Kingsley carefully adjusted his position at the base of the vast, horizontal flagpole. Once he was comfortable arranged, he leaned back against the thick beam that raised Kinsbourne's Upper Walks high above the arterial bustle of the streets below. The sun was warm and bright, a perfect sort of day to shirk his duties in the perfumed ivy. With practiced casualness, Kingsley slipped his hand into the deep pocket of his jacket, reaching for a borrowed pair of opera glasses so he could observe the city below.

Oh damn.

He dug deeper in the pocket. Nothing. The other pocket reluctantly coughed up its contents: a dull nail, three coins, and a doomsayer's pamphlet, but remained stubbornly tightlipped on the location of the glasses. Quickly Kingsley stripped open the buttons of his jacket and sent questing hand along the lining. Each of the numerous pouches that hung from his belt was investigated, and although they represented a veritable alphabet of odds and ends, the familiar bronze tubes remained shyly hidden.

Finally Kingsley stood up, furious for losing the prized lenses. So furious he'd forgotten he was precariously balanced quite far from the nearest comfortable landing, and as soon as this rather important fact slipped his mind it became untrue. He snatched wildly at the beam as the flagpole slid sidewise and managed in a terrifyingly long second to steady himself between flexible mast and stubborn column. There was a tap, tap, tap on his chest as the opera glasses swung gently on the leather lanyard.

Sheepishly, Kingsley recovered his seat and began, for seemingly the hundredth time, to trace the familiar shapes of Kinsbourne's Lower Walks. He smiled comfortably as he slipped mentally along a path across the rooftops to the open, conspicuously isolated window that represented his tiny loft above his master's flat. Then his eyes drifted lazily away, over the back fence, across the lush campus of the University, to his favorite vendor's food cart. Out of the University gates, his eyes hopped onto an awning and he slid his gaze gently across a complicated path hidden behind the vast tableau. He traced it with his fingers, remembering where a flat roof joined a sloped one, which houses had little ledges that could grant him roof access, and hopefully where he'd left the neighbor's ladder. Finally his gaze arrived at the Lower Walks Promenade, just below him, with the office of Kinsbourne's resident spirit in the center. A crowd had gathered around it, and were watching with considerably more interest than the little building deserved. After a moment's deliberation, Kingsley saw the cause for the commotion.

As if on cue, the North Carillon's dirge began to toll, sulking across the Lower Walk. It tarried in doorways and and alleys, as though it fancied stopping off for a smoke, then slunk lazily to the next street, and on down. Kingsley had always felt that for a dirge, it sounded rather exasperated with the whole experience. Somewhere nearby an accordionist had an unfortunate idea and added a deep asthmatic wheeze to the far off crescendo of bells. Kingsley's eyes were fixed on the little office, though. Suddenly, the doors burst open and a mass of black-draped cloth slumped out. A Funeral March had begun.

Slowly, the cloth arranged itself, two massive hands settling onto the ground, it's ponderous and hooded head hanging over the assembled and stock-still crowd. It was the Mourning Hunchback, the traditional funerary representation of the God of Life, Eb. The hood was decorated with a pair of bronze eyes, and the whole affair sloped into a massive trailing cloak. Bundled to the cloak were a pair of coffins. The Hunchback gestured, and the crowd stiffly formed ranks. Then, slowly, the Hunchback covered his bronze eyes in his massive hands, and delivered huge sobs. It then led the shambling progression out of the Promenade and into the street.

Kingsley watched in fascination as Eb undulated with compassionate sobs, beat the ground with his fists, and took a step forward. Underneath the tarp, Kingsley watched dozens of feet move together in unison. The sobbing was appropriate, most people reasoned. Eb was the God of life; it was fair that he'd be upset. You make something up special and see how happy you are when it goes and breaks, that was the Kinsbournian reasoning for it. Practically speaking, however, the marquee-sized puppet and his theatrical sobs were to disguise the vastly important trade secrets that made the entire spectacle possible.

Behind the sobbing god, the Honored dead followed in gauzy silence. All expired citizens of Kinsbourne (perhaps all people in the world) could look forward to the same slow walk when they'd reached the end of their lives. The Last Walk was an old ritual, practically more important than the burial. Everyone needed to get up and have the last walk before they laid down and let the earth swallow them up, or they would get restless and come back as disembodied spirits. Without muscles to wear out, they'd never tire and thus could never rest in peace. It made perfect sense to Kingsley. The Funeral March served the same purpose as the Last Walk, but it had additional ritual importance because the Honored Dead were replacing the old ones, to defend the city from any ravening ghouls whose funerals hadn't included a properly-performed walk.

Walking in distinguished lines behind the shuffling dead were the mourning families, gussied up in fancy traditional outfits, of which there was a multitude. Kinsbourne was the deepest interior city on the continent and attracted explorers and settlers from all over the Empire. Kingsley smiled a little through his glasses as he watched a man in a dazzling jacket and embarrassing scarves exchange furious glances with a woman in a staid, colorless frock and capotain. Clearly one or the other had committed some grave sartorial sin and was not fit to have family amongst the Honored. As turmeric glares accumulated, the fueding pair began to draw attention. Smoothly, a member of the Fellowship of Coroners slipped to the elbow of each disputant, and whispered sternly, then melted back into the final column of the March.

The administrators of the funeral always walked at the back of the Funeral Marches, vulturishly wheeling through the mourners ahead, ensuring that the March was executed perfectly and no outrages were committed to or by the people or the deceased in the procession. Different thanatological societies held their own Funeral Marches, and of course they were highly competitive affairs. Most societies staked their reputations on the somber opulence of their marches to attract businesses, and an embarrassing one could lead to disaster. The Freeman's Court of Gravediggers had accidentally set fire to their Mourning Hunchback three years before, and the fire had sent the Dead scattering across Kinsbourne. A month later, they had dissolved.

So the Fellowship of Coroners were dressed in their ritual costumes so they would be instantly recognized, and fiercely policed their events. Kingsley leaned toward the end of the pole, trying to catch a glimpse of the Fellowship as the parade passed on a cross street. There they were, in their ornate parade costumes; wide-brimmed hats and high-collared jackets with ornate cravats and outsize rubber gloves. In the distance, the Carillon's dirge swelled, snagged on a morning zephyr. The Hunchback cowered against the surge of wind, the dead stood stiffly amongst their fluttering raiments. Hats leaped out of the crowd and off the Coroners and tumbled away down the street. One of the junior members scurried after her senior's hat, and as she snatched it out from under Kingsley's curious glass her own hat came loose and soared up, over the Kinsbourne.

Her head jerked to watch it go, and as she followed it her brow furrowed for a moment. She was looking directly at him. Suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder. Kingsley immediately skidded to the end of the flagpole, arms grasped tight round as he searched for the mortician's punishing... oh. Smiling dumbly from the creeping ivy, a sloth slowly waved its claw again, snagged it on a run of ivy, and vanished back into the leaves. Kingsley's heart thudded in his chest, and he crawled once again to the base of the flag pole. Slowly, he raised the glasses back to his eyes, and frowned. Through the lenses, the left half the world fragmented into a shattered kaleidoscope. Then, without warning, the brace snapped and hewatched the left lens tumble into space, off a roof, and struck passing shopkeep in the face.

Without waiting, he slipped backwards after the sloth.