“Sousa is an abject failure. All these years he has had one job—one job, Michael—and that was to predict the Return. He’s never done it. Why you put any stock in his astrology is baffling to me and always has been.”
Michael sputtered a laugh. “It’s only … John’s horoscope did show an ascendant planet—and not my own planet. What am I to make of that? When confronted by this new man who claims to be king?” Then, because he couldn’t restrain himself, “It could be that this other man is the king, Marvel. Anything could be.”
Marvel Whiteside Parsons knew that Michael was not the True King. Apparently Sousa knew it too. Tygo knew it and even that outlaw Pretender knew it. Marvel felt a sudden anger form a molten ball in his stomach. If only he had left earlier! His dithering, his endless coming and going, such weakness he had shown. Now was the worst time to leave. Michael would be lost without him and yet if Marvel himself wanted to live—if he wanted to spend his last days in Kansas, serving the religion of Huldah, his ancestor—he must go. He shook Michael slightly, only slightly, and looked into his greenish eyes. “John’s horoscope is nothing. You are the king.”
“But how will I know if I am?”
Marvel tried not show his frustration but couldn’t help it. “Knowing!” he choked. “How does one know anything? You are, Michael. King. Because you are here, right now, and your people within these walls look to you, and on top of that a large majority of this great land honors your authority. That gives you kingship.” But even as he spoke he could see Michael’s doubt giving way to crisis—and Marvel Whiteside Parsons knew that feeling well: he had left his own kingdom, his own chance to be king, in search of this thing that so moved Michael now. Where was the truth, and how does one find it?
The Pardoness had said truth finds everyone eventually.
He peered at Michael. His outburst had been unkind, and yet Michael did not look upset. “I know I am a good king,” Michael muttered. “The True King, what is that? Some sort of Kansas nonsense?”
“Yes,” said Marvel. “Just something someone made up. It’s meaningless.”
At the window again, Marvel could not help but watch each oblivious person tottering about their work, going from tower to tower, through the small streets and around corners. Each one following a course he set for himself, as well as one set for him by others. He heard Michael breathing at his back, more calmly now.
In due time Michael was standing at his side, coherent. Marvel had called for writing implements and they drafted a Summons requiring all men within the compound to present themselves at once for war. Boys, too, older than fourteen, though no one would ask their ages before sending them into battle. Marvel could not quite guess how the battle would unfold, though he was unsurprised to learn from a messenger that Mr. Capulatio had escaped the melee. How remained a mystery. But the guards were certain he was still in the compound. No one had seen him leave. How could he escape, after all? There was no escape.
Marvel kept his doubts to himself.
As the Summons was being read from every balcony, in every lane and every path within the compound, Marvel and Michael still stood in the abandoned great room, alone again. It had been very speedy, all of it. The others had come and gone, a parade of guards in masks trotting before them, ready to be ordered here and there. The master of the stables. The master of the canons. There was some talk of preparing oil to disperse through the outlaw camp, which could then be set on fire if it came to that. Michael had thought of that—but he wanted to use it as a last resort. There was a goodness in the man that no amount of pragmatism could put down. Marvel did admire that, in a way; it made things difficult, but he could not deny the grace of it.
He once again turned his gaze outside, through the window glass, which was very old and had sunk somewhat, pooling at the bottoms of the panes in graduated ripples. His attention was drawn by a general clamor and uproar as word of the Summons spread.
But Marvel felt compelled to look also because he was looking for something.
He knew the grounds so well. They had changed little since Leander was king, except for the golf course. A silly notion compelled him to keep looking down again and then he saw, with his own eyes, John Sousa the Chief Orbital Doctor mounting his carriage in the courtyard. Climbing in behind John was Tygo and another figure, this one taller and draped in a ceremonial robe. John’s manservant was already in the front seat of the wagon.
It was the leader of the outlaws, David. A wire seemed to pull taut within Marvel, a blaze of recognition. Tygo had been sent to find that man; well, he had found him, and now he was rescuing him. Whoever David was, he was wanted badly enough by the Mystagogue that he had sent two men over the deathscapes to fetch him. Marvel did not know if that portended good or evil, but his heart leapt in his chest as he gripped the window ledge.
Nudging Michael, he motioned to John’s wagon, which was just now pulling around out of sight, toward the door they used for larger cargo. Michael shrugged. “He’s not expected to fight, he’s imperative to the crown.”
But Marvel pointed at the extra figure in the open carriage, and Michael rounded on him with wide brown eyes. “The outlaw is escaping with them?”
“It would appear that way.”
“But why in heaven’s name are they helping him?” As though the idea of such insubordination exasperated his capacity for understanding.
Marvel walked quickly
