[Closed] Non M'Impugnare Senza Valore

[Tom Cooke]

The Elephant • Uptown

Late Evening on the 28th of Dentis, 2719

L
ike the souls of the dead,” he murmurs, watching Shrikeweed’s half-baked sideways smile, about as fitting for this table and these words as the bubbling cheese. It’s more of a grimace, this time. Tom cannot smile, either; if he meant to lend his words some wry, teasing tone, he looks deathly serious, sitting and studying Shrikeweed’s face.

Names, dates, circumstances! He’s not so quick to call it mung, not anymore. But he still doesn’t understand.

He thinks, then, of Ava, turning the crackling pages in a ledger one by one, careful of the ones that were wont to stick. Lacquered fingernails gliding over lines of coded records. Paperwork lives on.

Intas was the first time he ever saw Hawke. Sitting at the table, doing business with a cocky grin and a spur in his teeth. Business: cigar smoke, the smell of brandy. He’s stood guard while men do business with each other. Paper bags of product, stacks and rolls of ging. Where were the ledgers, then? The records? Somewhere, he realizes now. Always something to be taken down, when all’s changed hands. Hawke employed men like Penley, too.

He’s staring daggers into the mushrooms, now, glistening in their sauce, smelling richly of earth and spices. All these things are invisible to a man who doesn’t know how to read. Tom has known how to read for some time now.

Venal men, Shrikeweed said. Just men?

Genevria Trevisani. A businesswoman. His eyes sharpen. Records, he thinks, somewhere. Paperwork lives on.

There’s a blank, he thinks. You can see the cords that connect the Judge with Megiro and d’Arthe easily – the Order, the Oculus – even the cords that connect d’Arthe and Megiro and Trevisani. Immense influence, even then, for a widow with a modest side-qalqa. But not enough influence to pull some of the strings she’s pulled.

All men have enemies. He thinks of Castor Devlin, souring the faces of every man at that table like turning fruit. The Headmistress, too.

Serro hasn’t been seen; there are whispers, but he hasn’t resurfaced yet. Not in the flesh. Without direction, it’s all pina things – safehousing, holding fast, holding breath; like the upkeep of a spell – and the occasional kov throwing a stacks special through some golly’s window, like all that ging can’t put out another fire. But –

His head aches. He takes another sip of kofi. In the corner of his eye, he sees Shrikeweed turning his cup, slow, methodical. Right, left, right.

I, we, could do the same. We can still. If I can trust you.

Trust is a strange and fickle thing. Who trusts anybody, these days?

The cup clatters, unsteady, on the saucer. He looks up and meets Shrikeweed’s eyes. The soft phosphor light still picks out the gold; there’s still rage lined thinly in red around the lids.

You lost someone, he thinks.

He feels that rage in the pit of his heart. The opera made him cold, insensible. Now he sees the stranger reflected in the window in the corner of his eye; the stranger’s hands on the table. His chest aches with the anger of it. He feels like a trapped animal. “Do what you can retrospectively,” he says, softly, “but this will not be the last chance you get to make your minutes, Mr. Shrikeweed. The Incumbent’s face is still a tool in our box. And they seem to have taken an interest in you, too.”

He looks askance, finally, at the reflection. Full-on. He can’t see much but the glisten of eyes underneath the brow, the hollows of cheeks.

His lips twitch. “I don’t know who their enemies are. I don’t even know –” Anatole says his words; he has to look away, down. “I need to know more. These men are acting on behalf of – something – someone else. There are connections I can’t draw. Trevisani has to do with it. She’s too powerful, for what she – does. Someone owes her a favor.”

The name has slipped out before he can stop it. He glances up sharply, his eyes darting round the Elephant. Looking, this time, for the lass that makes the kofi. You never know.

She’s there, at the counter; he doesn’t think she’s listening. Rows of kofi paraphernalia glint behind her, brass and copper and a few sparks of silver.

It looks damned mung to sit here with steaming yats and not eat it. Hesitantly, Tom reaches for a slice of toasted bread with a shaky hand. “You’re a Pendulum man,” he starts, looking back up at Shrikeweed. “Or you were.” The twist of his lip is more bitter than wry. “What do you know of the Order of the Pendulum?”

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - The Elephant
Forty-eight minutes past the twenty-sixth hour

"L

ike the dead, like ghosts. Yes.” How many ghosts has the Incumbent made? How much blood is on his hands? How much blood is upon his own? There is no sense in counting the dead, not here, and not now. Levesque’s face rises before his inner eye, pale and thin, the face of a ghost. The old man nods his ascent. He would have agreed. Now is not the time for grief, now is the time for sorting matters, for setting things to rights. Little enough can be done in this place. Too public, too far away from the papers and ink he needs. Too far from the source. Other steps may be taken. There is always the first step in the solving, the first ritual. The enumeration of errors.

He had made enough of his own. He will make more. There is no escaping that, useless to demand perfection. Care, competence, method, those are the tools he has. The last is most important. He will need the rituals, his rituals, to keep him from straying into paths of private vengeance. Revenge is a fool’s game. Correct the errors, remove the sources, ensure the error cannot recur. That will be enough. It will be more than enough.

Care to fight carelessness. Civic virtue to counter crass venality. He has too high an opinion of his own motives. That is an error. It must be discarded. He breaths in, then out, then in again. Prickles along his skin as the field slides over him, first in trickles like the spilling of ink, then in swirls and stabs. The pen-strokes of his thought and field, forming new thoughts, making of him a document, a record. Accounting for him, bringing him into being.

The Enumeration of Errors

• Error - You trusted too much in stability of the nation, of custom and praxis. All is blown away on spring winds, buried in winter snow.

• Error - Trust has led to blindness. You refused to understand the gravity of the Matter, even though it gnawed at your thoughts. Remember that, hold it close.

• Error - A plan has been set in motion, it has incited chaos. It has maimed and it has killed. And to what end? Chaos can be an ally for some, but it is fickle. Those that hatched the plan believe they can harness chaos, bend it to their will. Perhaps they can. For a time. Their error is in thinking they are the masters.

• Error - Those who birthed this plot did not properly vet their allies and agents. Among them is at least one who has no love of it. Sloppy work. Careless. How many others are such as the Incumbent.

• Error - To carry out such a plot, to execute this bombing, how many conspirators must there be? Already there are too many names being spilled about like the wine of a careless and drunken diner. Someone can be found. Someone can be turned. Everyone has their price.

He carries on, more enumerations, more weaknesses in the plot. There are many. They can be exploited. He nearly laughs. What can he do? Write memos, file them away in the vain hope someone else will find them, be appalled, and act? Useless. He is a man of paper, a creature of the Chancery, not some dangerous spy. He turns his cup again. Perhaps that is a mask he will have to make.

The Incumbent is looking at him again, staring into his still-moistened eyes. What will he think of such a thing? Some men would see it as weakness, as unbecoming sentiment. Let them. He feel no shame, only caution. Yet he doubts the Incumbent is such a man. He wears his emotion upon his face and in his hands. Not always, but enough to see it is there. Good. One who claims to never feel only poisons themselves, renders their thought flat and lacking in context. And, just now, context and motive matter far more than figures and empirical pragmatism. This is not his forte. That is a weakness. A crack. It would be best to shore that up, to find someone to do the shoring.

There is another error, and the Incumbent has enumerated it. The conspirators have taken an interest in him. “So it would seem, sir. Certainly I can see a practical reason. I am a mere civil servant. I do not formulate policy. I carry it out. I understand these things. It would seem these men,” no, it is not just men. An error on his part. Too hasty a conclusion. There is Trevisani among the conspirators. So far the only named woman. There will be others. “These conspirators rather, need such a one as I. Their work has been sloppy enough that I was at least able to see something was afoot.” He smiles again at the Incumbent. “And I was able to pry some information out of you, of course. Let us hope that is fortuitous.”

At last he gives in, reaches for a slice of bread. It is still warm in his hands, its texture roughened by the toasting. The cheese spread easily and smooth upon the bread, the mushrooms cling to it as easy as limpets upon a rock. A bite, warm and rich, soothing and settling. This is the Elephant, after all.

“This meeting in Ophus, you can be certain that accounts will be produced, set down. Names and plans pinned down like beetles in a collection.” Does the Incumbent doubt this? Does he not understand, still? His voice is soft and resigned. The voice of a defeated man. “Do not think, sir, that I shall sit there with my notes for all to see. That is against protocol. If any of them are sharp enough, they would spot that instantly. Yet there will be documents, of that you can be sure.”

There are other uncertainties. The Incumbent is sure that the chain goes on, beyond the names he knows. Trevisani again. A name that keeps appearing. Well, at least this was one more reason to dislike the woman. “Trevisani, yes. She does seem out of place. She is out of place at the Pendulum, out of place in this Matter. And out of place for,” he pauses, takes another thoughtful bite of the bread. “For what she does, sir? If you were to tell me she is a professional blackmailer I would not be surprised. She said something to me when we civilly did not enjoy a game of cards together, that I believe was meant to rattle you.” He puts down the bread, sighs, shakes his head. “She said she was thinking of, and these were her words, ‘his little bird’. I did reason that you do not keep a parrot.” And now he looks down, feels some odd, fleeting shame at having said this, as though this is the knife he was meant to twist. “Whoever this ‘bird’ is sir, it is not my place to judge, only assess. If there is a scandal, I need to know about it, to forestall any damage I can.”

Something has changed again, the Incumbent has grown a new fear, his eyes darting about the room. He fixed for a moment on Sebele, eyes full of suspicion. Shrikeweed doubts she can hear them. They have been speaking low in this private booth. Sound does not carry well. And Sebele is sound. The Elephant is sound. That is no error.

The Pendulum, it appears that is a rather different affair. Another error on his part, not to have seen it. Or perhaps he has, and only now given it its name. It has been growing unsound, he has been less and less a regular. “I have been a member in good standing for years, yes. I find it a useful place for a few games of billiards,” he gestures up to the orbit of his eye, where once there had been a spectacular bruise, “a few rounds of boxing, or a civilized chat with some old friends of mine. I have tended to avoid the little cabals that seem to form there. But yes, I am aware of the Order, though my knowledge is not extensive." That will have to change. "I am aware there are certain members who have a rather close association. Significant members, influential members. A club within a club as it were. Mostly Reformists, I am led to understand. Bold men, sir. Men with ideas.” He turns the cup again. Clockwise, anticlockwise, and clockwise again. A decision must be made. He has made it. “Now that your associates have taken an interest in me, perhaps I should return them the favor and perhaps seek out their particular society. It is always refreshing to discuss ideas.”

[Tom Cooke]

The Elephant • Uptown

Late Evening on the 28th of Dentis, 2719

L
ittle bird.

The jolt goes through Tom like a stroke of lightning, everything in him tense, on end. Little bird, coming out of Shrikeweed’s mouth. He looks up sharply, catches the other man’s gaze. Not a trace of a sneer on his face – the eyes, still red-rimmed – no longer smiling – watching him, levelly.

The bureaucrat has taken a bite of his toast, spread with sweet-sharp smelling baked cheese and sautéed mushrooms. Tom has been listening, spreading cheese on his own toast. His hands shake round the handle of the knife; he is especially careful not to spatter any on the table, to disturb any of the other dishes.

It’s a second game, this, eating casually – as if there’s anything casual about what they’re saying. But it’s a game that must be played.

It’s getting harder. The smell of the mushrooms suddenly flips his stomach over on its belly; he feels a faint, familiar tingling through his jaw. He has to set his slice of bread down, and his knife, too. He hasn’t managed the mushrooms; he doesn’t know if he can manage a bite.

He looks up at Shrikeweed’s face again. No mirth, still. Boemo.

Somebody else’s words, he reminds himself. Of course. I did reason, he says, that you did not keep a parrot. Tom’s lips twist; Shrikeweed looks down, away, as if he’s swallowed something distasteful.

This, too, must be cut through. Like a thick tangle of vines in a mangrove forest.

There’s no point keeping his face blank. Still, there’s upkeep to hold onto, just like casting. Shrikeweed lets the question rest on the table between them; he says, it is not my place to judge, and names it as a thing worth judging.

Tom picks up his slice of bread as the bureaucrat goes on, and he sets himself to it. He listens; he doesn’t look Mr. Shrikeweed in the eye, though he sees the cup turn again in the corner of his own. Snow swirls down outside, ever heavier. His shaky hands make the mushrooms a challenge, but they stick once they’ve found the cheese, and when he goes to take a bite, he doesn’t spill.

It’s good. It’s better than he thought it would be. It doesn’t turn his stomach; he’s hungry. He sets down the piece, dabs at his lips – delicate, almost; when did he pick that habit up? – then meets the other man’s gaze again.

“It’s not only that they need a man like you,” he says slowly. “In Rooks, rich kov are often bold as they please, knowing they can stand to lose. But one move from a man who knows how to play the game, who understands all its rules and nuances, can still be his undoing. They’re sniffing you out, Mr. Shrikeweed; they might prefer you alive and on their side, but they’ll not lose sleep for knocking you off the board, either.”

He frowns deeply, turns to his kofi. Takes a sip. He centers himself on the bitter taste, like he might center himself on the incense and the lines when he meditates.

Where little birds are concerned, it’s not judgment that troubles him – though the thought of Anatole’s rubbish clinging like so much shit to his heels is loathsome enough. Ne, he thinks of the bird, not so little and not remotely his.

A good facade, as she’s well taught him, is nothing if not close to the truth. “It’s not my wish to pluck feathers,” he says, after he’s taken a sip, “just to show you her plumage. You’ll pry no name from me there.”

The cup doesn’t clatter so much, when it’s lowered to the saucer. He looks up over it.

“Trevisani was using you, Mr. Shrikeweed, to get to me. Or to get to him. Mrs. Trevisani, or as she’s known in Order circles – the madame.” Both of his eyebrows lift high on his forehead. He clears his throat. “She’s a blackmailer, but she’s in a good position to be. She offers certain services to those who climb high enough in the Pendulum, and elsewhere. Half Uptown’s in her debt, as I imagine it.”

It’s thick as honey, this awkwardness; it’s all that’s rotten beneath the stones of Kingsway Crossing. Having said it aloud, he expects to feel something. Shame?

No. Anger, still. Burning. Let the Incumbent feel his shame in some other Ever. He does not reach for his toast or drink his kofi. His jaw is set tight. “She’s not so sloppy as the men. She keeps her accounts well as the best of them, or her people do; lot of beetles in that book.” He bites off the words.

It’s playing with fire, but Shrikeweed knows there’s a bird; the more he thinks the Incumbent is sharing, the less he’ll go looking. Or maybe he’ll look in the right places, and all this vodundun is more fortuitous than even he knows.

He thinks of the way Shrikeweed gestured to his eye. Boxing. He tries to picture galdori in the Pendulum blackening each other’s eyes; it doesn’t track.

“Do you see now? It’s not just the conspiracists; the rot goes deep. I don’t know how deep. I don’t even know the half of what Incumbent Vauquelin knew.” He watches the bureaucrat. A nerve twitches; a muscle under his left eye jumps. He’s gritting his teeth hard, but there’s something like hope in his eyes.

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - The Elephant
Fifty-three minutes past the twenty-sixth hour

O

n the window, the frost-ferns are spiraling out, growing. Each frozen frond a mirror of its parent, each containing the multitudes that come before, that will come after. Cause and effect. The repetition of form. Events, like the frost, form of their own accord, by their own internal rules. He can see the shapes of the frost-ferns, calculate their involutions, the period of their repetitions. He can see the whole of the window pane. The prediction of the pattern is trivial. He can see nearly nothing of the pattern of the events around him. Yet it is enough to sense the pattern, to imagine the shape of things.

The missing pieces are not enough, not yet. Another game is afoot, not merely a pattern to work out. He is playing a game whose rules he does not know, against opponents that are still half in shadow. And it is their move. What is the move? Nothing obvious has been done. Public sentiment is already against the self-styled revolutionaries. Well, it is among those with any power and influence. Revolutions are not won in the streets, they require support from at least some established faction, some class with something to lose. This act, were it known, might just awaken such a faction, drive them into supporting some rash slate of changes, of embracing chaos and revolution. It is illogical.

The High Judge cannot be in some perverse alliance with the sad little band that calls itself the Resistance. All his public actions militate against such a thing. The conclusion is not sound. Yet a man in private wears different masks. Could such a man as he possess so contrary a face? If he does, then he is a fool. A fool working against himself A tenuous thread, likely false. There will be another explanation. All he can suppose is that the man is an utter fool. A fool and a monster. It will need to be tested, proved.

He searches the Incumbent’s waxen face for answers, for any hint of data. He finds none. The man is in the dark as much as he. No, not quite. Something, someone, is behind this, he says. It is possible, even likely, but the motives there are as murky as the night streets beyond the frosty windows. A chill, the old centipede with freezing feet scuttles down his spine. What manner of power could make the High Judge dance for its amusement? Another thought worth contemplating.

He will not sleep tonight. The day will take hours to untangle,the memoranda will take until long after dawn to compose. Coffee and coca tea, the latter flavored with hibiscus, will have to get him through tomorrow. It will not be the first time. It will not be the last.

The Incumbent, no, Anatole, is speaking now, his breath warmed by coffee and scented by cheese. It is good to see the man relax even this small sliver. He still looks half-dead, pale and stretched, but some color is returning to the man. What does it matter if it rises from the warmth of the Elephant and the man’s apparent embarrassment? Perhaps his concern?

“They can sniff all they want, sir. My reputation, such as it is, is sound. My personal life is much the same.” It is mostly true. Mostly, save for the boxing matches held in riverside warehouses and basements. Knock-down drag-out affairs, bare-knuckle half the time, and not strictly legal. A small vice. It could be passed off as thrill-seeking. Gods’ know enough ladies and gentlemen of substance and position indulge in far more outré diversions. Keeping birds, perhaps? Likely not. A possible mistress was hardly something to be considered a problem. Among such men as Anatole, well, it might even be an asset. “My politics are conventional for a man of the Service. Order and method sir. I am, I flatter myself to say, more or less the man they think me to be.” The less was significant. So was the overall assessment. A civil servant is a tool, a function made flesh. They will not expect a man with views of his own. He is not sure he expects it of himself. “And if they find me inconvenient, well, that is their affair. Still, you are right. They need a man who knows the game, the protocols. It is perhaps unfortunate for them that I appear to be the man of the hour.”

And if they find him to be an inconvenient thorn in their side? Well, there is little enough he can do about that.

“Trevisani.” He mutters the name, recalling that uncomfortable card game. “Yes, it was sadly necessary, sir, to let her use me to a degree, but I fancy I was able to use her as well. She seems to be one who delights in spreading discomfort and flaunting her status.” Her status and her intimate knowledge. A madame? Well, that fit. There were whispers about, of course, but he had no real reason to consider them. Not until that game. What use did he, after all, have for a madame? Not for her usual services to be sure. Information, however, was a rather different matter. That she would have. Was she vain enough to spill it to a man who could not be caught in her wiles, nor that of the men and women in her employ? Perhaps so. It would at least be a challenge for her to deal with such a man. She would enjoy the challenge.

“If she is so accomplished as you say, and I have no cause to doubt you, then she will have a plethora, yea a cornucopia of enemies. An embarrassment of riches, if you will pardon the expression.” Anatole is himself embarrassed, but the color of his blush, the set of his face, it hints at some lingering tenderness. A man with a sordid affair hardly shows such warmth. Was that the scandal? True affection? It could ruin him if the object of that affection was ‘unsuitable’. Who was his little bird? It would have to be discovered, the damage mitigated, transformed. Secrets can be a powerful weapon, especially against those that keep them. “I do not double Trevisani is clever, that much was obvious. Yet she may be too clever by half.” He takes a breath, he takes a chance. “Your desire to protect you ‘little bird’ is commendable, sir, and I salute for it. Were I a man of such passions, I believe I would do the same. Yet, sir, it would be of great advantage if I knew her name, if I could speak with her. For leverage sir, against Trevisani and her network of debtors.” A network. Well, that at least was proper and traditional. The madame improves in his professional estimation. A worthy adversary. “Look me in the eye sir, mark me well. I mean this person no harm, nor you sir. I am a civilized man, a careful man. A quiet chat in some neutral place, that is all I ask. I need to know what can be used against you. “ He tries another smile. “I venture it is less than you might fear.” Or more. It will need to be assessed from all angles. Still, he is a man of his word. Whoever this bird is, he means no harm. No exposure.

And now Anatole speaks of rot, rot that goes deep. Does he not see that Shrikeweed already suspects it? Knows it in his bones? Why else would he have followed the line of the Gioran Matter? He can sense the rot, see its effects. He cannot see its cause. Neither can the man before him. The man. ‘I’ and not ‘He’, never more so than now. Who is this man? He is not the man of plots and schemes, the man who was rising in the estimation of the conspirators. And yet, he wears the same face. He, ‘I’, has admitted as much. What can make a man so alien to himself? He shakes his head. It makes little enough sense.

He has never met the man before him. Not until tonight. He has seen glimpses, fleeting and indistinct, but this is the man in full. And who is he, this ‘I’? He wears Incumbent Vauquelin as a mask. Or perhaps he has merely discarded it? Seen it for what it was. Has growth to loath the man he had become, and made of himself a new man. It is an answer.It is unsatisfactory.

“Well sir, it seems we both have our work ahead of us.” Now Sebele returns, quiet and sly, bearing the wine. In silence but with a smile she pours. It is rich and dark. Like conspiracy. Like blood. He raises the glass, careful not to spill. There has been too much blood spilt already.

[Tom Cooke]

The Elephant • Uptown

Late Evening on the 28th of Dentis, 2719

H
e’s being studied, he knows, by this man of the hour. This sound man. “Not everyone who goes in sound comes out sound,” he says quietly, just before raising the cup of coffee to his lips. “Or the man he thinks he is.”

An embarrassment of riches.

One eyebrow twitches. He watches Shrikeweed narrowly over the rim of his cup as he takes another sip.

The kofi’s not gone cold, but it’s not the sort of hot that stings your tongue and your fingertips, either; it’s not so easy to steady himself against it. They’re getting to the bottom of the pot, and it’s thicker, now, with a powdery cling. The sweetness of the baked cheese clings to his mouth, under the rich earthy taste of the mushrooms.

An embarrassment of riches. The Shrike isn’t far off the mark, as usual. Trevisani is too clever by half. There’s still the matter of leverage, of what enabled the incumbent to make this mess to begin with. Of whatever the hell used to be in this head of his.

Ava doesn’t have that answer, though. As he goes on, Tom’s mouth sets more grimly; he’s reached for his slice of bread, but his hand pauses over the plate. Look me in the eye, sir, Mr. Shrikeweed says, and Tom is already looking him in both his eyes – he can’t seem to look anywhere else. Rising panic laps like coffee foam at the edges of his sluggish thoughts.

He’s being studied, oes: what is it Shrikeweed sees?

His face is hot. A man of such passions, he says, and Tom knows what he thinks. The tilt of Genevria Trevisani’s words can’t’ve hurt, and they’re a damned good reminder that he’s got one ruse to hide behind. Tom can steady himself on this, at least. And all the practical things. Hell’s in the details.

If Shrikeweed goes looking for the woman his lovelorn incumbent is protecting, what will he find? There are so many things Ava’s never spoken of, and Tom’s coming to realize just how poorly Anatole covered his tracks.

There’s the apartment, but Tom reasons it only tells Shrikeweed what he already knows: that there was a woman at all. What else? He racks his brain, taking a bite to bide his time. Other purchases? Gifts – of course. What? Not books; he knows that, he thinks bitterly. Jewelry, dresses?

He cringes away from the thought, but he knows he’s been sloppy in his inaction. He should’ve thought of this before. He will, soon enough. He’ll have to. But there’s only so much he can cover up.

So what, then?

He’d rather run himself through than chance betraying his people. This quiet chat is over the line; it can’t happen. Playing with fire can be useful, when it’s in your own brazier. This is Ava’s, and he can’t act for her. Not again.

So what? The lovelorn old man protects his little bird. Or, the embarrassed official with a dirty secret lashes out. Both, maybe.

It’ll have to do. He sets down the bread, his jaw set. His face is still blotchy; it’s not hard to fake looking a pina queasy, either. “No,” he says sharply, finally. “I don’t care how civilized you are. You will not involve her. Whatever leverage you think she has, whatever knowledge or resources you think she has access to –”

The hostess returns at the perfect time. For all her cat-quiet steps, he’s seen the shadow of her coming in the corner of his eye. Still, he waits until she’s right upon them to break off; he starts, darts a sharp glance at her.

She is smiling as she pours. The seconds stretch out, sprawl underneath the gurgle of the deep red wine. Tom doesn’t know if he’s grateful for the pause; it gives him time to think. He looks across at Shrikeweed.

Were I a man of such passions, he remembers. He studies the sound man momentarily, the eyes still red-rimmed with the remnants of rage and grief. Were I.

When she leaves, Shrikeweed raises his glass. It’s a long pause before Tom raises his in return. The grim, tight set of his face hasn’t lightened. “We have our work ahead of us,” he agrees, after a moment. “If you decide to work on your own project, Mr. Shrikeweed – if you go after this woman – I’m not hesitant to use his resources.”

He tries, right away, to wash the laoso-rotten taste of those words out of his mouth. The wine is full-bodied, darker than a Nassalan; it clings as much as the kofi. He takes a long drink.

There’s one place, he thinks, where our passions are aligned. Another thought that steadies him. Keep him occupied, he thinks. Use those passions.

As he sets the glass down, he doesn’t try so hard to control the shake in his hands. The wine jumps to the lip of the glass, though it doesn’t spill. The level of it is down by half.

He does his best to look relieved, to soften. He tries to smooth his grimace into a smile. “Not, at least, until we’ve exhausted other avenues. If you’ve roused Trevisani’s suspicions, I’ve heard nothing of it. We can sit with her at arm’s length, for now.” He raises both his eyebrows. “The matter of the Matter’s more pressing, don’t you agree?”

He knows he must warn Ava, whatever Shrikeweed says. He doesn’t expect for half a second this bird will give up his vole when there’s a thorn in sight. That black eye isn’t his first, and it won’t be his last. To his surprise, Tom thinks he knows something of the sorts of passions that drive this sound, conventional, inconvenient man.

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - The Elephant
Four minutes past the twenty-seventh hour

H

e will use ‘His’ resources. A clear enough threat. The Incumbent would have resources at his disposal. Favors to be called in, allies, wealth, reputation, gravitas, the family name. Conspirators. And what resources do I have, he thinks. Little enough. No wealth to speak of, no friends in high society to protect him. He has never been a man for wide acquaintance. Godsammit, that is half the reason he joined the Pendulum in the first place, to give the appearance that he had a respectable number of friends, that he was part of society. That he was more than just a function in flesh and bone. That more ran in his veins than ink. For a time it had seemed to work. Such days are gone now, replaced by other, darker days. He will find few enough allies there now, perhaps none. No. There will be one. Wainscotting will be horrified at least as he. So, one more ally. A lawyer who makes sport of seeming less than he is. He nearly smiles. That dandy will make mincemeat of the High Judge and his ilk, should the Matter come before the courts.

The courts. Arguments are useless now. What good can they do with the last court of appeal is merely an extension of the defendant? May itself be made of co conspirators. Ethics would demand recusal. He imagines the chain of recusals. The Low Judges, circuit judges, appeals justices, on and on. In the end, some poor bemused justice of the peace hailing from a town no one had ever heard of, would have to sit in judgement. Ethics would demand it. It is clear ethics mean nothing to the High Judge.

The rules of the game have changed now. He will have to change with them.

There are his old and trusted allies. The Civil Service. Wiggins, Hornbeck, Thurlowe, and Glazebrook are all sound, of that he is sure. Fortesque? Very likely. Perhaps most of Policy Analysis is sound. They are all grieving in their way for Levesque. They all performed the necessary rituals together. They will not side with the killers, the friends of chaos. At least, he should like to think so. He will not trust it is so. Too comforting. Too dangerous. Still, it is not nothing. A handful of civil servants then, perhaps a lawyer or two, a small smattering of family and friends, a wick errand boy, and one frightened man.

He looks at the Incumbent now, fear and indignity twisting together in the lines of his face. One sallow, unsound, unsteady, frail-seeming man. So much rests on those too-narrow shoulders. The frightened man is the greatest asset he has. The most dangerous.

Then there is this place, the Elephant. Congenial and familiar, like an old and beloved chair. He knows his place here, knows what is expected of him. Another ally, another resource upon which to call, even if only to steady his nerves.

He takes a long, slow, agonized, sip of the wine. Velvet fruit and old oak, the earthy dampness of wine caves. For a moment it washes away his thoughts, downs them. All his senses are focused upon the wine, its texture, its aroma, its flavor. There is nothing else, no world beyond the glass. And then he swallows. The world comes flooding back. The feel of his hands upon the old wooden table, the worn cushion at his back, the tension in his head. The face of the man across the table. The work that must be done.

The Matter and the Bird.

He does not shake his head, tries to show nothing of his weary resignation. They are back to this old dance again. How long will it last this time? How often will they repeat it? And will the music ever turn? Will one day he have to throw up a wall of lies and obfuscation of his own? It is likely.

“If we can keep Trevisani at arms length and follow some other course, then, yes, we can leave your Bird well enough alone.” If Trevisani knows this Bird, knows where she can be found, then that is leverage. Leverage than can be used against the Incumbent. Dangerous. He hopes the Bird is not kept in some gilded cage, but can fly away of her own will. That alone will keep her safe, keep the Incumbent safe.

The Incumbent does not understand. Cannot understand perhaps. The Matter is more pressing, he says. A simple enough statement. Perhaps he believes himself as he says it. Perhaps he cannot, will not, see the truth. The Bird and the Matter are one in the same. Whoever the Bird is, that alone would seem to cause scandal. A scandal that cannot be weathered? Do you love this Bird, sir, is that it? Well, that really would be a scandal.

“There is a great deal ahead of us, yes sir,” and you are making it greater still by hiding things. How can the Incumbent not see that? “It would be best if we can work in concert, undistracted by side projects,” for now at least, “but in all other things, sir, we must be of one mind.” One mind! And how many are here now, at this table? “There are things, sir, which I need to know, details. Names, dates, places, times. And I need your memories sir, your recollections. Yours, and ‘His’.” It has become a comfortable distinction, habit now, yet it still makes little sense. It would seem a false distinction, a convenience, a way of stepping away from the past. Before these last weeks, he was comfortable in that thought. No longer. It is insufficient to explain everything. Well, there is at least one side project he can follow. What can make a man no longer himself?

“I don’t fancy that latter will be a simple matter.” Detailed recollection long after the fact is difficult at the best of times, even with a mind trained for such things. How much harder will it be for a man whose memories are partitioned? “I find I always remember most clearly when I recreate my actions, relive my perceptions. These meetings sir, the ones that never happened, I need to go to one such place, if possible. We need to discover all the little details that we can.”

He takes up the wine again, swirling his glass, clockwise, anti-clockwise, and clockwise again. The wine tumbles and breaks against itself. Like the dark sea in a great storm.

[Tom Cooke]

The Elephant • Uptown

Late Evening on the 28th of Dentis, 2719

M
r. Shrikeweed leaves off too soon. It’s a confirmation, not unexpected, not unwelcome. But it’s a confirmation, he thinks, taking another sip of wine. He wrangles himself back, seizes the reins white-knuckled – not white-knuckling, though, not tonight – manages to set the glass down with dregs still in the bulb. Forces himself to leave it there.

Soft and thoughtful.

He wonders if Shrikeweed thinks he has him fooled; he wonders if Shrikeweed’s simply judged it worthwhile, weighed the risk worth the reckoning. He knows, oes, he’ll have to warn Ava, and he’s already making plans; he’s drafting the note in his head, going through the motions of the meeting. There’s a long night ahead, a long sober night and sober days to come – he cannot come to her with whisky on his breath – and he can already feel the ache in his shoulders, the ever-present twinge in his lower back.

But more than anything, he’s tired. The breaking of another storm has come and gone, and now another leg of the race. Another dance. More distractions.

He watches Shrikeweed across a battlefield of cooling baked brie and sauteed mushrooms, half-eaten crusty bread. Demitasse cups with paste-thick dregs of coffee sleeping at the bottoms, a glinting copper pot, wine glasses.

“Thank you, Mr. Shrikeweed.” He smiles briefly, wanly. It’s not a lie, not quite. He’s thankful to Shrikeweed for tossing out pretense; to push harder – to make him argue, threaten, gnaw like a trapped animal – would’ve been embarrassing.

He takes the bread back up. The air is strangely clearer. He can smell the kofi and spices; the mushrooms, the oil, the cheese aren’t so stomach-turning. He crunches through another bite, chews thoughtfully.

Names, dates, places, times. Memories. Recollections. Him.

If all the vodundun at this table – ne, within himself, alone; within Shrikeweed, alone – ever consolidates into one mind, he’ll eat his fucking hat. But as he turns it over in his head, he thinks he knows what to do.

He remembers it with vivid clarity: the story of Thalia and the magistra. He remembers how Deirdre told it him, when he was a lad, to pass the times not spent on the streets. A nattle, it went, clever as she was lovely, was the servant of a wicked galdor. She went looking in places she oughtn’t; she opened books not meant for human hands. To punish her, the magistra set her impossible tasks.

He can’t remember all of them. In one, at least, she had to separate a mant pile of lentils by color: green, black, red. One version of the story went that Vita – singing in everything that comes from the earth – helped her. Another, told to him later, went that she was sorting lentils when she died, gnarled and gray; that her clever mind in its hubris kept her striving, kept her paying out the punishment tenfold.

A pile of lentils, he thinks wistfully. Shrikeweed speaks of places, of little details, of memories that will never be regained. He watches the bureaucrat swirl the wine in his glass – realizes, somewhere between the second and third tic, he’s swirling it left, right, left.

Gods help him, he needs a pile of lentils. He needs to warn Ava, because he knows there’s no chance of Shrikeweed leaving that trial behind – but he needs a pile of lentils, at least, to keep some part of that butcherbird brain occupied. Split the vote.

But how?

“They weren’t...” Tom frowns, sucking at a tooth. “The first of them, the one in Intas,” kingsmeet, he does not say, “we met in the Paper Tiger, just after Clock’s Eve. There’ll’ve been a year’s worth of busy nights since then; we can go to the Tiger for a drink, but I doubt you’ll find what you need.”

And where else? He pauses, running a hand along his jaw. “What do you plan to look for, Mr. Shrikeweed?” He frowns. “I hosted at least one, in the office in Stainthorpe – where we’ve been sitting pretty for months, now. I recall a meeting-room in Plamondon Hall, but it’s hardly as if we’re the only ones who’ve used it since Intas –”

He looks up again. Dark red wine, sloshing round, leaving a pale skin behind on the glass. Left, right, left.

“I can tell you what I remember of those meetings – I can give you a shopping-list of names – but I don’t see what good it will do, without what came before. Without – him.” His lips twist; he takes another drink of wine.

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - The Elephant
Nine minutes past the twenty-seventh hour

T

o begin at the beginning. A luxury. An illusion and an impossibility. It is always so. There are no beginnings, only continuations. The present arises from the past, the man of today is the product of all his yesterdays. The Incumbent may play at being ‘I’ and discarding ‘Him’, he cannot leave everything behind. The man of the yesterdays cannot be wished away. The chains of his actions continue. The chains can be pulled, followed back to some useful link.

The first link is the Bird. A link likely to fly away before he can come to understand its meaning. The Bird is a constant, a link between ‘I’ and ‘Him’ which is unbroken. Her meaning and her significance remain unclear. Yet he can see well enough that the Incumbent will want to warn his Bird. Warn her that she should fly from the man in the dull suit and reddish-brown sidewhiskers. It is an oddity being seen as a threat. Uncomfortable. All the more so because it may well be true.

He has no desire to be a threat, not to the Bird. Still, it what he has to work with. He will use the tools that are to hand. She is merely a piece of the puzzle, and an important one. Fitting her into place may reveal much. It will reveal at least one more of the Incumbent’s masks. Perhaps he can show a new one of his own? When he finds this Bird, and he will find her, of that he is certain, can he make both her and the Incumbent see that there is use in knowing a dull man in a dull suit?

Others are already aware of that utility. How long before they come for him? How long before they try and put him to use? It cannot be far off. Likely before this meeting, the caoja. The word is more natural to him now, more apposite. A coarse word for a coarse business.

Do you not see, he thinks, looking at the man across the table through the legs of wine in his glass, that I am trying to help you? That I am trying to protect you from whatever knife you thought was in my hand? A sigh. No, the man cannot see it. Not quite.

Both he and the Incumbent know he will not drop the matter of the Bird. What good could come of it? The last time he let a Matter slide, to settle into the background, only death and misfortune. He will not make that mistake again. There are fresh mistakes to be made. How else does one learn?

So he will learn.

The second link in hand is memory. Useful. He will see how the Incumbent thinks, what he chooses to remember. It will give the shape of things, the skeleton. It can be fleshed out later, when he knows what gaps are there in the Incumbent’s recollections, what questions need asking.

“Plamondon Hall,” he rolls that name around his tongue, every bit as thick and rich as the wine. Perhaps richer. “That may work.” He is not talking to the Incumbent. He is talking to himself. Not the wisest of habits, but an old one. And what did it matter if he looked a fool? It was long past the hour to try and hide that. Now he looks up again at the Incumbent, taking stock again the man’s expressions, every little twitch and set. More expression, more to be cataloged. “Is it too much to hope, sir, that you do not often take meetings in that place? The most distinctive, the more singular the memory, the easier this will be. The technique is best performed where the memories are sharp, clear, and uncluttered. Stainthorpe Hall has too many memories, too many memories of yours sir. There would be confusion.” Will the technique work on a mind other than his own? Can he draw out another’s memories? Perhaps, and it is worth the effort. Worth the risk. “As much as possible I need to hear what you heard, see what you saw, and try to notice things you perhaps overlooked. We all miss things sir.”

In Plamondon Hall, in whatever room the Incumbent can name, he will have the man sit in just the chair he was in before. The room will be arranged, each empty seat named for who had once sat in that spot. The room could be coaxed to remember, just as the Incumbent could. And as for himself? He will constantly have to tell the mona he is not there, that he was never there. That too will be a new element. A new difficulty. “I started using the technique when I was at school. I was not the best of students, and I often needed aid in recalling the content of all the lectures. It has served well since then.” His mind had wandered too much in those days, too much away from the red stone lanes of Brunnhold, and back to the cobble-and-fog greys of Vienda. Brunnhold was not his place. His time there was a misery. Misery clouds the mind, makes it dull. And the Incumbent is miserable. That at much is etched deep into his face. He has cause for his misery.

Shrikeweed has cause for his own.

“The day after tomorrow. I believe your schedule is clear, and I can arrange a meeting in Plamondon Hall.” The pretense will be simple enough. A busy man needs a retreat from time to time, a place to go and work. A place without interruptions. “Tomorrow, sir, it is best we rest. It has been a long night.” And edifying. He raises the wine again, dragging out a long sip. “I must thank you for inviting me to the opera.”

[Tom Cooke]

The Elephant • Uptown

Late Evening on the 28th of Dentis, 2719

I
do not,” he replies carefully, raising an eyebrow. Beginning to understand what Mr. Shrikeweed’s getting at, though he’s not sure if it’s possible, and he’s not sure he much likes it. “Neither do most of the men in that meeting, I would wager,” he goes on, sucking at a tooth. “Distinctive – signatures.”

He shifts in his seat, crossing his arms. The wine sits in front of him on the table, for now forgotten. It’s all a clinging blend in his mouth – brandy, kofi, cheese and mushrooms and sweet oregano and thyme, now a dark heavy wine. He finds he doesn’t much want another drink; this isn’t the unwinding, the uncurling tension, of the first sip of a strong, smooth whisky. This is just a blur, a sluggish slog.

Through what territory? The table between them, once clear – the aged wood shining with the soft gold light above their heads – is now cluttered with dishes. The skin of the cheese, disturbed. Half-gone loaf of bread, the sprig of rosemary garnishing the mushrooms scattered.

It’s not the usual landscape for a meeting with Shrikeweed. Ne, everything about this flooding night’s unusual.

Every time he thinks on it, every time he hears the word “bird” in his head in Shrikeweed’s voice, his pulse jumps. His throat tightens. He’s just sober enough it doesn’t seem like a dream anymore; it’s like the slow, laoso realization that the nightmare you’ve just woken from was not, in fact, a nightmare.

What to do, what to do? There aren’t many options; he’s fixed himself on the few he has, and there’s little more he can do. Whose fault is this? His? For courting Shrikeweed’s suspicions a little too closely? Shrikeweed’s, for not leaving well enough alone? Or was it his job? Where does Mr. Shrikeweed think his job starts and ends? With the civil service, or with order? Men who serve ideals are even worse than men who have none. He should know.

He can’t even think of Genevria Trevisani; he feels the anger in the pit of his stomach, boiling and threatening to boil over. He certainly can’t look even a half-inch askance, at the ghost in the dark-mirror window to his side.

He thinks, at least, he shares this anger with the man sitting across from him. The Shrike goes on, and Tom looks up at him anew, blinking.

For the first time, he finds himself feeling – feeling, with intent – studying the feeling of the other galdor’s caprise. It’s easy enough to let that brush of indectal quantitative mona slip to the wayside, to the back of your mind. Much like his eyes, his face, his dry recitation of some meeting or other in the office at Stainthorpe – hard to hold onto.

To his advantage, now, Tom is starting to realize. He can’t picture Shrikeweed a poor student; it’s another window opened and then shut before he’s a chance to see through it. But he pays pointed attention, now, to that field like a string of calculations, not soft or hard or sharp or dull. Not a ramscott or a dasher. Calculating is a good word for it. More organized, just about, than any field he’s ever felt.

He nods once, slowly, and takes up his glass again. He’s not sure why. Another long drink of wine. Maybe to mirror Shrikeweed. He is nothing if not an excellent mimic, he thinks bitterly.

Oes, we’ll rest. You’ll set yourself on my bird, and I’ll warn her. There’s little rest for me. He sets the glass down. “You may want to wait on that. I don’t think you’ll be thanking me, soon enough. When we’ve begun to find what we’re looking for.” When you’ve found what you’re looking for, he doesn’t say.

He thinks again, too, of Ava – sipping her tea, calmly telling him she’s taken a hit out. Whole lot of ways this could go to the hatchers. Tom’s not sure which, if any, he’s hoping for.

“Tomorrow’s a day for rest – that much I can agree with.” He quirks one red eyebrow. This, too, is not a lie: he can agree with the advice, even if he doesn’t take it. “Still, I’d suggest you give me the outline of how we’re going to proceed,” he says. “I would like to spend tomorrow evening meditating. You can be sure I’ll come to Plamondon Hall on the thirtieth ready.”

He pauses, glancing down at the kofi cup with dregs in the bottom, at the glinting wine glass. Outside, the snow swirls down; it’s laying thick, now, ghost-white. He looks briefly, but it’s Shrikeweed’s reflection he looks through.

He looks back, smiling darkly. “I must thank you, Mr. Shrikeweed,” he parries, “for the coffee. I doubt these last few months would’ve been bearable without it.”

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - The Elephant
Thirteen minutes past the twenty-seventh hour

T

he wine in the glass still turning, he looks at the man across the ruins of the bread and cheese and mushrooms. Across the ruin of this night. Broken and scattered like Dorehaven itself. Tissues of lies and obfuscations flensed away to hint at facts if not at truth. Truth eludes him. It is a slippery beast. Is there any truth here, between him and this man across from him? Among the conspirators? Perhaps they think it so. Perhaps they do not think at all.

Rest. Rest tomorrow and preparation. It will be no simple thing. No easing of his mind or simple preparation of the magic. He will use it, on himself first. Memoranda will be written, private notes and observations. Rage and grief as well. All put down for the official record. It will not purge even the smallest particle of his rage, not the least part of his rage. It will provide it form, give it shape and meaning, make it real. It is a small thing. It is a necessary thing.

He will not sleep. Not until well after dawn and even then it will be fitful and almost restless. He can take something to ease his sleep. No. It will cloud his mind, make him numb for all he must do. After, when he knows what needs knowing he will sleep. Until then, what rest he an snatch will be a fleeting thing. Delicate as a night moth. He will lie upon his carpet, his eyes open but unseeing, stringing his thoughts together, shaping his memory into hard, bright lines. The field will unfold like a letter, like paper, and he will trace the familiar lines of reason. He has done it before. He has never done it like this.

“In Plamondon Hall,” he says at last, his colorless eyes fixed upon the Incumbent. Not searching, barely seeing. Showing his intent. “In the place of this meeting, you will have to sit just where you did before. In each of the other chairs you will have to remember the occupants. The names. Any words spoken will help set the scene. Then, I will ask you questions, ask you to remember.” He turns the glass again. Clockwise, anti-clockwise, and clockwise again. Over and over, the turns become less fluid, more abrupt. The wine swirls in the glass, chaotic, unreasonable. It cannot be helped. The pattern is old, unthinking, inevitable.

In Incumbent has his own unthinking patterns. Their meaning still eludes him.

“This will take the both of us. What aid you can provide would be appreciated. This is new ground for me and it may well go awry.” How far awry? Enough to make him some new man, a new ‘I’ all of his own? It is possible. He has already become a man he cannot quite recognize. Still, times change and one must change with the times. “It will be slow. There will be false starts. Yet I hope that, by degrees, we can reconstruct the meeting.” To what end? To set is down in ink? To apply proper order and method?

Yes. And no.

He must prove himself useful before the caoja in Ophis, prove that he knows more than he should. Prove that his own methods, the proper methods, are more secure, more effective. More flexible. The Black Protocols are codified yes, but they are procedures, a means to an end. The end cannot be discarded. The protocols are not so rigid that they cannot be bent, changed to fit the Matter at hand.

A realization now, something he had not seen before. Something as clear as glass. The conspirators refused to change. Some may think themselves reformers. An inaccurate title. Reactionary is nearer the mark. In substance and in form. The High Judge; does he sense the change in the wind? Is he afraid to such a degree that he will try and claw more power to himself, to try and reclaim some past that has never been? Is that what drives him, what drives them?

An old adage, one of which is father is perhaps too fond comes to mind. ‘If we want things to stay as they are, things will have to change’. An adage that the High Judge and his ilk seemed to have ignored.

“I cannot guarantee results. To do so would be foolish. But we must try sir. If for no other reason than for the caoja in Ophis.” The word now sits almost naturally upon his tongue. Almost, but not quite. His Clockhouse vowels sound wrong. It is not his word. It is the right word. The right words of a wrong business. “ We must be properly briefed. I double any such thing will be forthcoming. So we must do it ourselves.” He sets down the wine and raises what is left of his coffee. “I am glad, sir, that so much use has come of this coffee. Certainly it has smoothed over more matters than either you or I could handle on our own.”