Two Yatsill, dressed as Grenadier Guards and wearing duck masks, stood to either side of the portal. A great many muffled voices were audible from the chamber beyond.
“And this,” Brittleback continued, “is where all the decisions are made.” He reached up and grasped a handle. “Welcome to the House of Lords.”
After pulling the door open, the prime minister ushered us through into an enormous circular room with a raised circular dais at its centre surrounded on all sides by benches, which were set progressively higher from front to back, the rearmost ones being far away and at a considerable altitude. High overhead, the domed ceiling was inset with large panels of stained glass. The light that shone through them illuminated the vast space with a soft haziness, through which dust motes drifted lazily. Everything looked and smelled brand new.
The seats were packed with top-hatted and bonneted Yatsill.
We walked through a narrow passage, between seats, from the door to the stage, and as we drew closer to the platform the words of the individual who stood in the centre of it emerged from the general cacophony.
“. . . and, in conclusion, it must be evident to the right honourable ladies and gentlemen that these bladed weapons are far more suited to our needs than absurd and impractical projectile launchers. Those few who’ve urged the manufacturing of the latter are allowing themselves to be seduced by what can be done rather than by what should be done. I urge them to reconsider and to vote aye to this amendment, thus ensuring the City Guard is appropriately armed. What say you?”
The crowd roared, “Aye!”
A Yatsill seated behind a desk at the edge of the stage and dressed in red robes, a tricorn hat, and a very long curve-beaked bird mask, banged a gavel.
“The motion is passed!” he bellowed. “Thank you, Viscount Whoops Bumpknock. I now give the floor to Lord Upright Brittleback, the prime minister.”
The crowd cheered as Brittleback escorted us up onto the dais.
“My Lords, ladies, and gentlemen,” he announced, holding his arms outstretched. “None can deny that a dissonance has come among us. Indeed, one need only look at this magnificent chamber to see how significant its effects have been. I think it fair to say that we have all embraced this new permutation, and—”
“No!” someone shouted. “No, not all of us!”
The prime minister turned to the red-robed Yatsill and said, “Lord Speaker-Judge, I would—”
The gavel banged on the desk.
“I recognise the Right Honourable Yarvis Thayne,” Speaker-Judge announced.
Ten benches back, the Yatsill who’d objected stood up. The creature, an unusually thickset specimen, wore neither clothes nor a mask. “Thank you, Lord Speaker-Judge,” it said. “No, Prime Minister, not all of us have embraced the destruction of the old ways. Some of us ask why it is necessary. Some of us denounce the devastation of the forest and the replacement of perfectly serviceable tree houses with brick-built monstrosities.”
“Monstrosities, Yarvis Thayne?” Brittleback cried out. “Monstrosities? I see nothing monstrous in progress!”
“Progress? What for? We have long enjoyed stability and tranquillity. Why change?”
“In order to become more than we bloody well are, old fruit! By the Suns, what will you object to next? Our language? Our ability to think? Would you have us revert to an animal state though we’ve been blessed by the Saviour with intelligence? It won’t do! It won’t do at all! We, the Aristocrats, have the ability to shape this world. Whatever we do must assuredly be as the Saviour intends. Would you have us remain immobile merely because the divine plan is obscure to us? No, sir! No! I say forward! Forward, not backward, nor static!”
Most of the gathered Yatsill loosed hurrahs of approval. Shaking his head disapprovingly, Yarvis Thayne sat back down.
The prime minister gestured for quiet, and when the crowd had settled continued, “I have at my side the origin of the dissonance, Miss Clarissa Stark, and her companion, Mr. Aiden Fleischer. As you can see, they are, in form, rather peculiar.”
“Thank you,” Clarissa murmured.
“Indeed, they claim a different origin from that of the Servants.”
“Different?” came a distant voice from the backbenches. “How is that possible?”
“That, sir, is the very question we shall seek to answer now.” Brittleback turned to us. “I give you the floor, chaps. Would you explain?”
The crowd fell into an expectant silence.
I said, “Um.”
Clarissa touched my arm and whispered, “May I, Aiden?”
I nodded. “Please.”
My companion surveyed the gathered Yatsill. Raising her voice, she declared, “We are of the same species as the Servants