Mr. Naylor pictured the man after several ineffective flushes, watching the bowl continue to vibrate, holding his breath and straining to hear the very faint and secret sounds of the Iscan Council of the Wllin Droul.
Mr. Naylor was not participating as much as the others. His weak body could not produce the sounds that the other Council members could. Thankfully, none of the flawless were here tonight. He did not relish the chance of being randomly eaten.
Mr. Naylor did not participate but he did pay close attention. They were telling a story he had already heard about one of the flawless that had walked lines to the Porch of Sth in search of the book. One of the flawless had been beaten back because the book’s owner had made a pact with The Hidden.
“She has it! She has it!” bellowed one of the black shapes. Its language was not spoken in anything resembling human form, but Mr. Naylor understood.
“How can you be sure?” moaned another.
“I told you, word has come from Yloch. They verified the story.”
“Yes, but we’ve heard nothing from them for decades and now they want us to storm Isca Castle? How do they know she’s coming here? How do they know anything at all?”
“Those in lung know. If those in lung find out we are loath help—”
“We are not loath to help.” The amount of phlegm in the voice made it seem like the speaker would choke. “I do not even want to talk about such a thing. We will help. We must help. We have sat useless for centuries and now when word comes, we try to pretend that we know better? Even these brainless mucks are smart enough to listen and obey.”
Mr. Naylor took no offense at the speaker’s words. His pink eyes could not quite penetrate the gloom.
“So . . . Yloch says she’s coming. Fine. If they say she’ll be in the High King’s Castle, fine. But we’ve already got a muckety in there. Why do we need to organize a raid?”
“The muck is difficult to reach. He has been quiet for years . . . and . . . we don’t want to give away our position.”
Another of the creatures made a bubbling sound. The equivalent of “Hmmmm.” Then it spoke. “I wonder. The opera muck might be able to give us a third chance. Why not let him have a go at getting it for us?” Mr. Naylor grew even more attentive now that they were specifically discussing him. “If she winds up staying at the castle she’ll certainly attend the opera at some point and if not, then at least we’ve got the other two options.”
The whole gruesome obscure assemblage seemed to mewl and smack their mouths together as though tasting the suggestion.
“Yes. Yes. That’s a fine idea. We’ll let the opera muck try his hand.”
Finally Mr. Naylor spoke.
“Who is she?”
The creatures chuckled at his expense because he had come late and missed a large part of the meeting.
“Some Shrdnae Witch who’s been poking around Yloch. She found the Csrym T! Stupid crawler who thinks she can open it and read it like poetry. She has no idea what it means. None at all. We have to get it back and send it to lung—they’ll know what to do.”
“What is her name?” asked Mr. Naylor.
“Name? Name? Stupid muck. We don’t know her name. But she’ll be Sslî if we don’t get it back from her soon. She’ll be Sslî to us all if we don’t stop her from opening the book.” The thing speaking wrung its hands in a horrid parody of human behavior.
Mr. Naylor smiled.
“I’ll need her name if I’m going to invite her to the opera.”
“Names. Muckety wants names.”
The creatures were quite intelligent but they were plagued by their half-states, unable to escape the clutches of madness brought on by too much of two kinds of blood.
“We’ll get you names, you muck. We’ll get you all the names you need for the crawler with the Csrym T.”
“Wonderful,” said Mr. Naylor as though speaking to one of the burgomasters that frequented his shows. “I’ll set about it at once just as soon as I know who she is.”
Something large and heavy slid into the water. The Council was breaking up.
Mr. Naylor stood and brushed himself off as though doing so might solve the ruinous slime that had soaked into his pants. He turned and began sloshing back toward the platform and the weary elevator.