merryeccentricities | Hello, There's Been An Error

...yes, it does. Combeferre has been accused of absent-mindedness often enough, when he's concentrating on some scholarly pursuit, but surely this is too much even for him.

"I don't know," Combeferre says. "But I think we can safely say we are in the Labyrinth."

They go on until they see a wall directly in their path, with no way of going around it.

The wall has two doors, each high and arched and improbably covered with purple sparkly material, and each door has a guard.

"Good day, messieurs," says Combeferre. "We're looking for a couple of friends of ours who have come in here--do you happen to know the best way?"

"This way," says one guard, pointing to his door.

"Don't listen to him, he's a liar," says the other. "My door is the right way."

Combeferre looks at Joly, eyebrows raised, and pulls him aside to whisper. "Is this meant to be a judgment of character? Or a logic puzzle?" He shakes his head. "I wonder how Bossuet and Courfeyrac managed to even get inside, as drunk as they are."

Joly would dearly like to be able to defend his friends, but, well. Here they are. "I've heard the Labyrinth changes. Maybe they found another door; or maybe this one is just to confound us, or even to accomodate us. If it is a puzzle, how shall we approach it? I would suggest math, but even the most basic constants may be slightly different in this universe."

He holds up the compass hanging on his belt to prove his point. It spins lazily and unendingly. "And we don't know these fellows; so I suppose we'd better hope it's a logic puzzle."

Combeferre frowns, and then smiles. "If it's a logic puzzle, I know how to solve it. We ask either guard this question: If I asked the other guard whether you would tell the truth or lie, what would he say? And you see, if we're talking to the liar, he will say the other guard will say he--the first guard, that is--will tell the truth. If we're talking to the truthful one, he will say the other guard will say he will lie."

Combeferre beams. Surely this is the simplest and most explicable way out of their dilemma.

Joly thinks about it. He...thinks it makes sense? Anyway Combeferre seems sure it makes sense. "Right, I'll just ask this fellow, then."

He walks up to the guard on their left. "Monsieur, plesae tell me-- "

...wait, how is this supposed to work again? He's supposed to ask...if he asks the guard...if he asks the other guard...? Joly blinks.

He kneels down,to where the cats are milling around on their leashes, and scoops one up in each hand. He stands back up.

"Please tell me, am I holding a cat in each hand right now?"

"No," says the first guard.

Well, that answers that.

Combeferre and Joly walk through the second door, and...

...they're still in a Labyrinth. The walls are pale marble, and as they walk forward, the narrow paths turn into spacious courtyards. Still hemmed by walls, of course, but wide and with pillars and large flagstones, and sand spilling over them.

It's decidedly less claustrophobic than before, which is a good change.

Edited 2015-01-24 05:53 (UTC)

It's warmer; Joly takes off his overcoat and one of his scarves. The cats scamper about to the end of their leashes. Joly tries the watches; nothing happens to show that any transmission is coming.

...There's sand. And flagstones. The compass spins.

Joly tries the watch again; a weird burst of something like music comes through,but with instruments he doesn't recognize, then fades out.

...It's a very nice field to be wandering through. Still.

" I don't see how they could have gotten this far before us with no sign, do you?"

It's idle talk, really. He won't start fretting properly for another half hour at least. But idle talk would help.

"No," says Combeferre. But does this place follow any sort of rules? Such as the laws of nature? If not, then Bossuet and Courfeyrac could have gone through the same door and ended up somewhere completely different. Combeferre will not mention this to Joly just yet.

If Joly wants idle talk, Combeferre will provide. "I hear you had a conversation with the spy," he says.

By Combeferre's standards, this is light gossip.

Well it's certainly distracting! Joly laughs at the abruptness, but sobers a little remembering the actual conversation. "Yes. I suppose I did. I hadn't really meant to, it was..."

He frowns. "I don't think the man wants to be here; I don't know why he stays when he arrives. But he seems very unhappy."

Joly is aware that he's possibly the only one of his friends who cares even a little about the spy's happiness. But he finds he does care, a little.

Combeferre doesn't care.

Oh, he cares, in a philosophical way. But does he feel any particular or personal warming to the unhappy spy? He does not. That sort of sweetness, that small and valiant generosity, is Joly's forte, not his, and Combeferre loves him dearly for it.

"I hope he didn't say anything to distress you," he says. Combeferre has heard things from Enjolras that suggest the spy can be crueler than necessary.

Joly considers. "I think...he meant to? I only offered to help him with a computer, and he wanted something of a debate; even an attack. I don't know why. But, well. It was nothing we haven't all heard and considered many times. Not pleasant, but-- we knew what we did, what the cost was. I don't think he believes that we did." Joly smiles, a little sadly. "I don't think he knows what he believes. I had the oddest feeling that he wasn't really arguing with me half the time."

Joly pauses a moment for one of the cats to finish really investigating a crack in the flagstones. "It was a bit like speaking to a very feverish man-- you know what I mean. One who seems lucid, but isn't responding to what's before him?"

Combeferre puts his hand on Joly's shoulder. "I do know what you mean. And that can't have been pleasant, no. A man striking out, unthinking, with no real goal, and no sense of who he truly wishes to hit--"

He shakes his head. "It was kind of you to offer to help him with the computer. And kinder still to keep trying to speak with him, when he was behaving so."

Joly's frown deepens. "I'm not sure kind is the term. But -- well, I believe what I told him. There's an opportunity for us all to speak here, in ways we might not have in Paris."

He smiles and puts a hand over Combeferre's. "And he was right in one regard, at least-- I am happy, here, with my friends, whatever he says or does. He can hardly do anything to me; it would be ridiculous to refuse to speak with him."

"Not so ridiculous, my dear Joly: you might easily deem it not worth your effort. As most of us would do. But you see it as an opportunity, and I greatly admire you for it, whether it's due to kindness or wisdom or something else entirely." He squeezes Joly's shoulder.

Joly laughs. "I'm sure Monsieur Javert wouldd say 'something else' and maybe he wouldn't be wrong." The thought doesn't bother him.

He picks up Tarsal, who's decided he doesn't want to be walking anymore, and lets the cat climb onto the top of his backpack. "Do you see any indication that we're going..well, any way at all? Shall we just keep walking straight?"

"We may as well."

They walk across the flagstones, in a warm sort of quiet. Tarsal purrs, nestled in the folds at the top of Joly's backpack. Other than that, there is no sound.

Perhaps it should be eerie, but it isn't. It's perfectly comfortable.

They walk. Combeferre isn't sure for how long. And then an oval of space before them begins to sparkle, with glints of gold and purple.

He touches Joly's arm, and points at the oval.

The gold and the purple get brighter, stronger, and suddenly there's a flash, and then...

...a sphinx.

A sphinx, with shimmering coppery fur, and a man's head, with dark skin, as dark as Joly's or darker still, and thick hair of a deep bronze color. Its eyes are dark--not black, not brown, somewhere between purple and blue. It does not blink.

"Greetings, trespassers," says the sphinx.

Not the most welcoming start. Combeferre glances at Joly, and steps just slightly in front of him.

(The barricade is still very fresh in Combeferre's mind. He is protective, if not actually any more physically capable of fighting off a Sphinx than Joly).

"Greetings," Combeferre returns, carefully keeping his voice even. "We do not wish to trespass. We are simply looking for our friends, who are lost."

"You are trespassing nonetheless," says the sphinx. "But answer my questions, and I may let you pass."

Combeferre is, somehow, shocked. This is exactly what sphinxes are supposed to do, of course, but it's still very strange to see one doing it.

"Very well, ask your question, monsieur."

He half expects the riddle from Oedipus Rex, but it's nothing like that at all.

The sphinx clears its throat, and portentously declaims: "What goes into the water red, and comes out black?"

Joly thinks. He opens his mouth. He thinks again. He rubs the end of his nose.

"Well, what's the temperature of the water? Are we assuming a pure solution or is there a catalyst?"

The sphinx's hackles rise. He opens his mouth, revealing pointed and pristine-white teeth, but he's not baring his teeth at them.

He looks...confused.

Oh, well done, Joly. Combeferre conceals a grin.

"Answer the riddle," the sphinx says finally, looking stern.

"We can't, unless we know what the riddle truly is," says Combeferre. He shakes his head, looking disappointed. "Did you craft this riddle? Or was it given you by another?"

The Sphinx gives him a sour look. "It's a riddle. It's traditional."

Joly tugs Meta back as she wanders toward the Sphinx's large paw. "Well, then what's the tradition? Who taught you? Do you meet other sphinxes and share riddles often?"

Combeferre catches the look the sphinx gives Meta.

It's...not entirely hostile. Combeferre takes this as an encouraging sign.

The sphinx looks dubious. "It's tradition," he says. "It is the law, taught to us as children, by our mothers and fathers if we are lucky, by--it does not matter." The sphinx frowns. "We do not share riddles. We pose the riddles we are given."

Combeferre raises an eyebrow. "Why not change the riddle, then? It must have been invented by someone. Perhaps you could make your own riddle."

The sphinx's frown grows deeper.

"Or you could answer ours," Combeferre adds. "If there were a well-dressed, curly-haired man, and a bald man in an old coat with holes, both men prone to witticisms that verge on the improper, and if those men were somewhere in this Labyrinth, where would they be?"

"It's our traditional riddle," Combeferre says, as the sphinx continues to look annoyed and confused.

Edited 2015-01-28 01:38 (UTC)

The Sphinx growls. "That is not a riddle."

Joly shrugs and crouches down. "Well what is a riddle, then? Explain what you want and maybe we can give you a proper riddle." He takes off his backpack. "Would you like a sandwich?-- That's not a riddle, but I want a sandwich now, and I brought extras."

"A riddle is a traditional test of mental agility," says the sphinx.

Combeferre nods. "Yes, and locating our friends would test your mental agility, would it not?"

He takes a sandwich from Joly and sniffs at it. Ham and cheese. "Do have a sandwich," he adds politely, handing it to the sphinx.

The sphinx regards it dubiously.

"Hospitality is an important tradition, is it not?" Combeferre says, when the sphinx hesitates just a moment too long.

The sphinx gives Combeferre a glare, and then opens his mouth, leans forwards, and takes the sandwich in his teeth.

Joly hands Combeferre a replacement sandwich, gets one for himself, and sits cross-legged, thinking. "You define a riddle as a traditional test of wits. Does that mean the form or the precise content? If it's the precise content, surely you'll run out of riddles in time, and then what? Surely you have some interaction besides asking people riddles." The Sphinx seems to have its mouth full, so Joly continues on. "And if it's the form, than perhaps we can re-word our question for you. Would you like an apple? I seem to have apples. Er, that was also not a riddle."

Sitting down is possibly not the wisest move. It impedes running away, should that become necessary.

But it commits them to friendliness in a very open and public way: sitting down, they pose no threat. (If they did even standing up, of course. Combeferre has no illusions about his own martial prowess with no weapons involved, and Joly is no better).

Combeferre sits down beside Joly.

The sphinx, meanwhile, chews and swallows, looking meditative. "I thank you," he says. "I will try an apple."

Combeferre hands him an apple, which the sphinx methodically eats, spitting out the core.

"I can use the same riddle more than once," says the sphinx, once done eating. "However..." He frowns. "I cannot honestly answer your question. I do not know if it is the form or the content that must be traditional."

Combeferre nods, seriously. "Must a riddle be verbal? Is it possible that Nature herself may pose a riddle?"

He and Joly both do love Nature's riddles, after all.

Edited 2015-01-28 03:37 (UTC)

The Sphinx is not so quick to answer as before, and does not sound as certain. "There...must be a question that can be shared. Written, or verbal, or obvious somehow. Something specific."

Joly leans back on one arm and nods. "Yes, and sometimes all you have is the question, so it's important to find the right one. Well. Does it have to be a question? I mean, I've heard some puns that took some unraveling,even though they weren't questions. Is it just a sort of mystery, then?"

The sphinx frowns again, clearly uncertain, but not angry. At least, Combeferre doesn't think so. Meta is climbing its fur, and the sphinx does not seem to mind at all.

In fact, the sphinx emits a sound that sounds suspiciously like a purr.

"I suppose it can be called a mystery," the sphinx says cautiously.

Combeferre nods, willing himself not to pounce and push too hard, willing himself to be patient.

It's difficult. Patience is not his strong suit.

"A mystery, posed to you in words..." He makes himself sound musing, rather than like an attorney seizing on a weak spot. "Do I have it right?"

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