Too Like the Lightning (64 page)

«Temper, temper, your Grace,» Madame chided in French, her voice light as a nanny's. «These were questions out of concern, not disrespect. We're all here trying to help each other.»

For her, reader, for Madame D'Arouet alone, see true deference temper Ganymede's too-blue eyes. «Of course, Madame. Forgive me.»

Spain intervened now, his voice and posture as serene as if he were waiting to be painted into a double portrait with Madame. “We are grateful for your excellent care, la Trémoïlle,” he began, squeezing Madame's hand tenderly until she gave smile of agreement. “We know no one could guard the cars better, and we trust that, if trouble did arise, you would call on us at once. Most of us are, I think, more concerned about the
Black Sakura
end of the problem, and the motives of the actors. Déguisé, why did you arrange to fake your own Seven-Ten list being tampered with? That is the first time we've seen you lie to the press.”

“Oh, to help the Mitsubishi,” the Anonymous answered, investigating the side struts of Kosala's bodice. “Unless something distracted the world from
Black Sakura,
there was going to be big trouble for Andō, anyone could see that.”

“Yes,” Headmaster Felix Faust confirmed, “Déguisé showed me some calculations when they asked me to make a fuss about my list too. There's always an attempt to steal mine, it's a student tradition, but make a little fuss and it's amazing how fast the public will stop obsessing about one Hive and bask in the fantasy of conspiracy. You're welcome, Andō.”

The Director's eyes were not grateful. “You could have consulted me first, or did you not want me to be complicit?”

The Anonymous took a long pensive breath. “Nope, no good, can't concentrate.” Rising, he seized Bryar Kosala by the waist and hefted her over his shoulder, no easy feat given her height and smothering skirts, but they have practice. “Back in a moment.”

“Oh, My Lord!” the lady cried, laughing as she struggled to balance on him for the few steps it took to reach a side room which waited for such eventualities.

The Anonymous fumbled for the speaker control, so they could continue to hear the discussion in the central room while we without were spared the sounds of the activity within. “Carry on, we'll be listening.”

The others mixed smirks with sighs as they watched the door close behind this most eager of couples. The pair did not, I noted, turn on the light in the little side room, preferring their old habit of meeting in the dark. One might imagine Bryar Kosala would be the hardest of the Seven for Madame to lure to her establishment, but she was clever. Bryar came at first as an inspector, just as she told Carlyle. The Cousin found the curls and skirts and gentlemen charming, but not lure enough to compromise her duty, not until Madame dropped hints that her establishment was graced from time to time by the Anonymous. Oh, how Kosala burned at the thought of putting flesh to the voice she had vied with so many times in print, the wisest of her adversaries. Kindly Madame made the arrangements, a rendezvous like Cupid and Psyche's in pitch black, with the promise of no speaking, so the identities of both lovers could remain unknown. All it took to lure the Anonymous into the arrangement was to let him glimpse the Unknown Lady in silhouette through a screen as she donned the many pieces of the costume which drives him joy-mad. Dominic was the biggest winner in the betting pool on how long the pair could keep up their affair before they recognized each other in the outside world—seven months. After that there was nothing for it but for Kosala to join this innermost circle of those privileged to see and know the face of the Anonymous.
And you say she wears her wedding ring through this, Mycroft? That the ‘Lady' crowns this farce of an affair by carrying the seal of those vows exchanged with Vivien Ancelet?
Of course she does, reader, for nothing stokes the fires of love like sweet adultery. The Anonymous wears his, too.

“You had more to say, Caesar?” Madame invited, running a soft finger along his jaw.

“Yes.” MASON is accustomed to proceeding while some of the company are distracted. “The degree to which this
Black Sakura
affair has succeeded in threatening not just one Hive but all of them suggests to me that it was planned by someone with detailed knowledge of the inner affairs of all our Hives.”

Ganymede raised his golden head within his sister's arms. “You suspect one of us?”

“I know I'm not the only one who does. We're all friends here, but we also compete, within limits, when it's in our own Hives' interests. This has exceeded those limits, but I'm willing to believe that whoever planned it originally did not expect it to. If someone here is responsible, and you speak now, I will be willing to overlook it, and cooperate to see things fixed. Do others agree?”

“Agreed,” Faust answered first. “My compliments to whoever concocted this much fun. How about the rest of you?”

“We agree,” Andō announced, looking to his wife for her silent consent. “Ours is probably the Hive most wronged, but we will overlook it for the sake of a peaceful solution.”

Duke Ganymede twitched slightly as Andō's fingers strayed far up his inner thigh. “Very well,” he conceded. “I shall need a scapegoat for the break-in, ideally whatever agent actually planted the list in the house, so I can set the Saneer-Weeksbooth bash' at ease, but a scapegoat is enough.”

Madame's portrait face signaled her approval with a slight adjustment of her smile. “I'm sure dear Bryar will be happy to see this finished with as little retribution as possible, and the Comte Déguisé is always content with compromise.”

All waited, but the closed door beyond which the couple sported gave no sign of contradiction.

“Your Majesty?” Madame invited. “What say you?”

“I think it is a fine solution, Madame,” Spain answered, nodding to me to bring his wine, “if the guilty party is indeed among us.”

“Good.” Madame planted a gentle kiss on Spain's cheek. “Then let the perpetrator step forward, if they are here.”

All waited, each searching the others' faces. No one moved.

“If no one will step forward,” MASON challenged, “then I want each of us in turn to swear our innocence before Jehovah. Jehovah, please listen and verify there are no liars.”

“Yes,
Pater.
” Jehovah's place was the corner opposite mine. If I did not mention His presence in the room before, reader, it is because He was distracted, and He can hardly be called present in a place which is little more than storage for His forgotten flesh. He had His chair here in the corner, His little table, and His cabinet of distractions, always on hand to entertain the Child while the parents played. It was crowded now with books, Sartre, Confucius, Augustine, but peeking between the tomes one could still spy the building blocks and colorful rattles which, in lost years, the Toddler Jehovah had not so much played with as manipulated with the impatient patience of a researcher on the fiftieth step out of five thousand, only the last of which will yield the cure. There was nothing in between among the toys, no dress-up dolls or electronic games, just the tools an infant needs to master coordination, then straight to Plato. He had a book in His hand now, but was not reading it, His mind and vacant senses lost instead in the governance of His distant universe.

“Donatien,” Faust called, “do you already know which one of us it was?” You are ready now, I think, reader, to hear each Power call Jehovah by their favorite of His many names.

“No, Uncle Felix, I know not.”

The Headmaster's eyebrows danced. “Better and better.”

“I'll begin then,” MASON volunteered, raising his right hand as he faced his Son across the room. “I swear I had neither involvement in nor knowledge of the planning or execution of the theft of the
Black Sakura
Seven-Ten list, or its planting in the Saneer-Weeksbooth bash'.”

Jehovah did not move, but His eyes locked on the Emperor's face so keenly one might imagine he was counting the atoms of breath which formed the words. He said nothing.

Faust spoke up next. “I swear too, I had no involvement in nor knowledge of the planning or execution of the
Black Sakura
theft, or planting the list, but I'm going to buy a drink for the clever fellow who did.”

The King of Spain swore next, then Andō, Ganymede, his voice as beautiful to hear as he is to see.

“Anything, Epicuro?” Spain asked.

“No lies,
Su Majestad.
”

“And I of course”—Madame spoke gently, as if whispering poetry, one lover to another—“had nothing whatever to do with the planning or execution of the theft or break-in, I swear it by Your Noble Self, my dear Jehovah.”

Still He did not move, but let His eyes slide from face to face, like a computer swiveling its camera while the rest stays bolted to the desk. “Mother speaks the truth.”

“Same goes for me!” The side chamber opened suddenly and the Anonymous's strong voice broke through. “I swear I had absolutely no involvement of any kind with this
Black Sakura
theft, or the Saneer-Weeksbooth bash' or anything associated, apart from faking the alteration to my own Seven-Ten list to cover things.”

The Cousin Chair and Anonymous emerged now, rosy cheeked but both far calmer than they had been before their exercise. They had done an admirable job retouching their costumes after their recreation, but the scarlet layers of Kosala's skirts had suffered creases during their love-plunge, and hints of the real color leaked around the snowy edges of the Anonymous's wig.

“I'm last then, I guess?” Bryar asked brightly. “I too swear, I had nothing whatsoever to do with any of this, at any level. There. That's all of us, Jed. Any liars?”

“No, Aunt Bryar, none.” I suspect that half the world feels like calling Chair Kosala ‘Aunt,' but this Child, Who once bounced on her lap, is especially entitled.

With that soft pronouncement, Jehovah closed His eyes again, exhaustion in His face, for all the world like a great-grandfather roused in his sickbed by descendants squabbling over inheritance, eager to return to the higher thoughts of one near death. I approached Him with a tray of food, and told Him He should eat, for He had once again lost track of time. He took the food, and thanked me, and asked if His Dominic had seemed well when I saw him. I answered that he had. Next He asked me whether I thought it was cruel to let angelic intelligences mix with human intelligences long enough for each to learn how the other category's consciousnesses experience a different kind of independence from their God. I did not have an answer.

What means this vagueness, Mycroft? ‘He asked,' ‘I answered'? Can this lazy paraphrase be that same Mycroft who has hitherto stated the precise language of every line with such care? Give me the words! What tongue does the polyglot J.E.D.D. Mason use with thee, Mycroft? And thou with him?

What tongue, curious reader? All of them. This desperate Being uses all His senses, all His words, our French, our English, Latin, Spanish, Greek, all mixed together to weave His nuance, the fire-tongued commixture that is His native speech, which I alone upon this Earth, thanks to my stolen languages, can understand, and which translation cannot possibly approximate.

“If the Prince D'Arouet says there are no liars,” Duke Ganymede declared, “there are no liars.”

“Good!” Kosala squeezed her Compte Déguisé close as they settled together upon their couch. “I'd hate to have a traitor among us. Thanks for proposing that, Cornel, I feel much better now.”

“But who did it, then?” the Duke asked first. “The Utopians?”

“No.” The Emperor's response was instant.

A scowl's shadow dimmed Ganymede's perfection. “I'd like to hear those words from someone who wasn't in love with Apollo Mojave.” He waited, blue diamonds flicking from face to face around the silent room. “That is, if there is anyone in this room fitting that description, apart from the Prince D'Arouet and myself.”

One by one the Emperor, the Anonymous, the King, the Chair, the Headmaster, even the Director failed to meet Ganymede's eyes. He did not even glance at me.

“I think I was considerably less in love with Apollo Mojave than most,” Madame volunteered, “and I don't think this is something Utopians would do, not as politics, or as a prank. It isn't…,” she groped, “future-oriented enough.”

“It's true,” Kosala agreed. “They don't care about the Seven-Ten lists, or the next election, they only care what happens two hundred years from now.”

Duke Ganymede rolled over onto his back, and all within the room, Jehovah excepted, leaned forward to savor the spectacle. “But have we actually heard them say they didn't do it?” he asked.

“If I may speak, Your Grace?” I petitioned, though I knew the shadow my intrusion would cast over the company.

“What is it, Mycroft?”

I dug my fingers into my habit's rope belt, since here I had no hat with which to fidget in my nervousness. “I talked to a Utopian today, one who would know, and asked that very question. If a Utopian is involved in this, then even the constellation trusted with their most sensitive project doesn't know about it.”

Madame stroked MASON's black hair, gently, as one does to calm a snarling hound. It was not I but Ganymede who had dared pronounce Apollo's name, but the hate still burned in MASON, eyes which had endured the Testing of the Successor moved almost to anger-tears. I speculate sometimes how best I might die, when the time comes. There are many with the moral right to take my life, but Caesar has suffered more than anyone, not just Apollo's loss, but the agony of suppressing his rightful rage when he could kill me any hour, any day. If I can gift my death to anyone, it will be Cornel MASON.

Headmaster Faust is an avatar of curiosity. “What project would that be, Mycroft? What constellation?”