Orphans of Chaos

1.

He said, “I should tell you that I suspect a trap, Amelia.”

“Why? Did the Headmaster expect you to know how to fly?”

“If you told me the correct wording of your oath…”

“I did.”

“…Doesn’t it strike you as particularly lax? And he unlocks the door on the one night he knows we are all dying to find out what is going on here. Vanity says the door is watched. And the meeting is being held at midnight. Why not at nine o’clock, when we are all in class, being watched?”

“You said Fell put sleeping powder in the medicine.”

“Not part of Headmaster’s plan, I assume. They don’t necessarily all talk to each other, or agree when they do.” Quentin’s voice was solemn and quiet. “If I had been forced to say the prayers you and Vanity were told to say by Mrs. Wren, half of my demonstrations would be impossible to me. I cannot imagine they want me to learn the things I learned, or talk to the type of things I am trained to hear. So why didn’t they sic Mrs. Wren on me? It must simply be an oversight.”

“Are we talking about the same Mrs. Wren?” Of all the adults on the estate, she seemed the simplest to me, the easiest to get around when we wanted something.

He looked away over the moonlit snow below, at the insubstantial black shadows of the manor and outbuildings. “Her sorrow gives her strength. Frightening strength. Those who dwell in the middle air below the Moon weep when she weeps, as do their humbler vassals in the stream and field and arbors. Do not be deceived that she is kindly toward you and Vanity; it is because she has no cause to fear.”

He looked down at his walking stick, frowned, and raised it to his face. He stuck the muzzle of the little brass jackal-head in his ear.

He nodded, said thank-you to the walking stick, and said to me, “One comes.”

2.

I jumped down three steps and crouched, draping my body along the stairs, with just my nose sticking over the doorjamb. Because the tiles were slanted, I could see the snowy lawn below.

I yanked on Quentin’s pants leg. “How about getting down? So we’re not seen?”

He lay down beside me.

I squinted. There. Quentin had been right. Again.

A tall man was coming from the direction of the Barrows. At first, we could see only his outline: an upright, athletic figure with a staff or pole in his hand, and long wings of flapping fabric around his ankles, as if he wore a cloak or long coat. There was a round bundle over his shoulder.

He stepped into one of the angles of light a window cast across the snow.

There were black scars crisscrossing his right hand. Old wounds. The pole in his hand was a short spear, three feet of metal spike and three feet of wood, with a heavy weight mounted at the butt end. A javelin, really. The round thing over his shoulder was flat, not a bundle. It was a Roman shield with an iron boss in the center, eight-sided, with images of lightning bolts etched in gold radiating out from the boss.

The coat was long. I thought it might be the skin of coral snakes, for it was pebbly and as red-brown as dried blood. It was lined on the inside with fur of light pink. The elbow-length sleeves were long and loose, and allowed full motion to the man’s arms. A fur hood formed a triangle between his shoulder and head.

At first, I thought his hair was metal. He wore a coif of coppery scales over his skull; more scales covered his neck. He wore a jacket of red coppery scales beneath his ruddy cloak. Below he wore a leather skirt studded with metal bosses. His boots of shark leather rose to his knee.

A wide web-belt cinched his waist. A Japanese katana, bright with a swinging tassel, rode one hip. At the other, a leather holster held a heavy pistol.

There was something in the way he walked—stiff, yet relaxed, calm, yet somehow tense—that told of miles upon miles of marching to the music of the drum and fife.

He passed in front of a lamppost that stood in the carriage circle before the East Wing of the Manor House. The light made a slight rainbow effect as it slid around his body.

I said, “He is distorting the local time-space metric. Light is bending toward him as it would toward a black sun. He must be affecting the probability world-lines intersecting this moment in time.”

I looked over. Quentin was not looking at the man. He lay with his face not six inches from mine, staring thoughtfully at my lips. He had been studying my profile.

Quentin raised his eyes to mine. “You can tell at a glance?”

I said impatiently, “No. It is obvious, though. His gravity is normal, otherwise he would sink to the Earth’s core with every step. What else could disturb time-space, if not gravity? If it is not a space warp, then it is a time warp. He is not moving fast or slow. So it must be a distortion of world-lines. Q.E.D.”

I felt heat in my cheeks. I was blushing. Blushing! Because little Quentin, of all people, had been staring at me. At the lips he had kissed, and claimed for his own.

I said, “The Red Soldier isn’t human, no matter who he is.” He said, “I know. Apsu can’t see normal people.”

3.

The soldier passed below the level of our vision. There came a noise of a door opening. A triangle of light spilled out across the snow, magnifying the shadow of the soldier. There was a mutter of voices. One sounded calm, measured, certain. The voice of a man in control of whatever situation he entered. The other was the voice of Mr. Sprat, who sounded nervous, uncertain. Maybe even frightened.

From the tones of voice, the words half-heard, it sounded as if the Red Soldier wanted to enter, and Mr. Sprat was reluctant to let him in.

Footsteps. A second shadow spilled out across the snow. This one wore a mortarboard and long robes. His voice was louder, and we caught the words. Headmaster Boggin asked, “Protector, we were not expecting Your Lordship in person. Where is Your Lordship’s entourage?”

We did not hear the words, but the calm voice made some brief, sardonic answer.

Boggin laughed politely. “I suppose that is true, Your Lordship. Who would be qualified to bodyguard you?”

The calm voice again. A question.

“Why, yes, Your Lordship. She is here. Her Ladyship came with her…ah… with her husband’s retainers, of course. Will you come in? I will have to ask you to leave your weapons at the door. Emissaries are supposed to be unarmed.”

The Red Soldier must have turned his head, for this time, we heard his answer plainly. “I am never unarmed.”

The shadows on the snow moved; the soldier pushed his way past Headmaster Boggin, the javelin still in his hand. We could hear the metallic thud of the butt of the javelin on the floorboards.

Mr. Sprat’s shadow slid close to Headmaster Boggin’s. A fearful whisper. A friendly-sounding answer from Boggin. Again, Boggin’s voice carried. “It is not as if we have any choice, Jack, now, is it? We’re at their mercy.”

The door swung to. The angle of light narrowed and disappeared.

4.

We had a whispered consultation about whether to close the big metal door or not. On the one hand, it would let in cold air and outside noise that someone might notice. On the other, we wanted an unblocked escape. The workmen had been pulling up and putting down tile these last few days, and their scaffold still reached from roof to ground, like a fire tower.

“We are going to have to be quiet going down,” he said.

“Well, obviously, Quentin! I’ll tell you when it’s safe to talk. I am your senior, you know.”

“Then enlighten me. What does the thing you said mean? About world-lines?”

“Is this the time for a physics lesson?”

“Indulge me, please, Amelia.”

“OK. This is a summary. Imagine every object as a worm, or an umbrella, drawing a line through time. The one line toward the direction of lesser-entropy we call ‘past,’ and its position is determined within the limits of quantum uncertainty. The multiple lines toward the direction of greater-entropy, we call ‘future,’ and their locations, to simultaneous observers, occupy the set of all possible locations to which the object could move in a given time. Put two gravitating bodies near each other and their sets of possible motion lines bend toward each other. The line defined by the least energy expended is inert motion, or free fall. This free-fall line, which would otherwise be straight, is distorted by a gravitating body so that it curves in a conic section. Got it?”

“So what did you see around him? His Lordship?”

“Something other than gravity was distorting the world-lines passing near him, including the event-paths of things like photons. An aura of probability distortion.”

“He has a charmed life.”

“Um. I don’t think that is what I said.”

“You were seeing destiny. He has a charmed life.”

“You are confusing an effect of physics with your…”

“Let’s go, Amelia. We can debate definitions later.”

And he started down the stairs.

I crept after him, tight-lipped with anger.

Since when did he get the right to be giving orders to me? A boy steals a kiss and he thinks you’re his harem slave.

It was time to dunk his head in the sink again. Wash a few dumb notions out of that haunted house he calls his brain. I was strong enough to lift a door he could not budge, wasn’t I? He was not so old that I could not push his head under water for a while.

The stair ended at a half-open door. Beyond the door was a small alcove, half-hidden behind Mrs. Wren’s potted plants. The alcove looked out on the balcony which entirely encircled the Great Hall below.

It was perfect for spying. We crawled on our bellies across the carpet of the balcony, and peered through the heavy marble railings. There were no lights on at this floor. The gigantic chandelier that normally hung near the dome had been lowered on its massive chain so that it was partly lowered through the hole the balcony surrounded. The great chandelier was slightly below us, putting the lights between ourselves and the people below. Even if they should look up (and who ever looks up?) the light would dazzle them, and the shadows would hide us.

And yet the whole scene was less than twenty feet below us. Had we wanted to, we could have spit upon the people seated there.

The massive green marble table occupied the center of the hall. Half of the circumference had no one seated there. The chairs were empty. The other half had people standing behind their chairs, but no one was seated.

No one except for the Lady. She was beautiful beyond all beauty, somehow both innocent and sweet, yet filled with voluptuous sensuality. She was dressed in a simple robe of white, with slim jeweled sashes crossed between her breasts, and circling her trim waist. Her neck was like a swan’s. Her hair was piled atop her head to show off the line of her neck.

She was a brunette, with tremor of gold running through the strands. She had meltingly soft brown eyes. She did not wear any makeup, and yet her lips were red, her cheeks touched with blush.

It was only when looking at her that I realized (finally realized after Gabriel-knows how many years) what makeup was for. The sparkling eyes eyeliner tries to impersonate; the blood-red lips lipstick mimics; the cheeks flushed red; are what one sees on a girl when she is flushed with love. If someone had told me this Lady had stepped not five minutes ago from her lover’s arms, I would not have doubted it.

The Lady was toying with a hand mirror she held in her hand; holding it to one ear, then the other, turning her eyes sideways, as if she were trying to glimpse her own profile. She laughed her crystal laughter at herself; she prodded her hair with a slim white finger, teasing curls down before her eyes, which she went cross-eyed to stare at. Then she smiled again to see herself cross-eyed. She tossed her head when she laughed, like a girl half my age. It was as if she were in love with life itself, and every moment in it, and she could not restrain her joy.

Behind her were three women, who, if I had seen them on the covers of fashion magazines, would have called them beautiful. Next to the laughing one, however, they only seemed fair.

They were also dressed in simple white robes of a classical design. One of them held a sceptre on a pillow. One held a recurved bow of pale wood set with pink carbuncles, and a quiver of arrows fletched with red feathers. One had a jess and a leather guard on her wrist, like a falconer, but instead of a falcon, she held a white dove on her wrist.

Quentin pulled back. He turned himself on his back and put his elbow over his eyes.

I looked at him, puzzled. It was not until I looked at him that I realized something. I had been staring at the laughing beauty so earnestly, that I had not seen anyone else at the table, had not heard what they said.

I can tell in sort of an intellectual way if another woman is attractive or not. Sometimes. Sometimes, I am really surprised at which girls Colin, for example, would moon over, or which American movie starlets he would gather photos of, or write love letters to. But even I could tell this lady, this divinity, had a face to drive men mad. Quentin was covering his eyes to save his sanity.

My gaze was drawn back to her.

I had never seen an adult so unselfconscious in public. I have seen the Queen Mother and the Prince of Wales on television news, the Duchess of York, the King of Denmark, and the Prince of Monaco. They were royalty. They acted with gravity and polished politeness. This? This was something beyond royalty. A farmgirl in a barnyard could play this way, if she were surrounded by dumb animals, piglets and kittens and lambs. Because the farmgirl is still a higher order of being than even the noblest animal, and she can feel no shame in front of them, no more than a high cloud, or a distant star, can feel shame in front of a human.

I wished I could see if she would have that same rainbow effect the Red Soldier had. Unfortunately, there was nothing beyond her, from my point of view, aside from the chair she sat on, the floor. No light sources. Not even a reflection.

But I moved a little to one side, so that the marble banister blocked my view of her. That was the only way I could concentrate on the others gathered here.

The moment I saw them, I wondered how I could have not been staring at them. This was an odd group. A very odd group.

5.

Two foxes in Japanese kimonos stood behind their chairs to the Lady’s far left. They stood on their hind legs, like men. One of them was smoking a cigarette in a holder.

A man with no head was next. He was dressed in eighteenth-century garb: a great coat with a high collar, bloodstained lace surrounding his neck stump, two dueling pistols tucked through his belt. He had a long-necked guitar slung on a wide bandoleer over his left shoulder. On a silver plate, on the table before where he stood, rested his head. I assume it was his.

A bearded head it was, with long black locks. The eyes were open and looking back and forth. Every now and again the headless body would raise a hand and absentmindedly run fingers through the hair of the head, the way a man with a dog at his heel might pet it from time to time.

Next to him was a Satyr, with ivy wound around his goat horns. He had narrow features and lines around his mouth. He was shifting from hoof to hoof, and picking his teeth with a toothpick.

Two nude women were next, naked except for the grape leaves they had wound in their hair. They stood with their arms around each other’s waists, and occasionally whispered comments in each other’s ears.

Next was a man made entirely of metal. This golem was ten or twelve feet tall. The metal was silvery and black, and chased through with designs, images, and arabesques of the most cunning workmanship. The elbow joints were fretted like fish fins; the vambraces had pastoral scenes running up them. The helm was furrowed with whippet hounds; the crest was a lunging stag, every vein in its straining throat visible. Leaves and trees, maple and oak, ran in vertical stripes down the breastplate. The face mask was silver, a man smiling gently, surrounded by leaves and little birds growing from his beard. The hairs of the beard were separately etched in, overlaying with strips of silver, silver-gray, blue steel, black iron.

Beyond the metal man was another, this one of gold, inscribed with scenes of sailing ships, kings, rising suns. An eagle crest started from his helm. His beard was curled with golden flames.

Then came the three women, and the Lady with the mirror who was so beautiful.

Another gold man was beyond her, this one inscribed with mountain scenes, goatherds, pine trees. His crest was a dragon, each scale studded with a different gem.

Another silver man was next, this one done up in night images, moons and owls.

A man made out of bark stood behind the next chair, with leaves for hair. His face was carved from unpolished wood, scabby and black.

A normal-looking fellow was next, except he wore a folded robe of purest blue that floated and flowed around him. Clouds moved through the fabric. His hair also floated in the wind, except that there was no wind.

There was a man in scale armor. The scales were enameled with different shades of white, pale blue, dark blue, green, and black. He was young, and broad-shouldered, with long black hair. His helmet was on the table before him; it had a leaping dolphin for its crest. He did not look impatient, but he was pinching his nostrils shut, opening them, pinching them shut again, over and over. I do not mean he was touching his nose with his hand. His hands were clasped behind his back. When he turned his head to whisper some comment to the man dressed in the blue wind, I could see feathery dark lines of the gills behind his ear.

Next came two men in well-tailored business suits, dark blue pinstripe with narrow ties. Both had gold rings, tastefully expensive wristwatches, shining cuff links. One stood puffing a cigarette. Balanced on the back of the chair before him was the smallest computer I had ever seen, a folding thing no bigger than a large book. He was typing on it with both hands.

The other man, who was older, was speaking on a cell phone. They seemed to be men. Nothing extraordinary about them…

Until the one on the laptop computer, without taking either hand off the keyboard, had a third hand reach up from under his coat, take the cigarette between two fingers, and flick ash onto the carpet. From the way the hand blurred where it left his coat, I assumed I was looking at a three-dimensional intrusion from four-space.

Next was a busty dark-skinned woman, a Turk or a Hindu, perhaps, wearing a short red vest with nothing beneath it, a headdress of coins. She was a giant serpent from the waist down.

The final man was a figure from my dream. He had a metal eye in the center of his forehead: an orb of blue metal. It turned this way and that, not in keeping with the motions of his other eyes.

He was not a giant, as had been the one I saw in my dream. He was dressed in a stark, utilitarian one-piece suit, drab olive in color. He stood with his hands folded over the back of his chair, face expressionless, showing no sign of impatience. A name tag clipped to his breast pocket read: BRONTES.

6.

There had been a stir of talk while I had been staring at the Lady with the mirror. I had not heard what it was.

The three-handed man on the cell phone was telling someone, “He sent word that he wasn’t showing up here. No. My question is, if his wife represents the volcanic position to us, should we take that representation as solid…?”

The Satyr, leaning to speak past the tall shoulders of the headless man, said to the foxes in kimonos, “Say, fellows, are you here representing your Skulk, or the whole Wood?”

The taller fox, a gray, answered in a fluting voice, “We have letters of accredition, extraordinary and plenipotentiary, from the Nemeian.”

“In that case, don’t agree to anything till you and I get a chance to talk later, private-like, eh?”

The other fox was thinner, red-brown. It said in a saturnine tone, “Whether we speak or are silent, what does it matter? The Great Ones determine our course.”

The gray fox snapped open a Japanese fan, and hid his muzzle behind it, while he made some whispered comment to his companion.

The Satyr shifted on his hooves impatiently. He said to his neighbor: “What about you, Haircut? There may be a third angle to this tug-o-war.”

The headless body reached out with its fingers and turned the severed head on its silver plate till it faced the goat-man. “You cannot imagine that I have much interest in what the Bacchants have to say.” His voice had a melodic beauty to it that echoed in the ear.

The Satyr waved his toothpick. “Who said I was talking about them? Did I say I was talking about them? Not all of us were on the side of the traitors when they stormed Olympus. I work for Nemestrinus.”

The naked woman with grape leaves in her hair leaned over and caressed the Satyr’s cheek. He jumped a bit, reddening with embarrassment.

She cooed softly, “Don’t waste words on that one, Billy. He will be the next Psychopompos, no matter what else is decided tonight. Both factions will promise to confirm him in the post. He’s the one the Unseen One likes. So why should he talk to you? He has nothing to gain and nothing to lose.”

The Satyr said, “A little chitchat never hurt nobody.”

She replied: “The Unseen One might be standing here in the room with us now, for all we know. Best not to annoy Him. No one wants Him to press His little wifey-poo’s claim to the throne, now do they?”

The other nude girl leaned forward, saying in a fluid voice: “Be careful, little tripod! Your third leg is shorter than your other two. It will not help you run away if the Unseen One takes it amiss that you annoy His servants.”

The goat-man looked annoyed. “Hey, if you are going to talk about my pogo stick, you call him Mr. Johnson!”

It was about this time that I realized, from his demeanor and slurred speech, that the goat-man had probably been drinking. Heavily.

The Satyr continued: “Heck! As for Him, what kind of Love Hotdog you think He’s packing anyway? Married to that sweet tart of His, and no kids after all these years? If’n the soil is fertile, maybe the seed is sterile, is all I’m saying, is all. And don’t tell me the Maiden ain’t fertile; she’s a fertility goddess! And how come she’s still a Maiden, if’n you catch my meaning? I ain’t afraid of no lord of ghosts, no ma’am. I figure, no matter how dread and horrible He is, who can be afraid of a guy with a dry stick, you take my meaning?”

The severed head said softly, “You are droll, tragamor. When you come to His kingdom, you will be met with many grins. They all grin, there.”

7.

From some point more or less below where we hid on the balcony, there came the sound of a door opening, footsteps, the clang of a javelin on the floorboards.

I heard the voice, animated and bubbly, of the beautiful lady with the mirror. From the sounds, I could tell she had jumped to her feet.

“Harry’s—!” (At least, it sounded like “Harry’s.” She might have been saying “Airy” or “Air Ease.”) “Look, Aglaea, look who it is! Yoo hoo! Over here! Hi there! Hi! Do you think he sees me? Hello, darling! Euphrosyne, what do you think of him?”

I could see the women standing behind her, looking embarrassed and trying to appear at ease.

The maiden in white holding the pink bow and arrow leaned and said into the ear of her mistress, “My Lady Cyprian, the Lord Mavors is surely the archetype of manliness. But if we all know what men are like, surely he is that way, only more so.”

The Lady burst into a fit of giggles.

The helmets of the four metal men all swiveled to face (I assume) the door. From my point of view, it looked as if they were all turning toward me. Seeing all those gold and silver masks swivel toward me, their inanimate features all carved into happy smiles, beneath lenses that could never know expression, reminded me of a group of synchronized deck guns on a battleship, rotating in their turrets to cover an enemy.

The Red Soldier marched into view, crossed over to the table. He had slung back the links of his coif from his scalp, so that I saw his hawklike profile, hook nose, and blue eyes. He had a face so tranquil as to be almost expressionless, except for the hint of cruelty around his mouth, the hint of sadness in his eyes.

When he saw the Lady, though, the cruelty left his mouth; the sorrow left his eyes. The weather-beaten face suddenly looked years younger. And handsome. His eyes glittered and danced. He pursed his lips to keep himself from smiling.

There were murmurs and whispers around the table. Only the headless man did not seem disturbed. The three-handed man hissed into his cell phone: “Call you back!” Two additional hands came out from under the coat to fold up the phone and hold open a pocket to slide it into.

I took the opportunity to whisper to Quentin: “Do you know who these are?”

“We’re in a school run by the pagan gods of old,” he said in softest of whispers. “Now hush.” Without opening his eyes, he reached across and put a finger to my lips, to hush me. It was a funny feeling, having him touch my lips that way. “We don’t want to be turned into trees or something.”