Mawyndulë, as Proust, sat on his chair looking at his colony of ants, who looked back, waiting. This wasn’t his whole colony. These were the officers, those so magnificently mindless as to receive the reward of his presence, the prize of hearing his words directly. Mawyndulë never bothered to learn their names. He gave them new ones instead, epithets easier to recollect. There was Hairy, the fella with the long hair and wild beard, and Malodorous, who loved the sound of the title, proving the vacancy behind his eyes. Mahogany got her name by virtue of the peg-leg Mawyndulë himself had provided. Mooshie hadn’t a single tooth in his head, and Hopeless was named for obvious reasons. Mawyndulë’s two favorites were Rhapsody and The Ragman: the girl so dubbed due to her ridiculous enthusiasm, and the fellow by virtue of his fashionable attire. Having lived as Sheldon Faust for less than a week, Mawyndulë felt a special connection to the disgusting carpenter who believed bathing to be bad for one’s health. During Mawyndulë’s adventure, The Ragman had been ordered to stay hidden inside the basement. Mawyndulë couldn’t afford anyone seeing two Sheldons. Rhapsody had instructions to satisfy any of The Ragman’s needs. Mawyndulë had meant food, drink, and the odd blanket. But seeing the awkward unease between the two of them, Mawyndulë now suspected more had been administered. Rhapsody was zeal incarnate, and The Ragman hungered for more than food.

It’s like dealing with only partially domesticated pets. Had my errand taken longer, would there have been litters of humans wailing in my oasis? Might they have chewed the furniture?

This led Mawyndulë to speculate on the disturbing idea that one, or possibly all, of his human army had sat in his chair.

“Master,” Hairy said through that monstrous wad of whiskers, “you were gone so very long. We were terrified—frightened that you had been taken—that the sentinels or the Teshlors had arrested you.”

“Or worse,” Mooshie sort of said. With him, there was always a moment before Mawyndulë managed to translate the slushy noises into words.

“Some of us were frightened,” Rhapsody snapped in judgment. “Others knew better.”

Mawyndulë often wondered if the lot of them were worth the effort. Ironically, he’d created this syndicate of the senseless to gather intelligence. Improbable as it was, they did a fair job, not only at collecting useful news, but also at expanding the organization. He’d started with just a few—figured five to be enough, but never specifically said so. Being idiots, they invited others. Turned out, the city was full of fools.