Despite Sweet William's obvious discontent, the party then fell into line behind Orlando and Nefertiti. "Now, act calm!" the tall woman said as she reached for the door.
The guards stepped back as the guests filed out. Orlando saw with approval that Fredericks, though unhappy, was maintaining a stiff but impenetrable expression. Some of the others, however, were not hiding their anxiety quite so well, and the proximity of the sharp-eyed guards was not helping matters. Someone behind Orlando was trying to choke back a sob; the guards heard it, too, judging by the way their heads were swiveling to find the source of the noise.
Orlando stepped toward what he guessed was the captain, the guard with the highest helmet and longest and most brilliant feathered cape. He searched his game-playing lexicon for words that sounded properly melodramatic.
"Our requests were refused," he said. "The great and holy one, in his wisdom, has told us the time is not yet correct" He hoped he sounded both disappointed and yet honored beyond belief even to have been granted an audience. "Blessed is he."
The guard captain cocked an eyebrow. Sweet William stepped forward, all tassels and points, and the captain's other eyebrow went up as well, while Orlando's heart traveled in the opposite direction. "Yes, blessed is he," said the apparition in black, with a fairly convincing stab at humility. "In fact, our poor embassy has angered him, and while he has kindly restrained his wrath so that we may return to our country and tell our masters the God-King's will, his displeasure with our masters is great. He commands that he will not be disturbed until sunset."
Mentally, Orlando put a check beside Sweet William's name. The guy was quick and smooth when he wanted to be, you had to give him that.
The captain did not seem entirely convinced. He fingered the stone blade of an ax that despite evidence of more modern technologies all around, did not look at all ceremonial. "But it is already sunset."
"Ah," said Sweet William, momentarily nonplussed. "Sunset"
Orlando jumped in. "Our command of your tongue is very poor. Doubtless the God-King meant 'sunrise.' In any case, he did not wish to be disturbed." Orlando leaned closer, in best conspiratorial fashion. "A word to the wise. He was very, very unhappy. I would not want to be the man who interrupted his thoughts and made him even more unhappy."
The captain nodded slightly, still frowning. Orlando rejoined the line at the back, just behind Sweet William.
"Not bad, chuck," William stage-whispered over his shoulder when they were out of earshot."We could be a team—end of the pier, leave 'em laughing. You sing?"
"Keep walking," said Orlando.
When they reached the rotunda just inside the front doors, Orlando hurried forward. The tall woman was clearly chafing at the slow pace of her disabled friend, but was doing her best to maintain an air of deliberate dignity.
"Do you know where we're going from here?" Orlando asked in a whisper.
"Not a clue." She looked at him briefly. "What is your name? You said, but I've forgotten."
"Orlando. What's yours?"
She hesitated, then said: "Oh, God, what difference does it make now? Renie."
Orlando nodded. "I've been calling you Nefertiti. Renie is easier."
She gave him a strange look, then after a moment looked down at her long-fingered hand. "Ah. The sim. Right." She glanced up. The huge doors loomed. "Now what? Do we just mill around in front trying to figure out where the docks are? But even if we find out, how do we get there? I know they have buses—I rode on one—but somehow it seems like a strange idea trying to escape for your life by bus."
Orlando pushed at the doors, but could not get them open. Fredericks added his weight and they swung wide, revealing a mall lined with streetlamps stretching out from the bottom of the wide staircase.
Orlando was already feeling a little short of breath. "Escaping by bus won't be the strangest thing that's happened to us so far," he said.
"And it probably won't be the worst either," noted Fredericks.
Felix Jongleur, these days more frequently known as Osiris, Lord of Life and Death, was trying to decide where he was.
This was not the confusion of someone stupefied or geographically confused, but rather a fairly difficult philosophical proposition; in fact, it was a question with which he often wrestled in idle moments.
What he saw all around him was the stark grandeur of the Western Palace, its looming windows filled with eternal twilight. Flanking the table before him stretched the double line of animal faces that represented his collaborators, the Ennead. But even as he took a deep, contemplative breath in the Western Palace, his actual flesh-and-blood lungs were doing their work in a sealed hyperbaric chamber within the highest tower of his secluded Louisiana estate, along with the rest of his body. (The lungs were aided in their labors by some of the finest medical equipment that money could buy, for the god's lungs were very, very old, but that was the crux of an entirely different metaphysical enquiry.) So as always, the question remained this: where was he, Felix Jongleur—that which observed, the hot white point at the center of the candle flame?
To the extent that his actual body was located in the real world, he was in the southernmost part of the United States. But his mind lived almost entirely in virtual worlds, mostly within his favorite, an imaginary Egypt, complete with a pantheon of gods over which he reigned. So where was he, truly? On the shores of Louisiana's Lake Borgne, in a Gothic fantasy castle built on reclaimed swampland? On an electronic network, in an even more fantastic castle in Egypt's mythical West? Or in some other place more difficult to name or locate?
Jongleur stifled a small sigh. On this day, such maundering was a sign of nearly unforgivable weakness. He was a little anxious, although that was scarcely surprising: what happened in this gathering would affect not only his own life's ambition, but quite possibly the very history of humankind. The Grail Project, when completed, would have almost unbelievable ramifications, so it was critical he retain control: his own determined vision had prevailed for so long that the Project might well fail without him.
He wondered if some of the resistance to his long rule over the Brotherhood might be nothing more than the craving for novelty. For all their wealth and immense personal power, the Ennead had proven themselves to possess many other quite human frailties, and it was difficult to retain patience for a project that had stretched over so many years.
Perhaps he hadn't given them enough showmanship lately.
He was distracted by a movement down the table. A grotesque form with the shining head of a beetle rose and coughed politely. "If we may begin?"
Jongleur was again Osiris. The Lord of Life and Death inclined his head.
"First of all," the beetle-man said, "it is a pleasure to be in your company once more—to be among equals." The round brown head turned to make a careful survey. The god could barely refrain from laughing out loud at the attempts at political dignity, seriously undercut by goggling opaque eyes and quivering mandibles. Osiris had chosen Ricardo Klement's god-persona well: the beetle Khepera was an aspect of the solar deity, but for all that, he was still a dung beetle—a creature that spent its life rolling little balls of shit, which described the Argentinian perfectly. "We have much to discuss today, so I will not take up time with unnecessary talk." Klement bobbed like a shopkeeping insect out of a children's book—a particularly apt simile, since his immense fortune had come out of black market organ-farming.
"Then don't." Sekhmet shot her claws and daintily scratched her chin. "What is your business?"
If the beetle had possessed recognizable facial features, the look he gave her might have been more effective. "I would like to ask the chairman for a progress report on the Sky God Project"
Osiris swallowed another chuckle. The Argentinian had made a complete nuisance of himself about Sky God on the grounds that it was in his own territory, offering bad advice and useless personal recommendations. Osiris had made a deliberate effort to seem grateful for all this help, though. A vot
e was a vote, after all.
"Thanks in large part to you, Ricardo, things are going very well indeed. I expect to have an update before the meeting is over, so if you will allow me to postpone any deeper discussion until then. . . ?"
"Of course. Chairman." The beetle-man bowed and settled back into his chair.
Osiris watched Ptah and Horus, who were very still. He suspected that the Americans were engaged in a little sidebar communication, and wondered what exactly had made them so eager to push forward the date of this month's meeting.
The normal business went swiftly—a consortium to be organized, the better to bypass certain UN restrictions on the transshipment of precious metals; a newly privatized power grid in West Africa to be bought at an advantageous price; a few witnesses in an Indian court case to be bribed or removed. Osiris was beginning to think he might have overestimated his American rivals. He expected good results from Colombia at any time, and was considering how best to orchestrate the announcement when yellow-faced Ptah abruptly stood.
"Before we finish, Chairman, there is one thing more."
The god stiffened for a practically imperceptible moment "Yes?"
"Last meeting, we had some conversation about the lost subject, if you recall—the one who somehow disappeared within the Grail system. Some information has developed in-house at TMX, so we thought it would be a good time for you to tell us how your own investigation of the incident is going." His smile was tight-lipped but wide. "That way, the Brotherhood will be updated and we can share necessary information."
So. The wire was now visible, which meant that Wells and Yacoubian must think that the snare was unavoidable. Osiris let his mind run quickly through the latest developments, which were few. What was their angle?
"I have agents operating within the system, as you know," he said. "They have made a few incomplete identifications—none of which, unfortunately, has been good enough to trigger a retrieval. It's likely that they were just spikes of statistical similarity." He turned to focus his remarks on Thoth, Sekhmet, and the rest of the Asian contingent: Osiris knew that the Asians liked personal guarantees. "Still, I have every confidence—every confidence—we will have results before too long." He turned back to Ptah, spreading his hands like a father teasing his young and overeager sons. "Now, what have you to add to this?"
"During a TMX security check—about a totally unrelated matter, as it happens—we ran into some anomalies in the access records for the Grail Project. To put it simply, there has been improper access." Ptah said it gravely, and was rewarded by appropriate noises of concern from around the table. "Please note I said 'improper' rather than 'unauthorized.' Yes, of course you're all shocked. You should be. Our chairman will agree that the energy and resources put into protecting the integrity of the Grail Project, not to mention its secrecy, have been immense—and, we thought, unbeatable."
Osiris remained silent. He did not like the direction this was going. For Wells to admit a security breach in his own operation in front of the assembled elite of the Brotherhood meant he thought he had something he could turn to his advantage—otherwise, he would simply have buried it. The escaped subject mattered little to anyone but Osiris.
"This is very bad." Sobek's crocodile head thrust forward. "Very bad. How could this happen?"
"There is only one way to get access to the system," explained Ptah. "And that is with command permission from myself or the chairman. "He sketched a gently mocking bow toward Osiris. "Even those employees of mine or the chairman's who work with the Project every day must still receive permission before they begin their shift, and again if they come back after logging off for a break. This permission is in the form of a perpetually changing code key, generated by sealed black box code generators. There are only two. I have one. The chairman has the other."
Sobek was nodding his long head up and down. The ruler of a West African nation, which he and his family had wrung dry of gold and blood for decades, he understood the concept of centralization of authority very well. "Get to the point. What does this have to do with someone interfering with our project?"
"Just as access to the system is carefully limited, so any adjustment to the system must also come with code authorization from one of the two of us." Ptah was speaking carefully for the benefit of those like Sobek whose place in the Brotherhood had less to do with technical expertise than with available resources, "If the escape of the subject was not a freak accident, then it had to have been directed. If directed, the action itself would have needed approval. The system will allow no outside modification that does not come with approval."
Osiris was still mystified, but he could feel Ptah moving closer to what he seemed to think was some kind of mortal blow. "I think we all have the gist now," he said out loud. "Perhaps you could move from the general to the specific. What exactly have you discovered?"
Horus now stood, golden eyes glinting. "We discovered anomalies, that's what we discovered. Actions taken by two different TMX employees in the week before the subject—or whatever you want to call him—escaped." The American general had all the subtlety of a cattle stampede; Osiris decided that Wells must feel fairly confident if he was going to let his crony handle part of the attack, especially if Wells' own employees were somehow to blame. "Although we can't figure out yet exactly how these two helped to drop the subject off our radar and lose him in the system, we're pretty damn confident that that's what happened. There is no other explanation for the actions they took, no other discernible results, and we can't find any reason for them to have taken those actions, either. Well, that's not strictly true. Actually, there was quite a good reason for them to do what they did."
The Lord of Life and Death was not going to let any upstart garner the benefit of dramatic pauses. "We are all fascinated, I assure you. Go on."
"They were both acting under coded orders from the chairman." Horus turned from the table at large to focus on Osiris. "From you."
Osiris remained absolutely still. Blustering would do nothing to silence the whispers or still the doubts. "What are you suggesting?"
"You tell us. Chairman." This was Ptah, with more than a hint of satisfaction. "You tell us how a subject—a subject that you wanted in the system in the first place, although you didn't bother to share your reasons with us—was cut free and released from surveillance by coded orders that only you can generate."
"Yeah," said Horus, unable to resist grinding the point home, "let us know, would you? An awful lot of people have invested an awful lot of money in this project. They might want to know if you've decided to make it your personal playground."
Osiris could feel the shock at the table, the rising anger and unhappiness, much of it directed at himself. Even Thoth, usually placid to the point of near-invisibility, was shifting in his chair.
"Am I to understand you are accusing me of this? Of engineering the escape of this subject? And you expect me to react to this dangerous nonsense with no evidence for it but your own words?"
"Let's not be hasty," said Ptah silkily. Osiris thought he might already be regretting the slack in Yacoubian's leash. "We have not formally accused you of anything. But we freely make our investigation records available to the Brotherhood, and they do raise some grave questions." He gestured, and a small glowing dot appeared before each of the participants, indicating the available files. "I think the burden of proof is on you, Chairman, at least to explain how your code wound up on orders that have no other visible purpose than to facilitate the subject's escape."
Underneath the permanent half-smile of his mask, Osiris employed the long pause to quickly range through the reports Wells had just made available. The details were uncomfortable.
"There is more here than simply concern over this subject," he said at last. He would have a far better chance if he could inject a note of the personal into things—the Americans were not terribly popular. "Am I right in thinking that you feel my leadership is somehow lacking?" He turned to the table at larg
e. "Surely you have all seen our comrade's impatience with my direction. Ptah the Artificer was the cleverest of Egypt's gods, and our own version is equally clever. Certainly, he must often feel that he could do a better job, that if he could only dislodge me, he and bold Horus could bring a certain vigor to the Brotherhood's leadership." He let his voice drop a bitter degree. "He is a fool, of course."
"Please, Chairman." Wells sounded amused."This is rhetoric. We need answers."
"I am never in as much of a hurry as you are." Osiris assumed his calmest tones. "However, sometimes I arrive at the same positions as you do, even if my pace brings me there more slowly. This is one of those times."
"What are you talking about?" Now Ptah was the one to sound off-balance.
"Simply this. If what you say is correct, then I do not deserve the confidence of the Brotherhood. We agree on that. Neither can the Project go forward without solidarity among us. So I propose that we examine the matter as fully as we can, examining all the evidence, and then put the matter to a vote. Today. If the Brotherhood votes against me, I will step down immediately. Agreed?"
Horus nodded briskly. "Sounds fair." Ptah also agreed, but a little more slowly, sniffing for a trap. Osiris had no trap to set—he was still rather dumbfounded by the revelations of the last few minutes—but he had decided a long time ago that it was better to die with your teeth in your enemy's throat than to slink away. As yet, he had never had to do either.
"First," he said, "while your report seems admirably thorough, I'm sure that the Brotherhood would like to hear from the two employees in person." He received nods from his other guests, which he accepted with a courtly inclination of his own masked head. "You have detained them, of course."