Bisset tried to stop listening to the shouting and instead tried to estimate the damage. Since Messieurs Clackprattle and Pook had returned from their disastrous attempt to retrieve the key piece, Monsieur Clackprattle had been shouting rather a lot. The focus of his wrath had vacillated from Pook, for his failure, to Bisset, for allowing him to be persuaded to let Pook participate, to the whole of Paris, for, well, existing.

In fact, M Clackprattle seemed to find blame in everyone but himself. Although, he did repeatedly question why he had bothered to rescue Pook, a question that had crossed Bisset’s mind as well. Clackprattle didn’t seem the type to worry about loyalty to those who had failed him. Bisset wondered whether Pook had more influence over Clackprattle than he had assumed, wondered who was really in charge here.

Annoying though the shouting had been, the real problem had been the damage. In his anger, Clackprattle had used that cursed hand of his on any number of priceless objects. Several pieces of original Louis XIV furniture were now just rotting wood. The golden cutlery and plates that Bisset was accustomed to dining on were now a collection of leaden lumps. The Persian carpet that had once been owned by Hassan I Sabbah had been reduced to a threadbare rug. It was extremely vexing. The body of the dead servant lying on top of the rug was something of an inconvenience as well, as it would need to be disposed of. All in all, Bisset was seeing a small fortune being decimated in front of him. If he hadn’t been afraid of that damned hand of Clackprattle’s, he may have intervened.

Bisset glanced across at Pook and saw the same bland, serene smile that the creature always favoured his master with. Not a hint of nerves in spite of his failure. Was there even a small smirk at the corner of his mouth? What did he know that he wasn’t saying?

Finally, the onslaught on humanity and art that Clackprattle had mounted seemed to be coming to an end. The man leaned on his chair and looked around the table with a rheumy eye. He scoffed once.

“I shall take my rest,” he said. “On my return I will expect some answers.”

The fat man waddled out of the room leaving Pook and Bisset alone.

“Your master is indeed most perturbed by events,” said Bisset. A look of confusion and fear flashed across Pook’s face.

“He… ah yes indeed,” said Pook. “I fear he blames me for our predicament. It was indeed an unfortunate situation and one we could not have forseen. It seems that the prominent intellectual thrust of our age is not the well reasoned argument but rather the clipped, sentimental aphorism.”

“You are very lucky that M Clackprattle rescued you from the judgement of the Oisienne,” said Bisset, smiling. Pook smiled blandly back at him.

“Indeed,” Pook said. “My master is indeed most generous when need arises.”

“I hope my brotherhood will be equally generous,” said Bisset. “It is not composed of men who respect failure.”

“Well I am sure a short period of time with Mister Clackprattle will help them understand the situation,” said Pook. “He has a very persuasive manner, I find.”

“Just so,” said Bisset, “although I doubt he could sway all the brotherhood. It may be better to consider the next steps to recovering our position. They will respond better to that encouragement I feel”

“I have naturally considered these next steps,” said Pook. “I believe I understand how we may have failed and indeed have managed to secure a path to not only succeeding next time but to recovering that which was so criminally taken from us.”

Bisset tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.

A pleasant smile spread over Pook’s face and he took something out of his pocket. His hand opened to reveal a small insect made of stone.

“Hello, little one,” said Pook sweetly. “From now on, you can be my friend.”

Marie sat on the floor and looked in horror at the transfixed audience staring blankly at Pook. He smirked across at her. Suddenly there was a loud banging from the dias between them.

“Order! Order!” shouted the Adjudicator. “This is unnatural order!”

The Osienne looked at Pook and pointed his gavel at him.

“This is a realm of the intellect,” the Adjudicator said. “You have no right to use glamour here. Magic has no dominion.”

“No dominion! No dominion!” parroted the audience, springing back to animation. Marie pulled herself to her feet, propelled by a surge of relief.

“Since you show ignorance of the rules of Parliament I shall explain,” said the Adjudicator. “The applicants shall debate a topic from the floor. The first one to lose three debates is the defeated and suffers the judgement of Parliament. The other is victorious and gains the boon we have to offer. You, sir, have forfeited the first debate by your skullduggery. Commence!”

Marie tried not to grin. Pook turned away as a sour look formed on his face.

“What is truth?” shouted a Oisienne to hoots of approval and the Adjudicator indicated Pook with his gavel. Pook turned back then and the smirk had returned to his face.

“Well truth is of course very closely linked to honesty and I shall enjoy hearing all about that from Mme Jennings, who is an expert in the topic.”

Marie felt herself flush and caught a glimpse of her husband. Pook continued.

“But in the end, truth is not as simple as many think. Indeed, one might argue that there are as many truths as there are mouths to feed as each must speak his own truth, which will differ one from the other. Further, one may very well argue that there are as many truths as meals to feed those mouths, for which man, woman or child keeps the same counsel from hour to hour. I posit then that truth is not one thing, but a multitude multiplying as the sum of human, and even other, opinion swells through time. You may as well hold a drop of water in your hand and ask – is this the ocean?”

There was a smatter of applause and the Adjudicator indicated Marie.

“Truth is…” she started, “truth is words that describe what is real. The rest is opinion.”

Her head lowered a touch.

“Or lies.”

There was more applause to this. The Adjudicator nodded to the audience.

“She wins!” cooed a voice. The call was taken up by the others.

“She wins! She wins!” chorused the room. The Adjudicator silenced it with his gavel and indicated to the floor.

“You said truth describes what is real,” chirruped a voice. “What is real?”

Pook scoffed.

“I think I have the measure of you now,” he said to the room. “I believe I can judge what passes for intellectual skill in these most remarkable rooms. Let me proffer then that the real is at once tangible and ephemeral. At once prosaic and poetic. At once solid and gaseous. For if we ask one person what they saw on any given day, at any given moment we can find a precise and determined account of the events that had unfolded. If we then were to ask another one, also present, to describe the self same events, we will get another certain account. And yet, if we were to compare the two, we may find ourselves surprised to see discrepancies twixt the two. We may wonder then at how we might divine what has truly occurred. We may ask a third for an opinion, and find more facts are confirmed whilst yet others agreed on are uncertain. And so on, and so on. It is, I believe then, a most scientific approach that we must take in order to be certain of the real. We must question each one, in a structured manner, on any event, and concern ourselves only with that which the majority can agree on. In this manner, must we proceed to be certain and definite on what has really occurred. The rest then is conjecture or deception.”

At the last word Pook smiled over at Marie. The room fell silent as they waited her response.

“Reality is what happens whether you believe in it or not,” she said.

The silence continued for a beat and then a shrill voice cried out.

“She wins! She wins!” it said, and the chant was picked up by the room. The Adjudicator banged his gavel.

“Let me confirm the good opinion of this Parliament,” he said. “Those who agree on the acceptance of Mme Jennings’ victory say ‘aye’.”

The room was filled by squawking and screeching. The Adjudicator banged his gavel. Pook was starting to look nervous. One Oisienne holding a small box had climbed on the stage from behind the dias.

“Those who dissent say ‘nay’,” said the Adjudicator.

“Nay,” said a voice from the back. Everyone turned round and Marie looked and saw Clackprattle.

“Then,” said the Adjudicator, “Mme Jennings receives the artefact.”

The Oisienne pressed the small wooden box into Marie’s hand. There was applause from the floor.

“And M Pook receives the judgement.”

Suddenly the room seemed full of sharp beaks and talons. Heads tilted and twisted, unblinking eyes staring coldly at Pook.

“Judgement!” shrieked one Oisienne, a chanting joined by the others as they pressed toward Pook. Sir John pushed towards Marie and gestured to her to join him. She heard screams and screeching from where Clackprattle was standing. The fat man was placing his lethal hand on Oisienne and also pressing toward Pook. Sir John grabbed hold of Marie’s hand as they met up in the melee.

“Well done!” said Sir John, “I rather suggest we flee.”

Marie didn’t argue.

There was a murmuring in the room, which was packed with Oisienne of all shapes and sizes. Marie looked from her vantage point behind the stage on the left and scanned the crowd for her husband, her friends, or her enemies. She saw Sir John craning to look at the stage from behind a tall man with a long neck and she thought about waving but it seemed childish. She needed to be in control here, to neutralise Pook before he got the next piece of the key.

Behind her a fat man with a impressive beard pushed passed her with a grunt. The beard seemed to emerge from his neck and was a shock of white. As he passed by, he turned his head round to look at her, rotating it to an unnatural degree. Then he clambered on stage.

“Good evening my fine friends,” he said to the audience which started to settle at his words. “Welcome to the Parliament of the Oisienne. I will be the adjudicator for our soiree. We have a most interesting debate this evening between two newcomers to our roost. First let me introduce to you a Monsieur Ernest Pook.”

There was a cawing from the audience and the sound of footsteps on the stage. Marie heard Pook speak.

“May I honestly and most fervently say what a tremendous honour it is to stand in such a remarkable and distinguished company as this. I am both excited and in awe, and I hope that the debate that follows will prove as entertaining as it does enlightening. I can honestly say that I hope I can persuade you to my view.”

The audience cooed at this flattery and Marie then heard a gavel banging on a desk.

“Silence in the parliament,” said the Adjudicator. “Pleasant words Mr Pook, but fine feathers do not fine birds make. I will now introduce our next speaker.”

The hook nosed Oisienne next to Marie gave a little nod and pointed to the steps to the stage. Marie walked up to see the Adjudicator sitting high on a dias and on the far side Pook. She glared across at him and instantly a panicked look spread across his face.

“May I present…” started the Adjudicator.

“No, no,” said Pook with a look of terror on his face. “Not her, not her!”

“May I present,” repeated the Adjudicator, throwing a look at Pook. “Madame Marie Jennings.”

“Please not her,” said Pook staring at Marie, his eyes staring wide.

Maybe this will be easy thought Marie and then looked again at her adversary. The frightened look passed from his face and was replaced with a smirk. A girlish laugh emitted from his mouth.

“She’s far too easy to beat,” he said cruelly.

Marie felt herself flush and had to remember what she was there for. She looked into the audience to find her husband and thought she saw a glance of Clackprattle. She then became aware that everyone was silent and looking at her. She glanced at the Adjudicator who had raised an eyebrow.

“Would you like to introduce yourself?” said the Adjudicator.

Marie swallowed and found her mouth was dry.

“My name is Marie Jennings,” she said, “and Mr Pook is fully aware of what it is like to be beaten by me.”

A sour look passed over Pook’s face and Marie felt pleased she had scored a point. Now she should go for the kill she though and whispered, “Obéir.” She saw Pook rock back at the command and then she felt…

…pain…

…something like a ricochet or the feeling of punching a wall. She fell over and there were crows of laughter from the crowd. Pook was smirking back at her again.

“Not that easy, is it?” he said to her. “Not like this.”

He clicked his fingers and the crowd went silent. All the heads slowly turned to look at him and fixed their gaze on him without blinking once. Marie saw her husband in the same state.

“Now that I have your undivided attention,” Pook said to the spellbound audience. “We will have our little debate.”