De Omnibus Dubitandum

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - Smike's End - 177C Lesser Larch Street

The 29th of Dentis - Nine Minutes Past the Second Hour

Part I - Shrikeweed

D

o you understand?” he says to the boy.

“I’m not a fool Mr Shrike. You’ve laid it out prettily enough. Watch the man’s house . . ”

“Discreetly.”

“‘Course discreetly. Discretion is my middle name.” That much is true. No exaggeration. The boy has a curious name, too grand and yet not so. Bailiff Discretion Sneed. Whatever his parents had been thinking when his naming came could only be imagined. Names are no proof of competence or good fail. Precedent he has. Bailey is a good agent. Quick, quiet, and observant. Not docile, not by a long chalk. Docile agents are useless. They cannot improvise, or tell you when your plans are foolish or mad. Bailey has no such compunctions.The Service should employ more burglars and pickpockets. He has no illusions about the boy’s past. Here it is an asset, and one he has to hand. He will play with the cards he has been dealt. He can do nothing else.

“I will hold you to that,” he says, leaning back into his chair. It is quiet in the parlour save for the soft crackling of a dying fire and the occasional ring of the decanter being unstoppered. The fine brandy that the boy has stolen from somewhere. It seems proper. A small crime to bring himself into the company of thieves. A token that this is no ordinary, no simple request. Before tonight Bailey has never passed the inner door, never sat in one of the armchairs, folded up like a cat. Yet he is here now, and not for the last time. There is something natural about this, something inevitable. It is a year for conspiracies, a season for strange alliances.

With more gravity that he expects, Bailey swirls the brandy in his snifter, staring down into the amber liquid. Somehow, the boy’s eyes grow darker. Is he trying to see his path in the swirling liquid? Conjuring vision of the Incumbent’s fine house on Ro Hill? Is the boy’s magic strong enough for that? Perhaps it is, perhaps not. Perhaps it is just a trick of the light.

“I ain’t never been caught sir, saving by your own good self.” Another truth, or near enough.

There are no tattoos upon the boy, no criminals’ roses on hands or face, no tally-bars to mark the time of incarceration. If ever he had been caught, he must have been a mere child. He is nearly a child still. He remembers the night he found Bailey, curled up and sleeping in the alcove in the vestibule. The boy had claimed he came in for shelter from the cold. It had been a cold night. A boy does not pick an outer lock, not leave scratches upon the inner merely seeking a warm kip for the night. For the crime not quite committed, he had sentenced the boy to an indeterminate sentence of employment. He has never regretted it.

“So,” Bailey continues, eyes still fixed on the brandy, “do you know who you’re looking for? That’ll make the job easier.”

“I have no idea,” he says, swirling his own brandy and wondering if this course of action is ever likely to bear fruit. “He keeps, or kept, a mistress. Men tell their mistresses things they tell no one else. I need to find this woman, this ‘Little Bird’, and I need to speak to her. That is all. I wish no scandal, no damage, to come to the Incumbent. All I require is information.” All. He nearly laughs. Even now he can feel the gaps in his understanding, the moth-holes in the tapestry of events. They are vast things, and too many. He cannot piece it all back together. That does not mean he will not try. “I doubt she would come to the house, at least not in a way to be easily seen. She may be a friend of the wife, or a colleague.” He thinks of Trevisani, of her ‘business’, and reconsiders. “Or then again, she may not. Something gnaws at the back of my mind, something I have missed or failed to see. Something about the matter seems not quite right.”

The whole matter smells of week-old fish. Nothing lines up, nothing hangs together. The Incumbent dances of the end of many strings. Trevisani is pulling on at least some of them. There is more to this than a simple indiscretion. Politicians are expected to have affairs and keep paramours. It is practically a requirement of high office. What is he missing? What is the heart of the matter?

For the first, and only, time in his life he curses himself for having no wanting for romance, no carnal drive. Would such desires illuminate things, shine a light in dark corners he cannot quite see?

Bailey nods. “Just watching? Won’t be no trouble slipping into the house and having a rummage about the private papers. Juicy letters, perhaps with addresses, dates of assignations, and terrible poetry. Men always seem to write the worst poetry to their pretty pieces.” Bailey cocks a smile and takes a sip of the brandy. “I’ve done it all before, any number of times. I like creeping though a stately home. The carpets are always so soft. No one ever hears me going by.”

“The hour has not come for that. Leave the Incumbent’s house in peace. Remember, we are watching over him, not plotting against him.” And are you not, he thinks. He sees the man now, growing pale and wan in his booth at the Elephant, hears his voice entreating him to let the matter drop. That cannot be allowed. Not this time. The dead of Dorehaven are testament enough to that. He cannot allow any more blood to stain his hands. The Incumbent claims his hands bloodless, but he can see the stains even now, beneath the ink.

Don’t flatter yourself, he thinks. There is nothing you could have done. The dead would still be dead. The words are true. The words bring no comfort. He is one man, and one man does not matter. Another empty comfort, a hollow truth. The stains are there, whatever the events. They cannot be scrubbed away. They can only be justified. In the end.

“You alright Mr Shrike?” Bailey’s voice breaking his crimson meditation. How long has he sat in silence, staring at his hands, cursing his inactions? He cannot be sure. Perhaps hours. Perhaps no time at all.

“Yes,” he says. That is a lie. He is far from alright. He may never be again. What does it matter? He can do more as a man run ragged, deprived of sleep, and full of anger, than ever he could do in Chancery writing dry reports on dryer policy. It will cost him, of that he has no doubt. He can only hope the cost is worth the candle. “Just a bit distracted. It has been a long night.” The longest he can remember, and still not quite over.

He draws himself up in his chair, retakes the brandy. “You have your instructions. The rest is up to you. If you run into any difficulties . . .”

Bailey’s smile vanishes, replaced by a deadly calm. “Won’t be no difficulties. Or, leastways none I can’t handle.”

[Runcible Spoon]

Vienda - On Ro Hill
The 29th of Dentis - From far too early
to almost too late

Part II - Bailey

T

here is nothing he fears in the dark. The shadows are his old allies. On Lesser Larch Street he wears them thick about his shoulders, draped round him like a much loved coat. They bring no warmth. That is not their way. Allies, yes, but not ones like to coddle. The street is dim, even the ghost-light of the phosphor lamps seems swallowed up, devoured. Behind him the edifice of the tea house and the apartments above rise dark and near featureless. Nothing to mark them out, nothing to catch the eye. Nothing, save a pale light half-hidden behind a curtain.

Mr Shrike is still up there, still sitting unnaturally still in that chair. Thinking his unnatural thoughts with that mechanical mind. The man never seems to sleep. He comes and goes at all hours, always seeming on the edge of some catastrophe. The catastrophe never comes.

Well, not until tonight. His patron is never voluble, never one to show his cards, but even he cannot hide completely behind the mask of preternatural calm. There are always cracks. Tonight they have grown larger. He can see behind them, beneath them, but to what? Something broke, or nearly broke, in Mr Shrike tonight. Broke him enough to let Bailey into the apartment proper, to let him sit by the fire as though he were a colleague, and not just some errand boy. He is still an errand boy, but tonight it is different. No messages to be run or packages to retrieve. Other skills were be needed beyond quick feet and a knack for moving through crowds as though there were nothing more than mist from off the river. Tonight is a night for watching. For waiting. For spying.

Do all bureaucrats employ spies? Is that how the world is run? If so, he’s never heard of it. But then again, if all the spies are like himself, he expects no one knows much of anything.

His instructions are clear. Clear, but open ended. He is to watch the Incumbent’s house, note all comings and goings. If anything looks suspicious, he is to follow up upon it.

“Any limits?” he had asked, staring his patron straight into those colorless eyes.

“Within reason, no. Stay unseen. Confront no one.” Mr Shrike had worn a strange expression saying that. Bailey nodded and understood. Confront no one, unless absolutely necessary. “This is reconnaissance. What I believe, in your argot, is ‘casing the joint’”. Mr Shrike never sounds right using phrases like that. Always stilted and formal, like a cove speaking some new language he does not quite understand. Polite though. Never dismissive or insulting. Never condescending. His patron does not need that, there is no point. Mr Shrike knows he is the superior here, is sure of his status. It is pointless for him to drive the point home. At first it seems fair, even soft. Well, that’s a damned mistake. It’s more insidious. Makes you think you ought to be inferior, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“What about costs?” He had said, getting down to business.

“Costs?”

“Carriage fare, should I need to get about right quick. Food and drink. It’s a cold night, and I’m going to need coffee at least to keep me going. I don’t ‘spose there’s a convenient coffee house right across the street from the Incumbent’s pile?” That would be too much of a good thing, too easy. The big toffs on Ro Hill live on shady avenues of trees, among gardens and stately villas. They don’t tend to live hard-by wine shops, coffee houses, and tea rooms. More’s the pity. “And lodgings, sir. I can’t be traipsing back and forth at strange hours. I’ll lose too much time. I got to stay hard by. I’ll get as cheap as I can. Never you fear.” He will be true to that word. No point in lying.

Mr Shrike had given him a small sheaf of banknotes, a handful of coins, and an admonishment to not spend it all on bitter and leek and mushroom pies. He’s not mentioned any other kind of pie.

It is too late now for any commerce, or too early. Not even the bakers are awake in these small hours. He passed them by, locked up and dark, no smoke curling from chimneys to mar the freezing sky. Snow is falling, still, collecting in drifts and smoothing over the rough signs of traffic and people. There is no one else abroad. Not on Lesser Larch Street, not on Curlew Street. No one at all as he makes his way down to Crosstown, and then up again, steep and slow. To the south, to Ro Hill.

It rises under him, high and rounded, steeper than it looks, and slower going. By custom and necessity he goes along side streets and quieter avenues. The boulevards and wide avenues are too open, too bright, even in the dark of the third house of night. He will stick to the shadows. Tomorrow, if tomorrow ever comes, he will offer them some gift, some token of his esteem. He has never known what to give the shadows, to the mona who make them shift and bend. A word and deeds. The dousing of lights perhaps, but not too many. The light is still needed to shape the gloom.

The fourth hour and he arrives before the house. A fine edifice in a classic style. It looks like what it is, the sanctum of a toff with too much money and not enough sense. The windows are too large, too easy to slip through. It is a house that announces to the street and to all who go by that it does not fear thieves. Tonight, and for the next however many days, that at least will be true. He will make sure of that.

Too late and too early to begin his work. No one will be afoot. Down the hill then, towards the fine shops and patisseries, the elegant tea rooms which will open in the hours after dawn. Best to scope those out. Find the cheapest lodging house he can. He has papers enough to ensure he can take a room. And the best papers of all; the sheaf of banknotes. Amazing what a little ging can do.

Hours passed, and the sun already risen. At Montmorency Lane he finds his kip. The Glazebrooke Arms, cheap as he can find and near enough to the Incumbent’s that he can operate from there. He shows papers and ging. “Official,” he says to the confused lady who takes the guests. “Everything in order. I’m here on business, confidential business.” Today he looks the part. A respectable young man of the city. His coat is brushed, his face is washed, his shoes are clean and neat. Well, neat as can be, given a trudge through the snow. The papers and the ging do the trick. He is given the worse room in the house. Drafty, cramped, and smelling of mothballs. He hates it the moment he enters. Perfect. No comforts here to draw him off from his duties. At least there are no fleas. Fleas are too common for Ro Hill.

Coffee and croissant as the Arms, then off to the Incumbent’s to sit and wait and watch. Hours unmoving in the cold. Hours with the shadows pulled around him. Small magics, nothing fancy, a little shroud of gloom to keep away prying eyes. A vacuum flask of coffee, he managed to get the Arms to fill it, and a notebook are his only companions. No worries about the latter. All his papers are in order. Mr Shrike has seen to that.

Afternoon and the coffee in the flask is long since drunk. The house has been quiet. A postman dropped by with the usual letters. Unremarkable. Then, in the afternoon, his eyes almost drooping shut, another arrival. A woman, dressed warm and sensible, dark hair barely visible, alights from a carriage. She is too far away, so he slips from his shadows and moves a little closer, strolling along the avenue, casual like. The lady, quite a pretty lady truth be told, takes some vast and oblong case from the carriage, struggles with it. For a flash he considers going to help, going to take the measure of her face and demeanor. Some other kov has that idea and beats him to it. A lad in the street, dressed in some toff’s livery. Livery, a damned good idea. The boy assists in the management of the case, gets the lady to the side of the house, then dashes off.

The tradesman’s entrance, all very right and proper, but what does a lady alone need such a case for? It ain’t no cello or bass fiddle, so she is not here to play fine music to soothe the master of the house. What does she have in that case? Might be significant, probably nothing. He notes her down all the same.

Time ticks past and the woman remains within. Whatever her business is, it takes a good long while. What does a nattle like that have to do with the Incumbent? What sort of lady travels with a case like that but no porters to tend to it? And by the tradesman’s entrance. A case like that can carry anything. Books, music boxes, samples of fine porcelain. And letters. A man and his mistress have to keep in touch. But why, he thinks, send a pretty lady with a case to carry them? Damned awkward.

A little later and the sun angling down across the sky. The lady with the case appears again.

SpoilerShow

1d6 = (4) = 4 (observation)

He cannot quite make out her face, cannot quite read her expression. Is she worried? Upset? Annoyed? There is a set to her body, a way of moving, that suggests she is less than sanguine. She is brisk in her movements, competent. She handles that case well enough. Down the hill she goes, toward Crosstown and Smike’s End, toward the river. He lets her go, at least a little ways.

Confront no one. Well, that’s fair enough, but a bit of a stroll in the same direction, well, that ain’t confrontation, now is it?

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda -177C Lesser Larch Street

The Evening of the 29th of Dentis, hour unknown

Part III - Shrikeweed

H

e has neglected to water the orchids. He has neglected to eat, has drunk only green and coca tea. Sleep is barred to him. Now is not, now cannot, be the time for such luxuries.
A chaos of books surrounds him. At least what passes for chaos here. A small collection of grimoires sits open upon his desk, pages of notes in his neat, chancery hand tucked in at relevant pages. On every available surface he has placed a notebook and a pen. The former are filled with writing, with figures and calculations. The latter languishing in a drought of ink.

There is one closed book, a copy of Acevedo’s Unnumbered Gardens of Saavedra, placed in the precise middle of a hexagonal table in the center of the room. He knows that book, knows its dialogues and passages, knows many epigrams and quotes. The twisting plot, full of betrayal and confusion, has been a favorite of his since he was a forlorn youth of seventeen. That will make the work easier. Easier, but not simple.

On the morning of the 29th, just after his final meal, an omelet with mushrooms and a few slices of dry sausage, he set himself the task of becoming the author of that same work. From scattered passages and the memory of sentences he is trying to draw out the work, to create those same sentences anew. Can he predict the book into existence again? Can cold equations and arrays of numbers serve to model the mind of a literary genius? Whatever comes of this, even a perfect rendering, will be nothing but a pale reflection of the work that sits along in its hexagon.

There is no art about him, only memories and what passes for love in the machine of his mind. It will have to do. It will have to serve.

The tea is cold. It has been so for hours. Meaningless. It still serves its purpose. He takes a long, drawn-out, swig, feels the clammy, oddly flavorless brew slide down his throat to settle on his near-empty stomach. It will stir his thoughts. That is its virtue. Words on the pages now, flowing out of his pen with what he can sense now is startling accuracy. The gears and cogwheels of his mind, of his magic, turn with well-oiled ease.

SpoilerShow

1d6 = (5) = 5 ) (quantitative literary prediction)

From such a shattered state I was unwilling to move into anything like hope. Still, I told myself that I might have avoided disaster after all. I was still alive, my enemy was still unaware of my movements. Unaware or unwilling to confront me. Either gave me the upper hand. I could not help but consider that this small success did not presage my ultimate victory.

And at this same hour, and in a garden exactly similar to my own, my enemy was thinking those same thoughts.

He stares at the words upon the page. They stare back with piercing eyes drawn in labored ink. They are the right words, the flow properly predicted, the words slotting one after another in an inevitable chain. The corners of his mouth quiver, and he very nearly smiles. Very nearly give in to hope. And yet the sense is all wrong. The meaning is not what Acevedo had intended. These are Shrikeweed’s words, and their meaning is twisted and mangled by the engine of his magic. The words he has needed to write. Words all out of order.

How long has he been writing? How long has he kept his field unfurled, the stacks of gears and rotors turning? The ink in his veins, no, not ink, blood, has gone cold as the tea. Cold, slow, thick and sluggish. Behind his eyes is the usual pain. Before his eyes motes of silver float. They are a trick of the eye, nothing more. The diminution of his field, the release of his hold upon the mona cannot be seen. Only felt. He feels it now, and wishes that those faint silver lighters were the mona bidding him farewell. They are nothing of the kind. They are messengers all the same, of pain and exhaustion.

A knock at the door and he rises, cramped and unsteady from his chair. The keys turn in his hand, clockwise, anticlockwise, and clockwise again, the handle follows in due course. The door frames the shape of Bailey. He too looks ragged, stretched thin.

“Evening Mr Shrike.”

“Is it evening?” He has not bothered to look out into Lesser Larch Street. He has not bothered to draw back the curtains.

“That it is, and a cold one at that.” Snow decorates the boy’s shoulders, clings to his hat, slush adorns his boots. No thought, no asking, and Bailey doffs his hat, his coat, and boots; hangs the former on a coat rack, leaves the boots on the little shoe shelf by the umbrella stand. This is only the second time he has performed this ritual, and already he seems to know it by heart. The final act, the putting on of carpet slippers, is performed without comment. “The fire’s dying out sir. I’ll stoke it up.”

The clatter of poker and the wheeze of the bellows ring in his ears. Too much now. An agony of sound. Very nearly he orders the boy to stop. Then, warmth and light, the soft crackling of the logs in the grate. There is no need to order silence, it can come on its own. “There we are sir, and a merry fire it is.” Bailey stretches out before it, again like a cat. It is right, correct, sound, that the boy be like this. That he makes himself at home in quiet ways.

“I have my reports, written as best I could. Though gods know my hand is neither pretty nor concise.”

“Give me the highlights. I can read the reports later.” That will be slow going. Bailey is right about his hand and his words. They are crud, often poorly spelled, and messy. Still, they contain necessary data. They too must be catalogued. The machine demands it. There is no use, no virtue, in denying the machine what it desires.

“Little enough to report. The morning and evening postman dropped by. I could not make out the letters from where I was, but they seemed the usual sort. Neither too many nor too few. No packages. The street was quiet. At least until the lady arrived.”

v“The lady?” It could not be that easy, could it? Would the Incumbent be so open in his affairs as to have the woman come to his own house? Perhaps to go so far as to take tea with his wife?

“Well, I say lady, and she was dressed well enough, but she was carrying a damned great case and went in through the tradesman’s entrance.”

“Describe her.”

“Pretty lady, not old. Closer to my own age than yours, begging your pardon.” He dismissed the almost-slight with a wave of his hand. The age is important, perhaps significant. Perhaps it is nothing at all. “Dark hair, and I think dark eyes from what I could make out. Not much to say about her really. She being all coated up and with her great fur-trimmed hood pulled up. It was a smart coat sir. Very smart.”

“Your views on the case.”

“No idea sir. Not any kind of musical instrument I don’t think. Might have contained some form of goods? Does your Incumbent collect anything? Teapots? Antique silver? Paintings?” A fair question. He has no answer. He has never been to the man’s house, has never asked about his private hobbies. An art dealer? It is not out of the question.

“How long did she stay?” The duration may indicate something. Certainly if the woman was there only to drop off a piece of artwork she would not stay long.

“A fair while sir.” The simple delivery dissolves into nothingness. “And she left carrying the same case. It seemed, not so much odd sir, as significant. When she left, in a carriage sir, I followed as best I could on foot. Followed her down the hill heading riverwords.” Bailey reaches into his pockets and draws out a two pieces of paper, hands them over. A cab receipt, all very much in order, and hand-written series of numbers in Bailey’s personal scrawl. A carriage number. Incomplete. “There was a bit of the usual slowup on Kingsway, and I managed to get myself a cab. Followed the lady as far as The tangle of streets on the far side of Crosstown, before the waterfront, but lost her in traffic. I had the cabbie drive about for a while, all the time me peering out like some damned birdwatcher. No birds sir. No little birds at all.”
In his armchair, Shrikeweed leans back, stretches his legs toward the fire. “Were you seen?” The boy smiles his catlike smile, shakes his head.

“Don’t think so sir. Her carriage was moving leisurely, made no strange motions. I’m sorry I lost her. I can try and figure out where she might have gone. Won’t be easy though. And getting information out of cabbies is harder than pulling rhinoceros teeth. Or, so I am told.” He nearly laughs, imagining the operation. The boy’s past is colorful enough that he may have actual insight into such matters. He should like to think so, if only to lighten his mood.

The stubble on his chin rasps as he runs his hand along it. He will need to shave, to eat, and to sleep. A neat, dark-haired lady with a case, heading north and a partial carriage number. Little enough to go on. His eyes return to the numbers on the piece of paper. Can he try his magics again, try to fill in the missing characters?

The pain in his head grows stronger. Not a cleansing pain, not one to bring focus. A destroying pain. He can do no more magic tonight. None at all tomorrow. “A fine report, and proper action. Well done. You can keep the money, and an advance.” He reaches over to a billfold and draws out a five Concord note. “Go back to the house, Bailey, or to whatever lodging you have taken. We have work before us, you and I, and we both require our rest.”

The boy rises at last, warmed and comfortable. At the door he don coat and hat and boots. “I’ll keep an eye out for ladies with oblong cases, and anything else I may find. Goodnight Mr Shrike.”

“Goodnight, Bailey.” The boy goes, silent into the gloom of the vestibule, into the dark of the streets. He sinks still further into his chair. His eyes are heavy, he cannot keep the lids open. There is little enough point in resisting. Slow, unsteady, like an old man unsure of his footing, at last he rises and makes his way to the bed. To dream of numbers, of sentences as yet unwritten, and of dark young ladies with mysterious cases.