[Closed] Prudenter Agas et Respice Finem

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - Clover Street

The Ninth of Vortas 2719 - The Twenty-Fourth Hour

Part I - The Jeweler of Clover Street

C

lover street and the afternoon already fading. Here and there little clumps of people formed in front of one shop or another, jostling against each other. A pickpocket’s paradise. He can see Bailey, or rather the idea of him as he was, darting between overstuffed gents and too-grand ladies, lifting billfolds and coin purses with a practiced ease. The phantom hands are darting to and fro, moving with a lightness that would do justice to a violin virtuoso. No, not violin, they are too reserved for this work. A viol itself, of the old school. More resonant, harsher, and heavier with history.

The boy is not here, not even his ghost. No, he is high up on Ro Hill watching, owl-like and just as silent, all the doors of the Incumbent’s house. His task has grown, changed. It is beyond his usual work. The boy has said as much. He has dismissed his concerns.

“I ain’t no body guard, begging your pardon Mr Shrike.” Bailey, sunk back in his now-usual chair in the apartment in Smike’s End, this time with a cup of tea and one of his ubiquitous hand pies. Never a crumb or flake of pastry fell out of place, never a drip of sauce or gravy to mar the chair. They boy eats with a casual, untutored fastidiousness. His manners are not those to grace the tables of the lofty and powerful, but they are not uncouth. A civilized custom all of its own.

“I never said you were. Keep to your shadows, but watch for dangerous men.” He recalled Prudhomme, recalled the voice the Incumbent had given that timid pudding of a man. “And watch even more closely for frightened men. I do not know their faces, I know less of their names, I do not know if they will come.” They will come. Perhaps today, perhaps in a year’s time. They will come when the time is at its worst. It is inevitable.The Incumbent’s office is watched, he himself makes sure of that, and controls the schedule and the meetings with an iron hand. His club? That is a harder matter, and the most likely line of approach.

“And there is one other person whose comings and goings are of interest. A lady, perhaps about forty, red-haired and too elegant by half. Her name at least I know.” The tea cup in his hand had turned. Clockwise, anticlockwise, and clockwise again. Over and over. Bailey must have seen it, marked the ritual of the turnings. A sign. A tell. “Trevisani.”

Bailey had looked blank, a parchment awaiting words. The name had meant nothing to him. Why should it? The boy had moved in entirely different circles, hadn’t he. “A lady of substance and many intriguing social connexions.”

“Ah,” the boy had said, a wide smile splitting his face. “A fancy piece? Or used to be? Am adventurous lady whom gents enjoy having draped about them? Probably plays the piano-forte, sings opera a little too well, and rides moas with dash.”

“I cannot say I have ever heard her sing, though she does seem to enjoy music. But I am afraid you may have missed the mark with her profession.” Had he? In her youth, Trevisani would have been astonishingly pretty, she was so now, if he could trust to his measurements. Her face had all the dimensions of attractiveness, her form resembled the more elegant of statues. Yes, she was beautiful, the numbers did not lie. And with the flower of youth about her, she would have been positively dangerous.

“I get the picture sir. A lady of connexions. A lady who might provide discreet access to those connexions?”

“That has been my understanding, yes.” Understanding, and hearsay. The Incumbent had been clear on Trevisani’s occupation. But what proof was there? Nothing would hold up in court. Fool. There will be no courts. The High Judge is in all this up to his eyes. The courts are no recourse. The law has had its teeth pulled. Another line will be needed.

“I can ask around, I do have my own connexions.” The smile had broadened and he had waggled his eyebrows.

“One thing at a time Bailey. One thing at a time.”

It is good advice. A pity he cannot follow it. He is two men now, perhaps more. The masks are all bleeding together. First, foremost, he is the civil servant, the analytical engine of policy. He must be that, anything otherwise is imprudent. He is not an imprudent man. And yet, he is here. He is here as the second man, the agent of a private conspiracy, the more ruthless man. This mask is growing too comfortable, too hard to remove. It presses now on his temples, framing the headaches that never seem to depart. They only fade into the background.

What is he doing here, on Clover Street? This is not his place, these are not his people. Too fine, too elegant, too useless. Too hungry for status and ostentation. Too like ‘Him’. A perfect place then. It is ‘He’ that must be understood. His actions and his follies; the man who joined in a conspiracy of monsters. The man who kept a mistress.

Recharmont & Deaulogne - Jewelers. Great glass windows facing the street. Double paned and with thick glass. A protection against thieves, and an invitation. All along those windows, set likes stars among a velvet sky, gems and pearls, and fine bands and chains of gold and silver. He is no judge of jewelry. Beyond the odd watch fob and cravat pin there has never been cause. A humorless smile. There is cause enough now.

Wainscotting would have a better eye, a better sense of the gifts men give their paramours. Gods knows the man has had more than a few. Always amiable, witty women. His friend has always preferred a companion who can argue and quip right alongside. The lady of the moment is called Charlotte. Another lawyer. Should he have brought her along? No. Let this be a conspiracy of one today. It is already one too many.

The bell jangling as he enters. The bell goes silent. A quiet space, the air heavy and still, weighed down by wealth. The value of all these pieces is more than he can hope to make in two lifetimes, perhaps three. No matter. The jewels are not currency, they have no ebb and flow. They sit, beautiful in their stagnation. They do not change and grow, they do not become.

“May I help you, sir?” The voice, rich and unctuous, like butter, flows in sonorous vowels from the throat of a portly gent with minute glasses and sidewhiskers at least three times the size of his own.

He puts on a considering look, draws his brows together, the comfortable folds reforming, and stares with colorless eyes into a case of necklaces. “Ah, yes, yes I rather think you can. You were recommended to me my a lady of significant reputation. Name of Gosselin.” He does not say he means the daughter. He tells no lies, not yet. He tells no truths either.

The portly gent gives a genial, knowing nod. Good. He has taken the reference. That will make the rest so much easier. “I know the name sir. A very respectable name.”

“It is at that, yes. Though I am here as agent for another respectable name. As such, the Gosselin recommendation was most welcome.”

“Indeed sir,” the man replies again, growing even more flattered.

“I am led to understand that you have done some custom work for Incumbent Vauquelin in the past. Fine work, very elegant.”

“Oh yes sir, yes indeed. Several pieces, necklaces, some lovely earrings, and rings. In the modern style you understand, flowing lines and botanical patterns. Much in demand. Are you here on his behalf, another commission?”

The gears turning now, clicking over and over, he takes the measure of the man, takes the measure of his own scheme. It is clumsy, ill conceived. It will have to do. “Yes, a commission, for the Incumbent himself. An ornate cravat pin with matching watch fob and cuff-links, and harmonious in the style of one of the aforementioned necklaces. And a pair of earrings, to replace a set sadly lost.” Another turn of the gears, and another piece slots into place. “The thing is, sir, he cannot quite recall the pattern of the missing earrings, and is loath to ask of them, for fear it would raise uncomfortable memories.” The jeweler puts on a creditable show of sympathy. Perhaps it is genuine. Perhaps it is only a lament for the loss of his work. The internally fabricated loss. “Therefore, sir, I was hoping to have a look at your designs, to refresh the Incumbent’s recollections.”

The jeweler raises his eyebrows, confused, “You wish to consult the designs? Just consult?”

“Yes, if I may. I should be able to convey the information to my patron, at least with some detail. If I cannot acquire a copy of the diagrams.”

“Let me consult my drafts, sir. But this is most unusual. And how am I to know you are a proper agent of the Incumbent?”

He has expected this, prepared for it. He draws a card from a case. The official card.

Basil A Shrikeweed, esq
Senior Policy Advisor & Chief of Staff
Incumbent A Vauquelin
Stainthorpe Hall

It has the official stamp, the proper embossing. Authentic in every manner. Another fragment of truth. “I believe that should suffice for my bona fides, at least as far as a consultation goes.” The Jeweler takes the card, produces the inevitable jeweler’s loupe and gives it a thorough going over. He humphs, satisfied it is no forgery.

“Very well, sir, I will have the drawings fetched. Caruthers!” he calls over his should into the back, and a hale but aging man with a great bald head appears. “Ah, Caruthers, if you would be so good at the fetch the custom designs for Incumbent Vauquelin?” The man, Caruthers, nodds, and goes to the back again. A thud and a curse, and the man reappears holding a large folio.

“‘ere they are, sir, all I can find.” He lays the folio down the the counter, and opens it with careful hands. “A number of fine designs, I should think, but I’d avoid this one.” He points to a necklace shaped rather like a butterfly, or perhaps a series of opening flowers. “Seems the style has caught on with the masses, so to speak.”

“Caruthers!” The Jeweler looks aghast, insulted. “I do not make common jewelry.”

“No sir, begging your pardon sir, but I was only doing what you ask. I was making my rounds of lesser jewelers and pawn shops, to see what is no longer the height of fashion.” The Jeweler calms himself at this. He cannot abide thinking his work is less than perfect. Yet he cannot quite complain at his man following instructions. “Saw a piece very like this in a pawn shop north of the River. It were a good copy, as far as I could see.”

North of the River. North again. The it is not the first time that direction has appeared. It seems likely it will not be the last.

A sniff from the Jeweler, and the man, in his indignity, takes up Shrikeweed’s own line of questions. “Where was this shop Caruthers. I shall have them know that they must be trading in stolen property. Stolen intellectual property!” He glares at Shrikeweed. An accusation.

He spreads his hands and offers what he hopes is an expression of genuine astonishment. “A sign of the times, I am afraid. I can assure you, sir, that I am no thief, nor am I a spy of your rivals.” He looks down at the drawings again, takes their measure and dimensions. No tricks, no magic. All performance. “You may keep your diagrams. I believe it is not the butterfly necklace that is likely to be the one to match. I believe the abstract whorls are more likely.”

An hour passes, the ruffled feathers of the Jeweler smoothed, and Shrikeweed departs. He has no drawings. He does not need them. Does he have what he came for? Jewelry like to this, and north of the River. North, north, and north again. The lady with the oblong case points in that direction. The jewelry too.

North of the River? The Dives and Soot? The less salubrious parts of the city, the teeming rookeries and narrow alleys. It is not his place, he does not know the streets, has no feel for the air or the stones underfoot. No. He will stay here, in Crosstown and Smike's End, on the slopes of Ro Hill.

A long, cold walk and he returns home. The shadows in the little alcove before the door are too deep by half, too still. “Bailey?” The shadows lighten, their featureless dark departs. The boy is there, lounging.

“Right you are Mr Shrike. Here with another report of clocks-all. For a toff your Incumbent has few visitors.”

He opens the inner door, ushers the boy inside. They take their places. It has become usual, expected. The heavy clink of glass is expected as well. Liquid amber in glasses, and this time it is he who stares into the depths, gathering is thoughts. “Bailey,” he says after an age passes in silence. “I have another commission for you.”

[Runcible Spoon]

Vienda - Painted Ladies
The 11th of Vortas

Bailey Sneed

Part II - Mr W

M

r Shrike always says he hates carriages. Goes everywhere he can on foot, stays to the circle of a brisk walk from his rooms up on the Smike’s End. Never mind the gods, that is the Circle that matters to him. Chancery, the Courts, Council Houses, the Pendulum Club, Crosstown, and down along the River. The center of the city, the axle on which it turns. Not the Palace though. Never the palace. Curious that. Mr Shrike never seems to count the royals in his rounds. Has no opinion of them at all.

Perhaps they don’t matter. Perhaps it’s a blind spot.

The man will not leave his Circle without cause. There’s no cause now. He would stand out like a magpie amongst the pigeons to the north. Across the River, in the warrens of the Dives is no place for a gent whose life is papers and coffee. There’s no good coffee in the Dives anyway. Well, none he’s found. And Mr Shrike does not need to rattle himself along in a cheap carriage. No, that’s what he is for. Mr Shrike’s agent. He smiles a little to himself. Mr Shrike’s trusted agent.

It’s a job a fair sight easier than running stolen goods and slipping in and out of golly houses. No, it ain’t easier, it’s sure. The pay keeps coming, and now, so do the conspiratorial chats. He likes a good conspiratorial chat. Better still when it comes with a fine brandy.

A rattle, a jolt. “Oi! Easy there coachman! I ain’t paying you to stir up my own personal organs!” Halfway across the Bridge, and he can see why Mr Shrike hates these things. No fine gent’s carriage this. Another object all out of place. No. Just a hack carriage hired on the far side of Crosstown. A hack carriage with the parts of a significant number he has written down.

It is not the same conveyance. Not the one the lady took. This one’s smaller, older. Peeling paint on the left-hand side and a long gouge just at the junction below the driver’s perch. A one or two-kov conveyance. Still, best to keep that number in mind, it helps shape his errand, his thoughts. Dammit if Mr Shrike ain’t getting to him. Order and method. Weighing this and that. Who’d have thought it?

No one in the north, no one in the faded allies and rookeries, no one back home. A long rattle, too long, too jarring, his stomach all ahoo, his bones all out of joint, and the old colors come rushing back, swarming around him. Sky-blues and greens the color of sickly limes, reds gone pink from time and neglect. “Here’s good enough, cabbie, I’ll take the rest on foot.” The cab slows, Bailey drops to the street before it stops. Old habit. Three years ago he would never have been able to pay the man, would have dashed off into the streets. If he had ever bothered to hire a private conveyance. He has mostly dropped from creaking on omnibuses, a haul of jewelry, scattered coins, and banknotes filling the inner pockets of his coat. Now the money he has is fair, the ging his own, earned normal and clean. It’s not right, not here, and not now. No sense worrying, better to let it pass. Besides, he has his surety. A set of cuff-links, a fistful of coins, a sheaf of notes. Most of it was in the clear. Most. He has his pride. And then there was the piece de resistance, the surety of sureties. A nice set of likely-looking bank details, all proper-seeming. All false.

Thieves really should employ more civil servants.

The cabbie looks down at him, all muffled up in a huge old scarf and the traditional fingerless gloves. “Where’s me other half?” Bailey rummages about in a pocket, puts on a bit of a show, feigns penury, and then pulls out a fine, crisp banknote. An easy gesture and up to the cabbie.

“Here, and I’ll be needing my receipt. A promise for a promise.” Mr Shike has neither requested nor required an accounting of expenses. He’ll bring one in any event. A trusted agent fills in the gaps in orders. A trusted agent anticipates. Rather like a servant.

The cabbie looks annoyed. It seems an old habit, well worn into the parts of his face that can be seen above the scarf. “Keep your britches on. I’ll scribble something out. It ain’t going to be pretty, understand, what with this cold and all.”

“I ain’t asking for a bleeding illuminated manuscript. Just the official scribble.” When he gets it, scribble is charitable. Looks like damned Monite as written by an illiterate physician with too much to drink. Still, the numbers are clear enough. Clear enough that the math doesn’t quite line up. Three hats to his favor. No sense in quibbling about that. Never correct a man who’s wrong to your own advantage. It ain’t civil.

Painted Ladies. He’s not been back in, what, two years? Not since da kicked the old bucket. It’s all the same. Too clean and too shabby, ideas above its station. The street feels familiar under his boots. His feet knows where he is going. It’s as a good a starting place as any.

H&W Jewelry and Loan, Rosemary Lane. Shabby like all the rest of the Ladies. Brickwork in need of a scrub, periwinkle-blue window-frames in need of paint. Old violins hanging in the window, swaying slow and uncomfortable above faded trunks and a little case of tawdry rings. Why were the things always swaying? No one every bought them. No one ever touched them. A scan, but nothing so fine and rare as the jewelry Mr Shrike described. Nothing to match the the drawings he had made from memory.

They seem clear enough, those drawings, all sharp ink lines picking out what should be elegant curves and floral motifs. There is no life in those drawings, no art. Might as well be the renderings of a pocket watch. Still they are better than nothing. Another starting place.

The door swings open with its customary creak, the customary jangle of the out-of-tune bells. Warm air and the smell heavy with time and heavier with dust. The wooden floor still creaks and groans. ‘Course it does. Neither H now W has the inclination to fix it. He hopes it is Mr H who is in today. Hopkins in so much easier.

“Well well well,” the voice is low, hard, like loose brick being ground down under heavy cart wheels. A hard man, not large, but well made, close cropped hair going thin on top, and a perpetual three-day beard. Of course it’s him. Why would it be otherwise? Mr W. Wilkes. Bloody Wilkes. “If it ain’t Squeeks, back to grace us with his lordly presence. Heard you went straight my lad. Can’t be having that here, now can I?” Fast as can be, Wilkes grabs him by the neck-cloth and collar, pulls him toward the counter. “Now can I?”

Just like old times.

“Ain’t gone straight Wilkes, I swear! Just gone more careful like. I still keep it proper and go out when I fancy it. Went on the job , low on ging, good on swag. Better on fabric.” Wilkes lets go, he nearly staggers and falls. A cough, and readjustment of his clothes, and he looks Wilkes dead in the eye. Out come the coins, the cuff-links, the notes, and finally the banking details. He slides them across the counter, laying them out in a neat row. “No place to pass this stuff,“ he nearly says home. Supposes it is home now. “Back across the river. ‘Sides I’ve got another line, all fancy like. I need a right sapper, and you’re the man to meet on such things.” A thief, a housebreaker, a fence, and a money lender. Wilkes wears a lot of hats, all of them stolen. He’s a bastard, a hard man, but he knows his business. Few men are better when going out, fewer still in handling the haul. “Some fancy kov’s got himself into a bit of trouble, nattling trouble.” Wilkes pushes aside the little haul of jinga, leans in. Good. Still as easy to bob as ever. “Now, I ain’t got the finery on it, not the details, but seems his fancy piece and he had a falling out and she passed her shiny gifts to someone in your line.” It is as good a story as he can come up with. Good enough to even be true. Truth’s nothing. Stories are so much better. “Turns out this kov found out, now wants it back. I picked up on it while hiding behind a fine Mugrobi screen in the kov’s own study. His cuff-links by the by.”

“His fabric?” Wikes takes the banknotes and the documents.

“No luck on that. Another poor pigeon’s. He weren’t home when I lifted his goods.” Wilkes curls a lip in annoyance, his cracked and silvered tooth flashing in the dim light. “No, but I got something better from the embarrassed kov.” The shine in Wilkes’ eyes is another old familiarity. Greed, and the chance to bring a fancy man down a peg or three. Nothing like it. The drawings, the lifeless rendering of botanical splendor, laid out on the counter. “Lifted these as well, but they ain’t for sale.”

Hard-eyed greed focuses down into careful appraisal, and Wilkes pores over the drawings, muttering to himself. “Nah. Nothin’ like that’s come my way, nothing near. Nothing so fancy. You sure about this? This proper?”

“Proper as a posy, and no mistake.”