[Closed] Borders

[Tom Cooke]

Stainthorpe Hall • Uptown

Morning on the 12th of Loshis, 2719

M
ornin’, Daphne.”

“...Morning, sir.”

Tom catches the pause; he always catches the pause. But if you could put a pause in a measuring cup, this pause’d be less than half an ounce, where the pauses of Bethas were half a cup, and the pauses of Intas were at least twice that. And you don’t just measure a pause in the amount of seconds it lasts, or at least, Tom doesn’t: he measures the pause in the rigid line of someone’s back, in how their hands flinch or freeze or go on with their business.

Her back stiffens a little at the brush of his field, but her hands don’t stop, or even pause. She’s scooping that benny, powder-fine kofi into an ibrik, the rainy grey light from the one small window glinting off its barrel. When she’s done, she turns, offers him a polite smile, and bows deeply.

He bows back, then hesitates, hat in hand. He laughs and indicates the open tin of ground coffee with a twitch of his hand. “The good shit, eh?”

He’s not sure why he said that.

“Sir?” She’s trying fair hard to keep a straight face.

He’ll never get used to it, this; either he’ll never get used to it, or he’s starting to get used to it, and it disturbs him. Nobody ever bowed to him. He’s not the sort of man you bow to, or smile politely to, or treat like – and he can tell by the way her eyes skirt his hands, on the way up to his face. Curious, maybe, morbidly. They’re shaky, a little stiff, on his hat; they’re always difficult in the morning. Everything’s always difficult. He feels like a galdor, and he feels old. He never wanted to know what either of those things felt like.

“Your, uh – your brother,” he tries again, after clearing his throat, his glance flicking back up to her eyes and holding them. “Just a month, now, that’s right?”

“Yes, sir,” she replies, a little lighter. There’s a hint of confusion on her face, but maybe pleasant surprise, Tom thinks.

He smiles. He thinks it’s a warm smile, but he’s never sure. “Big day.”

She doesn’t say anything, but she’s looking at him, her brows slightly raised, as if she thinks he’s got something else to say. He goes through a few options in his head – there are questions he could ask – there are things he might’ve expected her to say. It’s that way if you’re on the job with a kov; Tom remembered little shit like that, when he worked for Hawke, and the men who worked for him liked him because of it. But now, he feels out of sorts. He doesn’t know how this game is played.

“Yes, sir,” she repeats, after a pause. He glances at the ibrik behind her, the delicate lattice of etchings up to its spout, the coffee-stained tin, the coffee smudged on her hands. He gets the moony urge to snatch the little tarnished scoop out of her hands and go and make it himself, the way hama taught him.

He doesn’t do that. He smiles, dips his head and shoulders in another minute bow, and weaves his way through the shadows and dust toward his office door. He nods at Cardinal, too; Cardinal nods back. Unlocking the door to the Incumbent’s office, he spares a glance at another door, in the crook of the corridor – his eyes flick over its extra locks. The plaque catches the light, but it’s too dim to read from here; anyway, he knows what it says. His lip twitches. His hand is slipping on the key, fumbling a pina as always, so he focuses on getting his own door open.

He misses camaraderie; he doesn’t think he’d know it if he saw it, not anymore.

It’s warm enough in his office. Stainthorpe’s a godsdamn dreary building – seems like it spills its grey onto the streets around it, like everybody who so much as passes it looks down and finds their hands full of paperwork – but if it’s good at one thing, it’s good at keeping a kov warm. Rain buffets the windows, rattles the glass; it’s been coming down in sheaves for at least three days now.

Tom hangs his coat, sets down his bag, takes out the things he took home with him. (“Home”?) He tries to remember, pressing through his headache, what he’s supposed to be paying attention to this time. It was a long night last night, but he’s promised Shrikeweed no hair of the dog, and he intends to keep his promise, at least until the afternoon. He reckons he can last that long. He remembers –

Sitting down in the incumbent’s cushy chair, he takes out his journal, flips through to the most recent page. Then, fumbling in his desk, he takes out his schedule. He settles his reading glasses on his nose, then wrinkles it.

One more month of this Vyrdag shit, he reminds himself. One more month, and the uncles and aunties of the Six Kingdoms’ll be out of Vienda and out of their hair. But he sees, and he remembers, now, the Symvouli debate at eighteenth hour. He glances between the schedule and his little book; he sees, in his scratchy hand –

New Mugrobi border policy – meetings dragging on.

Incumbent de Vries of Fen Keerden making noise – AMs Lunkist (???) + Gervase (spell??) + that Bandu kov about to spill sap. Jakali + Bull Elephant like it too – worried about revolution. Revolt on our end + plague on theirs. Tear the Vein to pieces trying to protect ourselves. Am I supposed to be in favor? Dont like any of it.

He grunts, shutting his journal and sliding it back under the desk. He glances at the clock, but it’s a minute to eight; not enough time to get in any practice with his signature. It’s an eleven, and Shrikeweed’ll be in his office soon. So will coffee, thankfully.

Wouldn’t have one, he thinks idly, taking off his reading glasses and setting them beside the schedule – wouldn’t have one without the other. He doesn’t know what to do with the thought.

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda- In Stainthorpe Hall
The 12th of Loshis, 13 minutes before the 8th hour to 5 minutes past

T

he orbit of his left eye is still hurting. It looks evil, he knows this, has seen it in his mirror. Purple-black underneath the eye, an angry read above. Not the prettiest of appearances. He can leave that. He has never been pretty. Has never wanted to be. Prettiness draws attention. So does injury. It looks uncouth, uncivil. Low. He has come by it honorably enough, though not gracefully. Graceful. Another word he is not intimate with. He knows it, is aware of its work, but he has never possessed it. No matter. He does not require grace, only competence. That is lacking now too. Give it time. Competence is a habit, not a miracle.

The rain coming down now in Carstone Street. The gurgle of it in the drains, the sound of it lashing off the roofs. In the lee of the shops and arcades he manages to keep the worst from off him. Let the eye be the only thing uncivil today. All other aspects of appearance are civilized, severe, dull. The dark suit, something the color of soot, useful in concealing the worst of the streets . If only mud and damp were the worst.

In the waistcoat pocket he can still feel the heavy, still-unfamiliar weight of the new watch. It is a fine thing, finer than the old one. More precise. Ixbridge has outdone himself. Shrikeweed can find no fault in the watch. No fault other than what it recalls to him. Injury, robbery, threat. It has been long enough since that night. It should have passed from him. It never passes.

In the offing, Stainthorpe Hall. The bloated grey stone toad. Hideous, ungainly, and growing more familiar by the day. He hates the place. No, that is not right. He is unsettled by the place, still. It still does not feel like home. Will it ever? He thinks not, hopes not.

At the west-side door he pauses for a moment, looking up at squat columns and too-narrow windows. Like pigs’ eyes. Small, hard, and full of ill-made malice. Appropriate. Shaking his head he passes into the Hall. The usual door porter. Shrikeweed nods at him, as he does every day. The man nods back. They have never shared a word. There is no need. Something sacred would be lost if either spoke. Neither does.

Shrikeweed pulls out the new watch. Seven minutes to eight. Seven minutes. That is a proper number, old, comfortable, familiar. He has plotted his route, judged his speed, and can now make it from the west-side door to the Incumbent’s office in seven minutes. It has not been easy, and he must walk faster than he likes, but the time matters. Time always matters.

The stroke of eight and he enters the office. The smell of coffee rising. Daphne at work over her ibrik. Daphne working her own private magic.

“Good morning Daphne.” He removes his overcoat and folds it over his arm. “Is himself in?”

“He is, Mr Shrikeweed, sir. Been coming in early of late. One of the tea ladies says that’s not usual for him, or for any Incumbent. Finds it unsettling.” She is stirring now, careful, delicate gestures. The fragrance increases.

“Tea ladies are always worried. Weak and watery, like their brew. Speaking of, how long till coffee is ready?”

“Only a few moments Mr Shrik . . .” she stops, looks him square in the face, grows pale. “Mr Shrikeweed, sir! Are you alright?”

“I am fine Daphne, nothing that time will not cure. Time, and coffee.”

At the dispatch table he notes a green box. International. Keys appear in his hand and he unlocks the box. Several bundles of papers. Vyrdag matters, it appears. He flicks through them. An assessment of the political situation at the Mugrobi boarder. Position papers from various parties. The Pipefitters have sent their usual industrial concerns. The Crocus paper catches his eye. It is long and appears to be minutely cross-referenced. Typical of their papers of late. He looks closer. It is sealed under the name Fj N Berhanu. He has seen the name before. Approves of the work. Very sound. A small comfort.

The Incumbent’s door. He does not bother to knock.

“Good morning sir,” he passes into the office. “We have a number of matters before us this morning. At noon the Steering Committee is expecting your response to the outstanding questions regarding the financial aid for the water purification programs in Mugroba. And there is, also, the positional paper on security reforms our friends in desert have decided to drop in our lap. It has some merits, but if we support it, there may be questions in the Council about our abdicating control over purely internal matters to the Symvouli hegemon. Provided we can keep any unrest as a purely internal matter.”

[Tom Cooke]

Stainthorpe Hall • Uptown

Morning on the 12th of Loshis, 2719

S
hrikeweed doesn’t knock, which suits Tom just fine. Knocking’d be a pretense, at this point, and he’s not fond of pretenses; his existence is built on them, so why should he want more? He didn’t ask for Shrikeweed to be here, to set his office up in Stainthorpe; he knows the risk that came with the help he accepted, and they both know the arrangement’s less than ideal. The fact that Shrikeweed doesn’t pretend it’s otherwise is pleasing to him, paradoxically. He’s starting to get used to it, which is dangerous in and of itself.

When he comes through the door, Tom doesn’t look up. He listens, first; then he glances up.

For a moment, he just looks surprised. Then something else tickles its way into his expression: amusement. He clamps down on that one quick-like, clearing his throat, but it’s the sort of throat-clear that makes you stifle a cough; and, raising his brows, he looks down at the desk.

Mr. Shrikeweed, he thinks to say right off, are you all right? But he’s not mung, and he reckons Shrikeweed’s gotten that plenty enough today, or since whenever he got the black eye. Even more, he’s worked with this jent for a couple months now, and he’d’ve bet a concord that whatever it is, he doesn’t want to be asked about it. Shrikeweed’s started out all business; the best course of action, to Tom, would seem to be to return the favor. And return the favor he will.

(Dze, he still can’t help wondering. A variety of images shuffles in and out of his mind. The least of which is the poor sod getting mugged, or getting his erse beat in the Dives; most natt can’t tell a quantitative field from a tsuter one, but he’d still look a defenseless lamb in the Soots. More colorful images follow it: maybe Shrikeweed’s got a more lively night life than he thought. He pictures him in a barfight, and that’s about as far as his imagination goes. Maybe he’ll ask about it, sometime; now ain’t the time, but maybe.)

“Yes,” he says. He pulls his schedule back toward him, tracing ink with a shaky fingertip. “Yes, all right, ah — let’s start with the Steering Committee,” he continues slowly, massaging a temple and frowning, “and — go from there. Please, Mr. Shrikeweed, sit.”

One of the things the last few months has taught him is priorities. One thing at a time; you can cott two hingles with one stone sometimes, but it’s a stroke of luck, and nobody ever thanks you for getting your feet tangled up before you can even throw it. Besides, Tom’s a man who needs to finish a train of thought before he can start another. Better finish the smaller one before you crack open the can of worms. More to the point, he hasn’t liked this border security talk since it came up the first time, and he’s in no hurry to broach it.

Another thing a few months in Vienda’s taught him is carriage, and the Incumbent’s looking better than he has for a long time. The smoke-stained capital has stamped out so much of his old accent that it only comes out sometimes, in fits and starts, when there’s a word he’s not used to saying any other way. Sometimes when he opens his mouth, he doesn’t recognize the voice that comes out. It’s a funny thing, settling into another man’s voice and making yourself at home. He’s getting comfortable with the rumble of it in his chest, underneath that foreign heartbeat; he’s getting comfortable fitting it into an accent that suits.

Somehow, through his parched throat and the haze of his headache, he manages to pick up last week’s thread. He finds, to his surprise, a train of thought he left by the side of the road awhile ago.

He clears his throat again, and looks up at the golly. The ugly bloom of bruise and swelling hasn’t gone away, but it’s not like Tom’s never seen a black eye on the job. Just not above whiskers like that. “The Steering Committee’s expecting my response,” he repeats, leaning back in his chair with a creak and holding Shrikeweed’s gaze. “I suspect we ought to give them the answers they – and everybody else – are expecting, and nothing more.”

If his eyes wander down to the galdor’s ink-stained hands, skimming the knuckles curiously for signs of bruising or scuffing, it’s by happenstance, ‘course. He crosses his legs, leaning contemplatively on one arm.

“I can’t imagine my party’s feeling generous. What d’you recommend?”

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda- In Stainthorpe Hall
The 12th of Loshis, 19 minutes past the 8th hour

W

hat does he recommend? To the Incumbent, he can recommend any number of courses of action, ranging from the conservative through to the radical. Most of those courses are useless, wrong. To himself, he recommends not continuing to stand. Sound advice. He always takes sound advice. Sliding with practiced ease into his accustomed chair. When did it become his chair? On what day, at what hour? He cannot recall. It must have passed him by without ceremony, without significance. Thoughtless, casual, careless. Dangerous. He has been growing comfortable with this place. The smell of beeswax and old leather, the muffled arguments in the corridors, the too-many visitors, the particular creak of the second floorboard inside his office. Careful Shrikeweed. This place is not home. It is best if he remembers that.

What does he recommend? Unclear. This too is dangerous. All unmoored, the Incumbent still does not know what he wants, what his policies are. The window of forbearance, of recovery from his illness, is closing fast. Studied disinterest as a cloak for ignorance can only be maintained a short time. Smoke and mirrors. Convincing enough if one does not look too closely. Shrikeweed has spent all his time with his eyes to a magnifying lens, and the illusion is blowing away on the wind. Ignorance can no longer be hidden. And the Incumbent is ignorant. That cannot, will not, be confused for stupidity. That would be another danger.

He expects this by now. It gives him no comfort. A breath. Rapid, a hissing intake, and he calls the vote tallies, objections, amendments, to mind. A clutter of words and numbers. A jumble. He will need a better system, something less ad hoc. He cannot rely on will and coffee alone to set his mind in motion.

Coffee. On the unspoken cue, the door swings open and Daphne glides in. She makes almost no sound. No sound is needed. The rising smell of coffee is warning enough. Small hands, precise and practiced motions, and the olive-wood coffee tray with its glass cups and ceramic pot is placed between Shrikeweed and the Incumbent. “Thank you Daphne.” The girl nods, smiles her nervous smile, and glides back out of the office like more departing smoke.

Shrikeweed raises his cup, takes in the aroma. The chaos in the archives of the mind abates somewhat. The pain around his eye subsides along with it. It remains, but faded. His thoughts clear all at once. A line of approach appears. Nothing too drastic, but it is a deviation. The Incumbent had been an orthodox conservative. His votes conventional. Party line. That will only lead to more weeks of useless wrangling. A waste of precious time.

He has become an assassin, killing with words what the record says of the Incumbent. It cannot be otherwise. The man drinking coffee on the other side of the desk is not the same. He cannot help but think that, in some way, the illness has liberated the man. He clears his throat, readies himself. Then, another intake of breath, he holds his tongue.

The Mugrobi hold the cards, and the pot is theirs to lose. New policy is in order. He is not here to make policy, only guide implementation, steer, not govern. A proper approach, and meaningless. There is nothing for it.

“Incumbent, since you ask my advice, I will give it, but understand that the final policy must be yours.” A lie, but useful. Cold prickles down his spin, he should not be doing this. He must do this. “First, tell them both that they should work it out between the details of the position. With the Mugrobi is ascendance, their arguments and positions will become needless complex. They always do. No one will understand it. Least of all the Mugrobi. If needed, I will ensure it. Then, when everything is hopeless, you will propose a bold new solution that will resolve the matter.” He is walking the burning tightrope here. If the old positions assert themselves, the Incumbent will balk, and the whole matter will unravel. The Anaxi will look weak, the Mugrobi will laugh, and take what they want. Intolerable. “Frame your response to both the Committee and the Mugrobi delegation as one and the same. We will support the water purification, but reserve the right to maintain periodic fiscal reviews and to have on-sight inspectors. Further, in order to acquire our assistance, and as a gesture of good faith, you will make the argument that any security assistance the Mugrobi provide will largely be of the material sort. Supplies, medicines, and, should they press the matter, medical staff. It will be our position, the Anaxi position, that Mugrobi soldiers or members of the mercenary companies will be barred from crossing the border. We will thank our friends in the desert for their kind offer, but maintain we are more than capable of handling our internal security.” Another lie. “Then, you will make it publicly known that this move is part of our ongoing plan of mutual assistance.” He doubts there is a plan of mutual assistance. There will be now.

“I can begin drafting position papers, and gathering legislative precedent. That is, if the plan is amenable to you.”

[Tom Cooke]

Stainthorpe Hall • Uptown

Morning on the 12th of Loshis, 2719

C
offee. The smell of it sets his nerves at ease right off. He smiles up and over Shrikeweed’s shoulder, his thoughts scattering with the rich dark fragrance, with the sound of glass rattling against the benny wooden tray. When the natt brings it over and sets it down on the desk, two cups and the familiar porcelain pot, his smile brightens even more. The air’s thick with the smell, now, like a chill morning in Quarter Fords; he’s not so used to it that it isn’t still a pleasant surprise. He smiles at Daphne as she glides out on the steam from the cups.

Shrikeweed takes a sip, and Tom takes a moment to look over his face again, his eyes lingering on the swell of bruises. There’s the familiar stain of ink, the line of it round his nails, but his knuckles don’t look scuffed-up; Tom doesn’t think he’s been picking fights in the Dives, or nothing like that.

Mugged, then, he’s sure. But a galdor, socked in the face by – a natt, a wick? In Vienda? It happens, and Shrikeweed’s nobody; he can imagine him getting wrestled into an alleyway and roughed up. But still, the kind of heat that’d bring him? Tom wouldn’t’ve tried a golly, not in the capital, not even someplace like Soliloquy. Or maybe – hell, maybe he’s got creditors. He’s comfortable, far as Tom can tell, but that doesn’t mean much. Maybe he’s even connected.

But the civil servant sets down his cup with a hollow clink, glass on wood, and he’s talking again, and Tom’s thoughts dissipate. He’s still cradling his own cup; the joints in his hands are aching, and the heat’s a welcome balm. At the final policy must be yours, his lips twitch, wry. He takes a sip of coffee to hide the smile.

He can’t hide his smile, not when Shrikeweed goes on; he watches the other man evenly as he sets down his coffee cup, delicate-like with his stiff hands, his eyes bright and sharp. Bold, ain’t he?

His voice draws to silence, and Tom thinks through the pause that follows, running a fingertip round the rim of the cup. He licks his lips, stares down into the amber-brown froth. “It’s amenable – to me,” he starts. He looks back up at Shrikeweed; he’s not smiling anymore. “You and I both know it’s not what I’d’ve done a year ago,” he goes on, frowning, “less than a year. The incumbent – I –”

He fumbles, covers it up behind another sip of coffee. It’s too fast, and it burns his tongue; he clicks his tongue on his teeth, makes a face, and lowers his cup. His hands are a pina shakier.

“It looks bold. Reform likes bold, from what I can tell, and Reform likes getting the upper hand, and it speaks to all that. Makes Anaxas look damn good, too, if patronizing, but I don’t think the Mugrobi’re in a position to get ruffled. And I doubt you’ll have to engineer contention,” he says, with a quirk of a smile, one eyebrow raised. The Rose is coming out again in his accent; there’s a little eagerness in the lines of his frame, in the way he shifts in his seat. He can’t quite help it. “It’s sat ill with me, this… If Anaxas sticks its foot in its mouth this time, the border’ll be a tourniquet. They say the Rose is the heart of the Vein; it needs to be a strong heart, eh? But the blood still needs to flow.”

Tom knows he’s being bold, but he knows Shrikeweed’s being bold, too – a risk for a risk. Besides, Shrikeweed’s had enough of his strangeness now to ruin him; he reckons if Shrikeweed thought he was more trouble than he was worth, he’d’ve already had done with it. It’s a good time for it. He thinks maybe it’s his boldness that’s saving his skin.

And he’s being honest. Shrikeweed’s plan appeals – for more than one reason. Oes, he’s the Vein in mind; any man of Hawke’s would. But he also likes the idea that Anaxas’ll have no Mugroba to turn to, when bad gets worse. Nothing above board, anyway, which is rather the point.

He takes another sip of coffee, and this time avoids burning his tongue. The taste lingers in his mouth, pleasantly bitter. There’s a rumbling in his stomach; the coffee reminds him he skipped breakfast. Long day. “I’ll do it, and I don’t doubt you’ll be as fastidious as usual, with your precedents and your papers.” Another dry smile. “But my fellow councilmen’ll be squealing about the costs, and about keeping our noses out of foreign business – and I’m afraid I’ll make enemies of friends, and I’ll just confuse the enemies. How d’you explain the change in position? And the Bull Elephants are taking more and more of the Assembly in Thul Ka, and they won’t be happy about the interference.”

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - In Stainthorpe Hall
The 12th of Loshis, 27 minutes past the 8th hour

I

t nearly escapes him, flitting past his still-jumbled mind. Then, without action, without thought, the snare is drawn tight and two strange birds lay before him. Phrases whose wings will beat no more.

• Item: “It’s amenable – to me” . The pause. Significant? Possibly. An expression of separation?

• Item: “the Incumbent”. Third person. Dissociation? Break from the past? Odd.

• Querry: How much of the old Incumbent is left?

• Querry: What sort of affliction can do this to a man, remake him, even in his own mind?

• Conclusion: Worth investigating

He takes the action item, files away in his personal mental file, and dismisses it. Now is not the time, and here is not the place, to be musing on the psychology of a man. There is work to be done, policies to frame, memos to write. He raises the coffee cup to his lips, sips long and slow. He steadies his mind, brings it back to the matter at hand.

The policy is bold, no denying that, but it has some sense. The Anaxi position is weak, always has been, but that is a truth that cannot be admitted. It must be reframed, recast. The first public sign of weakness, of incompetence, and the whole social order could come tumbling down. It is folly to not accept the assistance, but likewise it is folly to be seen to accept it solely on Mugrobi terms. A little finesse is needed. Another sip, rich and bitter. Mugrobi coffee to think on Mubrobi policy. The security assistance is badly needed. The assistance offered is a joke. All swagger and pomp and very little of practical value. Take it as it stands and Anaxas will seem more a tributary to the power of Thul’Ka than a nation in its own right. Some truth in that, perhaps, but that too cannot be admitted.

“Regarding your colleagues,” he says, voice flat, or perhaps a little didactic, “there will be ruffled feathers regardless of how you act. There is no sense in worrying about what cannot be changed. And there can be virtue in a few flustered old pigeons.” The coffee cup turns in his hand. Thrice as always. He does not notice it. “And as to confusing your enemies, that too is a virtue. I can see no useful end that can be accomplished by either the usual masterly inactivity of the Conservatives, nor by the unstudied brashness of Reformers.” The thought comes to him, all of a sudden, a lightning bolt from a cloudless sky. “By skillful means, it may be possible to act on this policy and keep each side thinking you are with them. You may be, or you may not be. That is not a matter I am required to consider. To the Conservatives, stress the goal of this policy: a stable Anaxas with the appearance of both strength and magnanimity. Express some regret at the means, if you feel it justified and needed. To the Reformers, stress the means. Bold action without too much worry about a few upset old fusspots.” A dangerous road, a walk along the knife’s edge. With some other man, Shrikeweed would not even consider this. Yet, there is something hard and cold in the Incumbent’s eyes, something hungry. And that too is a virtue.

“If your friends ask you from where this new policy arrives, you may tell them what you wish. I suggest, and I stress this is only a suggestion, that you say that during your recovery you spent time reading on policy matters, if only to stave off the tedium.” He doubts the old Incumbent would have done such a thing, but there is something in the man now that seems sharper than the records suggest. Less vague. “Then, with all the recent unpleasantness, well, that alone can stir a man to actions he’d never before considered.” Like forming policy out of whole cloth and passing it along to a man with a still confused mind. It is strange, rash, but the ends are sound. A strange feeling, a rush in his mind and in his blood. Dangerous. Heady. He will need to watch himself. He is already taking too many risks.

His eye still bothers him, a dull, unpleasant, fleshy ache. Foolish to have given up boxing. More foolish to have taken it up again. Reckless. Thoughtless. The words are anathema to him. Yet the words apply. He has not fought in years, never was anything but passable. At least last night he had failed to lose. It is something. It is not enough. He wishes his body away. No headaches, no black eye, no aches in his back, no need for sleep. He has not slept much in any event. His body remains with him. Wishes do no good. Like hope. Both are poison. Another thought to be cast aside.

He breaths in, then out, then in again. Again regaining himself. “As to costs, they can be offset, or Treasury can fiddle the figures. I am reasonably sure the budget is a mass of falsehoods, wishful thinking, and spurious math all held together with paperwork. A fiction, but a useful one.” He will have to get the figures, the fiscal scores and pass them to Levesque before the crafty fellow goes off on holiday. It will take time. All good things take time. How would Levesque frame it, where he here? Prudence is the usual deflection. It works on him. I should work on the Incumbent. “However, to give the appearance of prudence, it may be wise to seek a mutually beneficial financial arrangement. The cost of our work on the water purification project to be used to offset the price of the security assistance. And, since we will be retaining the right of audit and fiscal review, we can keep an eye on any fiddles the Mugrobi will spring on us,” He smiles his slow and devious smile. “And there will be fiddles, Incumbent. So nice of our friends to provide us with so much leverage.”

[Tom Cooke]

Stainthorpe Hall • Uptown

Morning on the 12th of Loshis, 2719

M
r. Shrikeweed takes another sip of coffee. It’s a long, slow sip; it’s a savoring sort of sip, or a thoughtful one. Tom respects a man who drinks his kofi thoughtful-like, deliberate, no matter what he’s doing while he’s drinking it. Like a mirror, he takes a sip himself – he shuts his eyes briefly in the quiet and the steam and the pleasant dark fragrance. He can hear, downstairs, somewhere – he thinks – a voice raised in agitation, but he can’t make out the words.

Peering at the galdor over the rim, through half-lidded eyes, he doesn’t lower his cup ’til a few careful seconds after Shrikeweed. There’s a neat click, and then, one, two, a less neat click, more of a rattle of glass, though it’s steady as he can make it.

Then Shrikeweed’s talking, and looking at him flatly through eyes with a color he can’t describe. One of them squinted, in a flower of purple and laoso yellowish-green. By now, Tom knows better than to mistake flat for mung. Virtue in a few flustered old pigeons, he says, and Tom can’t quite help it; his lip twitches. But he nods.

Shrikeweed’s turning his cup round, too, like he always does. The first few times Tom noticed, he looked – just a glance, cursory, casual; Tom ain’t a learned man, but he ain’t a flooding kenser, neither – but now, he doesn’t have to. One, two, three, like always. It’s just another piece of the puzzle.

“Useful ends,” repeats Tom, scratching his jaw. One of his eyebrows goes up sharply; there’s still amusement glinting in his eyes, written in the crow’s feet round them. “Huh.”

There are things he finds he wants to say. They surprise him. You go into this shit expecting to get something useful out of it? That’s not the way he’d say it; he’d think about it harder, if he could say it, if he could say any of it, because he’d want a response, and he’d want one that Shrikeweed would give. I’m a natt as grew up in the Rose, Mr. Shrikeweed, a tallyboy and then a King’s man, and when I look at Vienda, I see a cage full of plump, hooting pigeons. How’s a man like you decide to be a pigeon-keeper?

He creaks back in his chair, nodding, smile draining off his face. Replaced by a sharp, intent look. “The recent unpleasantness,” he repeats. “I reckon it’s tenable. These are times, you’d say, when a good statesman stops toeing the party line, starts thinking of what’s best for his country – starts thinking outside the box. You hear good things about men who do shit like this, so long as the result looks good in another ten or twenty years.”

Shrikeweed goes on, and Tom can’t argue – this time, more than anything, because it sounds good, and because Shrikeweed talks like he knows what he’s talking about, and because Tom Cooke never could keep his own money straight in life, much less other people’s. It’s all vodundun to him. But again, that word: useful.

He can’t picture it. Useful’s a fist. Useful’s a body that doesn’t ache from having sat on its erse for thirty years in a cavalcade of dull offices, breathing in air that smells like paper and ink. Useful’s breaking a kov’s legs so he pays up. He doesn’t understand any of this.

Fiddles. There’s a smile on Shrikeweed’s face, now, and there’s something tsuter in the set of it. The black eye looks right at home, Tom thinks, and finds himself smiling back. It’s a quizzical smile, this time, more than a little incredulous; he raises his brows, then lifts his coffee cup to his lips again.

When he puts it down, he straightens up in his seat and knits his fingers over the desk, looking straight across at Shrikeweed and his clocked-up face and his smile and his prudence.

He decides to be a pina bolder, himself. Bold for bold. Both of them, stepping just a little deeper into the tide; he can picture it. Or playing moa, maybe, until somebody says too much.

“Why?” he asks, simply. “Why’s this a risk worth taking? I’m not complaining, mind; I want to understand. Humor a confused old pigeon, if it's worth your time.” He smiles faintly. “Fictions aren’t useful in a way you can hold in your hands, and a policy isn’t – a thrown fist. Things are getting worse and worse, to speak of our recent unpleasantness. Who sees the results of this, after all’s said and done?”

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda- In Stainthorpe Hall
The 12th of Loshis, 35 minutes past the 8th hour

D

oes the Incumbent mistake him? Does he mistake himself? Yes, and no. On both counts. He wants no noble statesmen. He doubts the existence of such mythic beasts. Would probably smother them in their sleep if he found them. A shudder passes up his spine, cold and dagger-like. He tries to suppress the reaction. Cannot. So he shudders along with his own private fears. Politicians are not noble. Necessary, yes, but nobility is not a quality to be cultivated in them. Not a quality to be valued in anyone. Nobility is a crock. A shiny paste bauble to be shown about to distract from the sordid, ink-stained reality of things. And he is a creature of ink.

Spare me the lofty words of the privileged, he thinks as the Incumbent warms to the idea of personal nobility. And then he is spared it. Neither he nor Vauquelin have time for such delusions. The Incumbent may be unsettled, changed, but there is nothing soft in the mind of the man. The times can so without softness. His own black eye is his gesture toward that fact. The eye. The pain lingers, even grows, but he finds he does not mind it, even comes to think it useful, salutary. Enjoyable? No, not the right word, but close. Focusing is nearer the mark. Another curiosity to be filed away for later cataloging.

“Sir,” he says, voice dry, neutral, “I believe you are underestimating the utility, the power, of a well-placed fiction. You speak of a thrown fist,” with an ink-stained finger he prods the bruise about his eye by way of demonstration. “A single fist can blacken one man’s eye. It will hurt acutely for a time, and the man may not forget it, but in the end he is still but one man. And one man does not matter. A well placed fiction, made from half-truths, skewed data, and private prejudice, can be a wonderfully useful tool. Instead of one fist and one blacked eye, you will have a thousand fists each blacking a thousand eyes, over and over again. And all the while you and I may sit comfortably in your office drinking coffee.” He takes another sip now. Another demonstration.

“To torture this analogy still further, why we require is a credible threat that we can blacken a few Mugrobi eyes, without ourselves coming into too much danger or risking our own internal factions coming to blows. We are far too accomplished at blackening our own eyes to let someone else take up the hobby. If we can get the Conservatives and the Reformers to refrain from destroying each other in the ring, then there is a chance we can present the illusion of a united front. That might well be enough to dampen the Mugrobi ardor for control, and give us momentary advantage.” And if it fails? Easy enough to blame one faction or the other for being too pig-headed to see the wisdom of a combined approach. Either option useful. Political capital or political leverage. And if it all comes crashing down?

The turning wheels in his head suddenly grind to a halt. Crashing. There is a noise, has been for a while now he comes to realize it. Voices? Likely. The sound of rushing feet. Heavy, fast. Not the sound of some ordinary passer by. The creak of the middle floorboard outside the office of the deputy legal counsel; he should put in a request to have that fixed. No. Scratch that. The sound is useful, a warning. Just enough time to secure key papers. Swiftly now, but not seeming to hurry, Shrikeweed takes up the papers and lays them in the dispatch case. His notes follow. The lid closes, the latch clicks, and turns the key in the lock. Three times. Clockwise, anticlockwise, and clockwise again.

“Sir,” he says, trying to maintain his composure. Nearly fails. That the hell is happening in the corridor? Too much noise to be a matter of no concern, not enough to be a proper emergency. Something else. What else? He does not know. The beat of his heart increases and blood rushes though his veins. Pain blooms around his eye, fresh and sharp. His heart rate slows, his thinking along with it. The pain lingers, calm settles in. “Sir, I am very much afraid we are about to have company.”

[Tom Cooke]

Stainthorpe Hall • Uptown

Morning on the 12th of Loshis, 2719

T
om doesn’t expect Shrikeweed to explain it to him — and certainly not like this. But then, he thinks, looking over the galdor curiously, the unexpected shouldn’t be a surprise, by now. When he presses one smudged fingertip to the laoso mottling round his eye, both Tom’s eyebrows shoot up. He doesn’t say anything, not yet, but there’s a faint smile playing about his face, and he lifts his coffee cup to take a sip again only a little after Shrikeweed does.

One man does not matter.

Tom frowns, biting his gum. He takes another quick sip of coffee; he steadies himself on the rich dark bitterness. He doesn’t like how much sense it makes. He doesn’t like, neither, how pointless it makes the life he lived before.

The lives of every man, woman, and boch he knew, too. What about the squabbles between the Carlisles and the Linettis, before Hawke came along? When he was a young man, that’d been the most important thing in the world, to him. Control of a handful of neighborhoods in one port city. And after Hawke? What had his job been? What was its importance?

He remembers something, and a wince flickers across his face; his left eye twitches in its wake. Beating a single man cold ‘cause he forgot to pay up one too many times — pay up what? A few birds?

What had they been worth? It hadn’t been about the birds; even a tallyboy could tell you that. It had been more about the beating, and what the beating meant, and the word that got around, than the birds. Chewing his gum, Tom meets Shrikeweed’s eye again. “Point taken,” he replies slowly, a little dryly. “It’s an engine, eh? It’s a machine, just like anything organized. The problem is, I don’t see too much organization, from up here.”

His glance flicks over Shrikeweed’s face, down at his notes, back up to his face. It lingers on the black eye. “We’re men, too, as can have our eyes blackened. Or worse.” He frowns. “The illusion of a unified front’s still an illusion. It doesn’t matter how many eyes across town your well-placed fiction’s going to blacken, if it pisses somebody in the room with you bad enough. I reckon one well-placed fist can — sometimes — weigh even more than a hundred. If you’re the man getting hit.” But he smiles, then. “But that's the way the game is played, isn't it?”

There’s more he wonders about. The ring, Shrikeweed says comfortably, like he’s been in one. Has he? It’s an option Tom hasn’t considered. He doesn’t have much time to.

Casual-like, Shrikeweed’s packing up his shit, those ink-stained fingers dancing over the notebooks, flashing out the key for his case; Tom watches him silently as he turns shuts it up and turns it in the lock. Three times, again. One way, the other, then back, like the cup. Tom wonders if that makes it feel safer; he wonders if it’s just a tic.

Tom wonders, too, why he’s packing up — wonders, until he doesn’t. The caoja outside gets louder, proper. There’s tension in Shrikeweed’s bruised face, though his voice is smooth.

With a sigh, Tom resigns himself, much as any man can. There’re audible footsteps propelling some kov toward his door, and mad as a flooding hatcher, by the sounds of it. He hears them stop; he hears the voice snap something. He meets Shrikeweed’s eye, scowling, and takes another sip of his coffee. Listening close, he’s even more careful with his shaky hand: the porcelain doesn’t even click as the cup touches the saucer. Tom’s lips are thin and white as paper.

The voice jerks up, shrill, wavering, falls down in hushed rapid words, wavers up again. Stops. Silence. Cardinal, then, muttering something Tom can’t make out.

The footfalls resume, only they’re not getting louder. Tom follows them with his eyes, or he imagines he does, beyond the shut door of the Incumbent’s office.

The sound of a door opening, then slamming on its hinges. Just next door.

“Looks like it’s Burbridge with the company,” Tom grunts, sitting back in his chair with a creak. He doesn’t say anything else; he sucks at a tooth. Just faintly, you can hear the echoes of a conversation — one side of it, mind. Tom still doesn’t recognize that voice. He looks at Shrikeweed, then, and raises an eyebrow sharply.

Burbridge is one of the oldest on the Council; Tom isn’t sure how old, but he can’t be a day under eighty. One of Vienda’s most charming, least useful conservatives. Far as Tom knows, he does clock all, but he knows everything, and his lips can be a pina loose at the best of times. He’s popped over for a drink a few times now, and he’s always got something to say. Tom wonders what this hatcher’s got to do with the poor dagka, but he doesn’t know he wants to know.

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda- In Stainthorbe
The 12th of Loshis, 55 minutes past the 8th hour

T

He halts his too-hasty securing of documents. A relief, and a fleeting one. The contents of the box are wrong. Summaries of trade negotiations are sitting atop unrelated foreign policy briefs, notes on administrative minutiae are mixed in with memos from Treasury. He should rectify this, here, now. No. There are other matters, the papers can wait a little while longer. Later, when he is alone. Later, always later.

The Incumbent is looking at him with those pale, unsettled eyes. There is something still wrong about them. Something unnatural. What is it? He cannot say. He had no name for it. Would a name help? Perhaps. Names organize the world, cut it into useful, if arbitrary, pieces. No name, no sense. He will have to make sense of it. Perhaps the man is simply weary. Drained. He would not be the only man in the room with that affliction. Cogs, but he needs rest. He expects none. Another sip of coffee, another turning of the cup. It does not help. It is all he has.

“No,” he says at last, “I suppose the workings of the Great Machine are somewhat obscured here, but what seems to be chaos is part of the larger order. The Great Machine grinds on.” It is grinding itself down, falling apart from neglect and deliberate sabotage. How long has it been suffering? How long has the Machine been tearing itself to pieces? Too long. It needs tending, care. It has been ignored. The Conservatives are so enamored of the antiquity of the machine that they are unwilling to replace or repair even a single part. The machine will rot and break from their tender neglect. The Reformers, the worst of them in any event, would strip the machine for scrap, sell the precious metals to the highest bidder. Either way the machine will stop its functions. And him? He loves the machine for its workings, for its purpose, for its constancy. He cannot tend the machine alone, he is one man, and one man does not matter.

He wants that to be true, needs it to be true, but the Incumbent has a point. He usually does. One man does matter, at least in his proper context, at least for a time. The muscles of his shoulders tighten, his thoughts slow, harden, flint-sharp and ice-cold. He wants to shiver. “I will concede your point as you have mine. There are men who seem to matter, and because they seem so, so they are.. Strike them and they tend to strike back.” He feels the pain in his eye again. A reminder, and worth the lesson. “Still, we must all take our blows in turn. Sometimes it is necessary, and now may be one of those times. There will likely be pain, but the trick is not to avoid it, but rather to not mind it. It is, as you say, how the game is played. And it behooves us to play the long game.”

Of their own accord, his fingers are sorting the papers, putting like with like. By the feel of the paper, by the texture of the ink. He barely looks at them. He watches the Incumbent. The Incumbent watches him.

The sound of the footsteps has passed them by. Good. Another presence in this room would spoil the discussion, even if it remains elliptical. He rather liked elliptical. Next door then, Burbridge. Now there was a man, the Conservative’s Conservative, the living embodiment of masterly inactivity. The man could have been useful, if he could bestir himself. Perhaps this visitor would perform that vital function.

It was a peculiarity of the Stainthorpe Hall that although the place was overdesigned, the partitions between the offices were just thin enough that voices carried. Not sense usually, but tone and cadence. From the other side of the wall, within Burbridge’s sanctum, two voices. One high and reedy, irritated. Burbridge. The other, younger, louder, indignant. Does he recognize the voice? Yes, but it another thing he cannot put a name to.

“I don’t suppose,” he says, cocking is head toward the wall, “that you have the slightest idea what is going on over there? Might be useful to know at least the participants. For a moment I thought it might be Throckmorton who is there to torment the old man, but now I rather think not. Pirbright? It could be her. She does have a carrying voice.” If so, then matters next-door are serious. The Foreign Relation’s Chair’s pet bureaucrat is not normally sent about on purely social calls. How he longs to hold his ear to the wall like some devious schoolboy trying to piece together the answers to a test from the muffled conversation of the instructors. He does not move. It takes every ounce to control to sit stock still. It is no use. Besides, professional advantage may hinge upon making sense of that conversation. “Would you care to speculate sir? Or shall we find a pair of tumblers and listen at the wall like we were boys of eleven?”