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across the
flat emptiness of the Mare. It was a welcome sight for weary
travelers who had spent the day exposed to the danger of attack by
the feral packs of creatures and bandits that stalked the
uncivilized lands. Both Heterodymus and the Judicar let slip a
slight smile – despite the seriousness of their visit – as they
passed the guard contingent, who were dancing arm-in-arm, drinking
from wineskins and singing bawdy songs of fighting and wenching.
All of them, fifty or more, had woven flowers through the seams in
their armor and ringed their heads with daisy chains. They turned
to let the carriage pass through with a friendly wave before
turning back to watch a group of dancing girls who gyrated to an
unseen drummer's rhythms.
    “So much for the stalwart keepers of the
gate,” Sinistrum hissed, laughing.
    “It's all good fun,” Dexter replied, also
laughing. “You can't expect soldiers garrisoned in such a stark
place to always be alert.”
    The Judicar smiled and shook his head. “Yes,
but odd. Very odd.” His smile faded as his eyes narrowed with
concern.
    The remainder of the trip to Euler Crater
proper was uneventful. The high walls, built along the
circumference of the crater's rim, were well-protected by
catapults, ballistae, and archers who kept steady watch over the
flats that led to the fortress. The carriage passengers prepared
themselves for what ought to be a rigorous questioning of their
business, even though it was apparent who was visiting and with
whom he had business. Nevertheless, they expected to have to
explain themselves as a matter of formality. The Procellarian
guards would do the same to important visitors from Euler.
    But the same sort of scene, only this time
the soldiers were even more drunk, met them at the city gates.
After a jocund mock-hold-up, during which the guards teased, poked,
and mocked the Judicar's pygmies, they were let through to meander
through the twisting streets and intoxicated crowds of Euler until
they finally disembarked from their coach at the palatial gates.
The pygmies removed their goggles and hats, rushing to the nearest
party, much to the locals' delight, judging by the roar of the
crowd that received them. The city reeked of fermentation and the
sickly-sweet smell of lotus flower being smoked from many-hosed
hookahs, like the insides of a school of octopus had been set on
fire with dreams of stars and verdant paradises. The royal guards
stumbled to let the pair inside the gates, a sergeant passing out
on the threshold in the process. Two corpulent, under-dressed
prostitutes lifted him off the ground and the gate shut behind the
Judicar and his counselors with a bang.
    Once inside, they were met by the court
jester, the official emissary of the Baron and his Lady. She was
short, nearly a dwarf, dressed in Harlequin black and white
checkers: “A long and storied tradition,” she noted brightly as
they ascended a long spiral stairway, past tapestry portraits of
what must have been former jesters, judging by their ridiculous,
yet evolving dress. “And an important part is mine. We have enough
clowns here as you, no doubt, saw at the gate. Those rapscallions,
however, are amateurs, false dogs, dilettantes. My jest is
restrained, calculated, precise. Oh, the guards and the people
alike take their jabs, but they do not understand the power of
comic self-control. They are the masses, and I am their spiritual
exemplar, though they are too drunk or too stupid to realize it.
Our whole society is based on the balance, on one hand, of the
people writhing in maenadic orgies, their only debauched concern
the next intoxicant or orgasm, their only destination the music
halls, the pubs, and the brothels. On the other hand are the Baron
and his wife – circumspect, thoughtful, demure . . . and downright
boring. I am the bridge between the two poles, you see, the fulcrum
on which rests the two opposing scales of order and chaos.”
    They came to a pair of immense oaken