Vienda - The Elephant
6th of Intas 2719 - 17 minutes past the fifteenth hour
6th of Intas 2719 - 17 minutes past the fifteenth hour
C
arstone Street, and the frost mostly gone. A few patches in deeper shadows still silvery. Little enough traffic to crush it underfoot. Little enough sun to melt it. The clouds are dirty wool, unwashed sheep making their way across a pale, cold, field. Not a color, but a memory of blue. He checks his watch. Seventeen minutes past the fifteenth hour. He has until the seventeenth hour to return, to requisition an office in the grotesque stone monstrosity behind him. Stainthorpe Hall. It is not his place. It will have to become so. He shakes his head and draws up his collar. There is nothing else he can do.
The Incumbent. The man is unsettled. Unsettling. Whatever befell him was like a bomb in the Archives. Thoughts blown apart, recollections scattered to the four winds, personality ablaze in the ruins. And only Shrikeweed to smother the fires and try to reconstruct a man. All that is left is burnt and broken. The Incumbent said as much. He is lost, confused, unmade. What can unmake a man? What can make him anew? Shrikeweed does not know. It is futile. It cannot be done. All the papers and journals in the world cannot recreate a man. Does the Incumbent keep a journal? Likely not. That would be too useful. There will be papers, of course, and records of votes. A place to start. The man must have family and friends. Even Shrikeweed has those. Does he want to reconstruct the Incumbent? Uncertain. Even were it possible, is it wise? Is it prudent? Is it sound? Better to start over, to lay a new foundation.
There is at least one good foundation stone, one piece of the wreckage of the man that wholly sound. Coffee. As good a place to start as any. Better than most. The Elephant, at the corner of Carstone and Gadwine. Already he can smell the bitter-sweet aroma of the coffee, mixed with spices and sandalwood. He reaches for the door handle. Solid, weathered brass, heavy and sure in his hand. Familiar. Comforting. He turns it only once, clockwise, and enters.
A few regulars at low tables, recognize them by face and voice. He does not know their names. Never bothers to ask. They have never asked his. They nod to him, and Shrikeweed returns the gesture. They go back to their private worlds, talking about their own business.
“Afternoon, Mr S.” Shrikeweed looks towards the counter that divides the coffee house from the kitchen, sees the face he expects. Sebele. Competent, compact, neat, economical with her motions. Completely at home. Completely in command. As it should be. The Elephant is her’s, passed down to her from, was it her grandmother, her mother? Shrikeweed cannot recall. Probably her grandmother. He remembers the older woman with her lilting Thul’Ka accent and stark, contrasting, silver-white hair. Sebele has no such accent. Her’s is Viendan, Rouncewell Lane, and thick enough to spread on toast.
“Afternoon, Sebele,” Shrikeweed doffs his coat and hangs it on the monstrosity that passes for a coat rack. It looks like something out of an antique dealer’s nightmares.
Sebele throws her inevitable dishcloth over her left shoulder. It is red today. Bright red. “The usual, Mr S.? Only I’ve also got spiced chicken pies, just out of the oven.”
He sniffs the air, can smell the cardamom, the fenugreek, and the buttery pastry. Tempting. Another day, but not this one. Too many upsets today. Too many changes. Lunch should not be another.
“Smells delightful, but today, just the usual.”
“Right you are Mr S.”
“Pie tomorrow perhaps. If you have it.”
She cocks an eyebrow. “Twice here in one week? You back in the courts Mr S.? Someone’s for it if you are.”
He shakes his head, smiles a bit. “I leave the legal profession to my esteemed father and his army of clerks. No, I’ve been reassigned to the damn great monstrosity of Stainthorpe Hall. Babysitting an Incumbent.”
“Important work?” She signals to one of the staff. A copper ibrik appears, and the ritual of coffee begins. The smell rising, even above the spices. Shrikeweed breaths it in. He takes his usual seat; the one by the window with the cracked hexagonal pane. An old friend. The chair creaks its customary creak. Familiar, comforting.
“I’ve no idea. He’s a bit out of sorts, and his staff is a joke. I’ll replace them, assuming I can pry them out of the woodwork. One thing to be said for the Service, we all hold on like limpets.”
“Limpets ain’t in season Mr S.”
“Bodes well then. I appreciate a good omen. I could use one today. And coffee.”
On cue, the coffee arrives. Fragrant, think, a beautiful red-brown nectar nested within a fine porcelain cup. Finer than the flowery thing the Incumbent provided, and less gaudy by far. A restrained and elegant blue and white botanical pattern. He raises it, takes a slow and indulgent sip. The taste, like roasted nuts, the ghost of chocolate, the acidic bite; perfect as only The Elephant can make. He set the cup down with care, and relaxes into his chair.
Sebele nods to her staff member. Approving. “So, lobster and lettuce then?”
“If you please.” Nowhere else in the city serves lobster and lettuce the way The Elephant does. The lobster is freshly grilled with spiced butter, the lettuce dressed in oil, salt, and vinegar. The rumor is, when this place first opened, the proprietor had heard that lobster and lettuce was popular local dish, but she had no idea how to make it. Barely spoke any Estuan, and the reading ban for humans made it even harder to learn what the real dish was like. So she fashioned this odd half-Mugrobi preparation. He is not sure that the rumor is true, but it is a good story to go with an equally good dish.
When it arrives, he eats in contented silence for a while. Spices and coffee warm him. He watches the traffic in the street go by. Clerks and officials, lawyers and their clients. Here and there he spots a person of means and status. Fine clothes and that tell-tale mincing stride. Too-tight shoes, never broken in. All the money in the world and not a single ounce of sense.
Sense. The Incumbent is disturbed in his senses, but that solid foundation of coffee cannot be denied. “Sebele,” he says, his plate is reduced to a neat pile of lobster shells, “it might be the case that you can help me with this clocks-damned babysitting.”
“Me, Mr S.? I don’t know the first thing about Incumbents. Far as I can tell, they’re just a bunch of useless toffs.”
“But what you do know, is coffee.”
“What’s that got to do with your Incumbent?”
“Might as well try and get into his good graces with proper coffee. He asked if something could be done about his.”
“I don’t deliver, Mr S. It’s too far and too cold. It’d be ruined by the time it got where it was going. And I’ll not have it said of The Elephant that we serve bad coffee.”
“Not delivery, no. I want to hire one of your staff. Daphne perhaps? Or Subira? On retainer of course.”
“I can’t let no one go Mr S. I’m stretched thin as it is. And it’s still cold out. So I’ve got more custom than usual.” Shrikeweed studies her face, but can make no firm judgments. Is she telling the truth, or has she opened negotiations? By tradition Mugrobi don’t lie, but Sebele isn’t Mugrobi is she. Viendan as any, maybe more so than most. He’ll take the latter assumption. He does it for the coffee.
“Double the retainer then. Hire someone else. And I’ll put the word out that The Elephant not only has the finest coffee in the district.”
“Finest coffee west of border you mean.”
“Forgive me, yes. It’s been a trying day. Finest east of the border.”
“That’s more like it. Now, what’s this word you’ll be spreading?”
“Only the best. This place is comfortable, the staff discreet. A perfect place for semi-public meetings. Legal business. Commercial business. And everyone buying coffee.”
Sebele purses her lips, puts her head down, and begins polishing the counter. It is spotless. The wiping is pro forma. “Lots of potential for problems,” she says, cleaning a non-existent coffee spill. “I ain’t got no lawyer. Can’t get one.”
“I think,” says Shrikeweed, turning the coffee cup in his hands, “I can handle that. You’d be acting under my auspices, at least formally.”
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch, just the loan of one of your staff. Oh, and coffee on the house.” He grins a wide an amiable grin. Sebele returns it, then crosses over to Shrikeweed’s table. She extends her hand, then hesitates.
“You sure about this? You sure it will work?”
“I’ve no idea. But I need the coffee. And it if all goes pear-shaped, I’ll do what I can to sort it out. I do know some frightfully good attorneys, after all.”
Selebe extends her hand again. Shrikeweed take it in his own. The deal is made. The coffee is his. And, in some round-about way, so is The Elephant. The place is under his protection. It is not much, nothing like what one of those mincing dandies out there in the street could offer. They would not care. More fool them.
“Daphne!”
The girl behind the ibriks looks up, confused. “Ma’am?”
“You’re on loan to Mr S.”
“Ma’am?” Daphne’s confusion continues to spread, he pale face growing even more bloodless.
Shrikeweed lowers his voice. It seems like it is calm, pleasant, even warm. At least, that is what he is aiming for. “I require the services of a skilled coffee mage, and clearly you meet the requirements. If you’d be so good as to report to Stainthorpe Hall by say, half past the ninth hour tomorrow, I can do my best to set you up to work your magic.” Daphne continues to try her utmost to become transparent. “No need to panic, Daphne. You’re not losing either pay or your position. All I require is a steady stream of this excellent coffee.”
At last, the girl nods. “Just coffee, Mr Shrikeweed, sir?”
“Just coffee. For myself and the Incumbent.” Some small amount of color returns to her face. “Thank you Daphne.”
Sebele turns to Shrikeweed once more. “Are you sure about this, Mr S.?”
“I’m sure about this place, and your staff. I am not sure of the Incumbent. But, then again, he seems not to be sure of himself.”
The Incumbent. The man is unsettled. Unsettling. Whatever befell him was like a bomb in the Archives. Thoughts blown apart, recollections scattered to the four winds, personality ablaze in the ruins. And only Shrikeweed to smother the fires and try to reconstruct a man. All that is left is burnt and broken. The Incumbent said as much. He is lost, confused, unmade. What can unmake a man? What can make him anew? Shrikeweed does not know. It is futile. It cannot be done. All the papers and journals in the world cannot recreate a man. Does the Incumbent keep a journal? Likely not. That would be too useful. There will be papers, of course, and records of votes. A place to start. The man must have family and friends. Even Shrikeweed has those. Does he want to reconstruct the Incumbent? Uncertain. Even were it possible, is it wise? Is it prudent? Is it sound? Better to start over, to lay a new foundation.
There is at least one good foundation stone, one piece of the wreckage of the man that wholly sound. Coffee. As good a place to start as any. Better than most. The Elephant, at the corner of Carstone and Gadwine. Already he can smell the bitter-sweet aroma of the coffee, mixed with spices and sandalwood. He reaches for the door handle. Solid, weathered brass, heavy and sure in his hand. Familiar. Comforting. He turns it only once, clockwise, and enters.
A few regulars at low tables, recognize them by face and voice. He does not know their names. Never bothers to ask. They have never asked his. They nod to him, and Shrikeweed returns the gesture. They go back to their private worlds, talking about their own business.
“Afternoon, Mr S.” Shrikeweed looks towards the counter that divides the coffee house from the kitchen, sees the face he expects. Sebele. Competent, compact, neat, economical with her motions. Completely at home. Completely in command. As it should be. The Elephant is her’s, passed down to her from, was it her grandmother, her mother? Shrikeweed cannot recall. Probably her grandmother. He remembers the older woman with her lilting Thul’Ka accent and stark, contrasting, silver-white hair. Sebele has no such accent. Her’s is Viendan, Rouncewell Lane, and thick enough to spread on toast.
“Afternoon, Sebele,” Shrikeweed doffs his coat and hangs it on the monstrosity that passes for a coat rack. It looks like something out of an antique dealer’s nightmares.
Sebele throws her inevitable dishcloth over her left shoulder. It is red today. Bright red. “The usual, Mr S.? Only I’ve also got spiced chicken pies, just out of the oven.”
He sniffs the air, can smell the cardamom, the fenugreek, and the buttery pastry. Tempting. Another day, but not this one. Too many upsets today. Too many changes. Lunch should not be another.
“Smells delightful, but today, just the usual.”
“Right you are Mr S.”
“Pie tomorrow perhaps. If you have it.”
She cocks an eyebrow. “Twice here in one week? You back in the courts Mr S.? Someone’s for it if you are.”
He shakes his head, smiles a bit. “I leave the legal profession to my esteemed father and his army of clerks. No, I’ve been reassigned to the damn great monstrosity of Stainthorpe Hall. Babysitting an Incumbent.”
“Important work?” She signals to one of the staff. A copper ibrik appears, and the ritual of coffee begins. The smell rising, even above the spices. Shrikeweed breaths it in. He takes his usual seat; the one by the window with the cracked hexagonal pane. An old friend. The chair creaks its customary creak. Familiar, comforting.
“I’ve no idea. He’s a bit out of sorts, and his staff is a joke. I’ll replace them, assuming I can pry them out of the woodwork. One thing to be said for the Service, we all hold on like limpets.”
“Limpets ain’t in season Mr S.”
“Bodes well then. I appreciate a good omen. I could use one today. And coffee.”
On cue, the coffee arrives. Fragrant, think, a beautiful red-brown nectar nested within a fine porcelain cup. Finer than the flowery thing the Incumbent provided, and less gaudy by far. A restrained and elegant blue and white botanical pattern. He raises it, takes a slow and indulgent sip. The taste, like roasted nuts, the ghost of chocolate, the acidic bite; perfect as only The Elephant can make. He set the cup down with care, and relaxes into his chair.
Sebele nods to her staff member. Approving. “So, lobster and lettuce then?”
“If you please.” Nowhere else in the city serves lobster and lettuce the way The Elephant does. The lobster is freshly grilled with spiced butter, the lettuce dressed in oil, salt, and vinegar. The rumor is, when this place first opened, the proprietor had heard that lobster and lettuce was popular local dish, but she had no idea how to make it. Barely spoke any Estuan, and the reading ban for humans made it even harder to learn what the real dish was like. So she fashioned this odd half-Mugrobi preparation. He is not sure that the rumor is true, but it is a good story to go with an equally good dish.
When it arrives, he eats in contented silence for a while. Spices and coffee warm him. He watches the traffic in the street go by. Clerks and officials, lawyers and their clients. Here and there he spots a person of means and status. Fine clothes and that tell-tale mincing stride. Too-tight shoes, never broken in. All the money in the world and not a single ounce of sense.
Sense. The Incumbent is disturbed in his senses, but that solid foundation of coffee cannot be denied. “Sebele,” he says, his plate is reduced to a neat pile of lobster shells, “it might be the case that you can help me with this clocks-damned babysitting.”
“Me, Mr S.? I don’t know the first thing about Incumbents. Far as I can tell, they’re just a bunch of useless toffs.”
“But what you do know, is coffee.”
“What’s that got to do with your Incumbent?”
“Might as well try and get into his good graces with proper coffee. He asked if something could be done about his.”
“I don’t deliver, Mr S. It’s too far and too cold. It’d be ruined by the time it got where it was going. And I’ll not have it said of The Elephant that we serve bad coffee.”
“Not delivery, no. I want to hire one of your staff. Daphne perhaps? Or Subira? On retainer of course.”
“I can’t let no one go Mr S. I’m stretched thin as it is. And it’s still cold out. So I’ve got more custom than usual.” Shrikeweed studies her face, but can make no firm judgments. Is she telling the truth, or has she opened negotiations? By tradition Mugrobi don’t lie, but Sebele isn’t Mugrobi is she. Viendan as any, maybe more so than most. He’ll take the latter assumption. He does it for the coffee.
“Double the retainer then. Hire someone else. And I’ll put the word out that The Elephant not only has the finest coffee in the district.”
“Finest coffee west of border you mean.”
“Forgive me, yes. It’s been a trying day. Finest east of the border.”
“That’s more like it. Now, what’s this word you’ll be spreading?”
“Only the best. This place is comfortable, the staff discreet. A perfect place for semi-public meetings. Legal business. Commercial business. And everyone buying coffee.”
Sebele purses her lips, puts her head down, and begins polishing the counter. It is spotless. The wiping is pro forma. “Lots of potential for problems,” she says, cleaning a non-existent coffee spill. “I ain’t got no lawyer. Can’t get one.”
“I think,” says Shrikeweed, turning the coffee cup in his hands, “I can handle that. You’d be acting under my auspices, at least formally.”
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch, just the loan of one of your staff. Oh, and coffee on the house.” He grins a wide an amiable grin. Sebele returns it, then crosses over to Shrikeweed’s table. She extends her hand, then hesitates.
“You sure about this? You sure it will work?”
“I’ve no idea. But I need the coffee. And it if all goes pear-shaped, I’ll do what I can to sort it out. I do know some frightfully good attorneys, after all.”
Selebe extends her hand again. Shrikeweed take it in his own. The deal is made. The coffee is his. And, in some round-about way, so is The Elephant. The place is under his protection. It is not much, nothing like what one of those mincing dandies out there in the street could offer. They would not care. More fool them.
“Daphne!”
The girl behind the ibriks looks up, confused. “Ma’am?”
“You’re on loan to Mr S.”
“Ma’am?” Daphne’s confusion continues to spread, he pale face growing even more bloodless.
Shrikeweed lowers his voice. It seems like it is calm, pleasant, even warm. At least, that is what he is aiming for. “I require the services of a skilled coffee mage, and clearly you meet the requirements. If you’d be so good as to report to Stainthorpe Hall by say, half past the ninth hour tomorrow, I can do my best to set you up to work your magic.” Daphne continues to try her utmost to become transparent. “No need to panic, Daphne. You’re not losing either pay or your position. All I require is a steady stream of this excellent coffee.”
At last, the girl nods. “Just coffee, Mr Shrikeweed, sir?”
“Just coffee. For myself and the Incumbent.” Some small amount of color returns to her face. “Thank you Daphne.”
Sebele turns to Shrikeweed once more. “Are you sure about this, Mr S.?”
“I’m sure about this place, and your staff. I am not sure of the Incumbent. But, then again, he seems not to be sure of himself.”
