There should be a word-tension for “fated,” conveying a meaning opposite from a thing destined to be. There should also be a garnish-tension for “parsley,” denoting the opposite of the leafy herb. Oh, we speak in daily discourse of “anti-parsley,” but that is another thing entire. What the word for a thing is can consequent much.
—from “Mauve’Bib Has Ideas and Speaks Them,” edited by the Princess Serutan
Jazzica noted her own thoughts in her own mind all by herself. Today Pall rides the wild pretzel. What’ll ensue from this?
And an answer came to her unbidden, a bird of ideation flown right into the middle of her head out of that mental nowhere-which-is-somewhere from which concepts originate in cooperation with the human brain: He will use such skill for staging raids on Hardchargin pretzel patrols, likely. That, or neglect duty, and indulge with other teen-men of the hootch in the bombing around.
The notions were sobering. Either scenario would expose her son to the deadliest peril.
She permitted herself a small sigh. Such preoccupations had no place in the mind of a Revved-Up Mother. There was much work to be done—classes to be taught, dishes to be developed. The dessert raids on the Shadvlad had brought great success, but Filp-Rotha had doubled his corps of bouncers and given them carte blanche in the use of force. Just yesterday had come an incident of violence. Three salesmen, Yadda, D’Dadda, and Sh’boom, had been severely shoved while attempting to move a load of caramel-coated nuggets.
We must accelerate our refinement of the liqueur, she thought. Else Hardchargin chefs might discover it for themselves. Indeed, they may have spies among us already. Even the most loyal may be tempted by the lure of off-world entrees.
A knock sounded on the wall of the entrance to her sleep-space. It was Harrumf, Pall’s half-wife.
Jazzica greeted her in the customary Freedmenmen manner. “Frisco legit b.o. zooms? How does this day find you?”
Harrumf answered with equal formality. “Par epic preems to ho-hum H’wood. This day finds me well.” She hesitated, stopped hesitating, said, “Forgive me, Your Revved-Uppedness. But I am troubled, disturbed.”
Jazzica’s eyes widened in horror-fear. “Pall!” she gasped. “Is he…?”
“Mauve’Bib rides the Brewer today,” Harrumf said simply. “He will not fail.”
Jazzica examined the woman before her. Harrumf had become her son’s responsibility after Pall’d bested Janis and sent him into exile. Yet Jazzica knew that Harrumf didn’t share her son’s bed.
“What brings you here, Harrumf?” Jazzica asked.
“There is… discontent, Your Revved-Uppedness,” the woman said. “Many of the young men are restless. They know Mauve’Bib rides Schmai-gunug this day. If he succeeds he will be Freedmenmen-entire. The young men want…” She trailed off, uncertain of her mandate to complete the gist of her nub.
“Yes, Harrumf,” Jazzica prompted. “They want…?”
“They want Mauve’Bib to fire Spilgard,” she said with a straining. “They want him to lead all the tribes in razzmatazzia against the hated Hardchargins, in a final apocalyptic cookoff. They say…”
“Yes, Harrumf? They… say what?”
She took a deep breath, said, “They say that with the liqueur we shall be invincible.”
The room fell silent. Out in the hootch Jazzica heard the sugar rasping its noise on the rough floor as these strange people, so different from those she had known as a child, lived.
They are impatient, she thought. Word of the beer liqueur has ignited them like a faggot. They believe now that we cannot lose. Twenty generations of quality flans and caramels is suddenly no longer enough.
“I daren’t become involved,” Jazzica said. “I’m the hootch’s Revved-Up Mother. My task’s strictly specified—to bring succor to the tribe, to consecrate the necessary rituals, and to think of a name for the liqueur. All else’d be folly—or worse.”
“And’ve you had any luck, Reverend Mother?” Harrumf asked.
“Some luck, but that poor,” Jazzica admitted. “Two names’ve I come up with—Lagerheads and Doonsbeery.” Her voice was a disgusted thing. “I deem them unsatisfactory.”
“We should let Him decide,” Harrumf said suddenly.
This disquieted Jazzica. She worried lest the powers ascribed to Pall be inflated beyond reason, making him god-like, like a god. “Would you deny me my right, Harrumf?” she asked.
The woman looked apologetic, said, “Such was not my intention, Your Revved-Uppedness. I only meant—”
They were interrupted by a rustle at the entrance to the room. A small girl-child, having in age two year-times, stood there.
“Nailya,” Jazzica said, greeting her daughter. “Have you been behaving yourself?”
The girl stared soberly serious, with solemn green eyes and oval face. She said gravely, “Pre-heat oven to Med. (350°F).”
What’ve I borne? thought Jazzica.
“Say hello to your mother, Nailya,” Harrumf said to the child-girl.
“Add ¼ tsp. basil, ½ tsp. oregano,” said Nailya. “Stir.”
A sweat-suited man knocked on the doorway, and without waiting for a reply strode into the room. He was powdered and lightly dusted with sugars, his red-on-red eyes fierce in their burning intensity.
“Yes, Shoanuf?” Jazzica asked.
“I return from the sugars, Revved-Up Mother,” he replied. “Pall-Mauve’Bib-who-is-Assol has summoned the brewer and makes ready.”
Jazzica nodded. If he succeeds, this day will live forever in legend, she thought. If he fails…
She tried to swallow in a dry throat.
—there may be nothing but a few damnable folk songs, of endless repetitive verses, without bridge or chorus.
The thought left her strangely disturbed. “I will be in my chambers,” she husked.
Gathering her robes about her, she swept from the room, then swept back in, her deep training revealing, via short-term memory, that she had been in her chambers to begin with.