“Women! Who needs ‘em?” Alabow.

The Pope read aloud. “Going to stay with Holly in Shravner. Chic.”

Oh no, thought Sposh, it just got worse. Chic had left him, and run off with Holly to join Uda Con’s all-female suffragettes. Surely, thought Sposh, for the treachery of his wife, he would be sentenced to three consecutive life terms at the Lazy Dalop. His knees were set to buckle, and his chest felt painfully tight.

The Pope sat back on his throne. The black fur of his face rested flat over a meditative expression. Then, he said, “I take it, Chic is your wife.”

“Yessir,” said Sposh.

“And Holly?”

“Chic’s sister,” said Sposh.

“Shravner. That’s in Shahshr,” said the Pope.

Sposh swallowed the lump in his throat. Doomed! Sposh glimpsed his short life flash before him. He answered, “Yessir.”

It surprised Sposh when the Pope sat forward, crumpled the note, and tossed it on the floor. Here it comes, thought Sposh. He closed his eyes and waited. When the Pope spoke, Sposh turned in shocked relief to stare at his cousin.

“Women!” said the Pope. “Who needs ‘em?”

Sposh nearly sagged against the wall. He allowed himself a breath. He stood straight, and a thought percolated to the surface. Maybe, Chic was only visiting. After all, she had never been one to get greatly upset. Causes never seemed to be her thing.

The Pope clapped his hands. “Boys,” he said with sudden verve, “I feel like doing something new, today.” He stood and giggled. “Just because I can.”

The Pope’s phrase startled Sposh. He had heard those exact words just that morning. Forgetting court decorum, Sposh turned and gaped at his cousin.

The Pope asked, “Can either of you nits guess what that might be?” He turned to look at Sposh.

Sposh resumed his rigid stance, and answered brusquely, “Nossir.”

The Pope turned to Brate and asked, “What about you?”

“Wouldn’t know, sir.”

“Well, make a guess!” shouted Alabow, stamping a fat foot. He threw up his hands. “Somebody, just make a guess! What do I pay you ninnies for?”

Brate hazarded a guess. “So we can buy more pamphlets?”

“Lout!” railed the Pope.

“Thank you, sir.”

Alabow sat heavily on the edge of the throne. He covered his eyes and shook his head. “Idiots. I’m surrounded by idiots,” the Pope complained.

Sposh ignored the broken colloquy; it was standard for Alabow and Inverder to take on in such a manner. His mind was suddenly full of the conversation he had with Mr. Drop. The words Mr. Drop used with such uncharacteristic lucidity, touched a long-dormant nerve in Sposh.

The old tricks no longer work. You got to get out and take a chance. You got to do what’s different, just because you can.

Sposh had been standing by the throne for three years, day after day, rain or shine, hell or high water. It was time for a change. Something had to change. The routine had to go. Sposh had not truly felt alive for years. Life just didn’t breathe. He stood straight, his new thoughts lifting an old burden. Suddenly, he felt free.

Alabow was saying, “Don’t you think so, Cuz?”

Sposh blinked and answered, “Sir?”

“I was saying,” said the Pope in a testy voice, “I’m going to try a little kindness on the Terry, draw him out. Reverse psychology.”

Sposh temporized, “Very good, sir.”

The Pope continued his line of thought. “We need to know what the Terries know. We need plans and diagrams. If we can make our own, we will not have to wait for Terry ships to bring us baubles.”

The Pope stood and threw his arms to the vaulted glass ceiling. He shouted, “I am so ready to own a ship.”

Alabow danced a jiggly dance on the reflective glass tiles. He all but sang his words. “Sposh, imagine TVs in every manor. You know what that means. Right? Fetiboo marathons. Send your riffmarks to the Pope. Make your donations now. Have your draft books ready. But wait, there’s more.”

The Pope stopped spinning. He stood directly before Sposh and stared intently into his eyes. He sighed happily. “I could speak directly to the people. I could get my ideas across. I could fund my anti-edge research. That would work. Sposh, that would put me one up on Uda Con.”

Sposh studied his cousin’s black face. He had heard it all before. The Pope waited for more than Sposh could give. Lacking a better response, Sposh fell back on the tried and true, “Yessir.”

The Pope slumped, turned away, and fell onto the throne. Alabow sighed wearily and shook his head. He turned in the throne cushions and looked at Sposh. Then, he said solemnly, “Fetch me the stowaway.”

Sposh turned and looked into his cousin’s fat eyes. “Me, sir?” he asked.

The Pope answered, his voice again testy, “Can you see me sending dither-britches, here? I want you to do it because you won’t get lost.” The Pope gave his cousin a capricious smile. “It’ll be a long haul.”

With a sigh for the old joke, Sposh answered, “Yessir.”

The holding cell was connected to the Palace by a long hall. It ran downhill from the Palace, north into the Dark Quarter, where the poor lived and sold their labors to the muff nut farms. The hall was cold and poorly lit. It would take him quite a while to walk there and back. His feet ached at the thought of it. Still, it would be a blessed march for he would not have to listen to the Pope.

The Pope turned to Brate with different orders. “Brate,” he said crisply.

“Yessir,” replied Brate.

“Go to the Kitchen for sandwiches,” commanded the Pope. “And don’t forget the mayo this time. Bring the good wine, and set me a table for the Terry. Why are you still here?”

Brate tapped the heel of his spear smartly against the tiles and left. The Pope turned back to Sposh, who tapped his spear and made to leave. The Pope called him back.

“Hang on, cuz,” said the Pope.

Sposh turned and waited. The Pope left the throne, walked to him, and laid fat hands on his shoulders. “You and I are blood,” said Alabow, “but I need to know that you are loyal to the throne.”

Unsure where his cousin was going with his words, Sposh stammered a reply that felt unconvincing. “I am,” he said.

Alabow leaned close to peer deep into Sposh’s wide eyes. He said, “We simply can't let the wives rule. We need to stand firm. All of us. Solidarity. Am I right?”

Sposh lowered his face and nodded. As long as wives had the edge, Dalops would bow and scrape. He knew all the rhetoric, but he had to admit,  Chic was not that bad. Even if she was, fighting with the wives didn’t seem right. He looked up into his cousin’s eyes. Were they the eyes of a crank, a headbanger? How was it that nut jobs rose to power? He slumped under the Pope’s intense gaze.

With a pat of his fat hand, the Pope sent Sposh on his way. “That’s a brave Dalop.”

The thing Sposh hated most about the long hall was the steps. On the way down, they were nice enough. They were easy to step from, and soon, you forgot they were there. But, they could not be overlooked on the way back. By the halfway point, you realized you were panting for breath. On reaching the top, you wondered if your knees would buckle.

Sposh stood on the top step and considered the long walk with dread. He recalled the old tale of Ivan Framed, the first guard to walk the long hall. Ivan sang as he walked, and could be heard for quite a while. Then, the song stopped. Ivan got lost and never returned. Three search parties never found him. Sposh shuddered and began his descent.