[PM to Join] Allied to the Winter

[Desiderio Morandi]

the pendulum club, uptown

evening on the 19th of vortas, 2719

O

nly a headache, Maurice,” he said, turning the tap off. Immediately, the pounding came back – thricefold – a march, staccato, boot-heels on his skull. Directly between his eyes, as always.

“Still?”

And Whittemoor’s voice was the only thing worse than the tinnitus: a beat out of line, like the sudden and unexpected crack of a whip. He leaned heavily on the sink, rubbing his eyes. When he opened them, the soft gold phosphor light lanced through, and he shut them again. From outside the door, Whittemoor’s voice came again: “Are you quite sure you don’t need anything?”

“Yes. Thank you.” He would have taken anything to lay a blanket over the throbbing silence, anything regular, even, soft, like the murmuring of water or even the hum of an aeroship engine. He knew that phosphor made no sound, but he thought he could feel the light singing.

He dropped his hand, and his spectacles clattered awkwardly back down on the bridge of his nose. He wrinkled his nose; he felt the bottom frame chafe his cheek.

“All right,” Whittemoor said, and Morandi could imagine him pulling at that curly red mustache of his uncertainly.

He straightened as best he could, feeling the muscles between his shoulder-blades crack. “All the same, I believe that I shall be spectating tonight. I do not much feel like playing.”

Whittemoor laughed. “I’m sure they’ll be glad to hear it; you did rather clean them out last nine.” A beat. “I do hope it lays off, Desiderio.”

That note of concern. Morandi could hear it; he had no idea what to do with it, especially from Whittemoor. It made everything rather uncomfortable – it made him feel as if he should say something, anything, to placate the man, only reassurance never seemed to work. It would have to do, all the same. “I have no doubt that it will.”

Morandi sighed, sagging again as he heard Whittemoor’s footsteps recede down the corridor. He opened his eyes, looking at himself in the glass, trying to prepare himself for all the light and movement around the billiards table.

He was not a particularly vain man. There was little use in being one. Still, he thought that he looked rather – out of place like this, and the glasses helped not at all. The suit, like everything else, he had had to have tailored, and recently; it fit him well, but it did not make him look smaller.

And he thought the glasses on top of all of it made him look like he was some sort of soldier playing at being an accountant. They rather seemed to highlight the parts of him that were – well – not very accountant-like. Amelie liked them, though, or at the very least was amused by them, which he supposed was the same thing.

He touched with his fingertips the old scarflesh that crept up from his collar, over his jaw and up his cheek, and to the frames. Then he straightened them and himself, breathed in, and tried to set the pain in his head aside. The difficulty of casting on oneself in the perceptive conversation was a cruel irony; he would very much have liked to dig around in his own mind, if it meant removing the pieces that hurt. It was damnably inefficient.

But there was little use in dwelling on that, either.

It was darker out in the corridor, though the trickle of sound from a ways down still ached.

When he stepped into the quiet third floor bar, nobody noticed, at first. He loomed to one side of the door, watching. He had at least a head on all the other gentleman, and a decent amount of breadth, too; he would not go unnoticed for long, especially not by Mr. Doyle, but it was a precious reprieve.

Whittemoor was standing back with Nealing-Roach, both of them rapt at the table. The two other men he did not recognize; one, the shorter, was dark-skinned, with a clean-shaven head.

The other was of average height, older than him, Morandi thought, but he could not tell how much; he could not tell much at all about him, other than his thick auburn sideburns and his intent bearing. He eyed the bar, but for the moment hung back, stepping only a little closer to the table. The game looked like it was about to run its course.

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - The Pendulum Club

The Evening of the 19th of Vortas, 2719

F

arrokh Vairyo is not a man to trifle with. This is true in all matters, save in snooker. Then the trifling is a necessity. Vairyo has a temper, a mercurial one, but it can be played, directed. The point is not to anger him, that would be folly. Folly in itself, and folly if he wants to continue in conversation. Farrokh is a gifted conversationalist. Charming, witty, intelligent. He is a man of connections and of parts. A man, therefore, who may be useful. A man is more difficult to pot than a ball, but he can be potted all the same. The strike is different. The effect is the same.

The cue rests light in his hand, smooth ashwood and finely polished though worn a little in familiar places. A turn, then another, a search for the right wear pattern upon the cue, the right sense of its weight, its idiosyncrasies. Farrokh, leaning on his cue, takes a draw from his long, elaborate pipe. The smoke gurgles in the little glass reservoir, an irritating sound. Vairyo knows just as well that irritation can spoil the best of shots. He will need to spoil several, if he wishes to win. “I still think you are cheating,” he says, voice cheery enough. A smoke ring escaping from below his elegant moustachios rises and dissipates into the haze overhead. “I can feel that damned quantitative field of yours, humming away.”

“If you really can hear it humming,” he replied, not taking his eye off the red ball in his sights, “then either you need your ears checked, or you can tell that my field is minding its own business. Your lead is rapidly diminishing on account of geometry, not magic.”

Vairyo takes another drag on his pipe, and gives a wicked grin. “Are they not one in the same for you?”

“Yes, and no, Vairyo. Today, the answer is,” he strikes the cue ball just a little off to the side. It spins and glides toward its intended target. A crack, and a red ball goes sliding into the pocket. “No. Just geometry.” He gives the man a grin in return. “Black. Left-side middle pocket.”

“You’ll never make it, not from that position. Not even your damned arithmetical witchcraft can save you now.”

“A good job, then, that there’s no witchcraft about it.” There is a low-grade hum in his field, like a hive of tame bees. The mona know what he is doing, know they can help. Leave off, he thinks, go bother someone else. They are his own, extensions of himself, of his larger self. Field, body, mind, soul. The distinction can be difficult at the best of times. Still, there are rules. There is no delight in winning a game by forgoing the rules. Not when both parties have agreed to the same game.

The black ball rests in an uncomfortable corner. Without care, he will pot it and the cue ball in one easy motion. A direct shot is out. Something more elaborate will be needed. A survey of the table now, a careful walking of its perimeter. He has already decided on his spot, he sees the balls in their courses in his mind’s eye. The stroke will be a mere formality. Another crack, and the cue ball navigates around the table, strikes home on black, and pots it.
Vairyo shakes his head, laughing. “Bloody witchcraft, what did I say!” There is no threat here, no real accusation. He does not cheat. Vairyo does not cheat. Still, this will hardly be the last time they accuse each other. It is all part of the game.

The game.

The next shot is dismal. He might make a long red on this. Unlikely. The pink ball has snookered him. It’s shadow is too broad upon the reds. It is too easy to hit it out of turn. Too easy to sink the wrong ball. Nothing for it then. He will need a different plan. A strike of the cue, more spin than before, and cue ball arcs across the table. It hits a red. For a time the ball rolls in a promising manner. The promise does not last. More motion upon the table, all in order, all without a single pot.

“Oh, and that’s a bad miss.” Vairyo is laughing now. He will let him laugh. Best to raise his hopes a little before dashing them all. The laugh will not last long. Now Vairyo sees the place the cue ball has come to rest. His mirth ceases. Black brows draw in close, dark eyes surveying the table. “More bloody witchcraft.”

Now it is his turn to lean upon the cue and torment his opponent. No Hessean water pipe for him. He does not indulge in that particular vice. The Omaian wine, nutty and sharp, will more than suffice. Nothing stronger. It is not yet time for brandy. After he wins, and he will win, then the brandy will be poured. Toasts will be drunk. Something like good cheer will be had.

This the Pendulum he knows. Civil servants, lawyers, even the Hessean ambassador’s third undersecretary, this is the sort he can call his own. The anonymous men who turn the wheels of civilization, of policy, of law. Even Vairyo, for all his swaggering ambition, has no expressed desire to take a more public role at the Hessean consulate. Notoriety would be the death of Vairyo’s ambitions. It would be the death of his own. We, he thinks, leaning upon his cue in the traditional manner, are not the same as the men of the Private Suite. Gods but hopes that is true.

A shifting of bodies, a change in the air announces a new presence. He does not know the man who enters. Of this he is sure. The man is unmistakable. Not a big man, but a solid one. A man who seems bigger than his body; as though deportment might add half a foot to a man’s height. Such a bearing is enough to make the man stand out. The scars upon his face are superfluous. They only serve to drive home the point that he has never met this man. Meetings are not required for recognition.

Morandi.

The man has a notable reputation on the green baize. Taphlowe said he about cleaned up the house when last bets went around. Neither he no Vairyo have bothered to bet much on the outcome of tonight’s game. The cost of a decent dinner, and no more. A loss should sting a little. The victory dining at the vanquished’s expense seems about the limit. Meeting with debt collectors and lending agents is far outside of his scope. Still, Morandi does have a reputation as a shrewd player. A man who is not in it solely for the money. That is sound.

He meets so few sound men these days.

“Mr Morandi, I presume? I don't believe we've met at the baize. Shrikeweed, at your service." He gives the newcomer a nod, then rests upon he cue again, turning to the action at the table. "I have heard of your prowess and skill. I wish I had been here to see you in action. Cleaned up, from what I heard." He raises his glass civilly. “I don’t suppose I could tempt you with a game, when I finally dispatch my esteemed colleague from Hesse?” Vairyo is calling for a bridge to make his shot. A mistake. He gives Morandi a grin. “Odds on Vairyo making the pot?”

[Desiderio Morandi]

the pendulum club, uptown

evening on the 19th of vortas, 2719

M

orandi is not a man given to smiles, but the very edge of his lip tilts up just a little, watching. He shifts on his feet, crossing his arms over his chest. He can hear nothing humming except for the low buzz inside his head, of course; it is lower here, with the sounds of voices and the clinking of glasses at the bar, and even the tap of the cue, though he knows it will come back the moment he is alone.

He has not yet had the chance to caprise – the Anaxi gentleman, whose name he still does not know. Quantitative, the man named Vairyo has said; something tickles him about the thought of a quantitative conversationalist playing billiards.

Vairyo, Morandi thinks he remembers now. One… Farokh, yes, Farokh Vairyo. How he remembers the name he cannot think, and so he thinks harder.

He watches as the auburn-haired man eases back from the table. Another expression which is almost a smile tugs at his lip when he sees where the cue ball has come to rest. Vairyo is frowning again. Witchcraft, he says, and Morandi nearly winces; he tames his irritation with another deep breath, watching the smoke curl up from Mr. Vairyo’s lips. What a coarse turn of phrase that is, applied to proper monic conversation. But it is, after all, only teasing.

And now he really is smiling. The water gurgles in Vairyo’s pipe; he calls for a bridge. The other man, the quantitative, is leaning on his cue. Morandi is watching him now, though Vairyo and his careful lining-up of the cue never leaves the corner of his eye. Quietly, Whittemoor looks up finally and catches his eye; he glances toward the bar, smiling, but Morandi shakes his head slightly. He cannot imagine anything worse for his headache, save perhaps a noise any louder than this.

The man turns, swirling his red wine, and sidles closer. His field is unobtrusive in the way all quantitative fields are, but it is restless; the mona are breathing, complaintive, despite the steady competence of the field. Morandi bows lightly as he meets the caprise.

His eyes narrow slightly when the other man guesses his name. He supposes he is not an unremarkable man in appearance. He shifts, still uncomfortable in his suit; he uncrosses his arms. He studies him. “A pleasure, Mr. Shrikeweed,” he says, the Anaxi name sharp in his Bastian accent. “No, I do not think we have played – or met anywhere else, for that matter. But your name is familiar to me also.”

Mr. Shrikeweed raises his glass, and praises his prowess and skill. Morandi feels distinctly uncomfortable.

But he knows by now to incline his head again, however shy or undeserving he may feel. “Well,” he murmurs. His eyes wander back toward Vairyo, who is still looking down the length of his cue as if he were looking down the barrel of a rifle at a particularly skittish buck.

He is tempted to read the man.

At his level of competence with the conversation, and Vairyo’s lack thereof, the Hessean would scarce feel a thing. Morandi, like many perceptivists, is skilled at speaking quietly. Nor would a light reading cause his field to go terribly etheric; most likely, at this distance, only Mr. Shrikeweed would be aware of it. He has invested nothing in this, and nor does he stand to gain. It would not be cheating (though this precise temptation is why he shies away from the whist table).

More than anything, he wants to cast; he wants to feel his ley lines come alive, and he thinks that a mere breath of monite would ease his headache. He knows precisely which words he would use to pinpoint Vairyo and draw out the information he needs, and he can taste them on the tip of his tongue. Not unlike Mr. Shrikeweed’s, the mona in his field are restless.

He does not cast.

“I am not a gambler,” he says at last, crossing his arms again and frowning deeply. “I dislike betting, and I have no feel for odds. But I admire your technique, and he is off to a rather bad start with this stroke.” His voice is quiet. “But in my occupation, I am accustomed to surprises.”

He says nothing for a very long moment. Vairyo still has not made his shot. When he looks over at Mr. Shrikeweed again, the other man is grinning. He still cannot quite tell his age; he might have a decade or more on Morandi, but otherwise, there is a soft, colorless quality to him.

Morandi does not quite manage a smile himself. Close, again, but not quite. “And tempt me you certainly can, though as I told Maurice earlier, I have a wretched headache; it was not my plan to join you on the baize tonight. But…” He trails off, his lip twitching, and glances back at Vairyo. He watches once more.

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - The Pendulum Club

The Evening of the 19th of Vortas, 2719

H

eadaches he knows of old. It is a rare day he does not have one, pressing about his skull, distorting his thoughts. As if they were not distorted enough on their own. Tension, stress, his useless doctor tells him. ‘A vacation, rest and relaxation, is what you require. A week in the countryside perhaps.’ A prescription for worse than headaches, for more tension and dislike. He is unsure what the purpose of the countryside is, other than to play host to farms and forests, and to separate cities one from the other. The idea of the sea is attractive. The idea of Thul Ka likewise appeals. The coffee, the great press of people and politics. The ideas only. Travel is not for him.

He cannot escape from his stresses. They follow him, wrap him, as sure as his field. Billiards and boxing will have to suffice. Coffee and conversation. And Morandi? What is the source of the man’s headaches? Tension as well? Perhaps it is something more organic. The migraine perhaps. Those too are a misery.

“I’ve not been at the table much of late. The last year has been,” He shakes his head, wincing at the thoughts. “Well, it has been a year.” And it is not over. It drags on, and there is much to be done. Much to unravel. The Weaver remains a mystery. A matter to be assessed. Bailey is on that. The Thief sends his reports, his requests for funds. Small enough, and a bargain at twice the price. “Still, I like to keep in some semblance of skill here.”

“Arithmetical witchcraft.” Vairyo calls out, lining up his doomed shot. The expression on his dark face is bitter, distracted. He knows he is doomed, at least for now. There is time for him to recover.

He swirls the wine in his glass and shakes his head, giving Vairyo an exaggerated glare with his colorless eyes. “And I could accuse you of using your own sorceries to make the balls dance to your tune on the table. Still, I refrain from it.” Vairyo huffs, his elegant mustachios shaking slightly with mock indignation. This is an old play, familiar banter. In another age such insults might require a duel in some misty field. The score at the end of the frame will be satisfaction enough. Then the toasting will commence, and the game played over in words, not in deeds.

There is something amiss with Morandi, more amiss than a simple headache. He watched Vairyo like he is inspecting him, trying to pierce the Hessean’s brash exterior. He can feel the man’s field, just a slight caprise, the merest greeting. Perceptive, and no weak matter either. There is tension in the field. He knows that well enough to sense it. To sense it without any skill in matters Perceptive. Headaches and too-tense magic. They go hand-in-hand. Morandi is restless. Anxiety? The gimlet stare at Vairyo is nearly predatory. To what end? Vairyo has his connections, his position, but sliding into the man’s thoughts, and here among so many is unwise. Such an invasion will lead a duel, swords if Vairyo has his way.

Well, here is another puzzle. Is Morandi after something, or does he distrust the diplomat? Does Vairyo have some information the man needs? Unknown and unknowable. At least at this distance. If this uncomfortable man wishes to spectate alone, it should be easy enough, natural enough, to draw him in. There is some risk. It may be worth it, to satisfy his curiosity if nothing else.

“You speak of surprises in your occupation. Forgive me, but I am in the dark about your profession.” He knows little enough of Morandi. A mention here or there, his skill with a cue, and that is all. He had not bothered much to learn more. That was before. Now, he cannot afford to discount any member of the Pendulum. He trusts perhaps a handful, the rest had been innocuous cyphers. With what he knows, why the Incumbent has revealed, more skepticism is needed. Where do Morandi’s loyalties lie?

Where do his own?

Vairyo’s shot is about as good as his awkward position can allow. He commits no fouls. He fails to pot what he needs.

“Oh, and that’s a bad miss.” A smirk at Vairyo. More mockery. “Still, if you think my arcane geometry is besting you, perhaps we might invoke a neutral party? An expert?”A nod to Morandi. “Will you do us the honor of final adjudication? Keep us in line and upon the straight and narrow? Is is spectating, after all.”