“NEVER!” SQUAWKED THE MOST AUTOCRATIC SQUORACLE. “We’ve never been wrong!”
“Apart from that time we believed our Gracious, the Dear Departed Dragomira, when she promised that the weather in London would be better than it was in Paris,” added another tiny hen just as emphatically.
“I believe you,” said Oksa, wringing her hands, “I believe you.”
She collapsed into an armchair and leant back, looking up at the seams striping the canvas of Cameron’s comfortable tent. When Leomido’s son had seen her arrive at dawn, looking upset, he’d immediately realized that something other than the previous day’s festivities was bothering her. Oksa had been grateful for his tactful offer of help, but had refused nonetheless. The matter was too serious and discretion was essential.
“We repeat,” said the head Squoracle, its feathers fluffed with excitement. “If that boy entered Thousandeye City, it’s because none of us could find any ill will in his heart. And if none of us could find any ill will in his heart, then that’s because there was none.”
“He’s Orthon’s son!” protested Oksa.
Taking this remark as an objection—or, worse, as a clear sign that she didn’t trust them—the Squoracles overreacted as usual and began cackling with agitation. It wasn’t long before the tent resembled a psychotic farmyard.
“Calm down!” cried Oksa, her hands over her ears, “I was just reminding you that Mortimer is the son of our greatest enemy and it’s…”
She picked her words carefully.
“… entirely within the bounds of probability that he’s a Felon.”
The Squoracles glared at her with tiny neurotic eyes and the head Squoracle snapped irritably:
“Permit me to correct you: it is not within the bounds of probability, it is entirely outside the bounds of probability! We’re adamant that he entered Thousandeye City with honest intentions, so let that be an end to it. Now, if there isn’t anything else, we’d like to get back to work as soon as possible.”
“You make proclamation of insolent words!” said the Lunatrix indignantly. “The person you are speaking to is the Gracious, forgetfulness should not be perpetrated.”
Oksa sighed and nodded to the Squoracles, making them promise to keep silent about their conversation. Then she sat there without a word for some time, lost in thought. She was finding it hard to believe the tiny truth detectors, despite their insistence and their impeccable track record.
She sat up in her armchair, feeling vexed, and called to her faithful companion.
“My Lunatrix, what’s your take on this?” she asked the chubby-cheeked steward at her side. “Whether I like it or not, Mortimer has a Gracious Heart.”
She mechanically ran her hands through her hair to push it off her face.
“And no one with a Gracious Heart can keep anything secret from you, can they?” she asked.
The Lunatrix sniffed noisily, eyes wide as saucers, and agreed.
“My Gracious makes communication of a fact stuffed with exactitude: her domestic staff possesses this ability, the reading of Gracious Hearts does not encounter any impediment.”
He fell silent, standing perfectly still, and waited. As did Oksa, who didn’t react for a few seconds: the Lunatrix only answered the questions he was asked—which is just what he’d done, no more and no less.
“What is Mortimer doing in Thousandeye City? Tell me that, please, my Lunatrix.”
The little creature squirmed, shifting from one foot to another, which put Oksa on tenterhooks.
“My Gracious encounters the need to receive the assurance that the Squoracles possess the correct words in their beaks: the son of the hated Felon hides no ugly intentions in his heart. Has my Gracious performed the conservation of the memory of the execrable Island of the Felons and the Great Council Meeting of the abhorrent Ocious when the Runaways arrived in Edefia?”
“Of course I remember!”
“Has she proceeded to the safeguarding of her impression with regard to the son of the hated Felon?”
Oksa narrowed her eyes and tapped the armrests with her fingertips.
“Mortimer looked extremely ill at ease during the first Council Meeting,” she acknowledged, thinking back. “I didn’t think he agreed with what his father and grandfather were saying and doing. He looked miserable too. I even thought to myself that he must be missing his mother badly, like me,” she added, her voice breaking.
“Veracity fills the words of my Gracious,” agreed the Lunatrix solemnly. “Since Reminiscens attacked him on the island in the Sea of the Hebrides, the son of the hated Felon has endured possession of the knowledge of paternal sentiment towards him.”
“I never had a great relationship with Mortimer, to say the least,” admitted Oksa. “But Orthon has treated him so badly. He preferred to battle it out with Reminiscens instead of saving his own son. All he was interested in was beating his sister! He didn’t care what happened to Mortimer.”
“The judgement of my Gracious encounters hypertrophy.”
Oksa’s face dimpled with amusement as she looked quizzically at him.
“My judgement is hypertrophic?” she asked. “Do you mean I’m exaggerating?”
“That is the significance of the words of your domestic staff.”
Gently Oksa stroked the large head of the Lunatrix, whose skin had gone an incredible crimson.
“Exaggerate? Me? How could you think such a thing?” she asked playfully.
“My Gracious has doubtless preserved in her memory the emotion of the hated Felon when his sister made known the utterance of threats: the death of Mortimer in exchange for the death of Jan, the son of Reminiscens and Leomido despatched because of Orthon. The evocation of this retaliation caused colossal emotion in the hated Felon.”
“Colossal emotion that he took great care not to show!” retorted Oksa. “He certainly didn’t do very much to save Mortimer. It seemed to me that he was making it a point of honour not to give anything away.”
The Lunatrix looked disconcerted.
“You know better than me, though,” admitted Oksa. “In any case, I can understand Mortimer that might feel a bit… confused. Realizing that his father will always put his personal ambitions above his own family is bound to wreak havoc with the way he thinks.”
She sighed, feeling genuinely sorry for Mortimer.
“Do you think he wants to join us?”
“It is the most immense wish in his heart,” nodded the Lunatrix.
Oksa slumped back in her armchair. This totally unexpected situation was complicated, but everything was pointing towards that conclusion. Although, deep down, she couldn’t help feeling wary.
“Why did he sneak in, then?” she exclaimed suddenly. “He could have come to us openly, instead of confiding in Tugdual.”
The Lunatrix fiddled with the straps of his dungarees.
“Courage made the encounter of a deficit in his heart,” he replied. “His identity and his family connections overwhelm the son of the hated Felon with a burden that prevented the publication of his visit. Only the Beloved of my Gracious possessed the ability to take delivery of trust.”
“Where is he now?”
“The son of the hated Felon has performed his repatriation with his ancestors and the Felon army in the Peak Ridge Mountains, inside the troglodytic caves filled with precious stones. His absence knew brevity, and the perception of a suspicion experiences nonexistence.”
“So much the better,” murmured Oksa.
Around her, the thick canvas of the tent swelled with the morning breeze like a human body gently breathing. For a moment Oksa fixed her slate-grey eyes on the swaying coloured-glass lanterns as they cast haloes of light in all directions. She gnawed at a nail, unable to break her lifelong habit. Her Lunatrix came over and lightly stroked her arm.
“My Gracious has possession of an idea behind her brain,” he announced confidently.
Oksa jumped, roused from her thoughts by her small steward’s shrill voice.
“Exactly, my Lunatrix!” she said, jumping to her feet.
Hurriedly, she pushed aside the heavy curtain over the entrance to the tent and resolutely strode out.