Warts went saucer-eyed. "Sea monsters?" He turned and reached for pen and paper. "I must record—"
Mootch slapped Warts's back. "Ah, my boy, you bring joy to an old man's heart!" He grabbed the lapels of his shredded coat. "And I am the only competent liar left on Momus."
He waved a hand at Dot, Waxy, and Little Will. "Farewell one; farewell all." Mootch Movill turned, clasped his hands behind his back, began whistling, and walked into Tarzak's busy street, off to do the good work.
SIXTEEN
Later that evening, after the bulls were paraded tail-and-trunk around the ring, Little Will sat in the blues between Packy and Shiner Pete, surrounded by the other bullhands and residents of the town of Miira. Fish oil torches lined the edge of the ring and the outside edge of the stands while in the center of the ring a large fire of logs was started. When the log fire was burning brightly, Spats Skorzini entered the ring carrying a long, wooden staff.
"Laydeeez and gentlemen! The Ring of Tarzak welcomes one and all for The Season!" The stands rocked with applause. When the noise died down, the man in the ring lowered the stick. "I am your master of the Great Ring of Tarzak, Spats Skorzini."
More applause, acknowledging both the death of Ringmaster Sam and the acceptance of Ringmaster Spats. Spats bowed, then pointed at Warts Tho. "For our first attraction tonight, Warts Tho and the record keepers of Momus!"
To loud applause, Warts came down from the blues followed by Waxy Adnelli from Miira, Arcadia Joe Wimple from Kuumic, Spook Tieras from the town of the same name, Bunion Paul Foote from Porse, Angela Dear Burack from Dirak, Honey Buns Wagner from Ris, Hooks Javorak from Sina, and Luscious Leona Washington from Ikona. Warts read to the audience from a prepared list.
"I have compiled the figures for Momus supplied to me by the other record keepers. This past year, there have been ninety-one marriages, two hundred and three deaths, and two hundred and fifty-one live births. The population on the Central Continent now stands at one thousand, nine hundred and four." He lowered the paper for an instant. "With all these marriages, I expect we'll break two thousand by The Season the next."
Little Will heard Poge Loder's voice calling out from the back of the blues. "What about this marryin' thing, anyway?"
Warts lowered his papers. "What about it?"
Little Will turned around and looked up to see Poge standing, frowning, and scratching his head. "Well," he began, "it don't seem proper somehow for you bookkeepers to be marryin' folks. It's not like you was judges, or even a chaplain like Little Joe."
Warts held out his hands. "Marriage is a human ritual. It makes no difference to me who officiates, or even if the ritual is performed at all. However, those who do want a ritual seem to want a record made of the event; and the record keepers keep the records."
Waxy pointed up at Poge. "Are you going to start up again?"
Poge's shoulders moved up, then down. "Waxy, I'm not tryin' to start up any trouble. It just seems you bookkeepers ought to be called something with a little more class."
"Like what?"
Poge thought for a moment. "Maybe justice of the peace?"
Little Will heard a bellow coming from the opposite side of the blues. "Like hell!"
She turned and saw boss canvasman Duckfoot Tarzak get to his feet: "A name like that's liable to put ideas in people's heads. We don't want any jaypees on this planet." He pointed around at the stands. "Don't you remember the number of crooked jaypees the show had to pay off? You call those bookkeepers jaypees and the next thing you know, they'll be issuing permits, making laws, and hiring coppers to push everybody around." Duckfoot Tarzak resumed his seat.
Whitey Etren, mime from Tarzak, stood and addressed the ring. "I don't think we ought to be hasty in dismissing the idea of law and government. What are we supposed to do about the criminal?"
Duckfoot stood and faced Whitey. "Put his trunk on the lot."
"Exile?"
Duckfoot held out his hands, then lowered them. "Call it anything you want. You got a sticky-fingered fellow, we do what we always do. Either he comes up with the goods, you take it out of his hide, or his trunk is on the lot until he coughs up."
A voice called from the Ikona section of the blues. "What about murder?"
Duckfoot shook his head and scowled at the speaker. "Who is that? Bungo?"
"Yeah."
"Where've you been for the last twenty years, Bungo? Out on the lot. Out on the lot until the bum coughs up the goods. Now you ex somebody, the goods you gotta cough up is somebody's life, isn't it?"
The one called Bungo scratched his chin. "Sounds like a long time out on the lot."
"Damn right." Duckfoot faced the center of the ring. "Look, there's a whole continent west of here without a soul on it. All you rubes who want to be kings, coppers, or government paper wizards move out there. We'll hang a plague sign all around you and be done with it!" Duckfoot resumed his seat.
Waxy jabbed Warts in the ribs with his elbow. "Don't look like we're gonna be jaypees, do it?"
Warts sighed, shook his head, then looked up at Poge. "Do you have another suggestion?"
Poge held out his hands. "Maybe preacher, minister—something like that. Or maybe chaplains."
Waxy laughed, "Dammit, Poge, what in the hell're you using for brains? Me? A Bible-thumper?" Laughter filled the ring.
"Excuse me." The ring hushed at the sound of the strange, quiet voice. Turtlehead Agdok moved his shell into the ring from the Tarzak section of the blues and parked it next to Warts. Turtlehead's tiny red eyes peered out from beneath his shell up at Poge. "Upon my planet of Wallabee, the nest historians perform the record-keeping and make the nuptial agreements. They are non-theistic and possess no powers of law."
"What're they called?"
"They are called historians. The word in my language is phreest."
Poge nodded. "Priest. That sounds good." He sat down.
Waxy jabbed Warts in the arm. "I'll be goddamned if anybody's gonna call me a priest! I'm no—"
Warts held up his hand. "Turtlehead said the word was freest."
Turtlehead shook his shell. "No. That's phreest. P-p-p-p-h-h-r-r-reest."
Waxy and the other bookeepers wiped their faces. As he dried his hand upon his shirt, Waxy frowned at Turtlehead. "That's some juicy word."
Sergeant Spook Tieras, after drying his own face, nodded at Warts. "I think I prefer Poge's pronunciation."
Waxy faced the Spook. "You're from Ahngar. You don't even know what a priest is."
The willow-thin Ahngarian faced Waxy. "Would you rather be a p-p-p-p-h-h-r-r-reest?"
Waxy dried his face again. "That's not the point!"
A voice called from the blues. "Let's call 'em priests and be done with it! Let's get on with the show!"
More voices shouted agreement, quieting down after Warts held up his hands. "That's settled, then. The bookeepers will be called priests."
Waxy grabbed Warts's shoulder. "Now, just a damned second—"
Warts pulled his shoulder free and shouted at Waxy. "That is settled!"
Waxy snorted and spat upon the sawdust. "Well, dommi dommi, gobbi gobbi; I'm a goddamned priest."
"Excuse me," said Turtlehead, "the word is pronounced—"
The priesthood of Momus ducked.
The priests, then, in turn, recounted the happenings of their towns over the past year. The Miira-Kuumic Road was complete, Cross-eyed Mike Ikona was moving to the opposite end of the Emerald Valley to establish a fishing village on the coast of the Western Sea, since fresh fish couldn't be brought to the valley from Tarzak. The town would be called Anoki; Ikona spelled backwards.