The Thirty-third of Vortas 2719 - Nineteen Minutes past the Seventeeth Hour
Is there any truth in that? Is it just another lie told by men desperate to excuse their own behavior, desperate to make explain their dalliances? Why should it matter, the reasons, the excuses? Paramours are common enough. Expected. Indulged. Some known far and wide, some celebrated. A century ago, Artimessia Tassos, the conmon mistress of Giacamo Porsenna, was much celebrated for her wit, her dash, and, at least in private, for her wise council. Her low birth had mattered very little. She had been an asset, not a liability.
Well, that had been in Florne, and Florne is not Vienda. A Gonfaloniere is not the same as an Incumbent.
“What about Gwendolyn Nealing?” He has said nothing. There is no need. Bailey, lounging, carefree and comfortable has stretched himself out, taking up most of one side of the damned carriage. The boy can read his thoughts, at least on this occasion. No sense in trying to hide them.
“Nealing? I cannot recall the name.”
“Last century, the 2660s I think it was. Pretty, witty Gwen, the mistress of some toff or other. Lionel Marbury! Whoever he was when he’d be at home.”
The boy is a font of information. Useful.
“Chancellor of the Exchequer from 2655 through 2679. Before my time. A celebrated career. Treasury Reform Act of 2662, created the post of the Inspectors General to keep an official eye on monetary expenditures. Currency Protection Act of 2686. I am obliged to dislike him, on account of his attempts to abolish the Legislative Council and the Parliamentary Research Service.”
“Very right and proper, sir. A terrible man to be sure.” Bailey is trying to suppress a laugh. At one of them is able to smile. When was the last time he smiled? Not the devious quirk of the lip, but a proper smile? What does it matter? Good humor is another luxury he can no longer afford. The machine can do without it. The machine is what matters, the turning gears of his thoughts.
“Still, I do not recall the whiff of scandal emanating from the annals of his career.”
“Well, there you are sir. And it’s not like he could keep Gwen a secret. Always was quite flash, driving her own coach with never a care, if my old granny’s got it right.”
“One could do worse than trusting in old grannies.”
“Right you are sir. And no use in saying otherwise. Least-ways, not with my granny.” The boy grows silent for a while, the carriage rattles along. Over the bridge and north, and north. North to the Dives, to answers. Or, at least new questions. “Anyway, this Gwen, always full of dash and energy, making smart remarks, and being invited everywhere to decorate parties and such like. Surprised you’d not heard of her, being a politico.”
“I am not a politician.” By narrow definitions, true. By any reasonable definition? Well, that was a murkier area. Policy had passed through his hands, had been shaped. The ink is still on his fingers, the words still turning, over and over, in his head. “I am merely a tool of such.”
“Whatever you say, Mr Shrike.”
He falls silent now, tries not to notice the rocking and racing of the carriage. Tries to imagine going on foot. Walking is better, more natural. It is too far to walk. Too far. Too dangerous. The air is different here, smoke and ash, soot and sulphur. This is not his city, not any longer. Some other place, some alien country.
The question still nags. Why hide a mistress? Why hide her in such a fashion? It is almost a denial of her existence. Denial suggests either guilt or some other secret. What do you know, Little Bird, what are you hiding?
“You found the necklace?” A repetition, a need for certanty. Bailey is more or less trustworthy. He has never proved otherwise. There are too many variables here, more than he can calculate. Too many gaps. Too many opportunities for failure.
“Well, yes and no Mr Shrike. I found the shop what bought it. Well, not quite.” Bailey is squirming now uncertain, shifty. “I found the man who tried to buy it, found the shop where he tried and failed. It ain’t there now sir. I don’t have any idea where it went.” He holds up his hands, deflecting any wrath. No wrath is forthcoming. What would be the point? “But I do know where it came from. Found the first buyer, and that weren’t easy. Little shop just outside the Ladies. Nothing much to look at, and the nat who passes for the fence ain’t any good, but he bought the necklace. Bought it from a pretty lady with dark hair. A lady who deals in fabrics sir. Her shop were easy enough to find. Lovely fabric sir, very lovely. Fine close cotton weaves, brushed wool, even silk sir. Popped in for a moment you understand. Not long, but long enough. I even saw the lady. The lady with the oblong case.”
A nod. The lady with the oblong case again. The go-between? A messenger? A merchant who might deal with any number of ladies, no matter their station, without raising an eyebrow. A useful agent? Such people are valuable. Their discretion is to be commended. Their discretion cane be an obstacle.
There is truth in the boy’s face. That is currency enough. It might be a false lead, it may be nothing at all. It may be everything. It is all there is to follow. A single thread, tenuous at best. It is better than nothing. A thread, and a cloth merchant.
Carriages are an unfortunate necessity. Too far to go in too little time. Unfortunate, unlovely. No stones beneath his feet, no feel of the city, only the turning of wheels that are not his own. There is no sense of place, no flow, no continuity. The carriage slows. That at least he can feel. Outside, the place is strange, like and yet unlike the city he knows. Houses in too many colors, garish yet faded. The streets at least are properly narrow. More Smike’s End than Uptown proper. Narrow, twisting, old as the city itself. Old as its bones.
“Place is called Woven Delights. Bit of a silly name, if you ask me. And the lady with the oblong case, well, I have it on almost reliable authority that her name is Weaver.” A contortion passes along Bailey’s face. He feels it echoed in his own.
“That’s a bit on the nose, isn’t it?”
“My thoughts exactly. Though, could be long tradition. Passed down through the generations. Stranger things have happened.” The boy shrugs, dismissing it all. Names are meaningless, mere designations. Bailey pays the fee for passage, and dismisses the carriage. There is no longer any need for the conveyance. “I knew a dentist, a proper one sir, went by the name of Rencher. Damned good at his profession, but an unfortunate name.”
Stranger things have indeed happened.
He walks now, feels the stones beneath his feet, the familiar pulse of the city, his city. A small thing. A correct thing. A sound thing.
The bells jangle at last when he enters the shop. Slightly off key. A well appointed space and expertly laid out. Why should it be otherwise? Pride knows no bounds. Should not.
“Good afternoon,” he says, addressing no one. Addressing whoever may be there. A customer like any other. A guise and not a guise. In this place, amidst the threads he must follow, the fabric of a conspiracy he does not understand, there is more mundane business he can find. The fabrics alone are enough. All fine and elegant as Bailey has said.
A curious thing, unexpected. A new cravat would be most acceptable.