The Seventh of Loshis, getting on towards dawn
A man of the city. A who knows the city ain’t just the whims of the toffs up on Ro Hill. No one has ever accused Mr Shrike of not being clever.
“Oh, we have our separate ways when it comes to the law.” It’s true enough to sound well in Doily’s ears, and vague enough to leave the real meaning to the side. “He’s all paper and ink. I tend more to the practical side of things.” He gives a vague gesture about the room. “Returning stolen property, for one.” The coins were his by rights, proper and above board. Not a hint of a game about them. Not until this morning. It’s a damn strange thing too, like laundering money in reverse. The aura of crime now hangs about the coins like the smell of last week’s fish. They say money doesn’t stink. They say a lot of things.
Whoever the hell They are.
“And never mind no tarts. Too early for breakfast anyway.” Not that he regularly indulges in what Doily would think of as a proper breakfast. A bit of cold, leftover pie, a piece of cheese, or some pickled veg are all he can manage most days. Then again, he’s more often than not still asleep in his alcove when the ordinary world sets up for breakfast. Mornings, he always thinks, are better approached from the opposite end. Thievery and spying are shadowy businesses. He needs the comfort of long shadows, the knowledge he has somewhere to go, somewhere to hide.
Outside, the sky is growing lighter. Not so the rain. The rain keeps on as though nothing will tire it. The rain works all shifts. No hope of making his way north to his alcove and remain anything like dry. Worse, his coat is up in the attic. If only that were the least of his worries, for his shoes are also in that dusty space. At least Jarvis is there to watch over them as they dry slowly in the lonely dark. Jarvis is a trustworthy kov. He is still unsure of Doily.
The elegant man, the ‘defective’ servant, has given him no cause to doubt his good intent. A gnawing at the back of his thoughts, like and itch he cannot scratch, still keeps him prime to bolt. If only this chair were not so comfortable, the tea so hot and restorative. The gnawing increases, then changes. Is this Doily’s game? To lull him into complacency, to make him too comfortable and unguarded to dash away when at last the trap is sprung? Best to act upon those lines. Caution is more comfortable than any fine chair, and, now he thinks of it, this one is less comfortable than he had first thought. “You don’t look defective to my lights, but I ain’t got no fear of passives or the like, if I take your meaning aright.” Now he comes to think of it, he’s met a number of passives, only he never quite had thought of them that way. Imbali traders over from Mugroba. There’s enough of them in the Environs of the Ladies. Mostly dealing in cloth, spices, and Mr Shrike’s precious coffee. There’s a little enclave of them around Cordage Yard. Odd feeling people to be sure, but he’s always thought of it as being on account of their extreme foreignness. “Don’t they lock your sort away in Bastia, as they do here? Only passives I ever met are some Imabli, from over east. Decent enough fellows, but I don’t find myself out their way too often. Did your ,” he tries to think of the correct relation between Doily and his master. Father’s cousin. Father’s parent’s sibling’s son. He runs the relation over in his head. Toby matches the description. Good old Toby. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but a solid kov. “That is, did your first-cousin once removed, pluck you from wherever it is they keep your sort? Some dreary sanatorium?”
The answer, spoken blithely enough surprises him. So, Doily here is from a family well set up enough to have their own manor? And they used it to hide him away? He knows of disappointment’s rooms of course; he’s snuck past those ghastly cells from time to time, heard the unfortunates within making whatever racket they can manage. He’s never heard of a disappointment’s manor. Must be a damned rich family. This kip might be a better target than he has hoped. If only for financial correspondence. “So, your master lives off the largesse of his folk? I suppose a scholar in the family brings them a decent reputation? I mean, every golly I know wants a noted scholar in their line. Wonderful things to drop at parties. The names I mean, not the scholars. They’re usually rubbish at parties.”
Doily seems light enough in his manner, but what he says about concords might have a double meaning. A dangerous one. If he knows the money offered in the hall, the money that is not his nor yet his master’s, has been a ruse, a flummery thought up in a panic, well, then he’s for it. Off to the prisons with him, then onto the cart to the gallows. A cheery thought. He takes a long drink of the tea, feels its warmth, its slight bitterness and that hint of citrus. It may be the last tea he ever has. At least it is a good one. Still, his paths are still open to him, the tea tray gives him a possible distraction. Knock it over, send hot tea and accoutrements all over Doily, and dash away as fast as he can. Not north, bad idea. But away south, toward the Park and then via the long way around Ro Hill. Doily and his master don’t know the city, don’t know the places he does, or the labyrinthine streets. Even in Uptown he can find his way half-mad with terror and running forever in the driving rain.
It will be the work of a moment to tip the tray. No. Not yet. Better to get out of this easy like, civil. Then he can lay low for a time, let Doily and his master biff off to the Sewer. And good riddance. Yet he finds he rather likes Doily, for all his lace and flowers and fine manners. There’s no art to it, no putting on airs. Doily is, well, Doily. A man at home with himself. Best of luck in the Sewer he thinks, taking another drink of the tea. He won’t be so sweet after coming back from that festering pit. Fragrant of Roses, to be sure, but roses no kov in their right mind wants to smell.
“Well, Mr D . . ., that is Mr Yazad.” A stumble, but caught fast enough. No sense letting the man take away that name too. “And thanks for the tea and this charming palaver, but, needs must. I’ve got a busy day of mysterious errands to run and all that. Got to see a man about a shipment of nuts.” Walnuts and macadamia nuts.