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“Your certainty has more bare spots than your scalp does.”
Mister Mikko bared his old teeth at his colleague and turned back to Brrr. “Don’t mind Professor Lenx; his mind is going. I don’t suppose you ever came across a Doctor Dillamond? A Goat with expertise in several fields, history and science among them.”
“The history of science,” murmured Professor Lenx. “The science of history.”
“I never did. And I’m sorry for mentioning Madame Morrible. I didn’t meet her personally. She presided over teas for the visitors—community relations, that sort of thing, a town-and-gown tension-mitigation scheme. She lectured once or twice. I don’t remember the topic.”
He did, though. The Animal Adverse laws, and the Wizard’s mercy.
“Doctor Dillamond,” said Professor Lenx. “A fine scholar.”
“And an early admirer of Elphaba Thropp’s, as I recall,” added Mister Mikko.
Brrr took the chance that was presenting itself. “I don’t suppose you remember an occasion in which an infant Lion cub was brought into a laboratory in Shiz? For some kind of treatment?”
Professor Lenx and Mister Mikko exchanged glances.
“Much was done that is best not to remember,” said Mister Mikko softly.
“I think I might have been that Lion cub.”
A grave silence as, in the next room, a few coals fell from their little heap.
“We might all have been that Lion cub,” said the Boar.
The Ape got up to clear. The cups trembled in his hands. When he left the room, the Boar leaned forward. “We did not approve,” he whispered. “Please don’t speak of this again. He gets very upset, the old fool.”
“It was my life,” said Brrr.
“And this is ours, what’s left of it. Spare us, and save yourself. You’re young enough. Look: You have survived. Bless you, dear sir. Bless you, and shut up.”
As Mister Mikko cleared away, Brrr pushed Professor Lenx’s cart into the front parlor, where it took up half the room. The Lion stirred up the fire while the Boar sunk into a reverie about Madame Morrible and the last golden years of an integrated university life. When Brrr settled in a ratty old upholstered chair ( just covered with silvery Ape hairs), he didn’t speak but thought about Animals in exile and the need for a modern workforce in the factories.
There was an opportunity here. Staring him in the face. Rehabilitation of a sort, if he worked it right. If he had the mettle to do it.
During afters, Brrr made his proposal over a bitterroot sherry. He offered his services as a go-between. He would return to Shiz and present himself to the appropriate authorities as Professor Lenx’s agent. He would ask 15 percent of any funds he was able to locate and arrange to have released. Everything notarized and formalized.
“I know you’re young,” said Mister Mikko. “Well, youngish. But have you really the nerve to return to Loyal Oz?”
“I am a Namory,” he reminded them. “I once got a medal from the Wizard of Oz himself. And for a time I counted the Scarecrow, who sits upon the Throne, a personal friend.”
“We move in lofty circles, yet we wear such a nobly frayed jacket,” said the Boar, as gentle as he was wry.
Brrr pressed his case. “I ought at least to be able to get an audience with him, if the banks give me a hard time.”
Professor Lenx couldn’t control his trembling as Mister Mikko, with a more capable hand, labored over a contract engaging Brrr as a financial agent.
“Assuming on the Loyal Oz side of the border that the Shiz bank honors its terms, will the Eminent Thropp here in Munchkinland allow the funds transfer?” asked Brrr. “I don’t know much about monetary policy. And who is the current Eminent Thropp now, anyway?”
“With the deaths of both Elphaba and Nessarose, the title of Eminent Thropp ought to have reverted to Shell,” said Mister Mikko. “I mean, given the absence of the issue of the women of the line. For, like the descent of Ozmas, the Eminenceships descend with a matrilineal bias. But Shell is said to be a playboy in Emerald City gambling parlors. Also a regular visitor to girlie arcades. He’s shown no inclination to give up the high life and waltz back here to govern a rogue state. One suspects his political sympathies, if he’s ever developed any, would have conformed with the Wizard’s, anyway.”
“Who else has emerged?” said Brrr. “I mean, to pick up the county where Nessarose left it when she died?”
“Bit of a local scrabble,” said Mister Mikko, “but if we had the money you might bring us, we’d put it on the Eminent Pastor in Old Pastoria. Her name is Mumbly.”
“Her name is Mammly.”
“Her name is immaterial. Mumbly, Mommy, will you let me finish, old darling? She keeps to herself. She’s distantly related to Pastorius, who was the last Ozma Regent before the Wizard’s takeover. She probably has the most legitimacy to stand up to the Emerald City in case of an attempt at reannexation, though I don’t know if she would. I don’t think she has the conviction of exceptionalism that Nessarose possessed.”
