had a hankering for a larger face,’ said Castle from the buffet. ‘Not made of gold, though. Glass, perhaps.’ The fashion for glass was tailing off but Castle was yet to know it.
Lord Jagged of Canaria was warming to his own theory and had become a centre of attention. ‘It’s clear the Duke constructed this drama at length – it explains his weeks of absence. Not even he could spend such a time dreaming up a mere entombment in a triangular house. The scene continues with the abduction of his ward and whatever happens between them. The Duke is attempting a … a moral, d’you see?’
‘Meaning or moral, what is it?’
‘Well I don’t know, Doctor, but that will doubtless become clear. That’s in the nature of a story, as opposed to the sort of instant spectacle we are accustomed to. Yes, I do believe the Duke is finally working to outdo us all. And certainly he should not be reconstituted at this time!’
‘But why ever not?’ asked the Orchid. ‘We need him to explain himself.’
‘Can’t you see, my dear Orchid, that this latest death of his is part of the dramatic tale he planned so carefully? Do you want to spoil that tale before its denouement? The Duke would be terribly upset!’
‘Of course! After all his work. As usual, Lord Jagged, you see the situation in all its detail, and with all its social ramifications tilting this way and that like hammerflowers. Shall we put him in some snow, for now?’
‘I think he’s just sunk into the famous “coughing chamber” he spent so long telling us about,’ Volospion pointed out. ‘That part at least went off as he intended, don’t you think, Jagged?’
‘I feel certain it has,’ said Jagged, struck by the notion. ‘That must be a very important part of the drama. Oh, how pleased the Duke will be when we resurrect him at his story’s conclusion and he sees we have understood and acted along precisely as he intended!’
Volospion decided to state his case. ‘I am not convinced the scene we witnessed accorded entirely to the Duke’s plan.’
‘Whatever do you mean?’ asked the Iron Orchid.
‘Precisely what I say. That we may have witnessed an intersection of script and chance.’
‘It is true that one’s creations do not always attend to one’s wishes,’ Jagged remarked with no hint of a double meaning.
Volospion drew himself up. ‘Have you heard, sir, of the term “wager”?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Aha! A “wager”, my dear Lord of Canaria, is an elaborate journey of chance and regret.’
‘Regret?’
‘Another ancient term. Yes, I know it’s complicated. You see, so many of these antique concepts are dependent on ... lack. A finite amount of things, you see? Acts and decisions which cannot be undone, that’s the point of it. Well, we can’t reproduce such ludicrous conditions here, except in regard to the expenditure of time, which is supposedly receding into short supply.’
‘You still don’t believe it, Doctor Volospion?’
‘I have yet to see undeniable evidence. But the point I labour to make, Lord Jagged, is that we may salvage a crumb of peril from the past, via my “wager”. I contend that the Duke’s show went awry, with that young interloper being a random bit of chaos. You contend that it was staged and plotted as an extension of the theme. Whichever of us is right owes a forfeit or favour to the other.’
‘What will the forfeit be?’
Volospion had not thought this far. He pondered, and was suddenly illuminated. ‘If the angry fellow in the spiky jacket is accidental and unplanned, I take him for my menagerie.’
‘And if he is a mere phlizz created by the Duke?’
‘Then you take it for yours,’ said Volospion, amused. ‘I believe it is customary to throw a heavy glass bust of Napoleon into a blast furnace upon agreeing a wager. But we can forego it.’
‘A wager! I’ll participate,’ said Bishop Castle, licking his fingers, ‘if a similar buffet is provided.’ He bit some flesh from a chicken drummer and threw the chog over his shoulder. It bounced off the skull of his bone companion and the Bishop gave an impatient sigh, demolishing the walking skeleton with a twist of a power ring. The change in fashion was instantly contagious – bone companions exploded to dust throughout the gathering.
‘Rich farewell to dry company,’ hailed Baron Coma, and rode away on two glum-looking horses, one of which was mounted and copulating upon the other.
‘He’s got that wrong,’ Volospion confided to the Iron Orchid. ‘Those things are called palindromes – they’re meant to have a head at each end.’
‘Now, Doctor, how do we make sense of the Duke’s intent?’ Lord Jagged asked. ‘We must if we are to resolve this flutter of yours.’
‘Wager, Jagged,’ Volospion corrected him, pleased at the opportunity for scorn.
‘Principal Krill,’ said the Iron Orchid. ‘He helped the Duke with his research.’
‘That mound of nostrils?’ Volospion exclaimed. ‘But, well, I suppose he does know more “history” than most of us. And I confess I respect his skill with wooden birds and furniture.’
‘I haven’t seen the birds. Are they good?’
‘They do everything a – what was it? – a “meat” bird used to do. They fly, shout very concise bits of advice to people down on the ground, lay beautifully carved little eggs, and rot down to a delicate wooden skeleton!’
‘Ah, that’s art, you see, Volospion,’ Jagged remarked. ‘He’s not all “history”.’
'Oh I admit he has skill.’
The party was breaking up as they strolled toward one of the docking areas. A strange sound alerted them to the sight, far behind them, of Bishop Castle sucking the entire remaining fare from the table into a massively distended, fluming mouth. ‘Will you join us, Bishop?’ Jagged called, but received no response.
When they reached the landing field, Volospion piped up. ‘We’ll take my gaseous insect,’ he told them. Towering behind him was a cherry glass mantis with a scarlet gas mask for a face. ‘This is the Mantis Malamatis. It handles well – I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised. It’s red glass with a rubber mask, you see?’
‘Does this use that ion wind idea you were talking about?’ Jagged asked.
‘I don’t really know. It goes, anyway.’
‘It’s lovely, Doctor,’ offered the Iron Orchid, as they walked up a thin wing to the entrance. ‘Glass is with us for at least another day or so.’
The wings buzzed into pink motion and disappeared, the insect rising up and canting as its legs folded away. Soon the vehicle was flitting over a wasteland littered with fragments of purple flint. Seated inside, the three idly observed the bending landscape through the red lens around them.
Volospion was still wondering what material would replace glass, when the Iron Orchid made a striking remark.
‘Doctor, your fine rigidity of view has at all times included a tempering rigidity of etiquette and manners.’
‘Thank you, dear Orchid,’ he replied, surprised.
‘Yet I have noticed,’ the Iron Orchid continued, ‘today, a distinct increase in your level of, shall we say, inventive scorn.’
‘Indeed?’ Volospion said, and he needed only an instant’s thought to see the truth of it. ‘Well yes, now that you point it out I perceive I have been more caustic than usual. What is it, most rigid of blooms? Jagged, is something wrong with me? With my face and jaws?’
‘Perhaps you are wanting for