Roughly shaggy woolen greyly fold and crumple dropping fall a limply scribble down the sunlit sky to finally so dribbled down collapse a puddle lopped upon a stretch of close-shorn grass, and then the sharp plop of a pin, a single glowering cabochon of garnet. Chanting below, harshly barking anger, simmering resolve, a rumble as something draws itself tighter and more tightly about the air, the sun, the light, the trim green lawn stretched flatly toward the parapets of brick that line the roof, a sudden rush of air, a dopplered squeak, a disorganized stumbling thump. She rolls heavily over to lie on her back atop that crumple of grey. Blinking at the shadow darkening the air above, the grass about, clenching up her eyes to brace herself as with a wallop a great white drapery stiff with gold lands beside her, a softly settling collapse, a drawn-out groan.

Jo’s up on her hands and knees, “Ysabel,” she’s pushing aside confusing folds of kaftan, “Ysabel!” but “I’m here,” says Ysabel, muffled, “it’s all right, I’m okay,” and a half-hearted laugh as Jo throws a placket aside to reveal her black-haired head, “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“You fall, you’re gonna land, sooner or later.” Jo sets to yanking free that length of rough grey wool, hunched over, away. Ysabel sits suddenly up, heel of a hand pressed to her frown, “You’re,” she says, and then, “we’re still.”

“What,” says Jo, draping the wool about her shoulders.

“I would’ve thought,” says Ysabel.

“What,” says Jo, snatching up the brooch.

“What is that,” says Ysabel, getting to her feet, heading toward the parapet yonder, where the menace is loudest. The sky above a mighty bowl of cobalt blue piled high with stark white sharp-edged clouds that do nothing to dim the sun, and the hills away across the river and the towers downtown before them stand in merciless focus beneath it all. Somewhat more slowly Jo follows after, looking out over the parapet and down.

A crowd fills the street below, a couple-three dozen or more folks thronging the loading deck, but so many more in knots and clusters a ragged arc between the warehouse and Gatto & Sons across the street, and in the space between these two imminent camps a handful of police cars, three, no, four of those trim black-and-white SUVs, a white sedan striped green and gold, officers in black uniforms and tactical vests stood about, seemingly unfazed by the shouts and jeers from either side, and a couple more, there by the sedan, conferring with two deputies in uniforms of slightly mismatched kelly green.

“What on earth,” says Ysabel, but Jo grabs her arm, “It’s the eviction, Jesus, get back!”

One of the officers by the sedan is pointing, up, another turns, a deputy lifts something, a bullhorn, YOU THERE, his voice amplified to an order of magnitude above the ambient animosity, YOU ARE TRESPASSING, and Jo yanks Ysabel stumble-flap back from the parapet, out of sight, OFF THE ROOF, and the swoop and whirl of it all, GET DOWN OFF THE ROOF, the attention of those below, turned away from each other, the cops, turned up, that flap of white at the edge of the long flat roof. YOU WILL DISPERSE, that brassy voice, THIS IS AN ILLEGAL GATHERING, and the awful attention atomizes, the yammer resuming, YOU WILL DISPERSE, that voice overwhelming it all, as unperturbed as ever.

Ysabel tries to yank herself free from Jo’s grip, “They need us,” she’s saying, hushed, but firm, “they need our help.”

“The cops will fuck you up,” says Jo. “We have to get down from here, somewhere safe, figure out what’s going on, find some fucking clothes, where’s that goddamn hatch,” looking about, the close-cropped grass, the Adirondack chairs. “There was a winch, or a lift,” says Ysabel, “when they laid the turf, but,” a shrug, “that will have been taken down,” as another COME DOWN OFF THE ROOF YOU WILL DISPERSE erupts below. “They could not hurt me,” she says, looking back toward the parapet. “They would scatter and flee if I showed my face.”

“Gotta be something,” mutters Jo.

“Oh,” says Ysabel then. “Of course.” She tugs at Jo’s chlamys, Jo yanking it back into place, turning as she does, “The hell?” she says.

The brick backsides of the buildings at the head of the block, rising two and three storeys above the lawn, and one of the few windows looking out has been opened. Leaned out through the gauzy curtains there’s Marfisa, her cloud of white-gold hair lit up by the sun, imperatively beckoning to them both.

And, once more, below, YOU WILL DISPERSE

The King looks up from the book in his lap. Closes it, about his finger, keeping his place, Retornamos como sombras, say the lurid orange letters on the cover. “Your pardon, majesty,” says Joaquin, a hand against the jamb. “I was passing. The door was ajar.” His two-tone shirt of cream and orange, crimped by the strap of his holster.

“We are rather on top of each other, aren’t we,” says the King, looking about the bedroom, the unmade bed, the baggage stacked against the walls papered in royal blue, sketched with white to suggest columns, a mighty portico.

“The repairs take longer than they should,” says Joaquin.

“They’ll take as long as they take. Hasn’t the Vicar’s council begun?”

“He sent me up here, to see to your majesties – ”

“Khara!” harshly shouted from somewhere back that way, a thump, a crash, the other door bursts open, the Laguiole Florimell stumbling out, clutching the various pieces of her suit to herself in a wad of salmon pink, dangled white sleeve of a blouse as head down around and past the foot of the bed, heedless past the King to the door swung wide as Joaquin steps quickly back, but not quick enough, there’s a collision, she gasps, he grunts, helps her along as she yanks herself free from his supporting hands, a flutter of pink, he’s left to pick up her abandoned jacket. “My lord?” he says, looking to the King, who sets his book aside, “Go,” he says. “I’ll see to her majesty.”

The bathroom off the bedroom’s tiled in blue and pink, chrome fixtures and a mirror over matching sinks, one small window to look out on branches laden with leaves. She’s sat in the pale blue tub hunched forward, hair uncovered and undone in inky tendrils to drape her shoulders, cloak her back, pool in coils to float along with indistinct clouds of white that thread the shallow water. He steps over the ewer tipped on the white bath rug, drizzle of something slimily white from the lip of it, and sits himself on the edge of the tub. Offers his hand, after a moment, held low to trouble the surface of the water, there beneath her face tipped down, and after a moment ripple and slosh she lifts her hand to take it, and squeeze it as he squeezes.

“We’ll try again,” he says.

“We scatter the police,” says Ysabel, in the middle of the empty storefront, hands spread at the self-evidence, unfolding the kaftan. “It’s easily done.”

“Hell no,” says Jo, sat on the sill of the wide front window, and the empty sunlit street behind her, the murmur of an unseen crowd. Dressed in a sweatshirt now, black, No Gods, it says, No Billionaires, her tights spangled with stars. “You ain’t going anywhere near any goddamn cops.”

“The people, out there,” says Marfisa, leaned back against sheets of graffiti’d plywood stood up along the wall, “they aren’t your,” shaking her head, white hair an undone cloud, “they’re not us.”

“You mean to say they’re sworn to Agravante’s creature?” says Ysabel.

“They’re with that mountebank,” says the Shrieve Bruno, sat off to one side on a folding chair, “Lake,” and “Who?” say Jo and Ysabel, pretty much at once. “He preaches, on the radio,” Bruno brushes something from the knee of his summerweight suit, grey with delicate white stripes, “to the homeless, the luckless, the abandoned and forsaked.”

“But that’s absurd,” says Ysabel.

“Your Chatelaine invited him,” says Marfisa.

“When?” says Ysabel, turning back to her. “How? When?”

“Ah, folks?” says Jo. “What, what day is it?”

“Friday,” says Marfisa.

“It can’t be,” says Ysabel. “It’s Saturday afternoon, at least.”

“Ysabel,” says Jo, tone sharpened. “The date. What’s the date.”

Marfisa frowns. “Eighth June,” says Bruno. Ysabel lowers her hand. “A week,” says Jo. “A whole freaking week.” The restless mutter of the unseen crowd, a distantly amplified yawp. Ysabel turns away from Marfisa, back toward Bruno, “What,” she says, hushed, “what’s become of them all.”

“Those knights,” says Bruno, “domestics, hobs and clods still with a house to keep, have mostly, largely, returned. Were you here for the parade? Gloria had them build great puppets, when her float fell through. But there was,” blowing out a sigh, “a flood. Something to do with the digging, for the Big Pipe project. Storm sewers backed up downtown. So the city’s said.”

“But,” says Jo.

Bruno shrugs. “Without a queen, or rather, with another queen to look to, the omens seemed clear. They’ve even held an Apportionment.”

“From my stores!” snaps Ysabel.

“Obviously, majesty,” says Bruno. “But from her hand. Which would seem to be consequential.”

“And anybody who didn’t have a house to go back to?” says Jo.

Bruno shrugs, again.

“You stayed,” says Ysabel, to Marfisa.

“Not for the palace.” She gestures over her shoulder. “That was Abby Tinker’s flat.”

“Who the hell is Abby Tinker?” says Jo, but Ysabel snaps her fingers, “She wrote those space stories! That you like so much.”

“She wrote the Caravan stories,” says Marfisa, “and she wrote Cynara’s World, which I like best.” A deep breath. “She left her papers to me, and her books. That’s why I’m still here.” Head tipped forward, looking down. “Not for the palace.”

“What’s to become of it all,” says Ysabel, to no one in particular.

“Demolition,” says Bruno. “Condominiums. Ground-level retail, perhaps a parking garage, should development resume,” a gesture, toward the plastic signs lapped one over another against the mural on the back wall, Wilson Properties, they say, and Anaphenics, beneath a leaning, red-roofed tower, suggestions of olive trees. “Lake would have it become public housing, for his flock, though there’s far too many ever to fit within. But the palace isn’t the point, majesty,” leaning forward, elbows on his knees, “if I were to gather what medhu I might, a drop at least from every fifth, if you were to turn it, even a fraction of what was turned before, and before the other queen might turn her own – that, too, would prove, consequential.”

“Is that all,” mutters Ysabel. Jo’s frown tightens. “Until then,” Bruno’s saying, sitting back, “we must find somewhere safe, where your majesty might stay. Your things are still in the grotto, but we can hardly take you there. The pied-à-terre on Hawthorne’s been emptied, I think?” looking to Marfisa, who doesn’t seem to notice.

“Why are we even,” says Ysabel, spreading wide her arms again, turning about in that storefront room, the golden embroidery pricking the dazzling white of her kaftan. “Have it done,” she says. “Take our things to the Hawthorne apartment. Turn down the bed and make ready for us, and when all’s in place, we shall merely walk there, it’s not far,” but “Majesty,” Bruno’s saying, and “That’s not,” says Marfisa, “your majesty, you must,” but “you haven’t,” and “understand, there are,” and “heard,” says Marfisa, voice rising as she pushes off the upright plywood, “issues,” Bruno says, trailing away as Marfisa steps up to Ysabel, “a blasted, rotten,” she’s snarling, and then, a shout, “There is! No one! Else!” her icy blue eyes locked with Ysabel’s green.

Bruno says, gently, “For now, majesty, all that is left of your court is met here, in this room.”

“Well,” says Ysabel, lowering her arms, and again, “well.”

“Stay here,” says Marfisa, her voice cracked. She swallows. “Stay in Abby Tinker’s flat,” more certain, and direct. “A night, or two. It’s close, but out of sight. I will see you’re safe.”

“That, that might well do,” says Bruno, considering. “Between the unrest on the marches, the refugees in North, King Luys has a very full plate. The last thing he’d want is anything further stirred between the Outlaw, and the Vicar.” Pushing himself to his feet. “Let’s get you upstairs, then, majesty, and I’ll set about the swelling of your ranks, and our stores.”

“I’m sorry,” says Jo, still sat there, on the sill. “King who the what, now?”

Walls paneled in rich wood, ceiling of pressed tin between dark box beams. The heavy drapes are drawn, and the only light from blue-shaded lamps that line the middle of the table. Sat at the head of it, white locks cut short, white shirt buttoned to the throat, hands laid before him, in gloves the color of fawn, Agravante clears his throat and says, “Your agreement – ”

“Treaty,” grates Wu Song, sat at the foot.

The briefest smile crooks the corner of Agravante’s mouth. “Your agreement was with another king, another court, another line entirely. It no longer obtains.”

“I see, no king,” says Wu Song, his jacket of burgundy and black, the blocky hexagrams at his temples blurred by silvery stubble. “I see no queen. No duke. I see,” looking about the table, “a baroness, a marquess,” to Sigrid and Clothilde, in white and black, the helm Linesse, her left arm sheathed in a gleaming rerebrace and cowter, “I see the, spokesman, of a labor union,” the Soames Twice Thomas there, by Bodenay, the tallest of them all, across the table from Calidore. “I see,” says Wu Song, looking back to Agravante, and Pyrocles sat at his left, “no court.”

“I am his majesty’s Vicar,” says Agravante, “in every matter under his encompassing hand. These men about you hold each of them a fifth of this city, and its portion. The Baroness is here to speak for our neighbors to the west, much as you, General, are here to speak for our neighbors to the east.”

“You’d have us truckle with Hopper John.”

“I’d have you avail yourself of the same privileges and opportunities afforded anyone in the hinterlands. No one is being slighted here.”

“Piecework,” snarls Wu Song, looking from Sigrid, to Clothilde. “They do piecework,” he says. “We never did piecework.”

“Even so,” says Agravante, but that heavy chair at the foot of the table scrapes back, and everyone about it tenses, Pyrocles’ hands leap to grip the edge of it, as Wu Song gets to his feet, “Should’ve waited a couple of weeks,” he’s saying. “Could’ve sent a boy with an empty hat. Would’ve saved us all the bother.”

A beagle, white coat spotted with black, and tan, stood proudly in a field, and brushstrokes somehow suggest a foreboding copse of low trees in the distance, and a blue sky streaked with feathery clouds. The frame about it of ornately carved and gilded wood, tipped back up on the mantel over the hearth beneath of yellow brick, and embers a-simmer on the grate. He turns from it, folding up his arms in that two-tone shirt of orange and cream, creased by the worn brown leather strap of his sling holster. The black butt of his gun, poked out just above the crook of his elbow. Looking to the only other person in the room, sat in one of the two wingback chairs before the hearth, Becker, his sport coat of blue and grey over a trim fleece vest.

“Left to cool our heels,” says Joaquin.

Becker looks away from whatever middle distance, blinking, befuddled, as if noticing him for the first time, “I’m, I’m sorry?” he says.

“The King doesn’t want me,” says Joaquin, taking a step away from the hearth. “His Vicar doesn’t need me,” and another step, closer to Becker, and another, inclining his head. “Your Anvil’s left you here, as he sees to his duty.” The denim of his faded jeans shellacked with old oil, grease, dirt ground deeply in, and long ago. The buckle of his belt a massive thing, enameled in blue, the chromed paisleys of it suggesting a bandana. “So, here we are,” he says. “Cooling our heels.”

Becker swallows. “I,” he says, looking to Joaquin’s hand there, braced on the arm of the chair, but that hand leaps up to the butt of the gun, a slam out there, and heavy footsteps. Joaquin’s suddenly by the doors, sliding one open just enough to peer into the hall, gun out, held high against his chest. The door across the hall’s swung open, there’s Agravante, looking about, “Vicar?” says Joaquin.

“Wu Song was,” says Agravante, “called away. Our council continues. You should see to their majesties.”

“But,” says Joaquin, “my lord – ”

“We’ll be fine,” says Agravante, letting the door swing shut.

“Ah, well.” Joaquin looks back to Becker. “Up and down and up again I go.” He tilts the gun back toward the holster, but dips his head to kiss the rear sight of it, first. “Until next time.”

Becker gets up out of the chair as the pocket door’s slid shut, looking from the doorway, to the embers on the grate, then up, to the portrait on the mantel, the hound there, so serenely alert.

All the books on all the mismatched shelves about seem somehow to be leaning in and over, closing themselves about the one lone lamp, a fantasia of blue glass and beads, shining to one side of an overstuffed loveseat. Colorless hair’s splayed over the arm of it where she’s laid her head, turning a page of the book in her upturned lap, running her fingers along the text, dissolving into the maternal character like a drop of blood into another drop of blood. Closing the book, she sets it on the floor among the stacks and piles of so many others, sitting up to carefully place her feet among the stacks and piles. Reaches down for a drinking glass, tipping it in the light to confirm its emptiness, then sets off gingerly through through that darkly crowded room.

The kitchen lit by streetlight bright enough to make out the sink, and all the books that line the countertop, leaned one against another, sloppily piled on the glass plate of the stovetop, by an empty pizza box. She fills her glass at the sink and drinks maybe half of it down, stood there, looking out the window at nothing in particular.

To her left, the book-lined room, the burning lamp, ahead, the unlit hall, closed doors to either side among more books, the curtained window at the end, defined by street-glow. A soundless, barefoot step, another, head cocked, listening, her attention focused not so much on the closed door to the right, as the left, where a thread of light shines dim along the carpet. Somewhere on the other side of it a quiet flutter of laughter, something’s said, a sigh.

Into the book-lined room, she drinks down the rest of the water. Sits herself on the loveseat, lifting up her feet to turn herself sidelong, reaching for a knitted throw. Drags it back over herself, but there’s a slithering avalanche of paper and she halts, mid-tug, as some portion of a manuscript settles to the floor with a flump.

“Shit,” she breathes.

Falls back against the arm of the loveseat, legs at least tucked under the throw. Reaches up to shut off the lamp, clack. Closes up her eyes.