sure what exactly he had bargained away, but he did know what he had received in return—an all but ironclad promise of Jiun's backing in any contest with Wells. He had come prepared to give away much more, and not certain that he would gain what he wanted even so.

They made small talk for the rest of the hour, speaking of grandchildren and great- and great-great-grandchildren in the benevolently vague manner of hunters evaluating different generations of foxhounds. There was no more talk of business, as everything important had been settled. Several more sparrows took up places on the branch beside the first, finding it comfortable to sit and even to sleep in a room where the only noise was the murmur of water and the equally soft conversation of two aged men.

 

“W
HAT are you talking about?” Orlando demanded as Bonita Mae Simpkins led him, Fredericks, and the cloud of tiny, sulphur-colored primates down the stairs again. “We're not going there—into the middle of a bunch of soldiers! That scans, lady!”

“You best not get too snippy with me, boy,” she said. “Or you'll find yourself without any friends in this town at all.”

“Look, it just doesn't make any sense—you said we can't let those Osiris-guys catch us, so why should we go right to them?” He turned to Fredericks, who shrugged, clearly just as confused.

“If you'd learn a little patience, you'd be better off.” Mrs. Simpkins tilted her head. “He's here.”

“Who's here?” Orlando asked, but she was already bustling off down the main hallway. He and Fredericks followed her, the cloud of monkeys trailing behind like a visual representation of an embarrassing noise. They all stopped in the doorway. Limping up the long ramp that led from the front gate to the elevated main floor of the house was one of the oddest looking people Orlando had ever seen, a tiny man barely three feet tall with thick, misshapen limbs. His face was even stranger, broad fishy mouth and bulging eyes so grotesque he seemed to be wearing a mask, but despite all this deformity even a brief glimpse of him revealed a quick intelligence and a strange, mocking glint in the exaggerated stare.

“It's kind of you to come,” said Mrs. Simpkins, then astonished both Orlando and Fredericks by bowing to the bizarre dwarf. “We are in your debt.”

“Not yet,” he replied, then revealed his huge, horselike teeth in a grin. “But I'll let you know when you are!”

“This,” she said to the youths beside her, “is Bes. He's an important god—and a kind one.”

“A household god,” he demurred, “—a minor deity of hearth and home.”

“These are Thargor and Pithlit,” she said, with a warning look at each. “They are warrior gods from a small island in the Great Green.”

“Warrior gods?” Bes turned his goggling stare on Fredericks. “Must have been a small island indeed—this skinny one looks as though he would fight to get to the
back
of a battle, not the front. Now are you going to invite me in, or keep me out here in the midday sun until I am as scaly as Sobek?”

She ushered him into the hallway and down to the largest room of the private apartments. “It's generous of you to help us,” she said.

“I have only said I would consider it, little mother.” The dwarf continued to examine Orlando and Fredericks, but seemed almost not to notice the monkeys, who had clustered on Orlando's shoulder and were watching the new arrival with unhidden fascination. “First this pair must answer at least one of my riddles.” He whirled in place, surprisingly graceful, then stopped. “Now tell me—who am I?” Bes dropped to all fours and lifted his rump in the air, then began to crawl around the room backward, emitting busy, farty little noises. The monkeys laughed so hard several of them tumbled down Orlando's front and had to hang onto his belt to keep from falling. Even Orlando had to smile. Mrs. Simpkins merely rolled her eyes.

The dwarf stopped and looked up. “Do you not recognize Khepera the dung beetle, the only deity in the heavens who is brown at both nose and nethers?” He shook his head. “What do they teach young gods these days?” Bes rolled onto his back and let his limbs go limp, then arranged his hands decorously across his chest and closed his eyes. “Tell me this one, then. Who am I?” After a long moment, one pudgy hand crept free and fingerwalked down to his crotch, where it grabbed and squeezed.