[Closed] With Cat-Like Tread

[Bailey Sneed]

Vienda - A Scholar's House near Carnelian Street
The Seventh of Loshis, getting on towards dawn

L

ike attracts like? He supposes that may be true, for a given value of ‘like’. Mr Shrike’s a city boy like him, and not just as an accident of birth. No, they belong to Vienda and Vienda belongs to them. There is little enough else to tie them together. Still, the thing works. A strange sort of thing, to be sure, but it seems sound enough. Never in a month of threes would he have expected the mad partnership to work. What kind of government official employs a wick as a runner and as eyes and ears?

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.

[Yazad]

Vienda - Carnelian Street

7th of Loshis, 2720; The Small Hours

Y azad knew very little about the law and those who enforce it. He did not know that a man of legislation needed an employee whose responsibility is legwork, but he does now. Truly, the amount of things Yazad knew about anything can easily be dwarfed by the amount of things that he did not know, so any new piece of information was a discovery, and any new experience a welcomed expansion of his rather narrow horizon. "That sounds an awful lot like me and the good master, too." The passive commented briefly, musing at how much in common he and his guest had.

"It is indeed, but I--ahem, I have never had the pleasure of hosting a guest at such an hour of the day, so I am rather ignorant of the proper etiquette of the occasion." The raven-haired man admitted bashfully, his gaze downcast while he tucked a tuft of hair behind his ear. "I do hope that you will excuse such ill-grace, good sir." A relieving thing it was that Squeaks did not seem the quick-tempered sort or his ignorance could be taken as an offense in the worst of possibilities.

Yazad’s polite smile lit up a few touches causing his cheeks to look even rounder, and his eyes brighter. He was not in the habit of saying disagreeable things about himself only to have another reassure him that he is otherwise, and he fully accepted that he was -for reasons known only to the divine- meant to be born the way he was. To know that Squeaks, bless his good heart, had no fear of his kind was, in a way, nice. "My sort gets very much locked up, indeed. And so have I. Imbali, though?" Yazad echoed the unknown word in curious confusion. Something from over east. If only Squeaks, bless his unknowing heart, knew that Yazad could not point out where east is even if his very life depended on it. Hilarity bloomed in Yazad’s chest before it was vocally expressed in the form of giggles coming from behind a pair of pale hands cupped over his mouth. His shoulders shook lightly with the force of his amusement at what his guest had said. First-cousin once removed! He had never thought of Sophronios this way and hearing the words spoken nearly made it sound as if they were closer in age than they were. "Oh, good sir Squeaks, what a lark!" Yazad gave himself a moment to regain his composure before answering the rest of the other’s questions. "I had only known the Logarchon manor and my master’s abodes, never anything else. I had been locked up as I mentioned previously, but that was in the master’s dwelling rather than a sanatorium, or a university." Yazad explained, feeling rather grateful for it. "I had been a tearful, whimpering child for a number of weeks following my relocation, as you might imagine. He said not a word about it, and awkwardly made the attempt to be agreeable. Not a very good attempt, mind you, but one was made regardless." There was nothing but genuine, undulated thankfulness that Yazad could feel towards the galdor for his acceptance of a troubled child into his life and household and that thankfulness was easily reflected on the expression the passive wore if one looked close enough.

Another number of questions, another giggle plucked out of the passive’s lips. "That, and his salary. I have no doubt that the family finds some sort of pride in what the good master does, though he is rather--hm, how shall I say this? The last time the good master had attended a ball in Florne, many years ago, I had accompanied him to it. We exited the ball earlier than anticipated, with the good master bearing an angry red handprint upon his face. That should tell you all that you need to know about his party manners." It was an amusing enough thing to think about even after years had passed, and not even a secret to be kept. Most of the Florne gentry knew of Sophronios Logarchon and his social mishaps. Gossip went like scones with afternoon tea in these circles, but Squeaks, bless his Anaxi heart, did not look to be included in such circles anytime soon.

"Ah, going so soon?" The downward curve in Yazad’s fine eyebrows spoke of slight disappointment, but the Bastian said nothing in protest. A man had to do what a man had to do, and he would know what it is like to be mercilessly prodded into working by one’s own mind. And Squeaks, bless his righteous heart, seemed to have urgent places to be. Not much to be done about it but wish the good man fortune in his endeavors. A shipment of nuts. Either the other’s employer had an insatiable desire for almonds, or there is something illegal about said shipment. Nothing for Yazad to be thinking about, either way. "I do hate to see you go, but I shall not keep you." Gracefully, Yazad uncrossed his legs and rose up to his feet, motioning with his hand in beckoning for Squeaks to follow him in a short trek to the front entrance.

It was not the time of day in which many, or any, front doors were opening. Not in weather like this. The rain continued to barrage the rooftops of houses and the heads of poor souls who happen to be out on such a day without an umbrella, Squeaks appearing to be one of them. "I do thank you again for taking the time to make this visit, it had been a pleasure. Please, do help yourself to my umbrella if you wish." Yazad indicated a plain black umbrella sitting next to a similar one on the umbrella stand, making an offer that Squeaks was free to take or not. The passive’s hand rested on the front door’s handle and pressed down on it when he perceived the other to be ready for departure before standing on the other side of it, allowing Squeaks passage to the wet landscape beyond. "Blessings be upon you. One can only wish to have your jolly company again one day. Ah, and--" a pale index finger stood in front of Yazad’s smiling lips, his eye winking at the taller male who was about to take his leave, "Please do not tell the good master that I know he had been passing me the concords that my father sends to him." The passive added in light jest. There really was no chance that Squeaks was going to ever meet Sophronios, but then again, what were the chances of him hosting a man who entered the house through the attic window to return coins that he had not even realized he had lost? Life, as it always does, never ceases to amaze him.

With Cat-Like Tread

[Bailey Sneed]

Vienda - A Scholar's House near Carnelian Street

The Seventh of Loshis, getting on towards dawn

D

oily’s asking about etiquette. As though there might be a chapter in Miss Trevelyn-Periwinkle's A New Booke of Manners For the Genteel Home - By a Lady about entertaining an incompitent burglar. Perhaps there is such a chapter. Perhaps there is such a book, or such a lady. Should a copy of that book come into his possession, he might condemn it as the second-most improbable thing to come of this disastrous day. “No sense on standing on any ceremony on my account. This seems all very civilized.” It seems all very baffling. He looks at the spread, at the floral cups, at the man who might himself be composed entirely of pale and delicate flowers and still cannot credit it. Doily’s a damn cypher. That refined and delicate face shows no emotion beyond discombobulated concern and a sheepish formality. It seems it runs deep as well. The man is an open book. A book of dainty poetry about flowers in spring, but a book none the less. “Ain’t used to anything so fine with my principle, nor less back at home.” He gives Doily a small smile. The man had been trying to find the Painted Ladies before. He probably thinks it is some elegant artistic district where ladies with luminous skin and lustrous red hair, swathed in yards of translucent silks, recline upon fine couches, there to be painted by passing artists or mooned over by poets. There’s a fair few ladies in skimpy dresses who flit about the neighborhood like tawdry butterflies. He’s never known any of them to work as artists’ models or be the subject of tedious poetry written by floppy-haired youths in poofy shirts.

“Breakfasts are informal affairs in the Ladies. Grab what you can and get out the door before some nagging relation demands you perform more useless errands.” There are always nagging relations. He has more aunts, cousines, second cousins, and associated relatives not elsewhere specified than he cares to count. And somehow every one of them seems to think he has nothing better to do than nip down to the vegetable market for out-of-season artichokes, or fence a few pieces of dodgy jewelry, or tend to some even more distant old relation who is at death’s door. The ancient relative has been at death’s door for the past twenty years. “Not the sort of place one goes to looking to sit at an elegant table.” How much would this tea service fetch? On the quick, it could go for a couple of concords. Maybe more, if he could flog it off on some pigeon. There’s that golly lady, after all. She does go about looking luminous at times, but that’s not any sign of health.

Another sip of the tea, it really is good. He cannot stay any longer, already he has stayed too long. He will stay a little longer. It is not often he is so baffled by a man. Doily needs figuring out. Five minutes will not be too much of a danger.

“Dances and balls.” He shakes his head, trying to imagine Mr Shrike at such an occasion. The man’s uncomfortable in a formal dinner suit of the flash, modern kind. He must be all to seek at any sort of soiree. Not that Mr Shrike ever goes to such things. There’s no paperwork there. But there are elegant ladies and fine gentlemen. Fine gentlemen with too many secrets. It is a thought, and one worth conveying. And there is Mr Shrike’s friend, the elegant lawyer with the winning smile and the pretty lady friend. They must go to balls. They must need a capable servant for the evening as well. He is not sure he can be scrubbed up enough to pass as such. Still, at least he does not dye his hair or have any shockingly visible tattoos. “Seems an odd thing for a returning scholar to attend, if you don’t mind me saying so. Don’t they more go in for symposia?” That was another word he’s learned whole lurking behind a convenient screen while cleaning out a collection of silverware. Words are free. A nice perk. “Unless your master’s hunting for a spouse. Dangerous game, Mr Yazad. Or so I am led to understand. The red welts upon the face seem to indicate he might have some problems in that line.”

That, at least, is something he knows he never has to worry about with Mr Shrike. The man has all the romance of a legal brief. Were it not for the fact that he has seen Mr Shrike bloodied from his boxing, he would have thought the man bled ink.

He drains his teacup at last, and rises to his feet. “A very pleasant chat Mr Yazad, one of the most interesting I have had in a very long time.” That might be the most false-sounding truth he will ever utter. “I’ll go by the way I came. No sense cluttering up your fine doorway and all that. Besides, my shoes and coat are there, and I’ll need both to get home only miserably wet.” He shakes his head at the offer of the umbrella. Not enough hands to climb down the house with one of those damn things. “And no fear about the me telling your master about the funds. Just do me a favor likewise and never mention I was here.” He raises his left hand to his brow, pinches his thumb and forefinger in the old gesture, something like a watchful eye. “Be seeing you.”