The Ninth of Ophus, three minutes past the 25th hour
The truth he has committed to another memory, one which will not become part of the official record. At least not what the man who carries the name Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed remains relevant. On his irrelevancy, his removal, when he no longer matters, the papers will be released. It is the imemorial custom of the Service. Others will follow. There are always others.
For now, against reason, against sense, he matters. A prickle along the back of his neck. Cold, nameless things slither inside his thoughts. Frozen things now, hard and sharp and brittle. Chill like the season. The cold does not faze him. Perhaps it should.
Cracked hands over cracked papers now, dry on dry. Minutes all carefully composed and ordered. The words of the Consular Select Committee on Oversight and Legal Reform. It putters along, a thrusting irrelevancy, and place for proposals for good governance, good governance as imagined by useless Incumbents, go to age, and rot, and so die. It is as good a Committee as any. A place to hide his work all in plain view.
The Committee does meet, they are concerned with review of the application of laws within its remit. The Incumbent, Tom, he will hold that name close, keep it among his secrets. Tom is on that Committee. What does it matter that it is his own maneuvering that put the man there? It had been no difficult thing. A backwater assignment. Perfect for a man still out of his wits. Perfect for a man who is not himself. Perfect as a place where he himself can pry into the dark places of the law.
Files, reports, dossiers, transcripts. All of it marshalled in neat stacks, categorized, sorted, and sorted again. In it all, nowhere is the name Thomas Cooke. A cypher for another day. There are other names, great names, significant names. The names of personages who believe they matter. Their roles matter, their place in the patterns of events, but remove any one of them and another will take their place. It will be instructive to see who is next in line.
The first to be checked, to be targeted is at some remove. D’Arthe. The Captain. The Bastian. The name appears here and there, around the edges of things, in the company of more significant names. More well known names. Notoriety is neither necessary nor sufficient to real significance. The Seventen. Enough unsavory connections there to the Dorehaven lot. To the Red Madame. Such a man cannot be approached from the front. Better to go by a longer route. He can pick the flowers of rumor along the way.
He is fond of flowers.
It is good to be home. In Chancery. Again behind the indigo door with its bright, no longer new locks. Good to be back among his old papers and behind his old desk. The smells of sealing wax and cedar oil, of ink and old papers. His own private archives. His own sanctum. Safe enough here, down quiet corridors and among colleagues he trusts. Not so far as to bring them into his confidences. No virtue there, not yet. Wiggins, Glazebrooke, and Thurlowe he can trust more than most, wishes them at his side in this. More minds and more eyes. He will not condemn them to his own inevitable ruin.
Tonight will be danger enough.
A knock at the door. Unlocked for the moment. “Enter.” A flat tone, neutral and dry. Like the papers. Like his cracked hands. Glazebrooke materializes. Silent, unobtrusive. Silent like the Thief.
“Wiggins is making tea, sir, several pots by the look of it. And humming to himself.” Glazebrooke gives a knowing smile. He returns it. Good fortune smiles upon them.
“Operettas?”
“Sounds like it. The tea will be good.” Wiggins, when set to his humming, always makes excellent tea. “Care for a pot sir?”
“Yes, thank you. A large one if it can be managed. It promises to be a long night.” The late meeting. The discussion with the Sergeant who prosecuted D’Arthe. Perhaps not the best of sources, but one makes due with the tools to hand.
Glazebrooke and Thurlowe and Wiggins. Like him, they have their work before them. Like him they have little to keep them from the Chancery. The winter drives everyone home. They are all home now. Quiet, companionable, careful work drones on. Papers shuffle and drawers open and shut. Away down the corridor, a whistling and the sound of water being poured. Wiggins and his tea. Four pots brought out of the little narrow kitchen they’ve known for years. The cerulean blue pot for Thurlowe, two cast iron pots for Wiggins and Glazebrooke, and finally the large blue and white pot for himself.
“Thank you Wiggins.”
“No trouble at all Mr Shrikeweed. I was already about it.” He puts the pot down, and two matching cups, one slightly chipped at the rim. “How soon are you expecting your visitor?”
“Soon enough I believe. When he arrives, if you would be so good as to show him in?”
Wiggins nods. “Good luck sir.” He turns and goes, closing the indigo door behind him. Stillness in the room, and only the rising smell of tea. A breath. Then another. A hand reaching out to select a particular file. A personnel file. Pages upon pages. Sergeant Rhys Valentin reduced to paper and to ink. The facts of a man. The reality a life. Is any of it true?
A knock, and the indigo door swings open. He does not rise. This is his place. To remain seated is his prerogative. And there is no call to rise. The shape of a man in the door, ten years his junior and taller by the span of a hand. Just so.
“Sergeant Valentin, I presume?”