The Madness Project (The Madness Method) (7 page)

His looks dressed the part of the fool too.  Tonight he had
his flame-red hair slicked flat onto his head, all but the little tufts over
his ears that had been groomed to stand out in stiff wisps. 
Intentionally-mussed
,
he had informed my mother on one occasion.  Because it was, after all, possible
for one to look
too
perfect.

“My dear P-p-prince Tarik,” Batar said eventually, between
dainty sips of soup.  “How delightful to celebrate your b-b-birthday tomorrow! 
I hear it is to be an especially
sh
pectacular event, is it so?”

I said stiffly, “I must wait for your judgment, Minister, to
say if it’s so.”

Batar’s pasty face erupted into a magnanimous smile, and he
even flourished his hand in acknowledgement.  I glanced at my mother and almost
grinned—her expression wavered somewhere between approval and barely stifled
amusement.

“Your Majesty,” Batar said, turning to my father.  “Will the
royal family be arriving in the new motor-carriage for tomorrow’s
fes-fes-tivities?  Gad, it will make such a
shight!
”

Griff snorted soup—into his napkin, luckily, and not onto
Batar.  But my father just leveled a cool gaze on the Court Minister and gave
him his smallest courtesy smile before turning back to his conversation with
Minister Farro.

“I believe so,” Mother said, graciously sparing Batar the
embarrassment of being ignored.  “His Majesty wishes the people to see the
vehicle more often, so we have scheduled a morning driving tour through the
city.”

I stifled a groan.  That was the first I’d heard about it.

“South…” Griff whispered.  “Getaway?”

I speared him a dangerous glare and didn’t answer.  My
father and Minister Farro seemed to be discussing Rivano, and I desperately
wanted everyone else to quiet down so I could listen.  But the way my father
kept glancing my way, I couldn’t tell if I’d annoyed him by listening in, or if
he wished to include me.  In either case, his attention made me dreadfully
nervous.

“Oh,
oh
,” Batar said, catching a drift of my father’s
conversation.  “You’re not talking about that b-b-beastly Rivano fellow, are
you?  Gad, seems to be all anyone talks about these days.  Well,” he added,
with a little weaving of his head, “you know. 
People
.  People who
know
. 
P-p-positively exhausting.  What’s all the bother about him, anyway?  Some
dark, gloomy fellow preaching end-times fairy stories or some such?  I never
can tell.”

“Oh dear,” Griff said under his breath, “that sounds
p-p-positively dreadful!”

“No, no,” I countered.  “
Sh
plendid, my d-d-dear
Farro…fellow. 
Shplendid
.”

Batar didn’t notice us mocking him, but Griff burst into
laughter and that silenced everyone at table.  Minister Farro scowled fiercely
at his son—a look I never envied—and my mother gave me a pointed glance.  My
cheeks warmed, and I dropped my gaze to study the exact texture and composition
of my broiled duck.

“It’s more than just preaching now,” Minister Farro said. 
He had a rather high voice for a man, rasping around the edges with a wolfish
snarl.  “Some people are saying he’s thrown in with the anarchists, though who
can say why.”

“But what does the dreary fellow p-p-possibly want?  He’s in
no danger!  He can believe as he chooses, even if he is
sh
tuck in
ancient history.  Gods and
thayoi
and
tazimy
…what a b-b-bother.”

I couldn’t hide a snort of laughter, because no one really
talked about daemons or dragons any more, but Griff said, “Sure, he can believe
what he likes.  In private.”

I glanced at him in surprise.  Griff never seemed to care
much about politics, or about much besides himself for that matter, but he
leaned forward now, eyes bright and challenging.

“In p-p-private, of course,” Batar said, smiling
beatifically across at us.  “Every man’s house is his castle, I dare say.”

“Except those who don’t have a house,” I blurted—and this
time I surprised myself, because my mind flashed back to the Jixy girl’s muddy
face and startling dark eyes.

“What a thing to say!” my mother exclaimed.

“I only mean that those who live in the streets don’t have
that luxury.  Everything they say is in public.”

Batar nodded, his eyes half-closed.  I knew that look.  Pure
condescension, because in his eyes I was still a child who couldn’t possible
have a meaningful opinion on the matter.  I bristled. 

“Of course, you know he’s right,” my father said, eyeing
Batar coolly.

I bit my tongue in surprise.

“Well,” Batar said, after an awkward moment passed.  “That
may be.  But what are his
p-p-plans?
”

“Plans?”  My father snorted.  “I doubt he has much planned
besides riling the people up for no reason.”

Farro shook his head.  “Whatever he intends, he won’t get
anywhere if he can’t unite the Jixies, and they’re not exactly the submissive
type.”

“Any word from the north?” Batar asked.

“Not a noise,” my father said.  “Istia is sending an
ambassador in a few weeks, but I have no hopes for it.  Especially not after
the death of Godar Eyid.  Bunch of damned stubborn wildings, that lot.”

“What’s going on in Istia?” Griff asked me.

“The mainland kingdoms want them to sign an accord,” I
said.  “Something about legislating restrictions on Jixies, I really don’t
know.  But you know how they are.  They’ll never sign.”

“What about that Eyid fellow?”

My father eyed Griff over the rim of his wine glass.  “He
was their First Chief and head of their Parliament.  Basically the Istian
equivalent of a king, but the Godar is a religious figure too.  And they’re
accusing us of assassinating him.”

Griff’s eyes lit up.  “Oh?  How did he die?  Did we do it?”

“Honestly,” my mother said, her face rather grey.  She
speared a stern look at my father.  “Are we discussing a murder at the dinner
table?  Politics and intrigue are bad enough, but murder is simply not a topic
for polite conversation.”

My father nodded with a wry smile.  “True enough.  No more
talk of assassinations.”

“Quite a horrid place, Istia,” Batar said.  “Regulate
Jixies?  Never!  They actually honor the b-b-beastly creatures.  The Godar was
a f-f-filthy Jixy himself.”  He let his spoon clatter into his bowl, fluttering
his fingers in agitation.  “It’s p-p-positively monstrous!”

“Not your idea of civilization?” I asked.

“Oh, gracious, no,” he said.  “Murderers and conspirators,
that’s all that island amounts to.”  He gave a little shudder and turned to
Griff.  “I hear you are f-f-flying aeroplanes now, Mr. Farro, at long last.  Is
it true?”

Griff nodded with a lopsided, if somewhat pale, grin.

“Any chance your father will be granting you a commission in
the P-p-patrol anytime soon?” Batar asked, nodding in Minister Farro’s
direction.

“I’m a better flier than anyone else in the skies,” Griff
said hotly.  “I always tell him it’s a shame to waste a good machine.”

Batar smiled.  “Indeed.  D’you know, I heard Dr. Alokin
believes he can mount an auto-firing gun onto your aeroplanes.  Isn’t that
socking
?”

I almost choked on my broiled duck.  Batar had mastered not
only an affected stutter on top of society’s habit of
sh
-ing their s’s,
but he’d reversed it too.  I’d never heard anything quite so stupid.

Griff didn’t seem to notice, for once.  Get him talking
about flying and flying machines, and he wouldn’t notice if your hair was
blue.  I made a mental note to try it some time, if I ever got the nerve to use
my skill again.

Somewhere between dessert and aperitifs, I made my escape. 
As I headed out of the hall, I heard Griff excuse himself from Batar’s
conversation to follow me.  Of course he would.  Griff could stomach only so
much of the Court Minister, even discussing aeronautics. 

I made my way to the Queen’s Parlor and headed for the
balcony which, like most balconies in Brinmark, was covered to ward away the
worst of the inconstant weather.  An attendant followed me all the way to the
double doors trying to offer me a fur wrap, but I waved him away and faced the
frigid night in just my suit jacket.  A thin mist shivered down over the city,
blurring everything below so that even the street lamps seemed to rain light. 
Every now and then I heard the sharp scrape and hiss of sleet on the roof and
stone balustrade.

“What d’you know,” Griff said, strolling out onto the
balcony, hands in his pockets.  “You might get snow for your birthday this
year.”

“Doubt it.”

“Ah, look, I can see the lights of the Station from here.”

“Remarkable,” I said.  “They’re in the same place they were
last night.”

“Don’t be such a bore,” Griff said, sniffling.  “Beastly
cold.”

“If I hear you call something beastly again, Farro, I’ll
throw you off the balcony.”  I slanted him a sidelong glance.  “Next thing you
know you’ll be saying
b-b-beastly
.”

“Bah.  What a p-p-preposterous idea.”

I smiled.

“Gad, Tarik, you’re in a foul mood,” Griff said after a
while.  “Was your duck overcooked or something?”

I glared at him, but didn’t care to reply.  Anxiety wormed
through me—thinking of my father’s attention at table, anticipating the talk he
wanted to have with me.  I dreaded that more than anything, but couldn’t come
up with any sort of plan for escaping that didn’t involve fleeing to South Brinmark.

I sighed and dragged my hand through my hair, ruining
Liman’s careful work with rather murderous intent.  Griff dropped his elbows on
the rail and leaned out until the rain attacked him.

“I can still call for the horses, you know.”

“Really, Farro?  You think that’s what’s got me bothered?”

“Well, how the hell am I to know when you won’t tell me
anything?” Griff cried, reddening.  “I don’t understand what’s got you so
unscrewed.  When’ve you ever declined a dance in the dark?”

I stared at my hands, white from the cold.  How could I
explain my terror of going among the Jixies, when any chance bump could betray
my secret to the world?

“Why not go somewhere else?”

“The usual places?”  He made a little noise, all annoyance
and boredom.  “How p-p-positively boring.  You’re getting boring in your old
age.  Weren’t you supposed to be off somewhere today?”

“Zagger intercepted me, or believe me, I wouldn’t be
standing here right now,” I said, gloomy.  I straightened up and said, stern
now, “But southside is a no.  It’s not a discussion.”

He rolled his eyes and mocked a bow.  “Yes, Your Highness. 
Whatever you say, Your Highness.”

I shot him a dark look and said nothing.

“Sometimes…” he started, then scowled, kicking at the stone
railing.  “Feels as though I hardly know you these days.”

I eyed him, curious.  I’d never imagined he had enough
awareness of his surroundings to notice.  Maybe I wasn’t the only one changing.

“Pardon me, Your Highness.”

We both turned as a footman stepped out onto the balcony
behind us.  He gave me a formal bow, then turned to Griff.

“My lord, your coach is waiting for you.”

Griff arched a brow.  “Already?  Well, that’s different.”

“Maybe your father said something annoying.  A family trait,
possibly?”

Griff clenched his fist, but he knew better than to slug my
arm with one of my servants standing right in front of us.  He wagged his
finger reproachfully at me.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, and disappeared into the
palace.

I turned to the footman.  “Yes?”

“Your father wishes to see you, Your Highness.”

Chapter 7 — Hayli

One of the new kids sat perched up on the gate post when I
slunk back to the Hole, just as I’d hoped.  I’d seen him around before, but he
didn’t know me much.  We knew each other’s faces and I sort of thought he might
be a mage like me, but he sure didn’t know I was.  And he couldn’t possibly
know where I’d been, or what it meant that I’d come back all alone.

I tipped my cap as I passed and he gave me a gappy grin, his
hands round his knees and his newsboy cap twisted halfway wrong to the side. 
He was wraith thin and no bigger than a wee chipmunk, and I didn’t imagine he
could ward off an ounce of danger even if he wanted to.  Luckily, guard duty
was mostly just a way to keep the wee skitters out of mischief for a bit,
because no one ever really came by unless they had reason to.  

Not all of South Brinmark was as dead and quiet as our
little corner, but I imagined Kantian had picked this old factory for our
headquarters for just that reason.  It wasn’t much to look at.  Windows all
knocked out, dead ivy whispering and chittering against the walls as the wind
blew in hard from the north.  Electric lights hadn’t come this far south yet,
so we just had one sputtery gas lamp inside the front enclosure that sometimes
went out.  Tonight it oozed a greasy red light over the cobblestone drive that
didn’t show much, just the faded edges of the factory’s name written in
weathered paint.