The real reason for that iceberg

He hoisted his trident hand to hand restlessly. It was well past the time on the invitation he’d sent, but the dancefloor (inlaid with mother-of-pearl, a hundred glowing jellyfish swaying gently beneath invisible, deep tides) remained empty.

The bandleader glanced over his shoulder nervously at his king, and was about to send them through yet another rendition of “Mood Indigo” when they all heard it: like an enormous, gargantuan shell splintering, the deep muted thump through the miles of water sharp with overtones like shark’s teeth snapping together.

And then they came, in singles and pairs at first, and then in bewildered clumps, and then a steady stream, staring at the mermaids with slack awe, wondering at their lungs' sudden disinterest in air. The band began to play “Sleepwalk” (the king’s favorite tune), the seahorses pirouetted and bowed, and Neptune smiled, waiting for his guests to begin to dance.