They are talking past each other. They have been for months. It crystalizes in the super-saturated fluid of suspicion. How had he not seen it before? The connection should have been made. A failure of reasoning. A failure of imagination. No, not quite. There were other lines to follow, other policies to craft. A lacunae in the schedule was little enough. Little enough, and yet he had carried on trying to pry it open, to make the gap large enough to pour himself inside, to make sense of the contents. Tonight, more senses has arrived, the threads twisting together.
He should go to the opera more often.
The Incumbent still looks waxen and only half alive.A man unsure of his company. What trust there was between them has grown as pale and thin and the Incumbent himself. A man adrift, trying Shrikeweed nearly smiles when the man taps his own coffee cup, a pale imitation of his own turnings. When did he start the turnings? Long go to be sure. The gesture is old, it is part of him now as surely as his voice, his side whiskers, and his thoughts. A private ritual, one of many he has erected over the years to bring order to chaos.
It is the season for chaos, the year for it. It flowers and grows, its vines reaching out and strangling. A weed growing in the carefully maintained garden of order. Order is unnatural, a made thing, and the more precious for it. And what else has that vine throttled? Can it throttle a man without him being aware until it is too late?
The cravat is tight at his throat. He reaches for it, pulls at its ends and folds. The knot loosens but does not untie. It is too complex for that, too much an affectation constructed for a night at the opera. It is the knot of a man of substance, a man of influence. A borrowed knot for a borrowed mask. It is not the knot of an ink-stained and anonymous civil servant. It is not the knot of a man who knows he does not matter. And yet he is no longer quite so anonymous. A Deputy Chief for Policy Analysis may go their whole career being a nothing to the wider world, a position without reference, a position of which most are unaware. A chief of staff and counselor to an Incumbent is another matter. A more public man.
Why send a policy analyst to fill such a role? Until tonight it had made little sense. Yet now there was at least a thread to follow, an argument that made some sense. A policy was created. It had been enacted and without apparent approval via official channels. It had been done the wrong way. Whatever the content of the policy its methods were unsound. And what was the policy? Unknown. And that was the logical reason for his assignment. Neither he nor Braithwaite-Kilcoyne had had any idea what this unsound policy was, and that could not be allowed to stand. And, it is clear to him now, he could never have been told what he was to look for. It would have clouded his judgement, biased him in dangerous ways. Proper analysis requires cultivated ignorance, the naive mind. It had been necessary to keep him in the dark.
Necessity does not breed equanimity.
“I believe, sir,” he turns his cup again, repeating the ritual. It brings no comfort. “That the interest of the Service is largely procedural. Whatever policy you, that is ‘He’, had helped formulate, it was done without official consultation. Few things irk the Service more than being kept from the loop. It could not be allowed to stand.” He looks at the Incumbent for some sign of recognition. The result is unclear. The motives of the Service area thing unto themselves, perhaps even alien. “Motives as to content well, that is rather murkier matter.” Murkier, yes, but essential.
And the Gioran Matter. Well, it has little enough to do with Gior, little enough to do with official channels. A conspiracy created - and executed? - wholly without consultation. It had been spotted, the shoddy coverup could be seen from a mile away. And yet the heart of the matter could not be seen. Not without the curious combination of poorly written schedules and a night at the opera.
“As to my views as to the Gioran Matter?” A long breath and labored. He has answers, and none of them pleasant. Wraithwine. Wraithwine. That implication was clear enough. “We might as well drop the pretense. Clearly it has something to do with what happened,” there is a catch in his voice, sorrow and rage in equal measure, “has something to so with the Dorehaven Incident.” Dorehaven. The bombing. Levesque. He can still see the old man’s benignant face, hear the reedy tones of his voice, the creaking of his joints. Did you lose anyone at Dorehaven, Incumbent? Or were you aware enough to instruct your friends and relations to stay away on that day? “Three main lines of reasoning occur to me. They are supported by the data to varying degrees. Still, you must understand that each of these is merely a possible interpretation of events. I lack significant data.” Data the Incumbent has. His eyes fix upon the man, hard cold. Or so they should be. Yet he can feel the slight welling of tears in his eyes. Tears for the death of his dear friend and mentor, tears for another birthing of chaos. “First, you and several others, including that Megiro creature, became away of the plot regarding the bombing. You tried to forestall it, or prevent it. The fact that you failed is significant. A cover-up of your incompetence followed. Reasonable, yes, yet it fails to fit all the facts.”
And now the cheese, mushrooms, and bread make their appearance. Fragrant and rich, just the thing on a cold night. The dish of soft cheese is bubbling as it is set down. The mushrooms are fragrant with garlic, thyme, and sherry. The bread is toasted to a beautiful golden brown. On any other night, it would have been perfect. It seems a strange repast over which to conspire. Over which to lay out horrors and half-formed theories.
Sebele cracks a smile. Is she aware of this conversation? Perhaps. He would not put it past her. She has ears almost as keen as his own. She has a better ear for rumor. She can hear opportunity in the wind. “Anything else, Mr S?”
He looks up, trying to smile as he should in this place. He fails. It is a rictus of agony, for suspicion. Sebele’s eyes grow wide for a moment. “It has been a long night. Perhaps a bottle of wine? An Ilacue if you still have it. But anything soft and thoughtful will serve.” She nods, departs with her usual purpose. She is ignoring the Incumbent. A deliberate slight? Unlikely. Perhaps she cannot believe that Shrikeweed has brought anyone here to the Elephant. To his own private sanctum.”
The coffee cup turns again, clockwise, anticlockwise, and clockwise again. Over and over. He does not stop, cannot stop. The aroma of the cheese and the fragrant mushrooms fill his nostrils. He wants nothing more than to dine on both. To forget this evening. There is no hope of that. Not good in it either. “My second line perhaps fits the events rather more closely. And it, sir, is deeply unsound.” An understatement if ever there was one. “The plot was discovered, and you and your unpleasant allies thought they could make use of it. There is an old saying sir, ‘Never let a crisis go to waste’. Certainly Dorehaven was a crisis, and certain policies, certain attitudes, have changed since then. They have hardened.” Certainly his own have done so. Can he pass a human man in the street without suspicion rising like bile in his throat? Has he not fought bare-knuckled in half-legal bouts in warehouses along the river, purging his sorrow and rage in the giving and receiving of pain? It helps. It is not enough. It will never be enough.
“The third, and rather darker line is this: That you and yours planned it. Why wait for an atrocity upon which to capitalize when you could make one of your own?” He nearly spits out the words. It is abominable, unthinkable. And yet he is thinking it. His stomach churns. What manner of man could plan such a thing? I could, he thinks to himself. It is a logical course of action. Logical if one’s goal was the turning of public opinion, the consolidation of authority. He could have planned such a thing. And if he had, well, it would have been covered up a good deal better. The plan was wrong in and of itself. It was horrific. Yet if it had been official policy, it would have been frightfully well carried out. It was not official policy.
His eyes bore into the Incumbent now, searching every feature of the man for confirmation or denial. For the love of all the gods, man, tell me I am wrong. Tell me that I am a fool. He is not a fool. Not any longer. “Monstrous.” He mutters it under his breath. Barely audible; an utterance for himself alone. “It that it, sir? Is that what you fear I already know? Is that what you think I am here to silence.” His eyes, so often colorless flash gold and green, flash in anger and hate. “What part of me do you think would endorse such chaos? Chaos, Anatole,” It is the first time he has used the Incumbent’s given name. It may well be his last. Let it be what it must, consequences be damned. “Cannot be allowed to grow, to spread. If this is what broke you sir, scattered your wits, then I can understand, even sympathize.” He takes in a long and painful breath, the tears still forming in his eyes. “But, I cannot condone it." He looks again at that pained and waxen face. That face of fear. Doe he understand now? Perhaps. It is another hope, one he will take. "And neither can you.” He can see that, in the Incumbent’s face. Or is that a desire of his own? A desire to see a man he half-likes not turn out to be some monster. A foolish desire. And yet. And yet. ‘He’ and ‘I’, ‘I’ and ‘He’ one man of two minds. One sound, the other unsound. The barest of hopes. “Gods dammit! If you had bothered to trust me I might have done something.” He draws in another breath. It is futile, meaningless. Just as any action he might have taken would have been. He is but one man, and one man does not matter. “I was sent too late. Far, far too late.”