Too Like the Lightning (39 page)

“Of course, Thisbe Saneer,” Chagatai repeated. “I should have placed you at once. Big name in smelltracks. You invented something major, what was it? Using some kind of neutral smell that can make a quick transition from a negative emotion smell to a positive emotion smell to make scene changes crisper?”

“That's it exactly. They call it Thisbe's Rinse.” The witch glowed here, for such compliments are rare as diamonds for this virtuoso whose art aims for the audience not to notice its existence. The smelltrack is as indispensable as the soundtrack, supporting the emotion of the scene with a vocabulary of scents coded to happy, sad, despairing, aroused, but the music you remember, never the smells, which aim to be too subtle to be named, like the scent which makes you feel at home when you return to the neighborhood where you grew up, even if the house is gone. Smell, science tell us, reaches the brain more directly than any other sense, and if you've ever watched a film with a stuffy nose you have surely found it as emotionless as if on mute.

“Thisbe's Rinse, that's right.” Chagatai was glowing. “Orland Vives called it the biggest breakthrough in moviemaking since Griffincam.”

“Orland and about four other people. You must be a real movie buff.”

“More a movie trivia buff. I can't watch movies.
Modo mundo.
”

There was a conversation stopper. “Oh.”

“I didn't kill a Utopian or anything,” she added quickly, waving her hands as if to erase her last words. “This is a different sort of
modo mundo.
”

They tried their best but couldn't leave it there. “I thought the
modo mundo
sentence only existed for people who kill Utopians. They invented it. That's the point.”

“Sorry, this is always hard to explain.” I can envision Chagatai clearly here, reaching to scratch her silver-sleeked hair, remembering the butter on her fingers just in time. “I wasn't legally sentenced to
modo mundo,
just, the effect is the same. It's not that I'm not allowed to read or watch fiction, it's that I can't.”

“You can't?”

“I can't.”

“Why not?”

She tried to hide by returning to her roast, layering a paste of spice and onion on the buttered meat. “Well, five years ago I wanted to impress a date who was into old books, so I took a very valuable old manuscript from T.M.'s library without asking and, through a long series of mishaps, about half of which were my fault, it was ripped apart and eaten by rats.”

“What? How?”

“The full story is longer than it is interesting. Anyway, I had no excuse, and I was afraid I'd be thrown out and T.M. would demand their money back. Instead T.M. imposed
modo mundo.
”

“They can't do that!” the Cousin cried again. “For losing a book? That's gross manipulation of the law, like making someone a Servicer for breaking a tea set.”

“That could happen with a sufficiently valuable tea set. But no, it's not a legal sentence, T.M. just did it.” Chagatai tried to snap her fingers, but onion butter made them slick. “Just like that.”

“Just like that?” Thisbe repeated. “How?”

The Blacklaw sighed. “Look, I can describe it to you, and it'll bother you when you read or watch fiction for the next week or two, but then it'll wear off, since it's different when I say it from when T.M. said it. Is that okay with you? It will wear off.”

Carlyle looked to Thisbe. “Um, sure. Go ahead.”

“Next time T.M. came home I explained what happened. We were in the study and they were reading, and I remember they put down their book and turned around and looked at me while I was talking—that's unusual, by the way, actually turning toward me or anybody, it's not their way. They looked at me and said: ‘Observe, Chagatai, the protagonist of every work of fiction is Humanity, and the antagonist is God.'”

Carlyle and Thisbe waited raptly. “And?”

“That's it. Just, the way T.M. said it, from then on when I would try to read a book or watch a film, all I could see was humanity struggling in vain against a cold and arbitrary God. Or being unfairly helped by a saccharinely indulgent God. Or being toyed with by an abusive toddler God. I hated it. I can physically read a work of fiction but it's agony, even the lightest comedy. Histories and biographies are nearly as bad. That's why I watch light things like the Oscars. It's hard to read God into the Oscars much.”

Even describing this to me Carlyle's fists clenched. “People aren't supposed to talk about religion like that.”

Chagatai took the steaming strudel from the oven. “Well, it's sure learned me not to step out of line again. That manuscript was irreplaceable. T.M. would've been within their rights to chuck me out and leave me to die, but they didn't.
Modo mundo
makes sense too, once you think about it a long time.”

Can you imagine Carlyle scowling here? “Not to me, it doesn't.”

“I said once you think about it a long time. The Utopians' idea with
modo mundo
is that, if you killed a Utopian, you destroyed their world, their nowhere, their ideas, their fiction, since they all invent stuff even if they don't all publish. You destroyed a potential other world, so you get banished to this one and don't get to go to any other worlds anymore. I think what T.M. was trying to communicate was that destroying a manuscript is effectively the same thing, destroying somebody's creation, the remnant of the world they created, even if they've been dead a thousand years.” She took a saucepan from the stove and drizzled a trail of honey-scented glaze over the strudel before pouring the rest across the roast. “I'd never thought so seriously about the manuscripts before, but I sure take good care of them now.”

Strudel could not placate Carlyle. “They can't just go around exploiting and manipulating people's views of God like that.”

“That's what my sensayer says too, but you know what?”

“What?”

“That one line of T.M.'s has made me think a lot more about theology than my sensayer has. A sensayer is, what, a couple hours a month? This is all day.”

“A sensayer doesn't do it against your will!” Carlyle shot back. “A sensayer doesn't do it to hurt you or punish you. A sensayer's trained, a sensayer's careful, and a sensayer would never…” He caught himself.

“What?” Chagatai sprinkled a mixture of cornmeal and fine-ground sausage over the honeyed onion butter on the roast, the last step before rolling the whole concoction like a scroll. “A sensayer would never…?”

Carlyle summoned his grimmest tone, still light despite himself. “Does J.E.D.D. Mason proselytize?”

“What?”

“Has J.E.D.D. Mason ever told you what religion they believe in? Have they tried to get you to convert?”

Chagatai's face grew chill.

“They've already crossed a lot of lines,” Carlyle pushed. “Exploiting your theology, these names too, Martin, Dominic. This is serious, a First Law question; on behalf of the Conclave I have to know. Has J.E.D.D. Mason tried to convert you to a secret organized religion? Is that what's going on?”

The true medieval iron of a Blacklaw's gaze turned now on Carlyle. “Do you think I would stay in a house with a boss who broke the First Law?”

“Then, they haven't?”

“Of course not.” The iron faded now behind a smile. “One of the first conversations I had with T.M. seven years ago was them warning me never to bring up theology in this house, or to speculate about T.M.'s, or their valet would kill me.”

“Valet?”

“Dominic.”

Thisbe sat up stiff. “They threatened you?”

“No, it was a friendly warning. Dominic's a Blacklaw too, and mad possessive, and already has it in for me for edging in on the privilege of polishing T.M.'s boots and changing their sheets and all that. T.M. says they want Dominic for more important work than housekeeping, but it's an old fight between the pair that'll probably never finish. I try not to get involved, but if I muscled in on sensayery-business with T.M. too, then smart money says I'd wake up dead.”

“J.E.D.D. Mason's sensayer … is also their valet and … Are they…” Carlyle took a forkful of strudel, hoping to keep himself from asking something rash. The strudel, he remembers, was exquisite, but sweetness on the tongue cannot drive gall from the mind. “Excuse me, where did you say your bathroom was?”

“Second on the left.”

From here I have less detail, for Thisbe and Chagatai do a poor job reconstructing scenes. Thisbe asked Chagatai if J.E.D.D. Mason had any hobbies or interests apart from work and messing with people's theology. Chagatai answered that J.E.D.D. Mason's most common activities, at least at home, were reading, conducting business over His tracker, sitting perfectly still doing nothing, and, the all-time favorite, lying perfectly still doing nothing.

“Sleeping?” she suggested.

“Sometimes,” the Blacklaw answered. “Often not.”

Meanwhile, in the bland but tasteful bathroom, Carlyle, in a rare moment of lie becoming truth, filed a quick report to the Sensayer's Conclave of his deep concerns regarding Dominic Seneschal. Then, cleansed by the feeling of good action, he searched the house. He reviewed the hall of icons first, then the sitting room, with its fireplace, sofas, and coffee table, all wood and silk and ornament to thrill an antiquarian, but with a starkness to it, a show room, not a room for living. In the library he caught the two students admiring a spider they had trapped under a cup, and in the back room he heard sweet things about me from the grateful rescued “young thing.” (Sometimes we Servicers retain old business from our dark days, reader, and sometimes we help each other solve it.) Chagatai's bedroom was easy to spot by its stacks of cookbooks and tomorrow's suit ready to go, and the guest bedrooms were clear by their suitcases. That left only one door to try.

“There you are!” Thisbe appeared behind Carlyle just as he opened it. “I told Chagatai we needed to head out. I'm on duty soon. Did you have a good snoop?”

Carlyle stood frozen, staring, unable to release the knob. “Their bedroom.”

“What?”

“This is J.E.D.D. Mason's bedroom.”

Carlyle pulled the door back. A mattress with plain sheets lay on the floor, without blanket, pillow or bed frame. The closet door, ajar, revealed six shirts on hangers, the antique black He always wore. And nothing more.

“That's kind of scary,” Thisbe admitted, checking the empty drawers. “Though it's less scary knowing they don't really live here.”

Carlyle stared in silence for some moments. “No. The rest of the rooms are comfortable, guest-ready. This … this has to be their preference.”

They thought on that for some moments, before Thisbe turned dark eyes again on the sensayer. “I could tell you almost lost it over what they said about Dominic.”

Carlyle flinched. “Sensayer and valet, and possessive, and probably a bash'mate too, or worse. All the earmarks of unhealthy. It would be scary anywhere, but, so close to major powers, a cult could be the kind of disaster we're most afraid of. J.E.D.D. Mason has access to the Emperor. To Andō. To everything.”

Thisbe gave a long frown. “You're right to be worried. And you're right that it's a First Law issue, but the danger of a cult is a lot more … long-term than the danger of eight hundred million cars all shutting down tomorrow, and also a lot less important than what threat this might pose to a certain kid. My questions trump yours, and you need to stay calm so I can keep coaxing out the answers we're really here for. You jump on the conversation like that again and I'll send you home and go to Paris on my own. Understood?”

Objections parted his lips, but stopped there. “Yes. You're right.”

“Are you ready to go back in there? I'm sure I can coast on this bluff a while longer, but you look like you're struggling.”

“I'm fine,” Carlyle resolved. “I'll stay. Though this Blacklaw's main feature seems to be knowing as little as possible about J.E.D.D. Mason's family and political life. Should we move on toward Paris before someone catches us here?”

She considered, but shook her head, black hair flowing like oil. “I want to see if this roast really can lure in that Dominic. Plus our chef says there's a step coming up which we can eat, not the final thing but an intermediate thing that involves almonds, and smells incredible.”

The growl of Carlyle's tummy decided for him. “Excellent!”

“One thing.” She stopped him in the doorway. “After I'm done and satisfied with my investigation,
then
you report this to the Sensayer's Conclave, not before. I don't want people getting poked and clamming up, not with so much at risk.”

Carlyle winced as he described this part. “Of course, Thisbe. You have my word.”

It is possible to delete reports sent to the Conclave. It is not possible, amid the many lies, to be quite certain who saw it before Carlyle deleted it.

 

C
HAPTER THE
TWENTIETH

A Monster in the House

Gunfire could not have spooked me so completely as Bridger's silence when I called to check on him after my hours in the Censor's office. Night's westward march had advanced from Tōgenkyō as far as Europe, and I had been ordered to get some hours' sleep, but it did not occur to me that I was sacrificing something as I lied my way into a car. Bridger did not answer. The Major did not answer. No one answered for that agonizing hour's flight across the unyielding Atlantic. Fears drowned me so completely I did not even mark when midnight touched Western Europe and set the Seven-Ten lists free into the world. I did not call Thisbe. I almost did, but what if it was something with her bash'? The thief again? Or the opposite, police? Those were my justifications. Really, I think, I was angry at Thisbe forcing out what I had hidden so long, my Tocqueville. It was the kind of anger we create to mask our guilt.