[Closed] Venomous Flowers (Lio)

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - The Fortesque Botanical Gardens

The Ninth of Loshis, Forty-three Minutes Past the Seventeenth Hour

S

low and slow the fish move in the too-clear water. The swim not through their usual medium, but through the air. Strange birds in a stranger fluid. Were he to reach out and touch the surface, he would doubt its presence. The illusion would be short-lived and he has no desire for wet hands and wet shirt cuffs. The rain, when at least he leaves this place, will do that job well enough. It is a long walk home. Through the park and skirting around Ro Hill, through Kingsway and Crosstown. By then, even with his umbrella, he will be cold and damp. An hour drying out at the Elephant perhaps? The anticipation of coffee, of another sanctuary is tempting. Coffee, a drying out, and then onward and upward. Up the hill of Smike’s End and at last to Lesser Larch Street.

He looks to the Lame Man, hoping he has a shorter walk to his next port of call, to home. All at once the negation forms in his mind. No. The Lame Man has a long walk ahead of him, or a long ride in a cab. The man’s face, his particular gait, he has seen it before, seen it in Smike’s End. He is almost sure of it. Is that all it is? A face and form he has seen from time to time? Buying produce at Caseby’s and bread from the Black Raven? Quotidien matters, the usual patterns of a man’s life. Something still gnaws at him. There is more than just the memory of this man in the streets. Something about the face. Something he has seen before, closer and longer than a fleeting glance in the markets and shops. Well, one small part of the mystery solved, another, greater part remains.

Best to keep the man talking. More information may arise.

The current line is still on the fish still gliding beneath their transparent ceiling. “They are somewhat meditative to watch as well. Swimming about on whatever business they have. Presumably eating for the most part. These seem well fed and bright. One assumes they are happy enough here. Certainly I am happy to watch them.” He looks again at the Lame Man, a quick passing of the colorless eyes, still trying to place him. No luck. “I’ve never kept a pet myself. No time to tend to it. Work takes up so much of my time and my hours are both long and increasingly irregular.” And they grow dangerous.

It is the case that he has never kept a pet? Bailey is half a curious servant and half what could pass for a pet. He gives the boy room to sleep, a consistent allowance for his maintenance. A curious thought. Uncomfortable. Perhaps true. The Thief is a novelty. The Thief is useful. He is more than worth his costs. How much of his money has gone to support the city’s leek and mushroom pie industry? How much more to the better breweries of the city to provide the Thief with his sharp and floral ales? Bailey at least can fend for himself.

“It would appear that your osta is, at least, useful. Hingles are a menace. Wild ones that is. Always gnawing on paper and destroying documents. I have been known to periodically enjoy an edible one cooked in honey and poppy seeds. Though only if I am feeling over decadent. Or perhaps as a form of vengeance for all the documents they have ruined over the years.”

A few hints given, but nothing more. Allusions to his life beyond the green-tinted glass. His life in paper. A little bait to draw the Lame Man out, to discover who it is he has been speaking to all this time.

[Emilio Sanguini]

Loshis 9, 2720

Fortesque Botanical Gardens, afternoon.

TThe fish continue their silent gliding, between the stalks of the lily plants and the reeds that grow in their pond. A slow and meditative dance. He considers, for a moment, the small rear garden of his home. He wonders if he could have a small koi pond put in, perhaps in one of the corners. The koi would still not be safe from Andolina’s claws even out of doors, as she is given free reign of the garden when the weather permits. She is an intelligent creature, though. He wonders if she could be taught to leave the fish alone. It would add a dash of serenity, but he knows little of ponds or the upkeep one would entail. It is something to think about all the same. Not now, though. Now the stranger takes up most of his attention with talk of Andolina’s usefulness and the diabolical nature of hingles. He chuckles as the man recounts enjoying the occasional fried one as a form of revenge for the strife they have caused him and the documents they have ruined with their chewing.

“She is a useful and faithful companion,” he says with a smile.

He could say he values her friendship perhaps more than that of other people. He could go on about how lovely he finds the colour of her fur in a sunbeam, or how soothing the sound of her purring is on days when the pain gets to be too much. How relaxing it is to sit and pet her when he becomes frustrated with his work, when the words elude him. How nice it is to be greeted at the door by her winding her way in circles around his calves. He doubts, though, that the stranger desires to hear him extol the many, many virtues of his beloved Andolina. So he choses a different subject.

“I’ve heard rodents like the taste of the glue used in bookbinding,” he says, “Though, one has to admit, there is something enticing about the smell of old books and documents in general. A bit like vanilla, almost. I doubt they taste as good as they smell, but I don’t think anyone has has ever claimed that hingles are smart.”

“I’ve never had much trouble with vermin where I am now,” he confesses, “Andolina catches everything from mice to bugs, they rarely last long enough to be a nuisance. The house where I grew up was quite old, though, and there were always plenty of critters to terrify the maids, especially come winter when they start looking for a warm place to nest.”

He considers trying to unpick the mystery of the stranger, much like how he suspects the stranger is attempting to unpick the mystery of him. He finds that he is enjoying their exchange even without knowing the man’s identity, and enjoying the novelty of the whole situation. Perhaps he will never see this man again after today. He does wonder what sort of work it is the man does. By the look of him, Lio would guess something clerical. Office work. Maybe he is a lawyer, or some sort of civil servant. He speaks of not having the time for a pet, so it can be assumed that his field is somewhat demanding. Certainly he is something more than a simple office worker, though.

“Perhaps you should consider getting a cat?” he offers, “they don’t need much in the way of care, and they’re apparently less demanding than ostas. Or, so I've heard. Very easy to find, as well.”

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - The Fortesque Botanical Gardens

The Ninth of Loshis, Forty-sevenMinutes Past the Seventeenth Hour

A

useful and faithful companion. The words can apply in equal measure to ostas as to wick factotums. The questions are likewise the same. Why do they remain faithful? What is the true price of their utility? Three years and he has never known Bailey to prove faithless. The Thief does not always succeed in his tasks, he is argumentative, opinionated, and sly, but he gives no sign that it is unwise to trust him. As much as one can ever trust a thief.

A good thief is a good neighbor.

One of Bailey’s strange precepts. One of many. Strange, but sensical. A more elegant and exhortative rendering of ‘don’t piss where you eat’. It is well enough. He can bear with the Thief’s strange philosophy and cryptic recitations. It keeps him from trouble. No, that is incorrect. It allows him to bathe in trouble and still come out none the worse for wear. An admirable trait. Better yes, a useful trait.

He nods at the Lame Man’s musings, agreeing in kind, if not in degree. Wisest not to bring up the Thief. The Lame Man may be harmless enough, even flexible in thought, if not in limb, but more than one associate has looked askance at the useful and faithful wick. ‘It is not done,’ his brother had said, in a tone of dry reproof. ‘Someone might think you possess dangerous political views. Egalitarian views.’ William has always worried about such things, worried that having any opinions at all might jeopardize his ability to attract the very best, and most lucrative, of clients. A consulting attorney can do quite well if they have no views which can be held against them. Charges of hypocrisy will fall flat. His own means of avoiding such charges is different, but no less effective. Masks upon masks, each with a role and function, each as internally consistent as he can make them. So long as the masks can be maintained each on their own, there is no conflict. The Civil Servant can have the views needed of his role. The Orchid Collector another. The Chief of Staff, another still. And the Conspirator? That mask is still forming, and all too close to his skin.

He should leave it alone. For today. Today he is the Orchid Collector. What does that mask know of conspiracies? Better to keep to the topic of flowers, of gardens, and, so it seems, of paper.

“Rodents are a perpetual problem. Always gnawing away at important documents. I suppose it keeps the copyists in business, fighting yet another form of entropy.” Three cheers for the copyists, for the archivists, and for the librarians. The backbones of civilization. The keepers and preservers of records. “I agree with you about the smell of old books being exquisite. The sharpness of the glue mellowed by time, the old leather. Fragrant as flowers and almost as fussy.” He gives a small smile and shakes his head, thinking. “I am fortunate to have a few very old books. Nothing of any great value. Legal commentaries, a good copy of Bythersea’s Discourses, and a third-edition of the second volume of Gascoyne’s The Castle of Urdando. Never could find matching copies of the first and third volume. I did read the whole thing, however.” A huge monstrosity of a novel full of hauntings, murder, devious servants, generational strife, inheritence, and florid prose. With a tribe of salacious wicks thrown in. Likely a requirement of the publisher. Scandal always sells. A work very much of its era. A rollicking read, and a work of high comedy. At least when read with modern eyes. “Do you also collect books, in addition to curious plants?”

One more piece of data. One more piece of the puzzle.

[Emilio Sanguini]

Loshis 9. 2720

Fortesque Botanical Gardens, afternoon.

Now the man seems to be asking questions more inclined towards learning about him. He considers the question. Considers how to answer. It would not take much effort to simply introduce himself, name and occupation. A collector, no, but an author — Emilio Sanguini, perhaps you have heard of me. However, that, to him, seems like forfeiting this game they seem to be playing. At least, it has begun to feel a bit like a game. He considers how coy he can get away with being before he annoys the stranger. Heh as no reason to hide, but he also has little reason to offer up any more details than the stranger has offered about himself.

He considers what he has learned. The stranger is a busy man. He has a fondness for legal documents, which could suggest that he works in the legal field. He enjoys books, old ones, and orchids. He knows this place. As for what he has told the stranger, only that he has an osta, a plant collection, and enjoys ornamental fish. A few more details, then, to even their footing.

“No, I wouldn’t say that. I have copies of things that interest me, but nothing particularly of note,” he replies, “some fiction, some monic theory, and a steadily filling shelf of my own work. Though, perhaps someday my advance copies will be worth something. One can dream.”

That last bit is said in a joking tone, a smile playing across his features. He looks to the stranger. He mentioned not being able to find certain books, which brings to mind an acquaintance from school. “You know, I have an acquaintance in Brunnhold who might be able to help you locate those two volumes, if you like,” he offers, “he specializes in rare or hard-to-find books. I have his contact information, I’d be happy to pass it along.”

He hooks his cane over his arm as he reaches into his pocket to retrieve a small leather bound journal. The book is plain and well-worn, clearly something he carries with him often. He unclips a pen from the spine of it, jotting down in neat, even hand the name and address. He pulls the page free, extending it to the stranger. “You can write him, of course, though I do I recommend stopping by his shop if ever you find yourself in the area.”

Once the paper has been passed over, he tucks the book and pen neatly away, and brings down his cane once more with a click. He shifts slightly, the discomfort of standing for so long beginning to catch up to him. He will need to make his excuses and take his leave, soon, he thinks. Perhaps find a nice place to sit down a spell, or call himself a cab and make his way home.

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - The Fortesque Botanical Gardens

The Ninth of Loshis, Fifty-Six Minutes Past the Seventeenth Hour

T

he game is wearing thin. Much longer and one of them will have to state a name. This is not a place for names. Later, he will try and work out the name, the occupation, and the character of the Lame Man. He is fond of plants, he is well read and learned enough. He is distinctive even without his cane. Perhaps someone considers him beautiful, with his fine features and expressive mouth. He can be traced. The first port of call will be the quiet shop of the Fern Gatherer. She may have insights, rumors. She may also have another orchid for him. Or advice on those he already is trying to keep alive. Yes, he will go. Perhaps in a few days. It will be good to speak of things that do not touch on conspiracy and machinations.

There are still a few hands left to play, a few long reds to sink into treacherous pockets. He has opened the table, offered trivial information. Do ut des. I give so that you may give. The Lame Man knows the rules, he is a civilized man. “Your own works?” A writer. That answers some questions. Opens others. “Do you write for pleasure? Or do you earn your crust by the pen?” Confidential secretaries, lawyers, and civil servants rarely keep their own writings. Certainly nothing with ‘advance copies’. Not a journalist either. A writer of books, of matters to be published, bound, and read again and again. A scholar perhaps? Monographs on the behaviors of the urban osta? The Lame Man could be a scholar. At the mention of monic theory he nods. Yes, that would fit with the scholarly vocation. The mention of value seems to run contrary. Scholars rarely make much of their income by the publishing and printing of their works. Popular scholarship has its readers, but the market is small enough. “I live in part by my pen, but I have saleable works to my name. Dry matters, not much of interest to the public at large. I hazard that commentary on the functioning of the courts or on administrative matters would grip the public imagination.”

Policy analyses are written as requested, and some small few are read. Often when some committee or other feels the need to show activity and so works itself up into a fit of zeal. Others are read in obscure offices by equally obscure officials who take from them what they need to carry out some policy or other. The government is run on these recommendations. The zeal of Assembly and Consular Committees so often interferes. Politics would function much more smoothly without politicians. Still, they seem a necessary evil. If nothing else, they provide admirable cover.

Of these things he will not speak. The Lame Man will not draw such out. There are other hands to play in this game. They vanish by the moment.

“I do not often find myself in Brunnhold. Matters keep me in Vienda most of the year.” An understatement. Since his twentieth year he has not set eyes upon the red stone lanes. If he never sees them again it will be too soon. A folly to send all students there, well, all galdori students. Vienda itself can be made to support great institutes of learning. It has its few. Specialty schools for the arts, the sciences, the law. Brunnhold still wields too much power. The magisters are worse than the politicians. All the arrogance, only the half the sense. “Though a reliable agent in books is never a thing to sneeze at. I am obliged to you.”

A name, foreign. All the best book traders are foreign in his experience. The Bastian lady he often consults is one of the best. A Gioran, at least by the name, will be a useful addition. If all else fails, he can collect the Lame Man’s name from this dealer. He hopes it does not come to that.

The game nears its end, this he can feel. A search of the other man’s features and he sees the conclusion there as well in the dark eyes and elegant face. His own excuses are already made. He is a busy man, after all. The pocket watch slides from his pocket, an easy, natural gesture. “Forgive me, sir, but time seems half-suspended in this place.” He shakes his head. “It would appear I am already running up against what time I can allow myself. Business matters you understand.” He nods to the man, takes a step away. A polite gesture of departure. “I wish you joy of your philodendron, and of the Gardens.” Another nod. “It has been most gratifying to discuss things with a civilized man.”

[Emilio Sanguini]

Loshis 9, 2720

Fortesque Botanical Gardens, afternoon.

He feels like he has almost given too much away, like he has shown a bit too much of his hand in a game of Rooks. Cards never were his strong suit. He has a deplorable poker face, according to a good friend. Perhaps he should have left out the mention of his books, been a bit more vague. Ah well, he thinks, it’s only a silly game.

“I work as a writer, yes,” he clarifies, though he says no more than that.

He is thanked for his forwarding of Borna’s information. The man checks his watch, and It seems the game has reached its end. He is saved from having to make excuses, as the stranger does that for both of them. Business calls, he claims. Emilio inclines his head politely.

“Yes, of course,” he says, a pleasant smile cast across his features, “I fear I must take my leave shortly, as well. I wish you luck with your orchids and your books, good sir. It was a pleasure to chat with you. May our paths cross again.”

He watches for a moment as the stranger takes his leave, walking back up into the greenhouse proper from the water gardens where they stand. Emilio lingers a bit longer, watching the koi glide between the nenuphars before he, too, departs this strange place for the sodden world outside.