Serpents and Stairways

Chapter VIII - Part 4

And he walked to the next display—with crystals and faceted stones—to take a chair for himself, and then continued, looking at the others from above, "First things first, as Pan Vlček had correctly observed, I'm here because that's fate. Am I interested in aiding with your revolutionary errands? Not at all. Will I? Undeniably. Because if I wasn't meant to be here I wouldn't be, and that's the kind of person I am—if I know I need to help someone, I do it properly regardless of whether I, or indeed the objects of my help, want it or not. What's considered is only, as my more superstitious colleague here likes to put it, whether the providence had wished it.

"Which is how we arrive at point A: you're not going to get rid of me. You can't kill me, as had been demonstrated by Pani Agatha. You can't hide from me either—if I'm destined to find you, I can borrow a map of the Upper city, a map of the Lower, blindfold myself, throw a dart and you'll be where it lands by the time I arrive. This is unavoidable."

Georg sat down on the chair and turned himself off to stop perceiving. He didn't like when Michel went into this cruel, ultimative like clockwork mode—in moments like this his features sharpened, teething through his softness which shrunk and stuck like spinach in the gaps between what now were fangs, and it felt like were you to reach out to him—his clever phrase would leave you lacerated.

"Let us proceed to point B, or I would even say point To Be: if I wanted to bestow you to the emperor's guards, you wouldn't be able to stop me. If I wanted to figure out your plot—I could. If I wanted to destroy you one by one, or if I wanted to let you come within the grasping distance of your plan's conclusion, and expose you at the very last moment—I'd succeed."

"So we're what, forced to trust you?" Pasha asked.

"That's where point C comes in—Choice. That is the only chance you have for some semblance of subjectivity, so I suggest you value it."

Georg looked at Arman's tall stature: hands of a blacksmith that did the most delicate of works with thick, like baguettes, fingers, white with callouses. Someone like him was most easily hurt with Michel's serrated bread knife of rationality.

His sleeves rolled up, a spot of oil on his olive skin had gathered soot...

The windows of a small house are covered with newspapers, Narine in a wedding dress of age-yellow silk speaks in foul swears, checking his homework for the last time—what, he couldn't have brought it even later? Tamara is asleep in her—interesting, what size was she then? A little sour plum?

"If we define Choice as capital C, then formula C=f(D), where f is fatum, and D is... Narine had told him that in maths he was a modest mediocrity (not a Lobachevsky by any means) and his efforts would be better spent on practice of languages and aim. Just why would he think he would be able to solve this?"

"As I've established, you can't get rid of us. But it's up to you whether you want to make use of us or not. Hand on heart, considering point B, I wouldn't pass on such a tool—you've been chasing Georg all over Gebal, hoping to entice him with your poetry, for a reason after all."

A concrete tool for concrete tasks.

Michel's words had spread on water in circles, and the circle on the floor whispered—Pasha leaned over to Arman, everybody talked at once, like the white noise in between radio waves.

"Ah, so that's what the poem was about," Georg thought. He probably could've guessed sooner, but focusing came harder to him lately, and significant observations kept drowning in memories.

The gryphon was the Enchanter King's coat of arms. Perhaps, that's why lady Enona was here—to seek revenge for her beloved, or to honour his memory. Or perhaps not.