But this hiding of the eyes was something more primaclass="underline" it spoke of something ancient, of weapons older than mudra, older than disease. It was a gesture to ward off the deadly shekinah of atomic or coherent-light weapons that could blind the non-Patrician eye.
Sacerdotes never bowed so low, nor hid their eyes in their elbows, and their traditions were older than mind-recordings in the most ancient archives, and some said, older than the printing press, which had been invented on the planet Splendor of Delta Pavonis.
Vigil concluded that this gesture came from the somatic tradition of Eden, the home of Man, since it clearly was a gesture that would never develop during shipborne evolution. This meant that it was a gesture peculiar to the Order of Stability Lords.
But, if so, it was part of the tradition his father had kept from him, or had not known to pass along. That implied an interruption of transmissions from the older generations: there was no more fearsome crime among the First Human Race than for one faction, or order, or nation, or race to redact the past of another, or interfere with their memory.
What had his father not told him?
His battle internal noted that everyone in arm’s reach was hiding their eyes or exposing the backs of their necks. Better yet, no one was in a good position to block his path down the corridor leading to the interior of the Palace of Future History.
Vigil turned sideways, sidled past the seneschal, and walked briskly down the hall, then trotted, and then started running, before anyone could put out a hand to halt him. Over his shoulder, he called as he sped ever more quickly, “Sentries, as you were! Return to your posts! Well done! I will commend you to your superiors for your zeal and precision in the execution of your duties!”
Away he fled.
3. The Mandala of the Hermetic Door
It took a long moment for the seneschal to struggle to his feet, and, tottering on his tall shoes, to come trotting after him, trying to keep up. The distance between them increased as Vigil ran lightly past the bemused siren. The seneschal was puffing and blowing, unable to draw breath to speak, signaling via an internal creature-to-creature envoy, but Vigil’s internals recoiled wryly and did not answer the signal.
At the end of the far corridor was a vestry booth, with racks for air-lances and armor and trees for shoes and helmets, as well as ceremonial valves and fonts for functions no longer performed, but which mocked long-forgotten airlock procedures. Three steps beyond the booth loomed the azure-and-black doors leading into the six-sided Presence Chamber, flanked to either side by golden pillars.
He knew from his father’s instructions that there were twelve doors leading into the chamber from twelve different anterooms, each with its own set of apartments, archives ceremonies, life support, scents, and musical score.
Somewhere behind the walls nearby, from six other directions, other doors of other hues and heraldries hung under other mandalas admitted the Six Speaking Lords of the Table of Stability: the Aedile, the Chronometrician, the Chrematist, the Lighthousekeeper, the Portreeve, and the Theosophist. And each had his Companions or Attendants who entered with him.
Interspersed were five further doors, slightly smaller in dignity, for the Commensal Lords, also called the Silent Lords, who could not speak until addressed: the Castigator, the Vatic Essomenic Officer, the Onomastician, the Anthroponomist, the Terraformer.
His door here was one of those of second dignity. It was inscribed with a winged globe, two apple trees guarded by dragons, and the image of Icarus. This was the door reserved for the use of his office, the Darwinian Corrective Officer, also called by its ancient title, the Hermeticist. His position was that of a Commensal, a member who could only speak when called upon.
Vigil made the mistake, as he ran toward the door, of looking up to admire the nocturnal ebony and celestial silver ornaments of the architrave and doorposts. Unfortunately, above the door, half-hidden in a set of eye-dazzling mirrors and lenses lodged between capitals of the pillars, stood an ancient mandala. No mere heirloom, this: it was fully charged and correctly established, and the image jumped into his eyes like the gaze of a basilisk.
This was a mandala, unsurprisingly, established to enforce decorum. Although the soul of Vigil and several internal minds attempted two or three meditative tricks or slippery definitions, he could not convince his hindbrain or midbrain of the idea that running swiftly here was in keeping with the grave dignity of the chamber. An alien force moved through his nervous system, leaving him flaccid and unable to make himself run. Perforce, he slowed, and his steps became sober, his expression and gesture magnanimous and filled with pomp and grandeur.
This allowed the seneschal, who apparently had smart material in his absurd shoes to allow him to lengthen his stride when need be without toppling, to loom up behind him and catch Vigil by the shoulder.
“My good lord,” said the seneschal, “my office requires I present you, but only once certain formalities—”
Vigil raised his hand to his shoulder, intending to break the man’s thumb, but the mandala looming above the doors filled his vision and prevented violence. He was only allowed to brush the hand away. Vigil said, “Tell me your name and lineage, that I might know whose family to encompass in my complaint.”
The seneschal laughed with relief. “Is it legal action you contemplate? My line is a client of the Leafsmith family, who hold the monopoly on barristers, jurists, and prosecutors. No writ can prevail.”
Vigil was shocked at the open admission of the corruption of the legal system. Perhaps he was merely a rural boy from the far reservations to the north, unequal to the sophistication and decay of this great city.
He gritted his teeth and whispered, “And my vengeance?”
Once again, like a marionette with its programming flummoxed, the man fell prone, crouching and striking his tall, ridiculous hat against the floor.
4. Nice Costume
At that same moment, a tall, bleak-featured, and ugly man came around the corner, pushing a bucket on wheels and carrying a mop. Vigil was puzzled at the sight, since he had never seen a mop that required a man to carry it before. Perhaps it was a manual antique.
His interest in antiques pulled his eyes toward the mop. It was a long moment before he looked at the man. Only then did Vigil realize the man was like no one he had seen before.
The man’s bloodline was uncertain, but there was something Chimerical in his deep-set eyes, which never seemed to blink. The man was dressed in the smock and headscarf of a janitor and wore boots like a Nomad or Esne. In his mouth was a device Vigil had never seen before, some sort of incense burner or intoxicant. It looked like a roll of leaves tightly wound together and lit on fire. The smoke was clinging and unpleasant, and the tall man drew it into his mouth with a deep breath. The smoke came pouring out of an odd organ on the front of the man’s face. The organ occupied the position where a nose would be, but only if a nose was two or three times its normal size, crooked, and hooked like the bill of a bird.
The man’s hair, which was close cropped, was colored like Fox hair, a reddish hue that no normal human ever wore. On one hand were scars from old knife fights. His ears and Adam’s Apple protruded. The errors and ungainliness of the face was such that Vigil realized this must be the member of some order of ascetics who had vowed to avoid all cosmetic corrections. But what order would take so cruel a vow?
But no! Vigil let one of his internals utter a silent laugh. He had forgotten the day. The janitor was returning from a fancy dress ball, and his face was comically marred to resemble some figure from the history of some far world, or perhaps a horror tale circulating among small boys. Vigil felt sorry for the man. Most masqueraders made the mistake of assuming that the fuzzy and discolored old records were literal and that people in the old days actually looked so stiff and so uncomely. Vigil knew that was not true. Only the most ancient of all races of man, the long-extinct Sylphs, or the nameless race that came before them, did not have access to nanocellular regeneration techniques.