guess.
I begin my speech welcoming them all here. They laugh in the right places, though I can't say my delivery is that good. Lissa helped me come up with most of the jokes. I'm still not sure what happened. How could I break her heart so easily? Maybe I thought I'd earnt it.
The Moot progresses. The first topic on the agenda is something small, a matter of profits in the last quarter. Suzanne brings that one to the table. I'm actually surprised that she uses a PowerPoint presentation; I was kind of expecting something with animated dust or lightning. The topic is dry, but people seem interested. Maybe it's a break from all the events of the last week. The morning session moves surprisingly swiftly, though I don't hear too much of it.
I'm thinking about my core presentation this afternoon. I have so much to discuss, and, even with Tim's rewrites, I'm not sure that I can pull it off.
Lunch is called at around twelve-thirty.
With all of us together the air is charged with the sort of electricity you'd expect just before a massive storm. In fact, there's one forming in the western suburbs. Thick, rain-heavy cloud is growing darker and darker, and it's heading our way. I'm outside, taking a breather from all the food and the talk. Li An has joined me on the bridge. I don't know why, though. He hasn't said anything yet, and we've been out here for ten minutes.
From the bridge we can see both the Underworld and the living one. On one side is the cultural precinct starting with the sharp lines and angles of the Gallery of Modern Art, and on the other rise the skyscrapers that make up the CBD. The storm is building on Mount Coot-tha. I watch as the Caterers run from line to line on the marquees, double-checking that everything is as it should be, and will stand up to the tempest.
Li An nods at the Caterers and finally speaks. 'Happens all the time, these storms,' he says. 'You get used to it.' He spits out an olive pit and frowns. 'Never get used to the miserable catering, though. After ten thousand years you'd think they'd know how to use a bain-marie.'
My face burns. He doesn't stop eating the nibblies, nor swigging down on a glass of white, though, all of which cost me more money than I want to think about right now.
He pats my shoulder gently. 'Of course, you won't need to worry about that, soon.' He sighs. 'Got any of those little sandwiches? I do like those little sandwiches.'
What the hell is he talking about? I open my mouth to thank him for the vote of support when the air is split with a tremendous thunderclap.
Two black flags, marked with the brace symbol, snap in the wind above the Ankous' marquee. The RMs call it the whinge tent. As far as I can see it's justified, the title and the whingeing. We make them work hard and then some. Tim knows he doesn't have to put up with my shit, but the rest of them don't have the advantage of a family connection. This must be their only chance to vent.
Tim stands by their marquee with the other Ankous, apparently holding court. He looks far more comfortable than me, though I've noticed that he's drawing on a cigarette faster than I thought was humanly possible.
He nods at me. Yeah, something's going on there, and he's not happy. He gestures at his phone; I yank mine out of my pocket a moment before it signals that I've received a text.
Be careful, Tim's written. They're up to something.
A few more specifics would be helpful.
A hand, a big hand, slaps down on my shoulder and I somehow manage not to yelp.
'Good spot, this,' Kiri Baker says. He's about as broad across as I am tall. He smiles a wide, bright smile. 'Nice.'
I nod my head. 'Yeah.'
'So, you still seeing Mr D for advice?'
'Yeah.'
'He still doing that face thing?'
I nod, and Kiri shivers. 'Fuck, that used to scare the bejesus out of me. Dramatic bloke, isn't he? Gotta have a hobby, I suppose.' He slaps me on the shoulder again and squeezes. 'We southerners have to stick together, eh?'
Hm, that didn't count for much when we had a Schism a couple of months ago.
Kiri sighs. 'It's a shame we'll never have a chance to know what may have come of that.' I turn sharply and look at him. He's grinning. 'Desperate times. Now, I've got to get some of those little sandwiches.' He walks back into the marquee.
What do these people know that I don't?
It's my turn at the podium again. I pull out my PowerPoint; relate all that I know about the Stirrer god. The things that Cerbo has told me, my own experiences. I even mention the visit from the Stirrer that inhabited Lissa, suggesting that Stirrers may not be as unified as we once thought.
I cannot feel any heartbeats, which is a blessed relief. Must be the storm. I look at the eleven RMs before me. They may be my people now, but I can't show any weakness. My only strength, Mr D reckons, is that none of them is likely to remember what it was like to be new to the job. They expect a higher level of knowledge than I have.
Huff and bluff, I think to myself. If there's anything I'm good at it's bullshit.
'We have to do something,' I say.
'But what?' Charlie Top asks. 'My resources are stretched as they are, particularly now that I'm shackled to South Africa, too. Do you not know how many wars my poor Pomps are working? Will you give me more crew to work them?' He looks over at Suzanne. 'Not that it matters,' he says under his breath, and makes a show of looking at his watch.
'I don't have any to give,' I say. Everyone laughs at that, and I fail to see the joke.
'Exactly,' Charlie says. 'You developed world RMs never have anything to give. We're all part of Mortmax and yet what do you all do? Cut back our supplies or provide them with so many conditions that -'
'It's not the time to discuss this,' Kiri breaks in. 'We have deeper issues at stake. Rillman has killed an RM. Mortmax's thorn has grown thornier. We all felt it, we've all borne that new burden.'
'Which is why de Selby must know these things,' Charlie says. 'Why he must understand the issues of our regions before it's too late.'
'It's what I'm after,' I say. 'A unified approach to dealing with this problem.'
'Yes, but what you don't understand, Mr de Selby, is that the threat Rillman offers is more immediate,' Anna Kranski says.
'How can it be more immediate than this?' I slam my hand on the projector and the inky black illustration of the Stirrer god that covers the far wall shakes. 'It's coming. And it's getting faster and hungrier and more powerful.'
'We have months, if not years, to resolve that issue. Well, you will,' Charlie says. 'Perhaps you might want to work out how to use PowerPoint, too. All those transitions!'
My jaw drops. 'I thought the transitions worked very well.'
Charlie Top snorts. 'In my experience things aren't ever as neat.'
'And what exactly is your experience?' I demand.
'I was old before you were born.'
'Ha! What's a few centuries?' I say.
'Actually, Mr de Selby, a few millennia.'
'Well, I've yet to see the wisdom of them.' I close the PowerPoint presentation. 'We know so little, because we share so little. We have to be united. We have to be because there is no one else but us.'
Charlie looks over at Suzanne, and smiles sombrely. 'He may just be ready.'
What the fuck is he talking about? And what the fuck have all those veiled comments been about? I get the feeling I'm about to find out.
Kiri whistles and jabs a thumb towards the doorway. 'There's one motherfucker of a storm coming.'
Wind shakes the marquee like some curious, angry giant. Then the tent is gone, hurled into the air, and I'm having some sort of Dorothy Gale moment. Lightning dances across the river, spanning the water at some points so that it looks like a bridge of flame. And at its heart is a figure, grinding two knives together. Around him stand half a dozen Stirrers, their arms tattooed with a familiar pattern, their hair writhing with esoteric energies.
