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pain and flagellation and maiming of celebrants.
More complicated torture. More mobs, more mayhem, more murder, more meanness.
Zasper has been around long enough to notice the increase, and he wants out. If it takes some kind of pro forma meeting with the Provost to get out, he’ll attend the meeting.
So they come together on the upper balcony, the jowly Provost and the stocky Enforcer, the latter now dressed in undistinguished civilian garb, the former—so far as anyone knows—extending this exceptional courtesy to a good Enforcer now growing old, who is—so far as anyone can tell—enjoying the honor of a personal farewell. That neither of them has ever much liked the other isn’t considered important, even by themselves.
“More tea?” offers Boarmus, ignoring Zasper’s untouched cup.
“Thank you, no,” says Zasper, who drinks ale when he can get it and believes herbal infusions to be at best old womanish and at worst disruptive of the bowels.
“I asked you here to take advantage of your experience,” says Boarmus smoothly, making no further offer of refreshment. “In the field, as it were.”
“Sir,” says Zasper. It is an all-purpose word, essentially meaningless.
“Confidentially.”
An interesting interpolation, but the same word serves. “Sir.”
Boarmus sits back and looks at his guest, almost smiling. Stiff-necked bastard. A good Enforcer. One of the best, but no give to him. Which is what’s wanted. “Confidentially,” he says again, with an unmistakable emphasis.
Zasper blinks. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
Boarmus takes a package from his lap and places it on the table. Only Zasper sees his quick sidewise glance, both directions, to see if anyone’s watching. No one is. The hour is early for the evening meal, late for midday. The upper balcony is deserted except for themselves.
“I received this recently,” Boarmus says, removing the wrappings, though only enough for Zasper to see what’s inside.
On the table between them lies a plaque of metal (Zasper thinks gold, it looks like gold) with fancy work around the edges (Zasper thinks gems, they look like gems). The words graven on the plaque are in a language commonly spoken on Elsewhere.
     
    THE PEOPLE OF ELSEWHERE
ARE RESPECTFULLY REQUESTED
TO RETHINK THEIR POSITION
WITH RESPECT TO THE REST
OF THE UNIVERSE
•
     
    R.S.V.P. NOPLACE: Central Panubi
     
     
    “Ugh,” says Zasper, completely taken by surprise.
“These are not predispersion times,” says Boarmus. “When precious metals and jewels had great intrinsic value. But even here and now a trifle like this is somewhat … extravagant.”
“Ah.”
“As much for the workmanship as for the materials,” says Boarmus. “My consultants tell me that though the gems are extremely rare, it is even rarer to have something like this handmade. The lettering is hand done, for example. By an actual person who spent a good part of a lifetime learning how.”
“What does it mean?” asks Zasper, cutting through the chatter.
“I don’t know. It’s the fourth such … petition we’ve received,” says Boarmus. “All of them different. According to my predecessor, Chadra Hume, the first one popped up in the Files about a century ago. For a full day, nothing but a message similar to this would appear in response to any request for information. Various languages, but the same message. The second message appeared during an orbiter surveillance of the highlands of Denial fifty years later, and that one was spelled out in letters a mile high, bright purple crass-brush against the tundra. My predecessor told me about that one too. Twenty-five years later, a third one. I saw it, also on orbiter: herds of grazing animals on the Bi-flom plains forming letters and words, a square mile or so, all with an ornamental border of migratory bat-swans. That was twelve years ago. Now this one.”
“How did you get it?”
“Found it on my Files access one morning.”
“Ah,” says Zasper again.
“How much