Councillors Quotes

Sometimes rebellion is the only course of wisdom.

There are symbolic dreams-- dreams that symbolize some reality. Then there are symbolic realities -- realities that symbolize a dream. Symbols are what you might call the honorary town councillors of the worm universe. In the worm universe, there is nothing unusual about a dairy cow seeking a pair of pliers. A cow is bound to get her pliers sometime. It has nothing to do with me.

The Councillors had to be pretty concerned if they were willing to rely on Keefe. . .

And keep in mind,' Oralie added, finally turning her azure eyes toward Sophie, ' true trust does not require absolute transparency. There is incredible power in accepting that there are some things you cannot know--and being willing to maintain your commitment to that person despite the secrets.

Ro blinked. “Wow! Okay—I officially take back every bad thing I’ve ever said about your Councillors! They’re my heroes! All hail the sparkle-fied twelve for breaking up the Great Fitzphie!

Councillor Emery sighed. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?” “I’m pretty sure that’s my job,” Sophie countered. “As the moonlark?” Councillor Alina asked with a notable scoff in her voice. Sophie smiled sweetly at her. “As a teenager.

I wonder what's the difference between ordinary councillors and privy councillors?" wondered the merchant aloud. The assassin scowled at him. "I think," he said, "it is because you're expected to eat shit.

The Councillors had to be pretty concerned if they were willing to rely on Keefe. . . .

THIS IS JUST A NORMAL day for you, isn’t it?” Keefe asked as they shivered outside the Sanctuary gates, waiting for Councillor Terik to meet them. “Go to school, find out you’re covered in a dangerous substance, melt off a few layers of skin, and then hail your besty the Councillor, tell him you’re ditching study hall to save the world, and he says, ‘Cool, I’ll come with you!

Then again, she also wasn’t sure how having Councillors who were a Vociferator, a Conjurer, and an Empath was going to do her group a whole lot of good—and she really wished she could think of an unsuspicious way to trade Councillor Lyingcurls to the other group.

That’s between us and Team Prodigious,” Councillor Emery said, glancing at Dex and reluctantly adding, “or Team Whatever-They-Decide-to-Call-Themselves.

Both Fintan and Councillor Kenric never made it out of the tower.

His councillors caution, ‘No haste, Majesty. As soon as you choose, you forfeit advantage. You can marry only once.’ ‘Can he?’ Fitwilliam mutters. ‘This is Henry we’re talking about.

She could pretend that it was not grief, that insurmountable pain you were meant to climb over like a few pebbles. She had public, political problems now; the kind of problems that everyone treated as real

Perhaps we can take a turn in the garden. The slave can avail himself of the garden seat and rest his injuries' 'How thoughtful of you, Councillor,' said Laurent. He turned to Damen and said in a melting voice, 'Your back must hurt terribly.' 'It's fine,' said Damen. 'Kneel on the ground then,' Laurent said.

Strength without swords." "How does one conquer without a sword? Without a weapon?" "The real leader conquers with her mind. Princess Santieri's phrase, was it not?

Unfortunately, he was very old, older even than some of my court's most tedious councillors, so I suppose he had reason to condescend to me. No reason at all to put an arrow in my chest, though.

She caught her father one day at breakfast, between ministers with tactical problems and councillors with strategic ones. His face lit up when he saw her, and she made an embarrassed mental note to seek him out more often; he was not a man who had ever been able to enter into a child's games, but she might have noticed before this how wistfully he looked at her. But for perhaps the first time she was recognizing that wistfulness for what it was, the awkwardness of a father's love for a daughter he doesn't know how to talk to, not shame for what Aerin was, or could or could not do.

She had what the Councillor knew, in the technical language of the ballet, as "ballon", a lightness that is not only the negation of weight, but which actually seems to carry upwards and make for flight, and which is rarely found in thin dancers - as if the matter itself had here become lighter than air, so that the more there is of it the better it works.

Although this detail has no connection whatever with the real substance of what we are about to relate, it will not be superfluous, if merely for the sake of exactness in all points, to mention here the various rumors and remarks which had been in circulation about him from the very moment when he arrived in the diocese. True or false, that which is said of men often occupies as important a place in their lives, and above all in their destinies, as that which they do. M. Myriel was the son of a councillor of the Parliament of Aix; hence he belonged to the nobility of the bar. It was said that his father, destining him to be the heir of his own post, had married him at a very early age, eighteen or twenty, in accordance with a custom which is rather widely prevalent in parliamentary families. In spite of this marriage, however, it was said that Charles Myriel created a great deal of talk. He was well formed, though rather short in stature, elegant, graceful, intelligent; the whole of the first portion of his life had been devoted to the world and to gallantry.

Control people with a sword, and they resent you. Control them with a song, and they plead for more.

everyone in the land has an equal chance. In war the bravest becomes a general, in peace the cleverest is chosen as a councillor.

They christened the child, whereat he wept and made a grimace, as though he foresaw that he was to be a titular councillor. In

So you cannot teach me a great deal about the shady in life. I was in the family of a Middlesex County Councillor. In

The wise councillor must always prepare for his fall.

Grady is powerful,” Della jumped in. “But not as powerful as you’d think.” “How can you say that?” Sophie asked. “Grady made all twelve Councillors smack themselves in the face!” Della laughed. “Wish I’d been there to see that.

The most dangerous rumors are fashioned out of truth.

One by one, members of the Commons, speaking in turn at a lectern in the center of the chamber, added their charges and complaints. The King’s councillors, they said, had grown rich at the cost of impoverishing the nation; they had deceived the King and wasted his revenues, causing the repeated demands for fresh subsidies. The people were too poor and feeble to endure further taxation. Let Parliament discuss instead how the King might maintain the war out of his own resources.

It’s more about being able to read people,” Fitz said. “It’s kind of like what Councillor Terik does when he descrys someone—only Shades are looking at your potential for darkness.” “Tell me that’s not creepy!” Keefe said. “Uh, I can inflict pain on people,

Councillor: But – I thought you said the new Heterodyne was a girl? Vanamonde von Mekkhan: She is. That’s just the boyfriend. Councillor: That’s – we’re … we’re going to have to break out those little iron cages for their children, aren’t we? Vanamonde von Mekkhan: Uh-huh.

This is just a normal day for you, isn't it?" Keefe asked... "Go to school, find out you're covered in a dangerous substance, melt off a few layers of skin, and then hail your bestie the Councillor, tell him you're ditching study hall to save the world, and he says, 'Cool, I'll come with you!

Councillor Emery sighed. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?” “I’m pretty sure that’s my job,” Sophie countered. “As the moonlark?” Councillor Alina asked with a notable scoff in her voice. Sophie smiled sweetly at her. “As a teenager.” Bo made a choked sound that might’ve been a laugh.

But, once again," persisted the European, "what state would you choose?" The Brahmin answered: "The state where only the laws are obeyed." "That is an old answer," said the councillor. "It is none the worse for that," said the Brahmin. "Where is that country?" asked the councillor. "We must look for it," answered the Brahmin.

Wanting to be through with this quickly, I leaned forward and kissed him. Almost. I lost my nerve halfway there, somewhere around the moment I noticed he had a freckle next to his eye and wondered ridiculously if that was something he would remove if I asked it of him, and instead of a proper kiss, I merely brushed my lips against his. It was a shadow of a kiss, cool and insubstantial, and I almost wish I could be romantic and say it was somehow transformative, but in truth, I barely felt it. But then his eyes came open, and he smiled at me with such innocent happiness that my ridiculous heart gave a leap and would have answered him instantly, if it was the organ in charge of my decision-making. "Choose whenever you wish," he said. "No doubt you will first need to draw up a list of pros and cons, or perhaps a series of bar plots. If you like, I will help you organize them into categories." I cleared my throat. "It strikes me that this is all pointless speculation. You cannot marry me. I am not going to be left behind, pining for you, when you return to your kingdom. I have no time for pining." He gave me an astonished look. "Leave you behind! As if you would consent to that. I would expect to be burnt alive when next I returned to visit. No, Em, you will come with me, and we will rule my kingdom together. You will scheme and strategize until you have all my councillors eating out of your hand as easily as you do Poe, and I will show you everything---everything. We will travel to the darkest parts of my realm and back again, and you will find answers to questions you have never even thought to ask, and enough material to fill every journal and library with your discoveries.

The parks used to be described on maps as the Upper Pleasure Gardens and Lower Pleasure Gardens, but some councillor or other force for good realized the profound and unhealthy implications of placing 'Lower' and 'Pleasure' in such immediate proximity and successfully lobbied to have 'Lower' removed from the title, so now you have the Upper Pleasure Gardens and the mere Pleasure Gardens, and lexical perverts have been banished to the beaches where they must find such gratification as they can by rubbing themselves on the groynes.

Still bemused, Marjorie said, ‘Yes, Jimmy Choos – not exactly librarian footwear, but it scares the daylights out of the city councillors when it comes to the budget.’ Glenda

This is how we reach the place where we’ll make our oaths,” Councillor Emery corrected, because nothing with the elves could ever be quick or simple.

Only Foster gets the Councillors to make house calls. - Keefe

…the child…wept, and made a grimace, as though he foresaw that he was to be a titular councillor

He has read a library of those volumes called Mirrors for Princes, which state the wise councillor must always prepare for his fall. He should embrace death as a privilege;

Did you hear that?” Keefe asked Ro as the other Councillors sat in their respective thrones. “They’re not going to waste time.” “Psh—like that’s going to last,” Ro argued.

Councillor Velia ABILITY: Guster JEWEL: Amethyst NOTE: Councillor Velia is an expert on maps. STANCE: Velia has yet to show support for Sophie and has surely voted against her.

UTTERLY NONSENSICAL things happen in this world. Sometimes there is absolutely no rhyme or reason in them: suddenly the very nose which had been going around with the rank of a state councillor and created such a stir in the city, found itself again, as though nothing were the matter, in its proper place, that is to say, between the two cheeks of Major Kovalyov.

As a result, we receive panicked calls from police chiefs, government ministers, members of the aristocracy, military officers, councillors, intelligence agents, churchmen, surgeons, diplomats, hospital administrators, etc. We also have people placed in key organizations who keep us abreast of significant developments. Still, despite all these connections, we maintain our secrecy. Our name does not appear on any piece of paper outside of our organization. In fact, very few on the outside know that we exist. People are given a phone number to call, and information comes to us through twisty channels. Our computer network is not connected to any external system. If you try to track us down, you will not find us, but we will find you.

They have no knowledge of my other identities—or at least, that’s what I’m assuming. You would know better than I would, Mr. Sencen.” “I didn’t tell them anything about you,” Keefe promised. “The story I stuck with was that I secretly suspected you were Councillor Alina—and please, please, please let me be there when Fintan finds out you’re still around. I want to see him pee his pants!

The emperor was supposed to be the North Star, but if the sun never set, the North Star never got a chance to shine, and these grand councillors were all determined to make sure that Cixi's sun never set.

I hear you will bring in a law,’ Kingston says. ‘It seems harsh, to make them commit a crime in retrospect.’ They try to explain it to the constable. A prince cannot be impeded by temporal distinctions: past, present, future. Nor can he excuse the past, just for being over and done. He can’t say, ‘all water under the bridges’; the past is always trickling under the soil, a slow leak you can’t trace. Often, meaning is only revealed retrospectively. The will of God, for instance, is brought to light these days by more skilful translators. As for the future, the king’s desires move swiftly and the law must run to keep up. ‘Bear in mind his Majesty’s remarkable foresight, at the trial of the late queen. He knew the sentence before the verdict was in.’ ‘True,’ Kingston says. ‘The executioner was already on the sea.’ Kingston has been a councillor long enough. He should know how the king’s mind works. Once Henry says, ‘This is my wish,’ it becomes so dear and familiar a wish that he thinks he has always had it. He names his need, and he wants it supplied.

And the sense of security, even the most warranted, is a bad councillor.  It is the sense which, like that exaggerated feeling of well-being ominous of the coming on of madness, precedes the swift fall of disaster. 

Sophie’s inflicting session with Councillor Bronte didn’t go as planned (or that’s what Bronte told me to write—I get the feeling this was exactly what he wanted to happen. And he’s lucky I didn’t punch him in the mouth!).

I’ll catch you guys all up as soon as this craziness is over.” She pointed to the ongoing argument, which seemed to have escalated between Wraith and Councillor Alina—and looked especially bizarre as Alina shouted at a floating, bodiless cloak.

It seemed as if the people of our nation had decided - or, as if it had been decided on behalf of the people of our nation - that the only way to counter the political narrative of 'dynasty' was to spin the opposite narrative if 'bachelorhood'. A man free of a visible woman would be free of visible progeny who would lay claim to his legacy. Maybe it was meant to signal that, having no heirs, these men would have no impulse to be corrupt, to amass wealth, to build dynasties. Maybe it meant that not having any domestic responsibilities, these men would devote all their time to the service of society. These bachelor politicians emerged in every tiny village and every tiny ward-councillor election - flaunting the absence of a family.

want.” Keefe whistled. “I hate to say it, but that actually makes sense. Maybe that’s why Councillor Terik flipped when you told him. It sounded like he peed himself.” “Did it?” a deep voice asked as Councillor Terik glittered onto the path in front of them.

she had always considered that, far from the world of Ealing and its county councillors who over-ate and neighed like stallions, there were bright colonies of beings, chaste, beautiful in thought, altruist and circumspect. And, till that moment, she had imagined

YOU REALIZE I’M NEVER GOING to remember to call you guys lords and ladies, right?” Sophie whispered, trying to keep herself distracted as she, Dex, Biana, Stina, and Wylie followed a single-file line of all twelve Councillors down a very dark, very quiet hallway.

Every man and every woman in Urua and every child and every adult would throw his or her paper for him on the day of election - as they had done in the past. If there was any other name called in the matter the elders and councillors of Urua had not heard it. He said this over and over again with minor changes in detail, like the omission of 'every child' which I noticed particularly because it had struck me as odd in the first place. And I thought: if the whole people had taken the decision why were they now being told of it?

The second tunnel’s a Ministry of Defence tunnel...dug for a nuclear bomb shelter. The entrance is in the garden center at Woolworth’s in Great Malvern...When the four-minute warning goes off, the Ministry of Defence lot at the RSRE’ll be ferried up to Woolies by the military police. Councillors from Malvern Council’ll be allowed in, so will Woolworth’s manager and assistant manager. Then the military police...They’ll grab one or two of the prettier shop assistants for breeding...Then that door’ll close and all of us’ll get blown to kingdom come.

If councillors frown at the foe, the king can smile—ever-gracious prince. If they bully, he can reward. If they insist, he lulls, he coaxes, charms. It is his councillors, as mean a crew as ever walked, who carry his sins for him: who agree to be worse people, so Henry can be better.

I want a job, Lady Carey. It isn't enough to be a councillor, I need an official place in the household." "I'll tell her." "I want a post in the Jewel House. Or the Exchequer." She nods. "She made Tom Wyatt a poet. She made Harry Percy a madman. I'm sure she has some ideas about what to make you.

We councillors think we are men of vision and learning, we gravely delineate our position, set forth our plans and argue our case far into the night. Then some little girl sweeps through and upsets the candle and sets fire to our sleeve; leaves us slapping ourselves like madmen, trying to save our skin.

I assure you, I have no ulterior motive,” Bronte promised, turning back to the wall of windows. “I’m just an old fool longing for the past.” Sophie glanced at her friends, glad to see shock in their expressions, as if they were all thinking, Who is this stranger and what has he done with Councillor Bronte?

Firstly, being a local councillor, he was probably a cunt! A real 'book-waving-starch-underpants-wearing-precedent - quoting-sub-section-paragraph-thee-looking-up' sort of arsehole who lived his life by the numbers and reported his neighbours if they so much as tried to put up a bird-table without planning permission.

protrusions. “I assure you, I have no ulterior motive,” Bronte promised, turning back to the wall of windows. “I’m just an old fool longing for the past.” Sophie glanced at her friends, glad to see shock in their expressions, as if they were all thinking, Who is this stranger and what has he done with Councillor Bronte?

So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. "As he is no longer beautiful he is no longer useful," said the Art Professor at the University. Then they melted the statue in a furnace, and the Mayor held a meeting of the Corporation to decide what was to be done with the metal. "We must have another statue, of course," he said, "and it shall be a statue of myself." "Of myself," said each of the Town Councillors, and they quarrelled. When I last heard of them they were quarrelling still. "What a strange thing!" said the overseer of the workmen at the foundry. "This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We must throw it away." So they threw it on a dust-heap where the dead Swallow was also lying. "Bring me the two most precious things in the city," said God to one of His Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the dead bird. "You have rightly chosen," said God, "for in my garden of Paradise this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy Prince shall praise me.

Before anyone could respond, a light flashed next to Bronte, and Councillor Alina appeared in all her jeweled finery. “Where’s Terik?” Bronte asked her. “He should be here right . . . now.” Alina waved her arms like a spokesmodel and Councillor Terik appeared beside her. Something dark was slung over his shoulder, and Sophie realized it was Prentice.

Sophie held extra still, wondering if there was any way to trick her mind into playing possum for her. Lapsing into a vegetative state for a few hours seemed like the only viable option at that point. Until another voice said, “Maybe we should let her rest a little longer,” and Sophie’s eyes popped open—as if her brain had decided, You can ignore the grumpy Councillor, but not the nice one.

You would’ve enjoyed all the horrible team name suggestions that Dex and Biana kept bugging the Council with, though,” Sophie shouted over the abundance of snorts and gurgles. If that was what Ro actually sounded like when she slept, poor Keefe probably had to sleep with a pillow over his head. “I thought Emery was going to exile them at one point.” “Okay, now I’m interested,” Ro informed her. “And let’s hope Team Fancypants was the winner. Because I can almost forgive you for wearing all of those sparkly accessories if that’s what you’re making your stuffy Councillors call you.” “Wait,” Keefe said, before Sophie could respond. “Dex and Biana were there?” Sophie nodded, then realized he couldn’t see her. Which actually made it a little easier to tell him. “Yeah. And Wylie. And Stina. I guess the Council decided I’m way more successful when I have backup—and they’re not wrong. But I’m still trying not to be insulted that they built this whole team because I’m useless alone. Oh—and you’ll love this. They wanted to name us Team Prodigious.” “Wow,” Ro said. “You guys shut that down, right?” “First thing we did,” Sophie agreed, pulling on a blissfully boring gray tunic and wishing all clothes could be

A villain. The enemy. Sandor watched Sophie tug on her eyelashes—her nervous habit, back in full force. “Nothing is going to happen,” he promised, tucking her blond hair behind her ear with a surprisingly gentle touch for a seven-foot-tall goblin warrior. It definitely helped having Sandor back at her side—especially after almost losing him during the battle on Mount Everest. And Sandor wasn’t the only goblin at Foxfire anymore. Each of the six wings in the main campus building had been assigned its own patrol, with two additional squadrons keeping watch over the sprawling grounds. The Council had also added security throughout the Lost Cities. They had to. The ogres were still threatening war. And in the three weeks since Sophie and her friends had returned from hiding with the Black Swan, the Neverseen had scorched the main gate of the Sanctuary and broken into the registry in Atlantis. Sophie could guess what the rebels had hoped to gain from the elves’ secret animal preserve—they obviously didn’t know that she’d convinced the Council to set the precious alicorns free. But the registry attack remained a mystery. The Councillors kept careful records on every elf ever born, and no one would tell her if any files had been altered or stolen. A bubble popped on Sophie’s head, and Sandor caught the box of Prattles that had been hovering inside. “If you’re going to eat these, I should check them first,” he told her. Sandor’s wide, flat nose scented no toxins in the nutty candy, but he insisted on examining the pin before handing them over. Every box of Prattles came with a special collectible inside, and in the past, the Black

Exactly,” Ro said. “For the record, I’m totally on Team Not-the-Daddy.” “You are?” Keefe asked. “Yup! I’ve seen the dude, remember? I mean, personally I think all of you elves are scrawny and weird-looking—but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to tell which ones of you are technically ‘prettier’ by your elf-y standards. And Councillor Pointy Ears? Meh. No way his daughter could be our little blond hottie right here.

They were properly mad in the Shakespearean sense, talking sense when you least expected it. In North London, where councillors once voted to change the name of the area to Nirvana, it is not unusual to walk the streets and be suddenly confronted by sage words from the chalkfaced, blue-lipped, or eyebrowless. From across the street or from the other end of a tube carriage they will use their schizophrenic talent for seeing connections in the random (for discerning the whole world in a grain of sand, for deriving narrative from nothing) to riddle you, to rhyme you, to strip you down, to tell you who you are and where you’re going (usually Baker Street—the great majority of modernday seers travel the Metropolitan Line) and why. But as a city we are not appreciative of these people. Our gut instinct is that they intend to embarrass us, that they’re out to shame us somehow as they lurch down the train aisle, bulbous-eyed and with carbuncled nose, preparing to ask us, inevitably, what we are looking at. What the fuck we are looking at. As a kind of preemptive defense mechanism, Londoners have learned not to look, never to look, to avoid eyes at all times so that the dreaded question “What you looking at?” and its pitiful, gutless, useless answer —“Nothing”—might be avoided.

And for the record, I will be there when you confront Councillor Bronte—and I don’t recommend resorting to dramatics.” “Aw, come on, Gigantor!” Ro whined. “How many times does a girl get a chance to stomp into a room and demand to know if someone’s her daddy? Bonus points if she can squeak out a few tears—and then follow it up with a face slap!” She let out a wistful sigh. “Should we also take bets on what the verdict’s going to be?

We want to make sure you’re okay,” Oralie told her, sounding so genuine that it melted a bit of Sophie’s panic. Or it did until Bronte added, “And let’s be honest, we’re all curious to see how this works—myself in particular, given that the ability being focused on is one that Miss Foster and I share.” “If you’d rather have privacy, Sophie,” Edaline jumped in, sending an angry-mama-bear glare at Bronte, “I’m sure the Councillors will understand.

You’ll wait until we have our much-cooler new team name, though, right?” Dex clarified. “So you won’t have everyone making fun of Team Prodigious?” Councillor Emery’s sigh echoed down the hall. “Yes, I suppose that would make sense. You five need to figure that out as quickly as possible.” Which foolishly opened the door to a whole lot of team-name brainstorming between Dex and Biana. Sophie tuned them out somewhere between Team Hotness and Team Awesomesauce.

This is the Boy,” said Aslan, looking, not at Digory, but at his councillors. “This is the Boy who did it.” “Oh dear,” thought Digory, “what have I done now?” “Son of Adam,” said the Lion. “There is an evil Witch abroad in my new land of Narnia. Tell these good Beasts how she came here.” A dozen different things that he might say flashed through Digory’s mind, but he had the sense to say nothing except the exact truth. “I brought her, Aslan,” he answered in a low voice.

Symbols are what you might call the honorary town councillors of the worm universe. In the worm universe, there is nothing unusual about a dairy cow seeking a pair of pliers. A cow is bound to get her pliers sometime. It has nothing to do with me. Yet the fact that the cow chose me to obtain her pliers changes everything. This plunges me into a whole universe of alternative considerations. And in this universe of alternative considerations, the major problem is that everything becomes protracted and complex. I ask the cow, "Why do you want pliers?" And the cow answers, "I'm really hungry." So I ask, "Why do you need pliers if you're hungry?" The cow answers, "To attach them to branches of the peach tree." I ask, "Why a peach tree?" To which the cow replies, "Well, that's why I traded away my fan, isn't it?" And so on and so forth. The thing is never resolved. I begin to resent the cow, and the cow begins to resent me. That's a worm's eye view of its universe.

State Councillor Joseph Pelet de la Lozère recorded that the English press drove Napoleon ‘into a fury that resembled the lion in the fable, stung to madness by a swarm of gnats’.47* Eventually, in August 1802 he banned all British newspapers from France. The Bourbon family had close connections with the émigré press, as the British government knew from intercepting, copying, decoding and resealing letters sent through the Post Office (just as Lavalette’s bureau noir was doing in Paris).

is equally true that throughout his life he retained the small boy’s glee in making mischief, in dressing up, in showing off. He was probably the only man in London who owned more hats than his wife—top hats, Stetsons, seamen’s caps, his hussar helmet, a privy councillor’s cocked hat, homburgs, an astrakhan, an Irish “paddy hat,” a white pith helmet, an Australian bush hat, a fez, the huge beplumed hat he wore as a Knight of the Garter, even the full headdress of a North American Indian chieftain. He had closets full of costumes.

Despite his own attitudes to the substance of the Christian faith, he was in no doubt about its social utility. ‘In religion,’ Napoleon told Roederer, one of the few state councillors allowed into the secret of the negotiations, ‘I do not see the mystery of the Incarnation, but the mystery of the social order. It associates with Heaven an idea of equality that keeps rich men from being massacred by the poor … Society is impossible without inequality; inequality intolerable without a code of morality, and a code of morality unacceptable without religion.

Okay, but what about the team name?” Dex asked. “You have to let us change it. Trust me, if you announce that you formed Team Prodigious, people are going to laugh.” “They really will,” Biana agreed. Councillor Emery’s sigh sounded like a muffled scream as it bounced around the room. “Fine. You may call yourselves whatever you’d like, on two conditions,” he told them, holding up a hand and counting off his fingers. “One: You must choose something respectable—something befitting the noble status the team will bear. And two: We must approve your selection.

the Council demanded to see the baby alicorns, and Sophie found it particularly enjoyable when she got to drag them, as well as Sandor and Bo, off a cliff. She may have even waited a second longer than necessary before she split the sky and plunged them into the void. And the landing might’ve intentionally been a little bumpy. “First order of business,” Councillor Alina said, shaking bits of grass out of her now disheveled hair. “We’re making a crystal to light leap to this place.” “Agreed,” Councillor Emery said, his usually rich voice hoarse from all the screaming.

Wait!” Ro said as Emery ordered the guards to take Alvar back to his cell. “That’s it?” “What more were you expecting?” Emery asked. “I don’t know. Some of you didn’t even talk. Like you, red guy!” She pointed to the rubies in Councillor Darek’s circlet. “Don’t you have anything you want to add to the conversation? Or you, with the weird animal faces all over your throne. Anything you want to say?” “We had our say earlier,” Councillor Clarette told her. “Just like I told you they would,” Keefe said, folding his hands behind his head and giving Ro an unbearably smug smirk.

It is difficult to picture the rich, hard-nosed advisors of James I being overly concerned about the rights of vagabonds and felons. But this was a period that was especially suspicious of arbitrary acts by the Crown against individuals. There was no law enabling the crown to exile anyone, including the baser convict, into forced labour. According to legal scholars, the Magna Carta itself protected even them. The Privy Councillors therefore dressed up what was to befall the convicts and presented the decree authorising their transportation as an act of royal mercy. The convicts were to be reprieved from death in exchange for accepting transportation. (71-71)

Hang on!” Ro said, stomping over to join them by the windows. “Did you just say that Pretty Boy’s not a part of this?” Her mouth fell open when Sophie nodded. “But… aren’t you two, like, a package deal? Team Obnoxious-Telepaths?” “We usually are,” Sophie agreed, ignoring the “obnoxious” part of that nickname. “But the Council wants to separate us. They think I rely too much on my telepathy and am not taking full advantage of my other abilities. So they want me to work on stuff without Fitz and see if it helps me widen my focus.” Ro blinked. “Wow! Okay—I officially take back every bad thing I’ve ever said about your Councillors! They’re my heroes! All hail the sparkle-fied twelve for breaking up the Great Fitzphie!

AND A FEW THAT WEREN’T THE BEST IDEA. NO ONE THOUGHT THE ABILITY RESTRICTOR WOULD WORK—BUT IT DID. EXCEPT THE COUNCIL RUINED IT BY ORDERING SOPHIE TO WEAR IT AND… YEAH. I WISH I’D NEVER MADE IT. I DESTROYED IT, THOUGH—AND I’LL NEVER MAKE ANOTHER! I MADE THESE BLOCKER BANDS TO HELP SOPHIE WITH HER ENHANCING—AND THEY DEFINITELY DID THEIR JOB. BUT USING CRUSH CUFFS KINDA GOT ME STUCK IN THE MOST AWKWARD CONVERSATION EVER.… THE WARDEN ALSO WORKED PERFECTLY AND MONITORED ALVAR’S EVERY MOVE. BUT I WISH I’D MADE SURE IT WAS RESISTANT TO NULLS… FOR THE RECORD, THESE SENSE BLASTERS WERE ACTUALLY WORKING REALLY WELL UNTIL COUNCILLOR ZARINA FRIED ONE WITH LIGHTNING. STILL, I SHOULD’VE PUT AN OVERRIDE BECAUSE FITZ ALMOST GOT KILLED.

Why does almost dying have to be the worst?” “Pretty sure the answer’s in the name,” Biana said gently. “So let’s rename it!” Keefe suggested, making his way over to Sophie and draping his arm across her shoulders. “From now on, any time there’s a disaster, we’ll say, ‘Wow, we almost Fostered it!’ ” Sophie rolled her eyes. “I’m serious,” Keefe insisted. “We’ll make it your big claim to fame!” “So, when you challenged King Dimitar to a sparring match and he sliced a huge gash under your ribs…,” Sophie challenged. “I totally Fostered it!” Keefe finished without missing a beat. “And when you projectile vomit all over the Councillors today, you’ll be Fostering it hardcore—” “And some of us are super looking forward to that, by the way!” Ro cut in. “I’m just wishing I’d thought to bring snacks.

An individualist town councillor will walk along the municipal pavement, lit by municipal gas and cleansed by municipal brooms with municipal water and - seeing by the municipal clock in the municipal market, that he is too early to meet his children coming from the municipal school, hard by the country lunatic asylum and the municipal hospital, will use the national telegraph system to tell them not to walk through the municipal park, but to come by the municipal tramway to meet him in the municipal reading-room, by the municipal museum, art-gallery, and library, where he intends ... to prepare his next speech in the municipal town hall in favor of the nationalization of canals and in increase of Government control of the railway system. "Socialism, Sir," he will say, "don't waste the time of a practical man by your fantastic absurdities. Self-help, Sir, individual self-help, that's what has made our city what it is.

Elspeth had the joyous task of breaking the news to the rest of the Council. There was no such accord among the political leaders of Valdemar as there was among her military leaders. Lord Gartheser was speechless with outrage and shock; Bard Hyron was dazed. Lady Kester and Lady Cathan, still seething over Orthallen's accusations of complicity with the slavers, were surprised, but not altogether unhappy. Father Aldon had closeted himself in the tiny chapel of the Keep; Lord Gildas was with him. Healer Myrim made no attempt to conceal the fact that Orthallen's treachery had not surprised her. Nor did she conceal that his demise gave her a certain grim satisfaction. But then, she might well be forgiven such uncharitable thoughts; she was one of the four Healers who were tending Talia's wounds. Once the bare bones had been told to the Councillors as a group, Elspeth went to each of these Councillors in turn, privately. She gave a simple explanation of what had occurred, but would answer no questions. Questions, she told them, must wait until Talia had recovered enough to tell them all more.

I’d just settled into bed when Sophie hailed me. Somehow she hurt herself bottling starlight for her Universe assignment. (Always an adventure with this girl!) SYMPTOMS/INJURIES: Major burns with blackish, purplish blisters. Looked super painful. Glad she set aside her fears and hailed me. TREATMENT: I started with my strongest burn salve mixed with painkiller and a Youth soak. But her skin still looked raw, so I ran home for something a little more extreme. (I figured Sophie wouldn’t want to know that her hands were covered in yeti pee, so I left out that detail—but I did warn her to wash her hands thoroughly.) NOTES: I also wrapped up the starlight to make sure she couldn’t hurt herself again. Weird thing was, it felt cold—not hot. And I’ve never seen light like that before—or heard of UPDATE: Sophie stopped by early (I think she didn’t want her friends to see her in the Healing Center again), and her hands looked perfect! But I still gave her one more elixir, just to be safe. ADDITIONAL NOTES: In the category of Proof That Things Keep Getting Weirder Around Here, a couple of Councillors showed up and asked me a billion questions—and made me black out the star’s name from this record. Pretty sure I know what that means.…

They’ll also have an extensive amount of makeup work to tackle during the midterm break—and no, that option is not available to you, so don’t ask and don’t test my patience. I can become very creative with my punishments if you force me to.” “See, but now you’ve got me curious,” Keefe told him. “Uh-uh,” Ro jumped in. “I have to suffer through this stuff with you.” “You do,” Magnate Leto agreed. “And I found an entire room filled with recordings of speeches from the Ancient Councillors that I think you’ll find particularly enjoyable.” Ro grabbed Keefe’s arm and hauled him toward the door. “We’re going to your session, and you’re acing that test and taking lots of notes or I will hang a banner in the middle of this campus—and we both know what I will have that banner say!” “Bo and Ro 4 Eva?” Keefe guessed, because he clearly had a death wish. “That’s it!” Ro picked him up, hefting him over her shoulder and trudging toward the door. “We’ll be back after study hall.” “You’ll be back tomorrow,” Magnate Leto corrected. “Lord Cassius is expecting you both to be home immediately after school—and I wouldn’t recommend disobeying.” “Why not?” Sophie asked. “He was in . . . a mood.” “Goody! Raise your hand if you’re jealous of my life!” Keefe said, twisting in Ro’s grasp to survey the room. “No takers?” “Don’t worry,” Ro told him, patting his back as she carried him into the hall. “I’ll sneak your dad some amoebas tonight.

UKIP SHIPPING FORECAST by Nicholas Pegg After a UKIP councillor claimed widespread flooding in the UK was God’s punishment for allowing same-sex marriage, author/performer Nicholas Pegg wrote his own version of the Shipping Forecast. His recording went viral, receiving 250,000 hits in four days. ‘And now the shipping forecast issued by UKIP on Sunday the 19 January 2014 at 1200 UTC. There are warnings of gays in Viking, Forties, Cromarty, Southeast Iceland and Bongo Bongo land. The general synopsis at midday: Low intelligence expected, becoming Little England by midnight tonight. And now the area forecasts for the next 24 hours. Viking, North Utsire, South Utsire: south easterly gay seven to severe gay nine, occasionally bisexual. Showers – gay. Forties, Cromarty, Forth, Tyne, Dogger, Fisher: women veering southerly 4 or 5, losing their identity and becoming sluts. Rain – moderate or gay. German blight, immigration veering north – figures variable, becoming psychotic. Showers – gay. Humber, Thames, Dover, Wight, Portland, Plymouth: benefit tourism 98%, becoming variable – later slight, or imaginary. Showers – gay. Biscay, Trafalgar: warm, lingering nationalism. Kiss me Hardy, later becoming heterosexual – good. FitzRoy, Sole, Lundy, Fastnet, Irish Sea, Shannon, Rockall, Malin, Hebrides, Bailey: right or extreme right, veering racist 4 or 5, increasing to 5 to 7. Homophobic outburst – back-peddling westerly and becoming untenable. Showers – gay. Fair Isle, Faeroes, South East Iceland: powerbase decreasing, variable – becoming unelectable. Good. And that concludes the forecast.

Some Conseil meetings lasted eight to ten hours, and Chaptal recalled that it was always Napoleon ‘who expended the most in terms of words and mental strain. After these meetings, he would convene others on different matters, and never was his mind seen to flag.’68 When members were tired during all-night sessions he would say: ‘Come, sirs, we haven’t earned our salaries yet!’69 (After they ended, sometimes at 5 a.m., he would take a bath, in the belief that ‘One hour in the bath is worth four hours of sleep to me.’70) Other than on the battlefield itself, it was here that Napoleon was at his most impressive. His councillors bear uniform witness – whether they later supported or abandoned him, whether they were writing contemporaneously or long after his fall – to his deliberative powers, his dynamism, the speed with which he grasped a subject, and the tenacity never to let it go until he had mastered its essentials and taken the necessary decision. ‘Still young and rather untutored in the different areas of administration,’ recalled one of them of the early days of the Consulate, ‘he brought to the discussions a clarity, a precision, a strength of reason and range of views that astonished us. A tireless worker with inexhaustible resources, he linked and co-ordinated the facts and opinions scattered throughout a large administration system with unparalleled wisdom.’71 He quickly taught himself to ask short questions that demanded direct answers. Thus Conseil member Emmanuel Crétet, the minister of public works, would be asked ‘Where are we with the Arc de Triomphe?’ and ‘Will I walk on the Jena bridge on my return?’72

It is not every councillor who, like the Bastard in ‘King John,’ will say to his sovereign: ‘But if you be afeared to hear the worst, Then let the worst unheard fall on your head.

Bureaucratic organizations, such as corporations and government agencies, have formal leadership structures based on a hierarchical model of authority. Someone is officially in charge and commands authority by virtue of that position. In contrast, communities operate through a mixture of formal and informal authority. Formal authority resides in elected and appointed offices, such as mayor, councillor, and town administrator. Informal authority accrues to wealthy residents, philanthropists, clergy, and residents who volunteer for important committees. Community leadership is for this reason harder to define and more difficult to evaluate than leadership in formal organizations. It is no less significant. Leadership

councillors

I know you better than you think,” Fallon insisted. “We both know you’ve played a role in as many secrets as any Councillor. The only difference is, your secrets never get erased.” “That’s because they don’t need to be!” Luzia snapped. “And I have nothing more to say on this matter.

Guide Note: Zaphod Beeblebrox’s two heads and three arms have become as much a part of Galaxy lore as the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast’s cranial spigot, or Eccentrica Gallumbits’s third breast. And though Zaphod claims to have had his third arm fitted to improve his chances at ski-boxing, many media pundits believe that the arm was actually fitted so that the President could simultaneously fondle all of Eccentrica’s mammaries. This attention to erotic detail resulted in Miss Gallumbits referring to Zaphod in Street Walkie-Talkie Weekly as the “best bang since the Big One.” A quote which was worth at least half a billion votes in the presidential election and twice as many daily hits on the private members section of the Zaphod Confidential Sub-Etha site. The origin of Zaphod’s second head is shrouded in mystery and seems to be the one thing the President is reluctant to discuss with the media, other than claim that two heads are better than none. A comment which was taken as a direct jibe by Councillor Spinalé Trunco of the Headless Horsemen tribe of Jaglan Beta. Zaphod’s response to this accusation was “Of course it’s a jibe, baby. Dude’s got zero heads. Come on!” Early images do represent Zaphod with two heads, but in many shots they do not appear to be identical. In fact, in one vidcap, which has famously come to be known as the “I’m With Stupid” shot, Zaphod’s left head appears to be that of a sallow female, attempting to bite the right head’s ear. A Betelgeusean woman later surfaced claiming to be the original owner of the “sallow female” head. Loolu Softhands told Beebelblog that “Zaphod wanted us to be together, like all the time, so we conjoined. After a couple of months he found out that he liked the two-headed thing more than he liked me. So we went out for a few Blasters one night and I woke up back on my own body. Bastard.” Zaphod has never refuted Miss Softhands’s story, leading to speculation that his second head is a narcissistic affectation, an allegation President Beeblebrox claims not to understand. Related

THIS IS JUST A NORMAL day for you, isn’t it?” Keefe asked as they shivered outside the Sanctuary gates, waiting for Councillor Terik to meet them. “Go to school, find out you’re covered in a dangerous substance, melt off a few layers of skin, and then hail your besty the Councillor, tell him you’re ditching study hall to save the world, and he says, ‘Cool, I’ll come with you!’ 

even more than how many times Councillor Kenric asked Councillor Oralie

There was a difference between want and need. You could not comprehend that difference easily, in the inked phrases of a definition; only when you were in the middle of need yourself, sinking to your knees in its alluvium, searching the horizon for a figure, any figure, to haul you out of the cloying sediment, did you understand what it meant to be without choice. Nobody merely wanted to be pulled free by a firm hand. Nobody merely wanted to be seen.

A marine biologist came onstage and was particularly upbeat. He said we had to meet the 1.5-degree target, because that way only 70 to 90 per cent of the coral would disappear, and not all, as the two-degree Celsius rise projected. He spoke like this was a worthy fight. Despite my interest in these matters, I hadn’t been aware of this. Was he telling me, so very directly, that up to 90 per cent of the world’s coral would die out if we reached an almost impossible goal of keeping global warming within 1.5 degrees Celsius? Was that knowledge available when people were deciding whether to aim for the two-degree goal? Was there a group of councillors who approved this on behalf of the Earth’s inhabitants? I thought back through the news from recent years and couldn’t remember television and radio broadcasts being interrupted by this decision. I do not remember an election where a nation mandated the elected government to sacrifice the world’s coral reefs. I didn’t recall coral reefs being used as leverage in negotiations: ‘The car manufacturers’ association celebrates victory.

Article IV. The governor shall have authority from time to time, at his discretion, to assemble and call together the councillors of this commonwealth for the time being; and the governor with the said councillors, or five of them at least, shall, and may, from time to time, hold and keep a council, for the ordering and directing the affairs of the commonwealth, agreeably to the constitution and the laws of the land.