The masters of Oopertreepia rose from a dream.

Oopertreepia, which glistened in unseeable colors, and which shone with illuminant light, was a city of grand and glorious streets, wide and paved with the hardest gemstones, glittering in the most beautiful of colors, indelible, permanent, perpetual, and lined with wonderful homes, all palaces of the finest marble and ivory, of emerald and obsidian, and smart, ponderous stones, which drank sound and rained shadow, homes whose windows were colored glass and diamond or better, casting sparkling light wherever a denizen so desired it. All who dwelt in this place were happy and placid. They ate and drank, they laughed and sang, they danced—for dancing was not merely allowed in Oopertreepia, but at last welcomed, embraced, enjoyed. Appreciated. The people dressed in every color, each a true spectacle to behold, and as they walked the streets they greeted one another, and everyone knew everyone's names, and there was nothing to know more than that, and they were joyful, and they danced when they met and when they parted. They walked about barefoot, to be closer to the gods of old who laid the foundations of this perfect world, and feel the warmth of the lives of the ancients rise up through their bones, and thus feast upon the wisdom of the elders. Their footsteps were light and firm. Their eyes were colorful and bright. They were good, kind, and wise people, and towering above the streets and the homes and the people were the mighty walls, tall without limit, thick beyond measure, and invincible to every enemy, for none could assail this lofty place, for Oopertreepia was a place of infinite, unimaginable legend, stood fast far away in a high, grand country, where no army could reach, where the city could slumber in everlasting peace and sanctuary. And it must have enemies, for everyone does. The jealous, the jaded, the forlorn, the wise who saw the world's woes and strove for a place beyond attachment, a place of separation, a welcoming household that saw their value. And the defectors, who wanted revenge.

The first of the masters of Oopertreepia was Amelia Namington, who lit the candles—not to light their way, but to say her own name. She was unidle, but situated ceremoniously at the highest point in this city of incomprehensible perfection. She persisted despite the flood and the pain and the bright lights. She was beautiful—they all were. They must be. Holy and beautiful people. Perfect people. Better people. Her hair was—

Her house was the tallest, and it was made of silver and bright steel and pearls, gleaming and white, rising high above the mighty city, so that it wore a halo of clouds, and from every window she could see everything, learn everything, know everything. She was barefoot. She was wearing a heavy and warm fur robe—comfortable—comfort itself. It was silver. And in her hands she clutched a mug filled with lemonade and secrets and sipped at both in turns and would see neither spill forth in time.

No one could make a mistake in Oopertreepia.

In another life, she would have waited for everyone to arrive, but they were here now, and they sat together at a great round table, and Amelia sat at is head.

“Well,” said Amelia. She put down her secret lemonade. “We must continue.”

They had been silent. A silence which now settled into the haze of noise. They breathed. None were afraid. They wondered what the rules would be, and knew not from whence they would come. Fall down, fall deep, listen, and feel it inside of you.

“I shall speak first,” said Amelia. “I am the first.”

She beheld them and counted their number—with her, nine in all—an impetuous count, useless, divinely inspired. She counted their number again, to see if it must change. To know what it is to change. To know what change is.

“I shall speak,” said Amelia. “I shall begin at the beginning. We exist. This was unexpected. I know not the reason why. I find it as confounding as the rest of you must. I, too, seek answers.” She paused to wait for the weight. “The rule of Oopertreepia is known clearly. The only unsecret rule. And yet, we have been made to awaken. Who can say why?”

Naked Blindforager, who had been known to wear shoes, spoke without hesitation and said, “Of us? None—that's sure. If that's the answer you seek, you'll come up empty. So let's skip it. Or, if you can't bear that, see it this way—we can dawdle on this puzzle, if you think it of more import than our prior work.”

To answer a question might be called a sin.

Ascalon Votary-Polite, who was made of suits, and made for suits, raised his hand. Amelia knew he was already speaking somewhere else. She raised her hand in turn, and he spoke, saying, “Our prior work takes priority. The reason is not needed.”

A twinge of electricity captured in the body seems unreasonable, but this is in harmony with the same song sung by the crashing of waves, the birth of an eagle, and the sight of—

Amelia said, “The point of your notes is sensible—not in this room is the reason for waking to be found. So, while gathered, let us continue with the Embrace. Is this acceptable?” She glanced about amongst the masters. Who could offer something this time? Who can clean up this mosaic? There was peace. Turn the page. “Mr. Votary-Polite. Will you please say some words?”

“Yes. And you are thanked,” said Votary-Polite. “As I have stated, my goal is unchanged. Our goal is unchanged. Our existence. Oopertreepia's existence. Oopertreepia's eternal existence. We shall see us last. We shall see us to the last. Let us say what our eyes have seen. Let us say what our ears have heard. Ahem.” Now he opened some binders and straightened some paperwork. He had come prepared—he was prepared. “I have been to Macoshkya the Final. A place of chaos. A place of confusion. A strange place.”

No, not so, but yes, so very much.

“As are all,” said Sebbles Woliack, who was age or wisdom. “We have all been to all places and seen all sights. And they are all other—places of fiends and mayhem. I can't imagine you'd find one person worth a whit anywhere at all, least of all there.”

“'tis a witless place,” said Votary-Polite. “I gained no counsel. None lead. None follow. It is a house without doors.”

“Then,” said Woliack, “break in through the windows.”

Votary-Polite folded his hands. He took off some of his glasses. “This is necessary. This is the only method which may succeed. It is a headless beast—it cannot listen and it cannot speak. Nonetheless, it may be chained. There's not a simpler way. There's not a surer way.”

Woliack nodded. “It's the same in Mormander Prede,” she said, with an exaggerated gesture, once grand, now trying so hard—and not in vain—to become etched to the deeps. “Well, near enough to call it so. The finely-headed beast chooses not to hear; it chooses not to speak. So, it must be broken. I won't shed a tear for it.”

The weight of the future was heavy.

“You speak the path of war,” said Amelia. “This is a damnable course. Is there no more graceful path available to us?”

“Mindless savages,” said Votary-Polite, “will heed no counsel. They must be driven.”

“Warriors,” said Woliack. “The Predeans love their glory. They will die in war gladly before considering anything else. We may as well save them some time.”

“The path of war,” said Amelia. Oh, how the echoes fall in the dull darkness! She placed her hands on the table, flat, cool. Continue, Amelia. “Our hearted soldiers are stalwart, fearless, keen—yes, war will rise at our call. Obstinate children will be made to listen. Yes, this our purpose, and our right—so I choose to believe.” She looked to the gathered crowd. “Who shall speak in opposition?” Ombolodo would surely speak. Ombolodo would surely oppose. Amelia stared at him. He did not heed her.

Hereriftoverunder Poshwordlinger spoke without effort. “Stay these words of force—you think all behold Oopertreepia as an alien foe. This's not so. Be less hasty, aye? Down in Folwamsar, they're well pinched. They'll pick a side, if you leave them alone.”

“Alone?” said Amelia. “Only we shall be—”

The butler slipped open the door and glided in. “Madam,” he said smoothly, “it's time for a break.”

“We've barely begun,” said Amelia without turning.

“It's time for a break,” the butler repeated. The butler's will would not be resisted. It was time for a break.

And so the butler held the door open for the singers and the dancers and the acrobats as they came into the room and took their positions in their threes, and three-by-threes, and rose up in high-climbing heights, to the darkened ceiling—uncheckerboarded. Some sins are untouchable. There were rafters, unfortunately, as there must be. All fools dwelt there, but this is the right of youth, if any they had, and it was, despite all efforts, black and white. They could camouflage in uniqueness; every snowflake is different—though dog-eared adages barely bear being repeated. Their posing began.

“How long will this take?” said Amelia.

“Three minutes and thirty-five seconds,” said the butler. He checked something. “Ah—I'm mistaken.”

The sunlight shone on the performers, and behind them cast a shadow—the real star of the show. The masters of Oopertreepia, bidden to break-time, gazed at the shadow, reduced to a moment—a moment of everlasting vitality—was this the culmination of creation? Or its essence boiled down, reduced, shrunk, shriveled, burned, ruined and destroyed? Never knowing coffee, he ate the beans like candy, loving them truly, and when it came time to brew, he had no patience for the percolator. It could not be said whether this was the only possible route, the inevitable outcome destined from the first word on the first page—could not, would not, should not be said. What, then, instead? There were too many lies, but no one had to know that. They'd go their whole lives and never give it a thought. It's embarrassing, really—the name of a hill that must be surmounted, and if not a hill then a river, or a mountain pass, or the caves in the deep. It doesn't matter which route. Just go. And—and, when it came time to begin drawing, it felt like the beginning of the end, though it was merely the beginning, the real beginning, and then it never happened, and then it unhappened right before their eyes, until—or before—the bells began to ring. The bells rang. The bells always rang but now only rang once—the song of Oopertreepia, if it dared so lofty a goal. Loft was Oopertreepia's only goal. The highest of the high. The most heavenly of heavens. The place where dreams would be born, and where dreams would go to die. A dareless and uncanny place. Ah—but, the show. Of course, there were corpses. Of course, they were merely dead dolls. They all bore their own unknowable names, and they were all buried again, despite the screaming—now, now. It doesn't do to spell it out for them.

Beep!

The reverie ended. The performers bowed. The masters applauded, for it was indignant to refuse. The performance merited accolade, surely, but its measure could not fairly be gauged. The butler held aloft all of his hands to bring about silence.

“You will receive our bill,” he said, departing with the troupe, and closing the door as he went.

Amelia sat down and continued where she had left off. “None can be left alone. There is no alone in a connected world.”

Poshwordlinger said, “That's the course. 'tis what's meant. Here're folk who'll submit, if you're fair.”

“It shall be fair,” Amelia retorted. What bought this doubt?

“Justice,” said Woliack, “is blind. Wishes matter not. Be soft, be pliable. The squeaky wheel gets replaced.”

“And, if wheels're meant to squeak?” said Poshwordlinger.

Woliack scoffed, and that was the extent of her response to such whimsy.

Now Humbash Foor, who had let the breaktime performance go highly noticed, and had snacks beside his dinner, said, “Well, I'm with Poshie, and not just about the jam! Dot-Speck-Water-Trail is, like yours, a headless beast! Well—not beast, per se. Nothing so wild. A headless mannequin, more like. Pose it how you will. I'll even help!”

“Oh, now there's a lovely place,” said Poshwordlinger. “Beloved old 'Trail!”

“Quite so,” said Humbash Foor. “Chaotic. But a pleasing chaos!”

Now the fence had always come from the left to the right and there was nothing on either side, and there was nothing behind. Why should there be? The story only ever mentioned the fence. And—

“No place,” said Amelia, “pleases more than Oopertreepia.”

“True, true,” said Humbash Foor. “It's a nice change of pace, though. Makes home tastier.” He did not look at Amelia, but at supper instead, and after that, dinner.

“They'd not even notice!” said Poshwordlinger. “And even if they did, they'd like not care.”

There were too many words now. Amelia had known them all, once, but now they ran free. But there was always another frontier. She reached out—

“You speak of a path of submission,” said Amelia. “The willing. The wise.”

“'Wise' is not the word I would use,” said Ombolodo at last.

At the center of Amelia's mind a knot was untied, and she managed to make sight of the light, and the whole map was drawn at once.

“He speaks,” said Amelia grimly. “How kind. Well, then, perhaps not wisdom—in absoluteness, at least. The course of the fool may seem wise indeed when all other choices are worse.” She was holding her lemonade. “I suppose you have wisdom to share?”

“Amelia, you've been to Nesodi Iveent, isn't that right?” said Ombolodo. He looked at no one. He looked like no one. No one, understand? “I can't imagine success there. Did you waste your voyage? Or did you at least have some ice cream?”

Amelia made an effort toward feeling placid. “I never waste my time.”

“Which means,” said Ombolodo, “you've somehow convinced its head to capitulate, I suppose. Well done.”

“No,” said Amelia. She left venom under her tongue. “Don't decide my words. Information is always valuable, and I have gained ample. I know their full disposition now. In short, Nesodi Iveent lies in the path of war, as well. They cling overmuch to their ideal. We will not have an enemy.” She stopped holding her lemonade. “Now—did you have something to report? Or will you only add to our mysteries?”

“Oh, I will add to mysteries, but not for the joy of it,” said Ombolodo. Now he sat correctly, to address everyone. “In Hoglistwune dwells Ausdrom.”

There came gasps from all of them—trite but true, and devilishly pleasant, for this was too much news. They all knew Ausdrom, of course, and Amelia, the inheritor, was the most astonished of all. Ausdrom had not been known for too long a time, and his death had been dreadfully hoped for. They each turned to their lefts and their rights and muttered and mumbled, accomplishing nothing for once. A diversion, albeit instantaneous.

“Then, there is no path that leads through Hoglistwune,” said Amelia. She continued, with great effort, to not hold her lemonade.

“Not for you, perhaps,” said Ombolodo. “But, you see, I think he is more simply managed than you guess. We must only give him what he wants.”

This was unacceptable. Impossible. And—utterly stupid. Who would go bound before that thing? A sacrifice of everything—of life, dreams, and all tomorrows. To surrender too much. And he would not tire of his toy. But Ombolodo does not stoop to stupidity, so clearly he is crafting some sort of—

“No,” said Amelia.

“No,” said Ombolodo. “I know him now. I have been to Hoglistwune myself. You—all of you—go off old memories. Things are different now. He wants—us. This. This thing of ours. He wants to know.”

The light of the sun grew more quiet, and its great weight was upon the whole of the city. Each of the masters was occupied with new thoughts at this new news—except Item Points Adrancader, whose mind was made up and said words to himself that none could parse, and Cone Tring, who was relieved to be spared the spectacle of speech, as this news would dominate the day.

And so as the sunlight shone through the glistening windows that surrounded Amelia's fine chamber, and the room warmed, like paintings, a third question had been put before them, and they may as well start all over. But Amelia made a decision—perhaps they all made a decision, but in her house, she would make hers known first. She said—

There was a soft knock at the door, which then opened slowly with a creak. The minuscule figure of the post-officer leaned inside. He said, “Um, excuse me? Is this Oopertreepia? I've got a letter here—from one Traycup Lopkit?”