Three women were chattering among themselves in the corridor. They paused when Fortin appeared, then resumed their discussion in marginally lower tones as the newcomer ignored them. Fortin strode down the hall in the opposite direction.
Fortin knew the layout of Penny’s palace better than . . . probably better than anyone else, even Penny’s servants, because they grew old and died. Penny herself neither knew nor cared about the intricacies of the mansion constructed to her whim. Her focus was narrower—and very different.
A squad from the kitchen staff, looking more than usually silly with their fluffy uniforms grease-spattered, wheeled trolleys of food up one of the side-corridors as Fortin passed. They paid no attention to him.
The food would be served to Rolls’ retainers in one of the many refectories on the lower level of the palace. No one would notice that there was one fewer of the men in orange livery than had been admitted to the hall.
A garden of palmettos was planted beneath the staircase at the end of the main corridor. A prismatic slit window high in the wall above provided the plants with sufficient light for growth. Fortin checked over his shoulder to make sure nobody could see him, then tossed his balled cloak behind a screen of the broad, feathery leaves. Penny’s upper level servants didn’t wear overgarments.
Fortin skipped briskly up the stairs.
A doorway opened immediately off the spiral staircase; on the other side would be an arbor in the palace rotunda. Fortin reached to open the door, but paused with his hand on the knob.
There were voices from the other side of the panel; male and female servants, several of each. Nothing that would concern Penny, of course, so long her needs were attended. . . .
Fortin laughed silently and continued up the stairs that now spiraled within one of the flying buttresses. He had more important things in mind than disturbing an orgy—or joining it.
His sandals whick-whick-whicked on the stone treads with the regularity of a metronome.
They all hated Fortin, but they needed him as well. For tasks like this, for the tricks that no other god could accomplish. . . .
And that made them hate him all the more; but they had to bear his presence unless they were willing to destroy themselves as well, for the Matrix was balance. If the others slew Fortin, then they let their own lives out in the same stream of blood.
If Diamond were destroyed—
If Fortin were to destroy Diamond—
Then Fortin’s fellows, who hated him because he was half android—which they despised—and half North, whom they wisely feared . . . then Fortin’s fellows might slay him in their ungoverned rage and bring down all this near perfection which they ruled. Which would be the best trick of all, surely.
The staircase ended in a finial at the top of the buttress. Fortin peeked out. No one was in sight.
A railed walkway circled the top of the rotunda, more to add golden glitter to the appearance than for safety needs. Beyond the railing, Fortin could see fairy-castle turrets, each streaming with bright flags, studding the outer walls of the palace.
Still hidden in the finial, because there were windows in the spire overlooking the rotunda roof, Fortin stripped down to his pink jockstrap and sandals. He strode out, wearing an expression as arrogant as the bulge of his groin.
In the flare of the central spire was an unobtrusive door. It opened to Fortin’s touch. The corridor beyond was decorated with plaster cherubs, roses, and swags in case Penny herself chose to use it. In all likelihood, nobody passed through the hall except the maintenance crews who swept and polished the roof.
And Fortin. Now.
He ignored the stairs around the elevator shaft. A trio of servants stepped from a room across the way, carrying bundles of bedclothing. One of them saw Fortin, and they ducked out of sight again.
Their mistress had the power of life and death, so there was risk to a servant whom Penny noticed—but not much risk, because death didn’t interest Penny very much.
Their real danger came from the savage whim of a human promoted to the mistress’ bed. Such a one had Penny’s ear and power—until she tired and cast him out. Out, nowhere; perhaps to menial service, perhaps back to a grubby village in the Open Lands where he’d been born; perhaps to a void in the Matrix, for Penny had her notions too, and in bed alone she could be interested for good or ill.