[Closed, Mature] Born and Raised for the Job

[Tom Cooke]

The Woven Delights Alleyway • Painted Ladies

Nighttime on the 2nd of Achtus, 2719

T
he door might’ve disappeared underneath a fall of ivy. He knew well enough by now how to shut it quietly and let the tangles of vine and leaf fall back into place, ‘til not a crack or line of cotton-muffled lamplight was visible.

She’d put the lamps out soon, anyway; they had read until their eyes were raw, both of them. In the sudden dark of the alleyway, the sharp lines and dots of the monite danced in his vision, as bright as the ink had been dark. When he shut his eyes, he could see them against the backs of his lids, flashing in spots and tingling motes.

He saw her hands, too, and her dark-painted fingernails, tracing a line or curled around a pen. He saw her eyes and her face, intent on him or on the page. It wasn’t always smooth anymore. It couldn’t be, with how they worked late into the night; they’d never worked together like this before, not even with all her lessons. He was starting to recognize the faint suggestions of lines around her dark brows or in her frown, or at the edges of her eyes, covered up with neat kohl.

He was getting used to sitting close beside her, too – to reaching across her when he needed to point out a mistake on the page or pen in a bit of punctuation or turn the page of a grimoire. After a time, his back started to ache; there was no room to think about all the things he used to think about. They always chose their words carefully between them, but sometimes in the night the back room felt like a lamplit dream.

His lungs and his vocal cords felt tired from all the talk. He’d needed to get into syntax a little, to explain how to recognize a leybridge and how it worked – the special negative particle you used when expressing will rather than describing the world as it was… All the laoso little things about a language their kind only used to ask questions and make requests, and carefully, so as not to piss off the very air.

They’d spoken of him, too.

Quiet-like, for all he knew the thick cloth hangings prevented them from being overheard. Offhand and quiet.

His hands ached with the chill as he pulled his gloves back on, leaning against the cold brick. He cupped his mouth and breathed into it, willing some warmth back against the first prickling numbness of the cold, because he knew he’d be out here awhile.

He made a habit of sitting out afterward, to coax the little gray cat with scraps of fish or whatever he’d brought from Uptown; he made a habit of it, too, because it gave him the opportunity to watch. To watch, and be watched.

He did the same tonight, sitting stiffly on the curb, though the cat was nowhere to be seen. He’d come; he usually came. He reached into his coat and pulled out the paper bag of smoked fish, with a little extra tonight. He set it beside him, then pulled out his pack of cigarettes and his matchbox, too.

He’d seldom seen the lad. Movement, more like, at the edge of his vision, down an alleyway on the way to the shop or blending neatly into the crowd.

His qalqa had been following as much as being followed, back in the day, and he knew the lad was good at it. Scrappy from what he’d seen, but getting by fair well, as his type often do – and, he thought, he knew the type well enough – tangly dark hair, scruffy, like any other wick lad in the Ladies or anywhere else in the Dives. He’d no way of knowing who he worked for, but he’d a feeling.

He didn’t see him right now, but he’d the feeling, too – he always had the feeling. He’d been followed here with, he suspected, the intent of catching him leave, too. As always.

He took out a spur and lit it with stiff hands, taking the first drag with relish.

He leaned back against the damp brick, sucking at a tooth. “You care for a smoke, lad?” He raised his voice just loud enough. “While we’re both here, that is.”

[Runcible Spoon]

Vienda - The Painted Ladies, an alleyway outside Woven delights
The Night of the Second of Achtus, 2719

Bailey Sneed

T

he man himself is easy enough to follow. His past is a different story. It ain’t much to go on, a description of a man not young and not quite old. A man with red hair and too-strong a field. Stranger to the place, and always a little turned around. Well, that’s what they said up in Fly-Ash. What did the Ashers know? Their heads are all addled by smoke, rotting with the smell of the cattle yards and abbators. No style, the Ashers, no dash. Drudges to the last.

Ma’d put him on the trail, though it was a little enough to start. A vague memory of a man who more or less matched the mark, and one with a field powerful strong. Strong and strange. Well, that fit everything Mr Shrike has said about his Incumbentness. He’d not been well. Not by a long chalk. Odd to find a man like that this side of the river, odder still in Fly-Ash. He’d stand out there even more. Even if he were trying to pass as some wick. He had tried that. Done well enough for a time it seemed. Well done him.

He’d passed the description along, through the usual channels. Thieves and fences, illegal workers’ societies, barmen who served gin in little cups from lead pipes in the walls. The dispensary men were a horrible lot. More interested in getting their patrons nice and drunk on too-hard hooch. It made them easier to rob. He’s got no truck with robbers and knockermen. Not clever. No class. Easy marks though. He’d gotten a bit out of them for a tot or too of that horrible gin. No sense in drinking it himself. Better to palm it and let the ruffians think he was drunk too. Bits of news between the drunken slurring, and a few handfuls of coin too. Well, just because he was out on business didn’t mean he wasn’t still on the game.

Marks. There were other sorts of marks up in Fly-Ash. Handy they carried that as a surname. Four days to find out they even existed, then another to track them down. Greta and Reggie. Ordinary names for ordinary people. He’d steered clear of the mother. He knows all too well what a mother’ll do to keep her kid safe. Even from lanky young fellows more interested in the not-wick with red hair.

“Only he ain’t called Anatole Vacuum,” Reggie had said over something nameless on a stick. He made a face when he said the name, knowing he got it wrong. Enjoying it all the same. “Or whatever that name was you said.” He’s had to tell the boy the name. Not his best option, but he needed cajoling, and a thing on a stick, he didn’t dare ask what it was, and a few tales of ‘orrible murder were not quite enough. Nearly though. “No, that’s Mr Thomas. Was here for a while last year. Took a room in our tenement. Nice enough kov, a little odd though.”

That was a recurring description. Odd, but nice enough. Maybe it was just the nature of political gollies with reddish hair. Mr Shrike had reddish hair, brown red, but red enough. He was odd, downright strange, but not a bad kov, once you got to know him. Granted, that took quite a while.

Mr Thomas. Now that was something. Rooms in Fly-Ash were another. Mr Shirike had said it seemed like his Incumbentness was two men. ‘He’ and ‘I’ he’d called them. Well, Bailey could supply them with real names. That was worth all the skulking around in the freezing streets and breathing the soot in Fly-Ash.

On the night of the 38th he had found the Incumbent’s old rooms and let himself in via the window. It was sparse, bare, uncomfortable. Nothing on the walls, and only a rag-rug on the floor. It looked like it had not been used in some time. Not a home, these rooms, more a place to stash your body when you weren’t using it. Even his alcove outside Mr Shrike’s door has a more homey feel.

He should find a real place to live. Proper rooms, someplace to hang a couple of horrible pictures and store a handful of tally-dreadfuls. Not that he owns much. A few changes of clothes, his lockpicks, an overcoat and a huge scarf his grandda had knitted. The old fellow loved doing that. Loved putting secret messages in the pattern. His scarf has the cheery message of ‘pike off Bailey’. Good old Grandda.

Nothing to take and little enough to learn in ‘Mr Thomas’’ old place. It weren’t no lovers nest, no secret boudoir. Just a sad broken room for a sad broken man.

Well, he has a name now. A name, a kip, and a few more leads. It aint’t much, but it was better than when he had started.

But the past is the past and Mr Thomas, or whoever he was, was back to his old fancy ways. His old fancy name. But he never gives off visiting his lady.
When he’s at the Weavers, he stays a good long while. Seems to stay in the back room, talking. He can’t make out the words, but the conversation still sounds pleasant. Pleasant, but not passionate. More the tone of old friends than paramours. Safer that way, he supposes. A bit less scandal.

Even so, for all his care and seeming Uptown bearing, something is off about ‘Mr Thomas’.

The man is slipperier than he has any right to be. Uptown toffs aren’t supposed to be able to give a Ladies man the slip, not in home streets. His Incumbentness had done that and more than once. The man knows these streets, knows the Ladies. Well, his lady is here, ain’t she?

He’s within now. Talking again, and she’s with him. A good long while too, a good long conversation. There’s too much seeming repetition even in the muffled words. Like the same things said over and over. Like practicing for a play. He cannot imagine his Incumbentness treading the boards, and the lady seems like she’s always playing a part anyway. A real loss to the stage.

In the alley, he is waiting. He wears the shadows about him like a cloak. Unmoving, barely breathing. The man will be leaving soon, if his patterns are any judge. Nothing left but to wait, to watch, and to see where else he goes tonight. A man like that attracts too much attention.

He’s out now, in the little ally, having a smoke in the chill night air. Thoughtful-like, comfortable. A man at home. A man at his ease.

He’s not looking the right direction. A little off and down the alley. A spot he had used for his watching a few times before. Care for a smoke, he asks. Appropriate. The man sure has smoked him. He can keep still in the shadows, saying nothing, moving not an inch. And then what? Slowly freeze in the chill of night? Grow stiff from the agony of motionlessness? He’d been spotted, perhaps even before now.

An odd man, but nice enough. Hope he lives up to the reputation.

He slips, casual like, from his shadows, letting them fall away. When you’re caught, you’re caught. Best live up to the superior sneak.

“Evenin’ your Incumbentness,” he says strolling toward the man. “A fine night to be out in the Ladies, taking the air and having a thoughtful drag. I’ll take up your honor’s offer, thanks very much.” Cigarettes were not his preference. He has a long-stemmed pipe in an inner pocket, and some decent leaf he’d stolen from a kov up in Kingsway. But, it wouldn’t do. Best to take up a man on a friendly offer. Better to start on friendly grounds. So he takes the spur, lights it, and gives it a thoughtful drag. For a cigarette it ain’t bad. Still harsher than he likes. “How long have you known I was afoot? Asking, one lightfooted kov to another. Where’d I go wrong? What tipped you off?”

[Tom Cooke]

The Woven Delights Alleyway • Painted Ladies

Nighttime on the 2nd of Achtus, 2719

M
ovement in the corner of his eye. The wick’s not where he thought he was. He glances over, sharp; he catches the tail end of it, though with his poor eyes, it might’ve been a trick of the light. He’s known enough tekaa to know better. The last of the dark slips off him like ink, bleeds from the knitted folds of his scarf and the too-thick shadows about his face.

It’s the lad, all right, from his messy hair to his boots. A few ashes from his spur drop to the ground. He takes another drag, watching him curiously as he comes closer. The wick moves light and easy on his feet; there’s a cheerful enough look on his face.

Incumbentness, he says. His grim, tight expression cracks and breaks. His lip twists, though he doesn’t quite laugh.

“Evening.” He feels the brush of a glamour, light and shifty as the kov it goes with. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t stand just now, eh?” The thought of unfolding his stiff legs is just too flooding much right now. Still, he finds his pack of cigarettes in the inside pocket of his coat and slides another out, reaching it up to the lad with a stiff arm. His fingers tremble slightly underneath the leather glove.

There’s a spark like an ember in the corner of his eye as the wick lights the spur. He takes another drag on his own, resting his head back against the brick again. The small gray cat’s still nowhere to be seen, in spite of the paper bag on the curb at his side. Lad probably scared him off. Or maybe not, he thinks, eyes wandering up to the snakes of pipes criss-crossing the brick overhead, all the way up to her lamplit window.

At the sight of the light in the window, his lip twitches. He glances back at the lad, just a collection of shadows and a chipper tekaa voice in the dimness. This time, he does smile. He lets out a loud snort.

One light-footed kov to another.

“Credit where credit’s due,” he says, shifting in his seat so he can look up at the other man better. “She’s known you’ve been casing the shop for a while.” He gestures up with his cigarette, up through the fall of ivy, toward the window. “She’s probably listening right now, if I had to guess.”

That’s not a lie, either; nor is it counterproductive, he suspects. He doesn’t know what Shrikeweed thinks of Ava Weaver, but he can’t imagine he thinks her a fool.

Or him. He sucks at a tooth. “We thought,” he goes on after a moment, “he might send somebody, so we’ve both been keeping an eye out. I wouldn’t say you went wrong; it’s hard to keep an eye on two people at once. I’ve been followed before, for one, and – it’s rather her qalqa to keep an eye on things, isn’t it? Some expensive silk in that shop.”

He doesn’t drop out of his Uptown manner, even through the Tek.

The glamour’s still at the edge of his field. It’s not usually done, for a golly to caprise a wick; still, he’s damned curious. He reaches out, mingling a little deeper in the sneak’s glamour, bold but not unfriendly.

“It is him, isn’t it?” he asks. “The Shrike?” He smiles a little wider, a little wickeder. “Do you have a name, lad? It doesn’t seem fair, does it, you knowing mine, and me not having an ounce of an idea who in hells you are?”

[Runcible Spoon]

Vienda - The Painted Ladies, an alleyway outside Woven Delights
The Night of the Second of Achtus, 2719

Bailey Sneed

H

e gestures, friendly-like, lets the older man have his ease. No sense in standing on ceremony. No sense standing at all.If the toff wants to keep casual, keep to the mood of the place, the mood of the night, well, he’ll not stop him. “This is your patch, not mine, sit as you please.” He cocks a smile. “If it’s all the same with you, I’ll have a lean against these convenient bricks.” He does not wait for a reply. Still, it seemed prudent to at least state his intentions. Keep things light. Keep things from too much danger.

And there was danger here, more than enough to spare. It did not look it, a stately gent having a smoke and a young fellow, spry and quick, lounging against a wall. But then again, the most dangerous thing in the world, he finds, is things that look safe as houses. They have an annoying tendency to fall in on your head at the worst of all possible moments. And so he lounges, but always on the edge of breaking into a run. Always keep your wits about you. You never know when you’ll need them.

His Incumbentness keeps it light, keeps it cheery. A chin-wag among, well not friends, but not exactly enemies. He only talks of the casing of the shop, says nothing about all the rest of it. The nights in the hedges outside the house in Bellington, just at the end of Lower Ro Hill, less still of the watching from the upper rooms at Griswald’s. Perhaps not all his hiding places, not all his shadows have betrayed him. And watching the man as he is now, where he is, is only the small part of the job. Chasing down the movements of a year ago, gathering who he had been, what he had been called, well that was the harder job. The costlier job.

His ribs still ache from where Wilkes has given him a cheerful beating of hello. His scarf hides the bruises on his neck. Oh he’d gotten the information he needed out of the basher, sure enough, but it weren’t comfortable. And the beatings were only a downpayment on the debts he now owed. Favors for Wilkes. He hopes they’ll just be the usual jobs. A theft here and there, some burglary, maybe the delivery of the odd threat. Nothing out of line, nothing too sinister. Wilkes hadn’t started out so bad. He’d always been a hot head and a brawler, but he usually took it out on his rivals. They were welcome to it. That was before he learned it could be just as satisfying to have a go at his pet thief.

Hard days, those. The payouts were better, Wilkes could have a generous hand, but sometimes the price had been a little too high. And yet you keep coming back, he things, keep asking him for favors, keep yourself in his debt. And for what? To make sure he keeps up his bargain and chases away those worse than him? To make sure that he and his fellows always got first pick on goods, and better rates on fencing? Well, this is the last time, the last favors he’ll owe to Wilkes. He has what he needs. He can pay the debts later.

He looks at the Incumbent, at Mr Thomas, and wonders just how much debt Wilkes would forgive to have a sliver of the man’s history. No. No. Mr Thomas is under his protection now. He’s an asset to keep, not one to be traded. Mr Shrike’s a better master than Wilkes, no two ways about it, but crossing the man with clockwork behind his colorless eyes did not seem wise in the slightest. Nor the least bit desirable.

Another drag on the cigarette, and he tries for a smoke ring. Indifferent success. More a roughly circular blob. Still, better than it might be. “Aye,” he says, looking down at the man, “one pair of eyes against two is a bit overmatched. Even so, always good to learn from your mistakes. Learn how not to make them. Then you can move on to new and exciting mistakes. Mistakes you could never have made before.” Another cocked smile. “You follow?”

He rather thinks the man does. There’s something about his eyes that says so. Wearing those years he’s bound to have made any number of them. Good for him. Only cowards went through life never making a mistake. Well, other than the mistake of being a coward.

“So, you and Miss Weaver then? Oh, it's nothing to me, your honor, your amours,” he says the word with a ludicrous attempt at a Ro Hill accent, “are your own affair. Just stating what I know, so we’re all on the same footing.” He takes another drag, this time manages a smoke ring. Well done. At least something goes right tonight. “And, while we’re showing each other what we know, let me give you two tokens of my good will. One, is this.”He holds out his hand, fingers curved as if to hold something. Then he turns it, right, left, then right again. Three times each. The sign of Mr Shrike, or so it seems to him. A better surety that the name itself. “And as for me, well, you can call me Bailey if you’d like. Or not. Makes not matter to me.”

There is something strange about the man, stranger now that he is closer. His bearing says Uptown, but then again, not quite. Something odd, something out of place. And his tek’s too free and easy, even with those beautifully rounded vowels. And it ain’t quite right. But it ain’t wrong neither. Where’d he learn that cadence, that tone? Not in Fly-Ash he wagers, and not in the Ladies. Maybe it's something taught to high ranking politicos. Reverse elocution lessons. Thea, his eldest and most insufferable sister, once tried elocution lessons. Wanted to be a proper lady’s maid. Mostly it seemed she’d spend evenings trying to talk with her mouth full of marbles. She’d swallowed a few too.

“And, take it for what’s it worth to you, your Incumbentness, but my posting’s to watch out for you. And for the lady. Apparently you are both important. Somehow. So, any pointers you can give on my going about unnoticed, especially to gents like your good self, would be very much in your interest. Wouldn’t you say?”

Roll

> @Runcible Spoon#6257: `1d6` = (3) = 3 (having an inspection of Tom)
@Sidekick#6198
[/roll]

[Tom Cooke]

The Woven Delights Alleyway • Painted Ladies

Nighttime on the 2nd of Achtus, 2719

I
can’t see the bricks complaining,” he replies, looking up at the lad.

It’s hard to make out his features in the dark. He can see the glitter of dark eyes and the wry tilt of his lips, at least, in what light from the streetlamp drifts down the alleyway. It limns his face in blue, prickles in the scruff at his chin, not quite a man’s and not quite a boy’s. He watches his jaw work, and then out drifts a gout of smoke that might’ve been a circle in another life.

He doesn’t think he needs to say he follows, though he’d bet a concord the lad hasn’t a clue what sort of mistakes he’s made. When he goes on, he can’t help but snort.

Is that how he sounds, now? All drawl, all soft curling Rs and drawling vowels? His lips twist. “Mm.” He takes another drag himself, and his smoke joins the drifting remnants of the lad’s. “Me and Miss Weaver,” he repeats, and his voice is less bemused. But it’s easy enough, to push some of what he feels into the name – Miss Weaver – to give it weight.

It’s hard to make out much in the dark, but he can make out the motion of the lad’s hand well enough. He narrows his eyes, tapping a little ash from his spur. He had a meeting with Mr. Shrikeweed just yesterday, early in the morning at the start of the week, all strong kofi and bloodless arrangement. He doesn’t think he’s spoken to the man properly since Plamondon Hall, not about anything other than qalqa; he hasn’t been such a fool as to think the Shrike’s silence empty. He remembers the turning of the kofi cup vividly, dark green lacquer, a new set.

The lad manages a ring, this time. His eyes follow it briefly; it lingers, stark against the cold dark air.

Bailey.

His field draws back from its caprise, polite and easy enough. “A pleasure, Bailey.” His eyes flick around in the dark; still no cat. Incumbentness is getting old, but he can’t imagine what he’d rather be called.

It isn’t as if he hasn’t wondered. Movement in the upper windows of the inn opposite when he goes to the bar in Benbow, his last Dives haunt on the edge of the Ladies – his last concession to himself – a familiar scarf reflected in the windows at Derrick Street, where he goes to visit old Ette. If this had been the Rose, he’d’ve known how to place him. One of Hawke’s, maybe; he’d been a lad once, set to run messages, to follow kov. Excepting about a foot of height and a few stone, he’d not looked too much unlike him.

In the Rose, it might’ve been one of the Yellow Eye families, too, or one of the other small names. He doesn’t know Vienda. Behind this half-lit, cocky face spreads a landscape he doesn’t know; and he knows enough to know that he doesn’t know it.

“Important?” More smoke drifts from his lips. He breathes in the cold night air through his teeth, then looks sidelong and up at the lad again. “What’s so special about a politician having an affair?” He takes another drag. “It’s not the most typical arrangement, no. But I can’t imagine you’ll find much of interest to him, following Ava and me” – he doesn’t hesitate on the name; he knew he might have to use it – “around.”

There: a flash of eyes in the dark, the glint of light off a swaying tail. A shadow slinks down the alley opposite, its head bowed.

Bailey pushes. His lip curls. “And what on Vita do you think a politician would know about tailing someone? You’d think I was some kind of tallyboy, the way you’re talking to me.” He snorts.

[Runcible Spoon]

Vienda - The Painted Ladies, an alleyway outside Woven Delights


The Night of the Second of Achtus, 2719

Bailey Sneed

S

ir is playing with him, like a cat with a toy. Not a mouse, no, there’s no threat, not yet. A little experimentation, a sizing up, even a little fun. So he’ll play back, so long as Sir keeps his claws well back. And he will have claws, for all that he seems just a man out taking the night air. Not a bad kov, the Marks boy had said of Mr Thomas, and that seems to hold. For now. Then again, gollies on their own weren’t too bad as a rule. In numbers they were a nuisance, a hindrance, but one that he could work around. That was no new thing.

Brandy with Mr Shrike, a smoke with Mr Thomas, he was fast becoming the man to have for a quiet chat and a comfortable evening. Never would have thought that. Ma would either be proud, or she would disown him. The former was more likely. An in among the gollies was an in to protection, hells, to patronage. He’s shown that can work. Well, provided you can find yourself a liberal-minded man like Mr Shrike. And that was the odd thing. A man who serves the government, a man who may as well be the government, having no qualms about a city-born wick. Or, now he comes to think of it, city-born humans. A man of the city before all else.

That was the right lens, to be sure. Mr Shrike’s a Viendan first, a civil servant second, and somewhere, rather further down the list, he’s a golly. And Sir here? Well, that remains to be seen. But Sir ain’t no ordinary golly. What ordinary golly keeps a human mistress? Keeps her not just for a bit of fun, but sets her up, protects her, visits her for long, tedious conversations. Now there was a mystery to try and solve. Maybe he can solve it before Mr Shrike. That would be a red-letter day if ever there was one.

Well, he’ll have to start somewhere. Here is as good a place as any. Time to take the measure of the man.

“Important?” he echos, staring off into the blue-tinted gloom of the phosphor lamp. “You are that sure enough. But you’ve got the reasons why all turned around. Or, leastways as Mr Shrike would see it.” He’s known the man for going on three years now, running his errands, gathering information from here and there, keps eyes and ears open for what was going on in the city. In all that time he’s never known the man to be what one might call scandalized. “He don’t work quite like that, begging your pardon sir. This here dalliance is important not for the shock or the scandal, but because,” and here he tries his hand at the dry, detached, wry, Clockhouse accent, “it is data. It is leverage.”

That might not have been the wisest of statements. No, not at all. Corrections then, a smoothing over. “Not for him to use against you, sir. I don’t think he’s contemplating anything like that. Don’t quite know what he wants it all for. Keeps me in the dark on such things. Says it’s for the best. ‘Cultivating the naive mind’ he calls it. Whatever the blazes that means.”

He takes another draw of smoke, lets it roll about on his tongue. Acrid and sharp. Well, he needs to stay sharp enough tonight. Hours to go before he can rest, before he’ll have to lay low. Being caught’s no lark, nothing he can count as a success. He’ll need to work out all the angles, everything that went wrong. Tonight he’ll stay with Ma. He’s not met all the worn-out springs on the battered old couch yet. It wouldn’t be civil to leave before he’s had each of them dig into his spine. And never let it be said that he weren’t civil.

Sir’s trying to avoid matters, try to play them off. Whenever a man says there’s not much of interest, well, that’s nothing but an invitation, a call, to look as hard as one can. And Sir and Miss Weaver, no Miss Ava, well, they’re curious enough on their own to warrant a little more watching. More careful watching.

“Now sir, you said so yourself you’ve been followed before. Stands to reason that you’d have a way of spotting your tail. I mean, you smoked me well enough.” And the man has lived no small time in this place, among these streets. A man of means playing at being a man of nothing. He’s had to learn to lay low, to not be seen, not be noticed. And then, there was the little matter of being, in some way, a King’s man. Mr Shrike had told him that much at least. Somehow the King of the Rose was in all this. Somehow Sir has had dealings with him. No idea what kind. He stays away from King’s men as a matter of principle. It’s not good practice. No one who deals with the King of the Rose ends up smelling sweet. Mr Thomas’ past certainly has an aroma about it. For now, he cannot make out the fragrance.

“And I never said you were some tallyboy, your honor.” Why has Sir used that word, conjured up that image? It’s no casual word, no common turn of phrase. It means something. He’s no idea what. Still, it sits ill with him. Something to follow up on. Could mean anything. Or nothing at all. Maybe this is what Mr Shrike means about the naive mind. “I’d never insult a man of your standing with such language. But insult yourself sir, if that’s your pleasure.” He lounges a little more, taking a bit more ease. “But between ourselves sir, I’d like to keep your catching of me a bit quiet. Better to let Mr Shrike think I’m still on the watch.”

He would remain on watch, for as long as need be. He’s a feeling, and it's just that, only a feeling, that someone else might be looking to watch the Incumbent too.

[Tom Cooke]

The Woven Delights Alleyway • Painted Ladies

Nighttime on the 2nd of Achtus, 2719

I
t is data, the Bailey lad says, dropping into an accent that’s as familiar to him as the smell of paper and ink. It is leverage.

His cigarette’s almost to his lips, and he splutters instead of taking a drag. He snorts, clearing his throat. The lad doesn’t have to correct himself, though he does anyway; and he nods, anyway, waving a hand, a little smoke leaking from the spur and curling in the air. The small grey cat crouches in the shadow of a low pipe opposite them, watching, his long tail giving the occasional twitch.

He looks over at the lad. “I might know a little something of what he wants it for,” he says, shrugging. “I didn’t think, begging your pardon, he was planning on trying anything with me. Yet, at least. Or Ava, though I’d rather her not” – he keeps a straight face, his voice utterly serious – “get caught in the crossfire of all this rubbish.”

He takes another draw. They’re good smokes, these; not the kind he usually smokes. He’d be lying if he said he knew a thing about it. He thinks Anatole must’ve favored them, for all he keeps finding them in the inside pockets of coats and waistcoats and tucked into the drawer with his ivory cigarette holder. He’s gotten them as gifts, too. Bencivenni curls across the box in ornate script, out from a spare depiction of Hurte.

He often wonders about it, when he can bear to. Whether he likes these more, somewhere down deep, past mind-things like taste and smell. He thinks there must be a reason he keeps reaching for them, in particular – the motion familiar, like a rug worn down by the flat’s previous tenant.

It disturbs him. He blows out more smoke; he doesn’t try to make a ring. He’s never had the hang of it, and he doesn’t think he’s about to start.

“He likes to keep me in the dark, too,” he adds with a quirk of his brow. Thankfully, I can do just the same.

The gray cat creeps closer. There’s no darting eyes up toward the wick lad; if the he’s uncomfortable, it’s only as uncomfortable as usual, and the smell of smoked fish draws him sure as trouble. He thinks the cat must be familiar enough with Bailey by now, too, if he’s been casing the shop for so long.

He reaches over, crackles the paper bag with the fish. The little nose works; the eyes grow darker. “Very well,” he says. “If I were you, I’d be less persistent. If I were him, I’d’ve hired more than one man, and had them change off. But if I were you, I’d be more shy; I’d leave off rightaway, when I think that pebble I kicked might’ve got the old man’s attention, or when I think his housekeeper might’ve spotted me in the bushes.”

The cat’s paws are silent on the wet alley floor. The street lamp catches a nick in one ear he doesn’t remember. He creeps closer – closer – stops in the middle of the alleyway, crouching again.

He’s leaned forward and offered a hand. In vain, as usual. He eases back against the brick again, grimacing. “Of course,” he says, “not a word. And yes, actually, insulting myself is my pleasure. One takes them where one can.” He pauses, taking a drag, then wrinkles his nose. “That’s not fair, is it, Mr. Bailey? I keep your secrets, and you run off to your master with mine?”

A little ash drops from the spur. The cat’s ears are cocked, but his eyes are only for the paper bag sitting on the curb beside him.

“Unless you’re looking for some data,” he pronounces, pouring his voice into the shape of the word, “some leverage, yourself?” He looks up at Bailey, a smile written round his eyes.

[Runcible Spoon]

Vienda - The Painted Ladies, an alleyway outside Woven Delights
The Night of the Second of Achtus, 2719

Bailey Sneed

T

he little grey cat is back. He has seen it before, prowling along the streets. He pays it no mind. No mind at all. It’s just a cat. The Ladies is full of cats. Ubiquitous, common as anything, unnoticed. No, not unnoticed, shrugged off as scenery. Just as he has done. In what language do cats speak? Can he learn that tongue, ask the small grey cat how it comes and goes as it pleases, how it raises no alarms at all? Maybe Alice the Vroo could have told him. Maybe she’d have flayed him alive for his impertinence. Hard to say. She’s been dead a good long while. Dead, but never forgotten. Da used to tell stories about her, stories that’d curdle anyone’s blood. But no, Alice and her curses were long dead. Would the gollies at Brunnhold know the secret tongue of cats, or the language of birds? Not bloody likely. Too low a magic, too base and beneath their lofty notice. More the fools they.

Not that he knew any better. Well, saving that at least he knew he did not know.

Much to be learned from cats, in any event. Casual, languid, seeming carefree. Mr Thomas was right about persistence. He had been tracking the man more closely than might have been prudent. Then again, he ain’t a man tracker by trade. Casing a joint, slipping in an out all quiet-like with portable property and rich takings, well, that was his line. Man tracking was the work of low tobies and footpads, tipstaffs and bounty-hunters. And, so it seemed, strange government officials. Might be something elevating in that. A new knack was always tempting.

“Thanks for the advice, sir, I’ll put it to mind.” And it was fine advice. Advice from Mr Thomas, from Tom Cooke, late of Fly-Ash. It weren’t the advice of a soft golly from up on the Hill. The dark of it, whatever it is, is still beyond his reach, but at least he has a name, an occupation, and a general since of the man. And here, tonight, he’s twigged that Sir’s being Tom. Maybe he’s always Tom now. Seems a better sort of kov.

The lines are heavy on his face, deep scored and growing deeper. They suit him, give him an air of gravitas. Real gravitas, not that weak tea so many toffs sport. Old Tom, yes, that was the right name, it fit. Old Tom, well, he weren’t flaunting it, he just had it. Enviable quality, that.

“And Miss Weaver, if you really are worried, and what with all the goings on, I can’t say as I blames you, I might have some advice for the both of you.” He takes another drag, lets out the smoke in great gout, as from a furnace tower. Now, here’s a chance to put a little debt in his own private column. Just him. Nothing Mr Shrike need know about. Everyone’s entitled to their own little piece of the game. Whatever the hells game was being played. “There’s a warehouse down on the canal, green-painted door on the alley-side, a fair bit shiny. Nautical paint’s magnificent stuff. It’s about halfway down on the west side, so proper in the Ladies. Brick thing, not too large. You or she need a place to lay low, you can knock on that green door. Ask for Old Pol, and she’ll set you right, at least for a little while. Miss Weaver’s in the Ladies now, and we try and take care of our own.”

Old Pol can size her up too. She’s an expert in that. Can learn all she ever needs to know about someone over a pot of tea and a friendly chat. Oh, not details, but a general sense. And she’ll pass that along, at least among the family. Mr Shrike may not have anyone else, but he’s not Mr Shrike. Not bya wide margin.

“I think Mr Shrike’s not used to having people followed much. A man of paper don’t have much call for it. At least, not much before now. And, begging your pardon sir, I don’t think he’s got anyone else he could send by me. Not in possession of a wide and varied social circle is our Mr Shrike. Couple of papery friends drop by from time to time, and I’ve known him to have a pair of young ladies drop by for a chat and a drink.” Miss Kate and Miss Arabella. Nice enough seeming, but he kept well away from them, lurking out of sight. Never sure if they were relations or not. Seemed to be something like that at least. “His sister too drops by from time to time, but I don’t think anyone else. Rather a private gent.” Another drag, another gout of smoke out into the cold night air. The cigarette was growing on him. A proper pipe was still to be preferred. Better for thinking. These might be better for lounging against a wall, having a chat with a man who was two men. A thing to be noted. And so he does.

Another thing to note, Old Tom is working angles of his own. Whatever the shape of this business is, it seems to have more angles than a geometry text. He has tried his hand at reading them. The diagrams are interesting, but what education in such things has he got? He can read well enough, write, even has a proper writ for it, all nice and legal. A perk of being in Mr Shrike’s employ. But the rest of his education’s been practical or in the lore and ways of the city. In his line, it’s better than geometry. And the city’s got a perfect shape all its own.

And the cat. The damn cat’s working angles of its own. The fish might draw it out into the light, but its got a mind of its own. Its own agenda. I’m on to you, sly grey shadow, he thinks.

“What’s your angle Sir?” He almost gives the game away, almost says ‘Old Tom’. Too comfortable here, to casual. He shifts he feet, ready again for the dash. “If you’ve got a little line on Mr Shrike, well could be useful. I’m due a raise, don’t you think?”

[Tom Cooke]

The Woven Delights Alleyway • Painted Ladies

Nighttime on the 2nd of Achtus, 2719

I
’m grateful for the tip, Mr. Bailey,” he says, looking up at the lad with the quirk of one eyebrow. “Very grateful. I’ll keep it in mind.” The lad’s still just a blue-limned profile in the dark, not much more to tell about him than the cat; he studies his face, but all he can see is the puff of white smoke that billows from his lips. Another ring, coherent – if a little lopsided – in the damp night air.

He takes another drag, but he doesn’t try it himself. He’s given up that ghost a long time ago. However it is a kov does it, he’s never been able to figure it out; he thinks he’d have better luck asking how cats always land on their feet.

Their small grey acquaintance is moving across, paws delicately avoiding puddles. He’s caught wind of the fish, now.

He reaches to rumple the bag again, then takes out one of the smoked dried fish, tearing at it with his fingertips. He pops one piece in his mouth, heedless of his spectator. Then he leans to set a few scraps on the stones closer to the cat.

Pol. He glances up at the light in the window, through the ivy. He knows Ava’ll have heard; he wonders if she’s got any more context on this bunch than he does. A warehouse down the canal. He turns it over in his head, and it doesn’t make much sense. Not that there’s a chance in hell he’ll take the wick up – and it’s good to know, at least, he hasn’t an inkling of what Ava’s running from her shop – but it’s another piece to fit into the puzzle, this shiny green door and this old Pol and this Ladies bunch. We try and take care of our own, Bailey says brightly.

Is it just the Painted Ladies, that we? There are more wes here, more yous and Is and hims and hers, than he can count on both his hands; it dizzies him sometimes to think about.

The little gray cat’s craning his neck now, nose twitching at the fish in the dark. He creeps a few more steps closer, then crouches by it, taking the first probing lick. Eyes flash; he glances up at Bailey, then at him, but whatever he sees, it doesn’t deter him. He settles there, his paws tucked underneath him, his tail twitching and curling neatly round his haunches. He sets about the fish enthusiastic enough.

“A pair of nice young ladies?” He shifts, lifting his brows.

Funny, but he’s never thought of the Shrike as having relations, least of all a sister. He’s mentioned his father once or twice in passing; Clockhouse folk, he imagines, though what that means is newly-minted in his mind, and he doesn’t understand the whole of it yet. More angles there, too. A man of paper, he thinks, remembering those early days in Intas and then in Loshis, speaking of a thrown fist and a hundred thrown fists.

He thinks, too, of the anger and pleasure he remembers from Shrikeweed’s field, meshed and inseparable from his. “No, I’d imagine not,” he says, taking another contemplative drag. “I don’t know much about his set, if he has one. Other than that kofi house he likes to go to, and I suspect he likes to go there alone.” He shrugs. “I suppose all those acquaintances in the civil service aren’t much for this sort of qalqa. I shudder,” and he frowns, “to think he’s getting better at this, whatever this is.”

The cat’s already snapped up the last of the fish. He comes closer, paws damp.

He takes out a little more smoked fish, tears off a few more tiny pieces on the paper bag. Cat’s close enough to touch, now, though he doesn’t dare reach out; these things take time. And tonight, the light is glistening in some fur matted underneath one ear. He frowns at it, wondering if the tallyboy plans to crawl his way up to Ava’s window after he’s done here.

“Angle?” He looks up. “I’ve plenty of them; I may very well be a, a – what do you call them –” He smiles, amused. “Dodecahedron,” he pronounces cautiously, hopefully.

The air smells of smoked fish and cigarettes.

He settles back against the brick, tired. “But so are you.” He snorts. “I don’t think anyone has a line on Shrikeweed, Mr. Bailey. I think that’s part of what makes him the sort of man he is. There’s no line to have.” He shakes his head. “Wish I had better advice; you deserve that raise, hiding in my bushes at thirty o’clock.”

[Runcible Spoon]

Vienda - The Painted Ladies, an alleyway outside Woven Delights
The Night of the Second of Achtus, 2719

Bailey Sneed

T

hey’re still playing at games, back and forth, back and forth. Not quite give and take, more snatch and steal. And come away with nothing but a few coins and wisps of lint. All the night they can occupy this space, filling it with congenial smoke and too-careful words. Careful yes, but he’s had to tip a hand a few times, to draw Old Tom out. Not much comes of it. Well, nothing he can quite make out. Mr Shrike might see something in it. Hear something in the words and the memories. He bites down on the spur a little more, draws in a long breath, filling his mouth with smoke. Smoke to hide his dread.

It ain’t that Mr Shrike is hard with his magics, with his calibrations and his inferences, but it’s no picnic. But the turning of those damn ghostly gears, the tendrils that will crawl across the surface of his mind, always something to make him shudder. Ears full of the drone of this conversation, the shapes of words and the memory of phrases repeated over and over, each time different, each time the same. He will grasp at them through the turning of the gears. His blood will turn to ink and write words he will never see in the secret places of his soul. Bees shall fill his mouth, a crawling, humming multitude. Each a honey-sweet word he shall release into the orchid-scented air of the rooms up on Smike’s end. A swarm of words, a colony of meanings. They will fly forth, or else dance upon his flesh and in the buzzing of their wings the words he will need shall sound, and rise, and so die. All that will be left are the few that shall carry the pollen of this conversation. And Mr Shrike will gather them up, spear them upon the thorns of his reasoning. He will tear them to pieces. He will risk spearing himself.

And as for himself? He will lie again upon the carpet, with throat raw, bereft of speech, bereft of words. The discomfort will pass. His words will return. They always do. And Mr Shrike? His thoughts shall be pierced by thorns of his own design, he will become tattered and ragged. It is always so. It is strange magic, strange and terrible. Strange in its efficacy. Terrible in its inevitability.

No sense dwelling on it. Better to keep to the here and now. The bees will have to come from somewhere, now won’t they?

Old Tom dismisses the offer of aid, airy and light. Has his own means of it? Or the Weaver? Odd clients at odd hours. Common enough around here. There’s a trade in smuggled cloth, and the Weaver does have her fancy silks. Old Tom refused the bait. Pol can squeeze the life history of a kov out of them over a cheery drink. Would have been useful. And Old Tom did say there should be more eyes and ears upon this matter. Ain’t now one with ears like Pol.

The grey cat condescends to join them at last. It has fallen for the bait. Either that it’s a chancer. No, that ain’t it. It knows Old Tom, and Old Tom was expecting the cat. Why else with the bag of smoked fish and the rustling of the bag. Drawing it in, telling the small grey sneak there is nothing to fear. An odd thing, but he feels it too. For now at least. In this place and at this hour, Old Tom is safe enough. Still no call to drop his guard.

A feint though, well, that was called for. “Miss Kate and Miss Arabella. They might be nieces of his, or something like that. Families is complicated affairs.” Nor more true words. His own clan is spread all across the Ladies and on Saddlery Hill or down in the Rookery. Then there are the others, the more distant relations all stitched together one to the other. A web of kin and obligations. Miss Kate and Miss Arabella seem like obligations for Mr Shrike. Welcome obligations it must be said. He’s nearly always pleased to see them. “No leverage there, not in the least. Well, unless they’re running an orchid smuggling ring all together.” Mr Shrike does have a far collection of the most unsettling orchids. Leathery, fleshy, or just plain strange. Just another strange hobby of a strange man. “You’ve never seen the collection of course. It’s a sight I must say. A bit of a shock.”

Nothing dangerous about tipping the orchids. It’s something to give. Maybe something will come his way in return.

And so it comes, faster than he thinks possible. Old Tom is worried, worried Mr Shrike will find something else. Something beyond a scandalous mistress and whatever it is with the Madame and the nameless men. Something here? Something up on Ro Hill? In both places or in neither? Where else does Old Tom go? Does the Weaver go with him? More following. He’ll need other eyes. He’s been made, so he has to take the role of the distraction. Can Charlie follow them? She’s small and quick and passes through crowds like they’re nothing but water. Old Tom’s safe enough. Charlie’ll face no threats from him, no blows. The little grey cat is like Charlie. Even when she comes nigh, she’s just a small slip of a thing, a girl too small for her sixteen years.

She’ll be at Ma’s tonight. Back with her haul and stories of Uptown fools. He can spin her a tale, a fine mystery, and most of it true. She’ll come around to it, for a cut of the pay. She’s no fool.

Old Tom looks up now. Up at the open window of the apartments above the shop. Miss Weaver’s likely listening. That’s to be expected. All this concerns her too. Let her listen, there’s not much harm in it. Maybe even some good. He ain’t a threat to either of them. And Mr Shrike, for all his scheming ain’t no threat neither.

Well, not for now.

Angles on angles, and everyone’s laying claim to their own little set. Old Tom flatters himself he a dodecahedron. What in the clocks is that? Best to break that down, cut it into words. ‘Deca’ is ten, ‘hedron’ is, what, a ball? Something like that. A ten-sided ball? He’s forgotten the ‘do’. ‘Do’ is two. Adding two are times two? He really should have stolen that geometry book. Then he’d know. Then he could hold his own with this man, show himself to be learned, to be better than a guttersnipe. And he is better than that. He’s got his own education, his own customs, his own family. He twists the ring upon his left middle finger, split so that it does not make a full circle. Family custom. Clan custom. A nod to freedom, from fetters, from unwilling obligations.

He still does not know how many angles Old Tom thinks he has. More than enough. And a man with too many angles is liable to miss a few, here and there. Best to keep an eye out for them. And ask Mr Shrike how many angles were in a damn dodecahedron. No shame is ignorance. Only shame is being too proud to try and learn.

It is growing ever later. The chill from off the river, from off the canals is rising. He has earned his raise, even if Old Tom had spotted him in the damn bushes. No shame in failure in good faith. Well, so long as you take the learnings, try not to fail again.

He looks over at the man he cannot quite see as an Incumbent, sees more as just another kov trying to live as best he can amid strange days. All the days are strange now, and growing stranger. “If you want my view on things, and take it for what you will, but Mr Shrike’s got his eyes out for you. That at least I know. He’s an odd kov. Doesn’t think quite like most people, but in his way, I think he rather likes you Sir. Even if he doesn’t quite trust you.”