in the manner of a machine,' Regina told him. 'For processing the death of kings.’
‘Kings?’ Volospion’s sharp features became sardonic. ‘A try at immortality, then, through a grand building project. Their methods clearly didn’t work. I can’t remember the name of a single king.’
Volospion’s bone companion leant in at his shoulder and whispered, ‘This too shall pass. And remember you are butter, man.’
‘I’m getting a bit sick of these,’ Volospion muttered, and touched a purple power ring on his left hand. The skeleton evaporated.
‘Let us wait to see what the Duke has created for us,’ said the Iron Orchid. She was being kind to Regina. ‘The pyramid is impressive. And precise.’
‘You are right, Madame Orchid,’ Volospion conceded. He always looked rather stiff and uncomfortable when doing so. ‘Let us wait and see.’
They walked through the crowds toward the pyramid base. Guests were still arriving – one in an air barge shaped like a swordfish, another in a basket under a balloon done up like an eyeball, and yet another rode in upon a giant haltered crab, the clacking claws of which caused alarm and laughter. Some dispensed with the illusion of requiring a vehicle and flew in without one, or blew in as a vapour and reconstituted with a small sonic thump. The Iron Orchid’s son, Jherek Carnelian, arrived in a palatial river boat with a big turning side-wheel, a steam funnel, picket fencing and its own ghostly river which tapered out a few yards behind it. The floating palace drew cheers from the assembly. ‘He learned about these things from Krill,’ said the Iron Orchid, watching the strange craft, ‘but I can scarcely believe such ... “zippy steamboats” really existed. Not in so elaborate a form.’
‘Yet by rights the bumblebee should not be able to carry its own weight,’ commented Volospion, pointing to the whale-sized bumblebee which was carrying Pastor Bulbous in to land. ‘I suspect we are not equipped to judge the physics of the past.’
Jherek, startling in a suit of white duck, plus white hair and whiskers, walked down a ramp and announced ceremonially, ‘Dang my buttons if I aint editor of this barge!’ He was immediately surrounded by chattering admirers. Regina wondered when she and Jherek would make love again, or have a long conversation. He was so busy with projects, such as his search in the old cities for platters of ancient cow-eating songs. She sighed and resolved to move on.
As Regina, the Iron Orchid and Doctor Volospion approached the base of the pyramid steps, they were joined by Lord Jagged of Canaria, resplendent in a cloak of gold leaf decorated with the repeated image of a beetle. Atop his pale head he wore a gold pyramid in honour of the Duke’s theme. On Jagged it managed to look stylish.
‘And what is the significance of this pest pictured on your cloak, Jagged?’ Volospion asked immediately. He had long put himself in competition with Jagged, and that Jagged appeared oblivious to the contest irritated Volospion the more. ‘Some obscure jest or reference you ache to spring directly into our faces?’
‘Oh, the scarab, you know,’ said Jagged, pirouetting a hand in the air, ‘... in honour of the theme.’
Their silence signaled that nobody knew the connection, and it seemed to Regina that Jagged seemed momentarily fazed.
‘I speculate,’ he told them, and returned to his usual assurance. ‘I symbolise. The desert, dryness, this massive casing for the flying spirit of the dead. I chose an image I felt distilled these matters.’
‘Since it requires explanation,’ stated Volospion, ‘it clearly fails to do so.’
‘You are right,’ Jagged said, with a slight bow. ‘It is obscure.’
Volospion did not seem soothed by Jagged’s easy surrender, but they were all distracted by the discovery of a table laden with bowls of bone shingle, popcorn, forest manna, blueberry pies, mutton saddles, starfails, canvasback ducks, head milk, lipstick, mako wine, black umbrella tea, galore bulbs, calories, sea grapes, compass cake, creme broulee, chrysolites, chains, quinces, bliss tongues, pandora flan, blushed snow, planetnut, amps, coleslaw, flame curd, matamata soup, anleesh, ebon root, pink lemons, skate, flaming puzzlash, sugar moss, pearl tails, ginger, plutonium, cloudberries, wing stew, skedaddles, salt, sevens, meatloaf, weasel coffee, turnovers, almanacs, gapdog, neverlegs and barley. ‘No flying fish?’ asked Regina.
‘Too much trouble,’ Lord Jagged said.
‘You can weight them with anchors.’
‘The planetnut is very good,’ called Bishop Castle, who stood nearby. ‘It goes pop in your mouth like a good curse.’ He picked at his crenellated teeth.
‘Argonheart has outdone himself,’ declared the Iron Orchid. ‘Where is he?’
‘He left in shame,’ Lord Jagged told her, ‘claiming the spread is a disappointment – a varied jumble without focus or theme.’
Whisper Terrible listened from the other side of the table. He had a sort of narrow bird head which ticked this way and that as remarks caught his attention.
‘Such is life,’ said Doctor Volospion.
‘Is it?’ asked Jagged without weight or emphasis. ‘In any case, for Argonheart Po a meal is art, not life.’
‘So it is for us all,’ called Bishop Castle. ‘Do any of us actually need to eat? I can’t remember.’
‘I recall going several decades without food,’ Volospion said. ‘I simply adjusted myself regularly, and made sure I was all there. Yes, food is art. And the spread before us does lack focus. Argonheart Po has earned his shame.’
‘Perhaps he wished to feel it?’ Regina suggested. ‘The shame?’
‘If so,’ said Volospion, ‘he went about it the right way.’
‘He’s a perfectionist,’ shouted Bishop Castle. ‘Try the smashed vampire crab, it’s superb.’
Whisper Terrible spotted the trace of a skycloud which resembled an armchair, and flew away without flapping his thin arms, as though sucked up.
Revelers shared gossip as they milled before the golden slope of the pyramid. The sheer faces on either side of the broad central steps were of such a high polish that they held alchemised reflections of the guests, stretched and tapered toward the building’s point. The Duke of Queen’s features warped across this massive mirror as he floated up to Regina’s group. He was resplendent in draperies of flaming ochre and a pillbox hat of royal purple and Mars orange rested upon hair which was a tangle of gold wires. His sensitive face was transformed by eyes and teeth of mirrored metal. His spade-shaped beard, too, was a gilded mirror and the effect was striking.
‘Uncle!’ cried Regina, throwing her arms about his neck and kissing him so hard that his hat was knocked to a tilt. She backed up to admire his costume. ‘It’s perfect! Is everything prepared?’
‘It is,’ he smiled.
‘Plans and stratagems, eh Duke?’ said Lord Jagged amiably. ‘This triangular castle is a fine backdrop.’
‘Far more than that, my friend,’ the Duke replied mysteriously. ‘Ah, I see you have adopted the sign of the scarab – most appropriate.’
Bishop Castle yelled
