No one was around. Not a Marine, not a night watchman. The lights of the Temple portico were doused, and only a few stray glimmers showed from shuttered windows in the New Buildings or the towers.
Which was odd. Lodge meetings tended to run into the evenings. There were always late-working bureaucrats scurrying about, along with the servants who tended them. Quinx had visited the Thalassojustity Temple more than a few times over the decades, on a variety of errands from the deeply secretive to the bloodily public. He’d never seen it look so, well, abandoned.
The quadroon slowed his steamer to a halt where the drive met the Temple steps. Quinx climbed out of the car again, regretting his long walk down the airship mooring mast. He was desperately tired he realized.
Where was everyone?
One step at a time. Up. And up. And up.
The great doors at the top, bronze castings forty feet high chased with elaborate friezework, stood open as they always did. Lore held that the doors would only be closed in times of utmost crisis. Quinx had always figured it for a problem with the hinges. A slight man in a crisp, dark suit sat just within the threshold on an office chair that very much did not belong in the nave. “May I help you?”
“I’m looking for Goins,” Quinx said, too much of his irritation creeping into his voice.
“The Presiding Judge is not available. Who is asking?”
“Me.” Quinx glared at him. “Get a lot of men in red and white robes calling late at night?”
“You are clad in the sartorial estate of a prince of the Lateran, sir, but I have not had the prior pleasure of your acquaintance, so for all of my knowledge you might be a lad about on a lark.”
“With this hair?” Quinx had to laugh, his foul mood broken for a moment. “It’s been fifty years since I could pass for a lad. And believe me, Eraster will talk to me once he knows I’m here. I am the Revered Bilious Quinx, and I am pursuing some very dangerous questions.”
“Revered Quinx.” The door warden gave the name some thought. “Your fearsome reputation precedes you, sir. If memory serves, you are also an initiate of our own Lodges, and as such should not be required to seek admittance at the public portals.”
“I did not arrive by the hidden paths, and time may be of the essence.” He moved his hands in the recognition signs of a thirty-second degree Thalassocrete. “And yes, I am the highest level initiate who also serves in the church’s senior hierarchy.”
“Who is known to serve,” the door warden corrected mildly, words that gave Quinx serious pause. “You were answering the Presiding Judge’s call, then? I am afraid you are too late by hours. All of the available senior initiates sailed on the afternoon’s tide, aboard Th.S. Clear Mountain.”
“With Dr. Morgan Abutti aboard?”
“Of course.” The man seemed surprised. “Who else?”
Quinx leaned close. “And where were they bound?”
“Thera, I believe. But rumors are often put out to obscure the truth of such missions as this.”
Quinx’ heart sank. The entire leadership of the Thalassojustity had just abandoned their headquarters. Why? Such a thing had never happened, even during the worst wars of the last century.
Whatever Abutti had found must have proven extremely convincing. Ion’s prophesied proof was happening, almost before his very eyes. Externalism …
Even his thoughts failed. “I must to Thera, and swiftly,” he said.
“Clear Mountain is very nearly the fastest of ships.”
“Oh, I can travel faster.”
Stumbling down the steps to the quadroon’s steamer once more, Quinx wondered how difficult it would be to convince Valdoux to mount his weapons on Blind Justess.
The traditional association between vulcanism and the Eight Gardens is a folk myth not borne out within the received text of the Librum Vita. Neither do any of the Lateran’s formal teachings support it. Yet like most folk myths, it likely arises from some transmuted memory of history. Each Garden is seen to be paired with a smoking mountain—Cycladia has its Thera, for example, Wy’East has the volcano of the same name. The Thalassojustity has been notoriously reluctant to permit full surveys of the relevant sites under their control, so most of what can be said about this association arises from ethnography and the study of more primitive folkways than the modern world can boast. Still, it does not require much speculation to see how the Increate’s children, early in their tenure upon this Earth, might have associated Their power with the world’s own fiery exhalations.
Morgan sat in Clear Mountain’s forward lounge, a gin fizz in hand, and marveled at the events of the past day. Goins had wasted no time in calling his entire senior hierarchy to witness this … unfolding? Apparently the Thalassojustity has been waiting for his revelation for a very, very long time. Ancient secrets indeed, to bring all these old, powerful men so swiftly to arms. Even this vessel was something between a warship and a royal yacht, as the wide, forward facing windows with their armored shutters testified.
The Attik Main by moonlight was dark as an old grave and restless as risen lust. He watched the sea move as if lifted by a thousand submerged hands, and wondered whether land or clouds occluded the horizon. Within, all was as lush as man might ask, better appointed than a fine gentlemen’s club, but still with that certain rough readiness of any ocean-going vessel.
The Thalassojustity treated its leaders very well indeed. Even the upper halls of the Planetary Society were not so nice as this, and at the University of Highpassage one would have to ascend to the Chancellor’s estate to find similar quiet luxuries.
He could grow accustomed to the privileges of a thirty-second degree Thalassocrete, if only he better understood the associated duties.
After their initial conversation, Goins had pressed Morgan to provide his evidence and theories to several more audiences. Almost all of the men with whom he spoke were as engaged as the judge had been. No one was shocked, or even surprised.
He felt like a prophet speaking in tongues only others could understand.
Still, it was not his place to ask. Not when serious-faced men with sword-sharp eyes kept questioning him about everything from the construction of refracting telescopes to the proper maintenance of spectrographic analyzers. Oddly, none of them questioned his basic observations, or his conclusions.
It was increasingly clear to Morgan that he was telling some of these men a secret to which they were already privy. That was frightening. The rest simply took in what he said, then moved on.
Within hours, the ship was readied, and his impromptu seminars on astronomy, photography, and light had moved aboard Clear Mountain. Then suddenly, shortly after dusk, they were done with him. Everyone retreated to some meeting room belowdecks. Morgan was left to drink alone, attended only by a handful of solicitous stewards who went conspicuously well-armed as they brought him drinks, canapés, and cigars.
He’d never even learned any name but Goins’. He did not know where they were bound, or why. No one had told him anything. Only asked him endless questions, which had swiftly become repetitive.