Vienda, Smike's End - 177C Lesser Larch Street
The 12th of Loshis through the morning of the 13th of Loshis
The 12th of Loshis through the morning of the 13th of Loshis
S
eventeen steps. He counts them from habit rather than from need. His needs are fewer here, his desires diminished. He can hear noises from the tea house below, the rattle of cups, the hiss of kettles, the muffled voices. Can he make out their words? Yes, should he wish it. He does not wish it. His mind is already too full of words. They press and jostle about, they scream and are silent. The need to be released, to be set down safely in ink and sealed in wax. At the last step, the voices diminish to a dull and formless muttering. There are sounds,of course, the rattle of carriages on the brick streets, the occasional cries of merchants and tradesmen, the cawing of the crows and magpies, the more distant sounds of the bells on the wharfs. He chose the place partly for its sounds, the sounds of Vienda concentrated and directed. On a good day, when the wind was right and he could almost imagine he could hear the whole city from the old chair in the bay window. It would be a comfort to sit there and listen to the city, to his city, but not tonight.
He has other, more pressing business.
At the outer door he pauses, fishes in the pocket of his waistcoat for the first key. Brass-bright and polished by long use. He fits it to the lock, turns the key, listens for the first click, high and bell-like. He forces the key in deeper, turns it against the custom of locks. There is another click, lower, deeper. The door opens and he slips inside.
The vestibule is small, the floor is bare hard wood that rings at the sound of shoe soles and boot heels. Another reason he chose the place. The alcove along the inner wall had been less of a selling point, though he has come to value it. Even when he lights the lamp, the alcove clings to its shadows. And then the shadows move. “Your home late, Mr Shrike.”
The voice is high and strangely breathy, it slides up and down the scale as though perpetually breaking. A stifled and untuned yodel. Shrikeweed has never understood how the boy can pass the locks of the outer door, how he slips in so silently. At first it startled him, frightened him. Now he expects it, and expects that reedy, wheedling voice.
“Good evening Sneed. I’m surprised to see you here at this hour. Thought there might be shops you’d be burgling, late night pockets that need burgling.” He is tolerably sure that the first time Sneed made it past the outer door he had intended to burgle the place. The inner door had held, and the boy had remained in the vestibule. Shrikeweed had found him there, two years ago, perhaps three. The boy had fallen asleep in the alcove. Later, he had claimed it as his preferred lodging.
Bailey Sneed, street urchin, thief, burglar, had been an odd choice for a watchman, but after a few months it had seemed the most natural thing in the world. The boy is still a burglar, of that Shrikeweed is tolerably certain, but he burgles elsewhere. Burglars, he has discovered, make strangely good neighbors. They make even better errand boys.
“No fear sir, I’m in for the night. No point in going out, not when I’m managed a decent bottle of Twemlough and a tolerable leek and mushroom pie.” Sneed holds out a waxed paper bag, still faintly steaming. “I got two, if you want one.”
Shrikeweed smiles, declines the pie. “You’ll earn your second pie, and perhaps a bonus, in the small hours. I’ll have letters for you to send. Confidential letters.”
“Any more of those contemptuous memos? Only I think they’re beginning to grow wary of me round the back of Chancery. ‘Fraid I might steal something.” The boy smirks, but there is truth in what he says. A ragged youth, and a tsat at that, would raise some hackles. It used to raise his. No longer. Sneed was simply part of his existence now. As commonplace as his books, his desk, or his orchids.
“Contemporaneous, Sneed. And no, letters. To be taken to the post office in Hargreave Street.” Halfway across Smike’s End, down toward the river. Down toward the wharfs and the airship towers. Delivery time will be shorter. He will need the response as soon as practicable.
“Right you are Mr Shrike. Hargreave Street it is.” The boy sits up in the alcove, his skinny legs folded underneath him. The shadows seem less deep now, the boy more expectant. “It’s a fair way, Mr Shrike. I don’t suppose I can get an advance on my commission?”
“We’ll see Sneed. For now, have your pies. But give me the Twemlough. I cannot have a drink running my errands.” The boy sighs, and hands over the bottle. Shrikeweed looks at it. It is a rather good one. Another to add to the liquor cabinet. Another bottle that will gather rather less dust than he should like. He nods to Bailey. The boy nods back, then folds back into the gloom of the alcove. It is deeper now. Too deep. It is always too deep when the boy is there. A shake of the head, and Shrikeweed unlocks the inner door and slips inside.
Home. Orchid-smelling and paper-dense. He lights the lamps, both oil and phosphor. They light the small and comfortable room. Bookcases just so, the overstuffed chair in the bay window, the desk, the confidential safe. Everything is as it should be. Untouched. A smile, an exhalation, and he doffs his hat and coat, undoes his neck cloth and kicks off his shoes. Slippers replace them, a declaration he will be in for the night. The bottle of Twemlough is still in his hand. It was now the hour for a drink.
The brandy poured and warming over a candle flame, he sits at his desk, readies his papers, his pens, his private seal and the wine-dark wax he favors. He takes a sip. The flavors blossom in his mouth, pear and old oak. It is good. He will thank Baily later. He may even share a glass with the boy. In the vestibule. He has never allowed the boy beyond the inner door. There are limits to his magnanimity, to his toleration.
His head is full of words. He cannot sort them out. He must sort them out. But he is but one man. So many threads require many minds. Or a mind that can contain multitudes. Yes. He will write to the professor. He owes her a reply in any event. It can do no harm to ask her assistance.
He takes up his pen, dips into the night-black ink, and writes.
Professor Rush,
In response to your letter of the 14th ultimo, no, I have seen very little chance to speak to your husband at any significant length. His movements are known to me, and I have a full, if tedious, accounting of his official business. The last time we were able to speak at anything like a civilized duration, was in the bar at Crookshank’s. This was still a fairly banal exchange of pleasantries, though he did invite me to dine with him at some future unspecified date. I declined the invitation, stating that I would be unspecifically busy. I think we were both relieved at that. I understand that social intecourse is useful, even desirable, but in our specific cases, I cannot think the event would have been beneficial. Please, do tell your husband to locate some friends that would be more congenial to his society. Two gentlemen making polite noises over the soup course, or commenting is desultory tones about the quality of this season’s turbot does not a pleasant evening make.
In future, I may try and avoid Cookshank’s. It is out of my usual price range in any event.
As to the other matters, yes, I have been able to prepare a digest of current political news, relevant social corollaries, market fluctuations (for which I am indebted to Mr Levesque for sorting out. Finance is a murky business) and available polling data. My observations and notes are, as always, contained in the margin. These are the product of refinements I made to my quantitative analysis model at your suggestion. The magic is more efficient, and the side-effect less extreme, so I am thankful for your input. I have included the incantations themselves along with several explanatory notes, and would be very much obliged to you if you would look them over and point out where I am at fault.
An hour passes. Then another. Words upon words pile up upon the letter. Vote tallies, projections of likely outcomes, counterfactuals. He scribes his own incantations, his own calculations. They are incomplete, less well formed than they should be. His scholarship lags, he is relying too much on old methods, on old ways of thought. That is a risk he cannot afford. No here. Not now. Whatever mess the Incumbent, his Incumbent, has gotten himself into, it will take more than hack-work magic and too much coffee to untangle. He needs staff. He cannot acquire the staff he needs, cannot trust the staff he might get. He will have to do it alone. Can he trust himself? Unclear. He can only hope.
Any advice you can give, any new publications you can point me toward, would be greatly appreciated. My work has become rather more than I can handle with the current state of my sorcery. You will ask for details. I can give none. I only hope that our long collaboration is enough to induce you to assist me.
Should you require any additional incentive that is in my power to grant. I will gladly do so.
I remain, professor, your most humble and obedient servant,
Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed.
His brandy has gone cold, its fragrance diminished. Still, he takes another sip and leans back in his chair. The letter is not his best work. It will have to do.
Hand on the doorknob, he turns it, clockwise, anticlockwise, and clockwise again. On silent hinges it opens. Bailey is still crouched in his alcove. The boy is not asleep. He is too quiet, too still.
“Sneed. Run this as fast as you can.” He hands the boy a handful of coins, not bothering to count. “Get yourself a pie on the way back. You will have earned it.”
He has other, more pressing business.
At the outer door he pauses, fishes in the pocket of his waistcoat for the first key. Brass-bright and polished by long use. He fits it to the lock, turns the key, listens for the first click, high and bell-like. He forces the key in deeper, turns it against the custom of locks. There is another click, lower, deeper. The door opens and he slips inside.
The vestibule is small, the floor is bare hard wood that rings at the sound of shoe soles and boot heels. Another reason he chose the place. The alcove along the inner wall had been less of a selling point, though he has come to value it. Even when he lights the lamp, the alcove clings to its shadows. And then the shadows move. “Your home late, Mr Shrike.”
The voice is high and strangely breathy, it slides up and down the scale as though perpetually breaking. A stifled and untuned yodel. Shrikeweed has never understood how the boy can pass the locks of the outer door, how he slips in so silently. At first it startled him, frightened him. Now he expects it, and expects that reedy, wheedling voice.
“Good evening Sneed. I’m surprised to see you here at this hour. Thought there might be shops you’d be burgling, late night pockets that need burgling.” He is tolerably sure that the first time Sneed made it past the outer door he had intended to burgle the place. The inner door had held, and the boy had remained in the vestibule. Shrikeweed had found him there, two years ago, perhaps three. The boy had fallen asleep in the alcove. Later, he had claimed it as his preferred lodging.
Bailey Sneed, street urchin, thief, burglar, had been an odd choice for a watchman, but after a few months it had seemed the most natural thing in the world. The boy is still a burglar, of that Shrikeweed is tolerably certain, but he burgles elsewhere. Burglars, he has discovered, make strangely good neighbors. They make even better errand boys.
“No fear sir, I’m in for the night. No point in going out, not when I’m managed a decent bottle of Twemlough and a tolerable leek and mushroom pie.” Sneed holds out a waxed paper bag, still faintly steaming. “I got two, if you want one.”
Shrikeweed smiles, declines the pie. “You’ll earn your second pie, and perhaps a bonus, in the small hours. I’ll have letters for you to send. Confidential letters.”
“Any more of those contemptuous memos? Only I think they’re beginning to grow wary of me round the back of Chancery. ‘Fraid I might steal something.” The boy smirks, but there is truth in what he says. A ragged youth, and a tsat at that, would raise some hackles. It used to raise his. No longer. Sneed was simply part of his existence now. As commonplace as his books, his desk, or his orchids.
“Contemporaneous, Sneed. And no, letters. To be taken to the post office in Hargreave Street.” Halfway across Smike’s End, down toward the river. Down toward the wharfs and the airship towers. Delivery time will be shorter. He will need the response as soon as practicable.
“Right you are Mr Shrike. Hargreave Street it is.” The boy sits up in the alcove, his skinny legs folded underneath him. The shadows seem less deep now, the boy more expectant. “It’s a fair way, Mr Shrike. I don’t suppose I can get an advance on my commission?”
“We’ll see Sneed. For now, have your pies. But give me the Twemlough. I cannot have a drink running my errands.” The boy sighs, and hands over the bottle. Shrikeweed looks at it. It is a rather good one. Another to add to the liquor cabinet. Another bottle that will gather rather less dust than he should like. He nods to Bailey. The boy nods back, then folds back into the gloom of the alcove. It is deeper now. Too deep. It is always too deep when the boy is there. A shake of the head, and Shrikeweed unlocks the inner door and slips inside.
Home. Orchid-smelling and paper-dense. He lights the lamps, both oil and phosphor. They light the small and comfortable room. Bookcases just so, the overstuffed chair in the bay window, the desk, the confidential safe. Everything is as it should be. Untouched. A smile, an exhalation, and he doffs his hat and coat, undoes his neck cloth and kicks off his shoes. Slippers replace them, a declaration he will be in for the night. The bottle of Twemlough is still in his hand. It was now the hour for a drink.
The brandy poured and warming over a candle flame, he sits at his desk, readies his papers, his pens, his private seal and the wine-dark wax he favors. He takes a sip. The flavors blossom in his mouth, pear and old oak. It is good. He will thank Baily later. He may even share a glass with the boy. In the vestibule. He has never allowed the boy beyond the inner door. There are limits to his magnanimity, to his toleration.
His head is full of words. He cannot sort them out. He must sort them out. But he is but one man. So many threads require many minds. Or a mind that can contain multitudes. Yes. He will write to the professor. He owes her a reply in any event. It can do no harm to ask her assistance.
He takes up his pen, dips into the night-black ink, and writes.
Professor Rush,
In response to your letter of the 14th ultimo, no, I have seen very little chance to speak to your husband at any significant length. His movements are known to me, and I have a full, if tedious, accounting of his official business. The last time we were able to speak at anything like a civilized duration, was in the bar at Crookshank’s. This was still a fairly banal exchange of pleasantries, though he did invite me to dine with him at some future unspecified date. I declined the invitation, stating that I would be unspecifically busy. I think we were both relieved at that. I understand that social intecourse is useful, even desirable, but in our specific cases, I cannot think the event would have been beneficial. Please, do tell your husband to locate some friends that would be more congenial to his society. Two gentlemen making polite noises over the soup course, or commenting is desultory tones about the quality of this season’s turbot does not a pleasant evening make.
In future, I may try and avoid Cookshank’s. It is out of my usual price range in any event.
As to the other matters, yes, I have been able to prepare a digest of current political news, relevant social corollaries, market fluctuations (for which I am indebted to Mr Levesque for sorting out. Finance is a murky business) and available polling data. My observations and notes are, as always, contained in the margin. These are the product of refinements I made to my quantitative analysis model at your suggestion. The magic is more efficient, and the side-effect less extreme, so I am thankful for your input. I have included the incantations themselves along with several explanatory notes, and would be very much obliged to you if you would look them over and point out where I am at fault.
An hour passes. Then another. Words upon words pile up upon the letter. Vote tallies, projections of likely outcomes, counterfactuals. He scribes his own incantations, his own calculations. They are incomplete, less well formed than they should be. His scholarship lags, he is relying too much on old methods, on old ways of thought. That is a risk he cannot afford. No here. Not now. Whatever mess the Incumbent, his Incumbent, has gotten himself into, it will take more than hack-work magic and too much coffee to untangle. He needs staff. He cannot acquire the staff he needs, cannot trust the staff he might get. He will have to do it alone. Can he trust himself? Unclear. He can only hope.
Any advice you can give, any new publications you can point me toward, would be greatly appreciated. My work has become rather more than I can handle with the current state of my sorcery. You will ask for details. I can give none. I only hope that our long collaboration is enough to induce you to assist me.
Should you require any additional incentive that is in my power to grant. I will gladly do so.
I remain, professor, your most humble and obedient servant,
Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed.
His brandy has gone cold, its fragrance diminished. Still, he takes another sip and leans back in his chair. The letter is not his best work. It will have to do.
Hand on the doorknob, he turns it, clockwise, anticlockwise, and clockwise again. On silent hinges it opens. Bailey is still crouched in his alcove. The boy is not asleep. He is too quiet, too still.
“Sneed. Run this as fast as you can.” He hands the boy a handful of coins, not bothering to count. “Get yourself a pie on the way back. You will have earned it.”
