MALLOS
“For Aura’s sake, Mallos, put that thing down and listen to me.”
Of course, Mallos did no such thing. He ignored his cat’s burning gaze and continued to flip through the apps on his Samsung Galaxy S III, getting to grips with the Android operating system. Having successfully dissected and less successfully put back together a number of mobile phones, he had shifted his interest from hardware to software and was now examining the differences between the Android, Microsoft and Apple operating systems. Naturally, he wasn’t listening to Sperantia at all. She should have realised that, given that he had blocked her from his mind and she was forced to speak out loud to him instead, but Sperantia was still convinced that a certain tone would penetrate – if only she could find it.
The subject of today’s disagreement was his attire which, in fairness to Mallos, was a common enough nag to render almost anything else more interesting than engaging with it. He had managed to put a magical lock on his clothes to prevent Sperantia from switching them with divinity, so she was reduced to fiercely harassing him about his too-casual choice. The Italian embassy, she insisted, would be offended by anything less than a suit. Mallos had responded that he was offended by anything less than Italy’s rejection of its patron deity, had blocked his mind and ignored all further attempts to discuss the matter. A small part of Sperantia could sympathise. As far as she could tell Mallos’ actions had always largely been influenced by his mood, but his mood had been more prone to larger swings since Aura’s death. It was easier to talk to someone who already knew something - or who have been there – than it was to open up to someone new, and there was still a great deal about his life and his thoughts that he didn’t share with her. Close friends were not so easily replaced. Be that as it may, whatever feeling or memory was plaguing him, the Italians would not accept that as an excuse for him turning up to an important diplomatic meeting dressed for hanging around the house. Spanish relations with Italy were strained enough as it is without adding this to the list of offences.
He was slouched on the chair in the room they’d been asked to wait in, looking for all the world like a teenager sitting outside the principal’s office. His hair was ruffled where he’d been running his hands though it – one of the few typical signs of inner distress with Mallos – and even with terrible posture he somehow managed exhibit a kind of bored elegance. Certainly the receptionist thought so, because she kept stealing interested glances at him while he wasn’t looking. Not noticing the attention he was attracting and not playing to it were also classic signs that something was wrong.
“This meeting took months to set up,” Sperantia ventured, trying a more gentle tone to try and encourage him to listen. “If we don’t get this right it could be disastrous. Why don’t you get Phillips to take over, if you don’t feel like it?”
Mallos shifted in his seat and sighed, not taking his eyes off the phone. “I’ll deal with it in a minute.”
She frowned. “Are you playing that angry meals game again instead of listening to me?”
“Angry birds, Sperantia.”
The Siamese-cross inflated like a puffer-fish, preparing a torrid list of insults, but she backed down immediately when her fairy suddenly straightened up, an alert expression on his face. Few people could contact Mallos telepathically, since he sustained more or less continuous mental shields, and he was unlikely to have suddenly come to a ground-breaking epiphany. Sperantia had seen this abrupt tension before, and the usual cause was an incoming prayer. She still didn’t understand how the prayer system worked. From what she could gather, the originals could choose to listen to their prayers at any time, but there was some kind of override system in place for particularly desperate pleas, or prayers which meant something to the original in question. That Mallos didn’t relax again after he’d heard the prayer indicated the latter. Sperantia stood up and bounded over to the receptionist.
“Please send the deepest apologies to the embassy, and inform them that, due to an emergency, the seba’iqer is unable to keep his appointment,” she stated firmly. “Please contact Miss Bell and ask her to send Mr Phillips in his place.”
There was no further time for explanation; Mallos had already stood up. Ignoring the receptionist’s spluttering, Sperantia leapt across the room to join him and the pair vanished, leaving the phone vibrating on the seat.
--
Mallos said nothing as they made their way through the Palace of Versailles to the Hall of Mirrors, but he did re-open his mind to Sperantia and shared with her the contents of Arthur’s prayer. There was nothing that could be said which wasn’t pure speculation, so neither said anything, not even in the privacy of their shared mind. They passed through the mirror-portal leading to the world of Shaman and found themselves on a hill overlooking the pantheon at dusk. Time wasn’t relative between worlds, and it was impossible to know how many hours – or even days – had passed since Arthur had sent the message. Sperantia leapt wordlessly onto Mallos’ shoulder and they teleported to the castle entrance. The guards stationed there both jumped and raised their weapons, but dropped them again when they recognised them.
The Spaniard didn’t pause to ask for directions or clarification of what had happened, as Sperantia would have done, but rather strode straight in, the doors opening magically before him. He reached out and touched Arthur’s mind briefly, with the double purpose of locating him and alerting him that he was there. With the correct room magically identified Mallos and Sperantia found the quickest route to it, brushing aside anything which stood in their way – locked doors, absence of doors, one unwitting courtier who tried to engage in conversation – with divinity. Sperantia’s claws dug firmly into Mallos’ shoulder, tearing the black fabric, but he didn’t notice. Having already let Arthur know of his presence, he didn’t bother knocking. The door swung open of its own accord to reveal the nightmarish scene inside.
Arthur, one of the few people left in the world that Mallos could probably call a friend, was sat on the chair beside the bed, but he barely saw him. Tristan’s legs were obscured by the blanket but the damage to his torso was painfully clear by the quantity of blood-stained bandages and by his lack of movement. Sperantia leapt off Mallos’ shoulder and, for once not caring about the presence of the dog, jumped lightly onto Tristan’s bed. She lay down towards the foot of the bed, pressed her body against his leg and purred quietly.
It took Mallos a moment to realise that he hadn’t moved from the doorway, and a moment longer to realise that this was one of those very rare occasions when he didn’t know what to do with himself. After a brief but noticeable hesitation, he took a few steps into the room and closed the door magically behind him, before moving over to join Arthur at Tristan’s side.
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