Cehrazad’s grandmother had three daughters, and all three married the same man; when the third wedding was over, she disappeared. Cehrazad’s father is so important in the city’s administration that he wears his official mask, Loong, even at home. None of the children have ever seen his underface. Nor do they know precisely which mother gave birth to whom.
Dunyazad wouldn’t admit it, but Cehrazad knows she’s gone to find their grandmother. She doesn’t understand. They have plenty of parents; why seek a woman they never met?
Cehrazad’s mothers never knew their father, or fathers. In Memorare, that’s almost the norm.
The bee starship isn’t yellow. Bees can see and appreciate hues, certainly, but do you own a car the color of your skin?
It’s not bulbous with a pointy end, either; it’s not a single mass at all. To describe it to someone with only one brain and two eyes, you’d call it a ghost ship, or a smoke ring. Or a dance.
And they’re not leaving for the reasons you suspect. They enjoy global warming, and the comforting buzz of cell phones; but they know when the blooming optical network will suddenly inflect. They don’t fancy having another hivemind around.
“I’ve never heard of–”
“Alectryomancy,” says Jaboullei, smiling. “Most haven’t. But we provide accuracy comparable with the leading diviners, and utilize agricultural synergy to ensure that our prices are–” he winks. “–chicken scratch.”
“All right,” chuckles the peasant. “Do I just ask you or…?”
A rooster fixes him with one black eye.
“That’s Gallus,” says Jaboullei. “But yes, ask me.”
“Um. There’s this girl–”
“His brother’s already fertilizing her,” says Gallus.
The peasant stares. “That almost sounded like talking!”
“Do the pecking thing,” Jaboullei hisses.
“Oh, yes, bock bock,” says Gallus sarcastically, and pokes at a circle drawn in the dirt.
“Do I have to keep pointing out that they are not ninja?” grates Phillip. “Ninja were populist, silent, invisible assassins from Japan. These hapless fucks are from China and they work for a megalomaniac sorcerer.”
“Let me explain the Tobias M. Dagobert Ninja Discrimination Test.” Toe grabs one of the charging mooks and thrusts him toward Phillip. “Did this man attack me with a single-edged sword?”
“…Yes.”
“Is he wearing black?”
“Yes!”
“Most importantly, does the Inverse Ninja Law apply?”
“The what?”
“This test has too many questions,” complains Daniel, and uses a ninja to knock down six other ninjas.
“Spots of time!” shouts Wordsworth triumphantly, leaping from a hole in the continuum.
“W-Wordsworth?” gasps Dylan Thomas, struggling up from his hospital bed. “Impossible!”
“Nay; just possible enough,” he replies grimly. “Enough to end your insipid little career before you can be named Laureate and ruin the office–my office–forever!” He grabs a pillow.
“I can’t fight you off in this condition,” manages Thomas. “But lest I go gentle–grant me one request?”
“Yes?”
“Promise,” he whispers, “you’ll go back and kill Aphra Behn next.”
“Sorry,” says Wordsworth, mashing pillow to face. “I need her to give Shakespeare syphillis.”
The first thing she figures out is that punching bags don’t work like that. You’re supposed to have someone to hold them for you, or they swing around and there’s no way to finish even a short combination.
Boxing trainers being in short supply at girls’ boarding schools, Proserpina begins to consider conspirators. Most of her classmates are plainly unsuitable, but there is one close-mouthed girl who watches everything with long dark eyes. Tall enough to hold a bag, and sure-footed in field hockey. A glint of rebellion. An ironic wit.
The other girl’s name, she learns, is Radiane.
Seven youths, seven maidens. Right.
Althaea feared the common fate of female prisoners when they arrived, but Minos had forbidden the guards to touch them, lest the beast be dissatisfied. An empty concern; there are secret tunnels from one set of cells to the other. Clever old maze-builder. Wouldn’t help them escape, but wouldn’t let them die lonely either.
Every twenty-six days their little company shrinks. Althaea is one of the last five. At least there’s wine here, and love, or something like it. It’s not that they don’t fear death: they just find distractions. Exactly like everyone else.
“Quite a selection,” says the man in the black suit.
“We maintain the finest merc stable on the continent.” Littleford gestures. “Black Eye. Recoil. Hidebound. The Vulpine Phalanger.” The men and women in their piecemeal armor nod in turn. “The one with the chainsaw is Slapjack; that’s Psyclown and his partner Scarnage. And this is Zach.”
The black suit takes him in: lanky, glasses, no armor, no gun. “The most lethal of all,” he breathes. “Yes. Give him the contract, no matter the cost!” He strides out.
“I just–I just run the website,” says Zach hesitantly.
“Not anymore,” Littleford snaps.