The ranks of clipboard-wielding subordinates had withered as approvals and signatures were administered en route, leaving Jeffemeries to flank one side of him while Tabby flanked the other. The Boeviss seemed pleased with this and marched with a triumph that Tabby worried wouldn’t be around by page four hundred. Nevertheless, his size and swagger did much to bolster hope and although she struggled to keep up, she was grateful for it. Not having Oscar around left her with a sense of fending for herself, and being in the shadow of an animal as powerful and confident as the Boeviss was welcome, provided she didn’t think about the likelihood that his apparent military prowess probably arose from making little flowers with icing or just being really good at dancing. She would have asked Jeffemeries about the dog’s credentials but didn’t because they were talking.

“Probably the biggest, yes,” said the Boeviss, in reply to Jeffemeries’s question. “Although the International Hug Extravaganzas do tend to become more complicated as each year passes. Spectator expectation, you understand. Unfortunately, expectation begets complication: last year there were over a hundred suffocation fatalities. Exuberance and lack of professional training will have consequences.”

“Fatalities?” said Tabby, encouraged at the notion, considering wars tended to end up with them.

“Yes,” said the Boeviss, after stopping a passerby to return a salute that was essentially a hug. “While professional hugging certainly lessens their likelihood, professionalism also has degrees, some of which are not remotely worthy of the word.”

“Sorry—professional hugging?”

“Indeed.” He had a pompous gruffness that bordered on the battle-hardened. “Extended hugs by the ill-educated can often result in suffocation.”

“Can they?”

“Certainly. You hug someone hard enough and for long enough and they may never hug again.”

She didn’t doubt this, considering some of the noises Oscar had made during the last book when she’d been particularly relieved to see him. She made a mental note to squeeze less when she saw him again.

“It's why there are leaflets beforehand,” explained Jeffemeries from the animal’s other side. “Printed ones. We didn’t bother this time, though, considering that, with any luck, death is going to feature quite heavily this week.”

“You sound almost enthusiastic.”

“Well, we don’t want to create any more confusion than is necessary, do we?”

“Don’t we?”

“Certainly not! At least, not until Mironaelk has given her series of lectures on The Importance of Hurting Others, and you've given yours on Extreme Violence for Beginners.”

“Well, obviously.”

When realising the Boeviss approached, several animals stopped skipping and stood tall, before hugging themselves as he passed. Tabby watched them do a little dance of excitement in their wake that withered her hope.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” she said, determined to claw it back. “This was all grass and hillside a week ago.”

“And flowers,” said the Boeviss, his strides unrelenting. “Lots of little flowers. White ones. We picked many of them when the foundations were being installed and put them in vases. They were very nice and great for bees.”

Tabby shared a glance with Jeffemeries, who shrugged that she not be concerned.

“And I should know,” he continued, head high and shoulders back, “as I started my career in the Flower Arranging Corps.”

She stopped then and ignored Jeffemeries’s gesticulations that she not dawdle.

They arrived at a vast new wall, its heights littered with tattered streamers that had been definitively streamed, while higher still, flags of all colours continued waving. It was, Jeffemeries advised, the main arena. The thunderous roars of delight had grown steadily while traversing tents and barracks, as had music that wasn’t discernible before. It was joyful and brassy and had an air of being played by so many musicians that any mistakes by one would be drowned out by the correct ones from others. Soldiers continued hurrying past, some marching in ranks, others skipping with halberds, though they had to stop altogether to allow a veritable train of trestle tables laden with cakes to pass. It all suggested the extent of necessary logistics behind such an event was not only extraordinary but well under control.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

They continued alongside the wall until it lessened in height as they neared an entrance. The crowd’s roar became less muted, and amidst more thunder of cheer was a low unrelenting rumble of enthusiasm that suggested there were more animals in attendance than actually existed anywhere. The rumble became so loud that Jeffemeries had to shout at her to be heard.

“Don’t look so concerned, Miss Tabby!” he said. “You will not be addressing a crowd of this size!”

She wasn’t so certain, having already seen enough peculiarities to doubt everything.

“We will see something of the stage,” he continued, “but certainly won’t be on it!” He gestured at the ground. “Mironaelk’s down stairs. That’s where we’re headed!”

Unaware that huge expanses of grass and hillside had a downstairs, she looked at him in surprise. Jeffemeries merely smiled, however, and continued marching beside the Boeviss.

When they entered the main arena, Tabby gasped.

Tens of thousands of animals, in a sea of colour, streamer and balloon, filled a vast and magnificent amphitheatre that rose in the distance as an astonishing pending tidal wave of spectators. Confetti and torn streamers rained down on everything like Spring blossom, their fragments lit by sun in a haze of swirling celebration. When another roar arose, Tabby had to cover her ears.

The Boeviss stopped to look also, with paws on hips in a stance of satisfaction, until his presence was noticed and more clipboards arrived.

“This is extraordinary!” cried Tabby.

Jeffemeries agreed. “It seemed prudent not to tell you too much about what was underway,” he said, “as this sort of extraordinary spectacle is best revealed to the uninitiated in stages.”

“But I’ve never seen anything like it! Look at all those animals! I’ve never seen so many!”

“Admittedly, this is the biggest festival the world has ever seen,” he said. “As the Boleviss was saying earlier, it is certainly an exercise in logistics.”

“But how did they even manage?” said Tabby. “I mean, in a week? I saw the thing being built, but had no idea it would turn out anything like this!”

Jeffemeries nodded. “It is remarkable, and one of Mironaelk’s greater strokes of genius. To be honest, I do feel she took a leaf out of Mister Dooven’s book.”

Having forgotten about Oscar, she was certain he’d be no less astonished. “Which leaf?” she said, recalling his tendency to wipe his bottom on them.

“His suggestions to the Echelon tended to revolve around parties, much to your and Mironaelk’s irritation, as I recall.”

“He was being deliberately obtuse.”

“Are you certain? In the end, Mironaelk’s plan to motivate this world by packaging the entire program into the greatest festival ever seen is not that different.”

Having not considered this, Tabby frowned. “Are you suggesting that Oscar wasn’t being deliberately unhelpful?”

“Mister Dooven certainly has a calibre I’ve rarely encountered. And although he may be more interested in poetry recitals, perhaps his suggestion intentionally pointed Mironaelk in the right direction.”

Tabby looked at him sideways.

“Perhaps Mister Dooven is more subtle than you realise.”

She scoffed. “Oscar’s about as subtle as a rapid brick to the face. I think you’re giving him more credit than he is due.”

“Perhaps. Or maybe you’re not giving him quite enough.”

Another roar had both cover their ears. When it lessened, she stared across the arena again, unable to believe that Oscar could be even indirectly responsible for orchestrating anything of this magnitude. A small poetry gathering, perhaps, especially if no one had to buy ticket, but nothing like this.

“Come,” said Jeffemeries, taking her paw again and pulling her after the Boeviss. “Let’s find Mironaelk.”

“What are they even cheering for?” she asked, craning to see the stage, which was massive, far away and contained animals doing something.

“Hug-a-side.”

She stopped again and yanked free.

“It’s a very popular game here,” he said, retaking her paw. “I told you that there’s a warm-up act. Hug-a-side’s an international sport that has been brought forward as part of the festival’s overall promoting and marketing strategy. It’s a great game. Well, it’s a game. Sort of.”

“Hug-a-what?”

“Side.”

They entered a large wooden building that contained more administrative staff sifting through piles of clipboards and a wooden stairwell. After the Boeviss hugged the animals guarding it, who had leapt to attention and hugged themselves first, he descended its stairs. While still trying to fathom what such a stupidly named game might involve, despite concerns about the results, Tabby followed Jeffemeries and the Boeviss below ground.

They entered a tunnel that would not have been out of place in a war documentary. It was lined with wood, smelt of earth and had bulbs strung along its length. Animals hurried past in both directions, though their attempts at saluting hugs in such confined space ruined several clipboards.