[Closed] Death by a Thousand Paper Cuts

[Gale]

Painted Ladies Scrying Offices| 14th Hour

52nd Roalis 2720

Gale attempted to look their best this day, it was one of the few rare occasions they were out in public doing something official and if they knew anything about the social constructs of the world they understood that appearance meant everything. Sure they could be the rough and ready human metalworker, with thick calluses on their hands and burn scars on their arms - but this time required a touch more tact. They found their cleanest, least stained shirt and fixed the loose buttons; they cleaned their trousers from the coal dust and affixed their leather bracers; boots polished to a dull shine, the thin green scarf cleaned, folded over and worn as it should been - a knotted neckerchief beneath their collar. They pulled an waistcoat that was older than them from the depths of their belongings and beat the moths from it - long ago it was Beckett's but since his death it had been refitted to Gale's frame. A faded, dog-tooth pattern with tiny brass buttons down the front that had been cast at the forge.

Somewhere in the collection of casts was the original template for the buttons, but Gale did not have time to search for that. Not while there were much more important things at hand.

Nails filed with the grime dragged from beneath, hair brushed back and tucked beneath a flat cap. The satchel slung across them contained everything they thought they would need; duplicates of their designs and invention notes, a letter of patronage from one Mister Valentin and a letter of recognition from their Landlord Mister Aurelian. With another drawn in breath to suppress the growing fluttering within their chest - nerves, probably - they had locked up the Forge, had slotted the start crank into the side of the Steel Horse, and with a quick series of rotations were on their way.

For those on the immediate block and adjacent streets in Vienda, watching the smith take the Steel Horse around for test driving had become a somewhat regular occurrence. with it Gale was exposed to a collection of compliments and complaints; the latter of which was filtered into the useful and the wheezing of those who liked to complain because they can. As the season progressed elements became refined, the muffler quietened the engine to a softer, less grunting chuff, the exhaust was directed further back, the suggestion of oil to serve as coolant was tested and the small, tiny tweaks were made and polished off. Further afield there was still the looks of confusion from the locals, the bewildered expression to the idea of a machine propelling a rider forward; with it came the whispers and the lurking of eyes that were clearly trying to steal whatever it was they were working on.

It was a sign that Gale had to act before it was taken from them by force.

Stopping at the Painted Ladies Postal and Scrying Offices, Gale chained the Steel Horse up at the end of a bicycle rack outside, smoothed down their clothes and braved the bustle within. 

There was something strangely sterile about the postal offices, the main foyer had its high ceilings with the paint chipped and peeling. The Floor that was polished on its day of opening was long worn and scuffed, the interlocking wood slats now bending beneath every footfall. The large windows that would have let in daylight were murky from the smog from the factories or from the lanterns that illuminated the interior. There was the stale scent of tobacco, of gentlemen puffing on pipes as they sent their post and caught the latest news on the stocks; elsewhere were women laughing with the dull clink of teacups, the attempts to look pretty against the worn backdrop. There was a service bell, a sharp chime that dragged Gale's attention around to the postal desks, the orderly queues formed before the mesh barriers that protected the bored Galdori - Gale presumed they were Galdor- that worked behind them. 

The smith sidestepped out the way of some Galdor as they entered behind them, skin shivering as the field slipped over, consumed and quickly passed. Their hand clung to the satchel strap, shoulders rising up to their ears as they shuffled away. There was another noise, a clatter of pots, the slump of paper stacks, wood varnish sticking to sides-Gale sucked in the air, the finger and thumb pinching the bridge of their nose.

Breathe. Just breathe.

They twitched when the service bell rang again; rough, coarse laughter; a baby crying as a mother tried to argue with another at the desk. They could feel the heat beginning to gather beneath their collar, their fingers tugged at it - were they sweating? Were they hot? It was Roalis, maybe it was just the heat. Gale eased the clenching in their jaw, forcing their eyes to look upwards to the signs that hung above head level. The sooner they got where they needed to be, the sooner they could sort their paperwork and by extension, the sooner they could leave.

Stiff limbed the Smith marched over in the direction of the desks, shuffling around the traffic within. Knuckles were white around the strap, eyes wide and darting as the scents and sounds continued to circulate around the room. Everything echoed, even down to the squeaky wheel of some trolley taking letters outback; Gale rubbed at their ears to beat back the high pitch, their brow drawing into a line as they finally reached the threshold of the scrying desks - and then noticed the rack of forms. Gale eyeballed them suspiciously and then looked to the plaque that hung alongside:

If the form you are looking for is not here, please fill in Request form 17a and take it to the service desk.

The service bell rang.

Shuffling over to the rack, Gale loitered in front of it and scanned the ones available.Marriage, no. Birth, no. Writ of Reading, no. Death, no. Taxes, no. Change of Address, no-The hand hovered over the top of the sheets, erred for a moment, and then awkwardly tugged on what they thought was the supposed Request form - it had '17a' in the corner, so it had to be that one. There was a quick scan of the printed letters, the brow furrowing as it looked down all the tick boxes and blank spaces - Gale fumbled within their satchel for a pencil, their lips moving as they attempted to make sense of what they were looking at.

Application form? Housing Association- Water mains- Patent request form? That one.

Pressing it against the side of the rack the Smith began awkwardly filling it in, features pinching as they tried to blot out the background noise of the offices; someone, somewhere was in the midst of a row and Gale was doing their best to ignore it even as the language bombarded through the foyer. The paper crimpled as they hastily scribbled on it, desperately trying to spell things correctly and ensure it was legible before awkwardly signing it. Certain it was finished, Gale slid to the back of the queue and joined the coughing bodies. Some half-deaf man was arguing with a clerk, another gentleman was looking at his watch with impatience.

The service bell rang again, and Gale shuffled forward. It would be easy, the Smith tried to assure their nerves - they would get the form they needed, go off to a corner to fill it in, and then deliver it with the evidence and then everything would be fine.

You have everything you need, and I'm sure you can fill it all out correctly-

The service bell rang.- and you have all your evidence with you-

"Next!"

Gale blinked, not registering they were at the front of the queue. It was the frustrated sigh behind them that spurred them back to reality. Taking off their cap they edged their way over to the available clerk, gave a short half-bow and placed the form down. Gingerly, Gale attempted to clear up their usual heavy, slurring accent into something gentler on the ears.

"Good day, I require the patent submission form?"

The smith gave an awkward smile. That was the correct way to do things, right?

[Runcible Spoon]

Vienda -Quillbrook Street Post Office, The Painted Ladies
The Fifty-Second of Roalis, the Fourteenth Hour

I

t had once been a temple. Or at least, that was the rumor. Rumor counted for a lot in the Painted Ladies. It was plausible enough, being one of those ancient structures whose purpose had been lost to both memory and paperwork. Worn half-columns decorated the exterior, and long broken stones on the architrave hinted at what might have been a front portico. From time to time some local architect would try and ‘prove’ what the building had been, to the everlasting sorrow of their friends and relations, who had to endure the story being recounted over and over again in the most tedious manner possible.

None of this mattered to the functionaries to who now inhabited the place. It was the Quillbrook Street Post Office, and that is what it had always been. What did it signify if a postal inspector occasionally found an antique votive offering in the basement?

“The morning’s Hatch, Match, and Dispatch all transcribed. Lots of people getting themselves born this month. Got a long missive what needs encoding before handing it off to the scryers. Need anything before I settle in with this too-wordy gent’s letter and a pot of tea?” Thea Craddock, the most efficient of the transcribers, cocked her usual devious smile and tapped at the sheaf of papers under her arm. A wordy gent indeed.

Martin Grossbeak, soon-to-be esquire, looked up from the small pile of routine legal documents that had been entrusted to his care. Wills so minor he could hardly credit they needed to be written, applications for writs of literacy, ludicrously written in the petitioner’s own careful hand, small deeds, and certified letters. All banal, all trivial. This would be better soon he kept telling himself. Things would be better after he was admitted to the bar. For now, he languished here, a mere notary. At least he could hope for better days. “That’s all one letter?” There had to be eleven pages of close-written script there, on both sides.

“Told you he was a wordy gent.”

“I hope to all the gods it only needs transcribing.”

“No such like Mr Grossbeak. Double encrypted and to be scryed off with all inconvenient speed. The pompous kov was very clear about that.”

“The world’s full of pompous gents, Thea.”

She rolled her dark eyes in mock exasperation. “One day Mr Grossbeak, you’ll be as pompous as any of ‘em.”

“Not with my luck.” His ill fortune had got him plunked down here, in the Dives no less, trying scape together a proper professional life. That was a laugh. The pay for a notary was meagre at best, at least by galdori standards, and all it afforded him was a little apartment on Saddlery Hill and accusations that he and his ilk were ‘gentrifying’ the place. He was always vaguely insulted by that. Martin Grossbeak had no close connections with the gentry. If he had, he’d have more money. Instead, he had debts, a career that seemed to perpetually failed to take flight, and a life living cheek-by-jowl with the lower races. It was difficult to maintain a lofty air when one worked with clever wick transcribers every day. The least he could do was order them about. “A pot of tea would be most acceptable. Strong, with cream and lemon peel.”

“Be along shortly. I’ll leave you to your,” she gave a vague and dismissive gesture to the meagre will of one Algernon Morrison, “whatever that is.”

He waved her away and set down to spend far too much of his valuable time sorting about an estate of three hundred concords.

* * *

Lorena Pembroke-Roylott had a name larger than she was, and far too grand. A desk clerk in a dim scrying office, no matter how historic the building, should have a more efficient name. Lily Brooks might have been better. Perhaps she should change it. Gods know the forms are about here somewhere.

“Look here Miss!” The florid, red faced man had been carrying on for the last fifteen minutes, complaining about losing money in a stock trade which he swore, oh how he swore, was fully indemnified. “I pay good money for this service, and I expect to have my losses voided! I cannot believe that I even have to say this!” You’re not saying it, she thought, you are shouting it loud enough they can probably hear you down on Marlowe Street. The stockjobbers and lenders down there were probably taking busy notes on the tirades of this fool.

“Mr Sommes,” she explained once again in her ‘talking to idiots’ voice, “as I say, we are very sorry for your losses, but neither Carrwine’s of Vienda, and less still the Royal Post offer anything like the financial surety you are asking for. You must take this up with your broker . . .”

“Carrwine’s is my broker, you ignorant slug!”

She sighed again. She explained again. “Carrwine’s brokerage firm does not operate from our scrying offices. You will have to go either to the head office in Crosstown, or else call at the personal office of your broker.” The man continued shouting. Ms Pembroke-Roylott kept up her most irritating smile. “Good day Mr Balfour. As you can see, there are other ladies and gentlemen waiting, and I simply cannot help you.”

She cocked an eyebrow at Edward Squeers, the big, calm, and terrifyingly strong man that served as the guard. He nodded, and with gentle and very insistent pressure, he conducted Mr Uriah Balfour toward the exit. The idiot was still shouting about his losses. She hoped he suffered more of them. She hoped he was ruined.

“Next!”

The next customer was of an altogether different sort. Quite, almost trepidacious, and with that politeness that some develop when they know not quite what to do, but are determined to get it done with a minimum of fuss. Such customers can be difficult, but rarely are they any real bother. Complicated, but rarely rude.

The customer fits the bill. She’d been right about this one. Polite. Unsure. Complicated. “Patent forms? Well, I’m sure we have them here, but the submission isn’t something we normally do here at the front desk. If you know what your are doing,” and that seemed unlikely, “then you can step over to the desk by the window and begin your applications. Otherwise, if your require consultation as assistance, we can provide you with that. If you have the time, I believe our Mr Grossbeak is available.” She gave a sympathetic nod. Of course it would have to be Grossbeak. No one else had the proper legal background, let alone standing. “Jane,” she said, turning to a girl of no more than sixteen, “pass the word for Mr Grossbeak. This client -- and what is your name by the by? -- will require his assistance.”

[Gale]

Painted Ladies Scrying Offices| 14th Hour

52nd Roalis 2720

Gale blinked, not once but twice. The first time was to focus their attention down on the speaker behind the desk - neat cuffs, pressed, single button on each sleeve, high collar, a uniform but not a uniform. She nodded, was it in understanding? It seemed like understanding, but Gale was not sure. There was a lack of true greeting back, was it because everyone who came to the desk became another indistinct face against a backdrop of nobodies in particular? The second blink was to the posing of a question, casually slipped in without thought and such great ease that Gale felt hesitant.

Jane, this quiet, unassuming girl in the back who Gale had somehow missed on their first scan of clerks scurried off out the back to find the assistance - all correctly presumed as needed. The door to whatever number of back offices swung with her escape leaving Gale alone with the clerk. The Smith squeezed the strap of their satchel tighter, their eyes focusing firmly on the lip of the desk; more stained wood, uneven and thick and several coats too many, brass reinforcements, single thin leather mat over the top, heavy grained and worn, much like everything else in this establishment. A stack of papers was being flicked through, Gale's attempted request form laying in the strange no man's land between them. Was Gale supposed to reclaim it? Or was it just supposed to stay there forever and expose the smith's inferior, terrible handwriting?

Well, it was not actually terrible, but it certainly was not any form of cursive.

"Saunders. Gale Saunders." They choked on the word 'Miss' and failed to get it out their throat. It sounded wrong, alien in taste upon their tongue and a thing that caused a dryness to accumulate at the back. They may have adopted the masculine appearance and mannerisms, may have looked the part and been raised as such, but right in this instance, Gale felt exposed. All that they were was hidden only behind thin layers of fabric that for this precise moment, would have to peeled back and reviewed in a harsh light.

The wince was resisted; it had to be. They stopped their jawbone from tensing by rubbing at their chin and smoothing out the skin above their upper lip in a single, smooth movement. Everything had to be natural; everything had to be calm and collected. Even if they could feel their tongue scraping at the back of their teeth and the element of self-loathing of being something they were clearly not permeated the back of Gale's mind.

No one, after all, ever took a woman too seriously. Especially if they were intelligent ones, clearly a man would have to have been involved somewhere.

Further down the row of desks another bell rang, there was more shuffling of papers this time with the heavy thud of a stamp and the sticking of ink to paper as it was peeled away. To the left, Gale's eyes moved to steal a glance, wood ground against wood as a draw was open, and the clerk rummaged about in it for something. What was not important; the smith did their best to correct their behaviour, even with the shifting of fields oppressed their space and made a heavyweight take root within their stomach.

"I... well, yes. Help. I have the time." Having time was a rarity, but then again, so was the luxury of running a business - Gale could manage their time as they saw fit. They could pour their focus into doing this, keeping their guard up and crushing the craving of a cigarette.

Smoking fixed a lot of problems.

The smith tasted their gums; also dry, like their throat and refusing to drag in any moisture from the air to replenish itself. The inside of their chest tightened, squeezing against their breastbone-

-or was that the binding complaining, perhaps they done it too tight today-

But they managed a nod, their hand quietly pointing several steps away from the desk. If this were balancing books or filling out receipts Gale would have had no problem; they had run their forge successfully over the years and was more than capable at ensuring the information was correct for Mister Taxman. But this already seemed to be leaving Gale teetering over the proverbial edge into the nuisances of law.

"Do I just... wait here or... where do I go for Mister Grossbeak?"

Galdor. Sounds like a Galdor name. Probably. If this is legal advice. It's not like any of us lesser races would get a step in the door in law.

Awkward was the word that came to mind; it was quickly followed by small. Gale may have been human, may have had physical prowess and height that would have left them towering over the majority of Galdor and Wicks; they may have held the understanding to design and build a machine inspired by the ones in the factory to create a vehicle, and if given the same formal education their betters received then Gale had no doubt they could run circles around them in any of the mundane subjects.
But Gale was not; instead, they were a mishmash of whatever knowledge they had scraped from their upbringing as an apprentice metalworker patched with scraps of knowledge to build a better understanding of the laws of combustion and mechanics. They had to cooperate with the powers and laws that society demanded of them in the hopes that their designs would not be snubbed or stolen.

And that made them nervous.

Gale puffed their cheeks.

"Is it... a big form?" they shuffled on the spot, their nails gripping the leather strapping and lightly scratching the edge. Behind the Jane was returning, quicker than when she had left - she seemed a bit more filled with purpose. Was she signalling to one of the side doors? No, it was the adjacent desk; yes that made sense Gale convinced themself.

"I mean, ma'am, is it..." The smith uttered a nervous noise, a tight chuckle as their cheeks warmed, "Thick, I mean. Lon- Do I need to prepare anythin'? I-I'll go over here and find out. Uh, thank you."

The smith willed their legs to slide a few feet towards the desk without cringing too much.

[Runcible Spoon]

Vienda -Quillbrook Street Post Office, The Painted Ladies
The Fifty-Second of Roalis, the Fourteenth Hour

T

he word was passed, and Martin Grossbeak, soon-to-be-esquire, shoved aside the tedious wills, rose to his feet. At least this was something new, something to take his mind off the pointless estate of the late, unlamented, Algernon Morrison. Morrison had been a tightfisted old codger. A long-time customer of the office here, both in communication and in finance. Meager in all these things. There was no harm in letting the matter drop. Whatever relatives that might drop by demanding their portion mattered not at all. Wicks, the lot of them, and not even of the clever sort.

“Jane?”

“Yes sir Mr Grossbeak, sir?” Jane did not really speak so much as squeak. She'd have made a better mouse than a girl. Nature was full of such perversities.

“Have Thea hurry along with that tea. I have,” and he drew himself up to his full unimpressive height and puffed out his hollow chest, “a client.” The words sounded well in his ears. He should like to hear them more often. He would be hearing them more often. Provided he passed the bar examination. This time.

“Yes sir Mr Grossbeak, sir.” Jane flitted out of the tiny closet that Grossbeak was pleased to consider his office, and out into the dingy, dispirited corridor that led on to the Transcibers’ Room. At some point, Thea and the tea would appear. Thea made a competent pot, even if she did turn her nose up at cream in tea. Well, what did she know? She was only a wick of the Ladies. The likes of her may be clever, but they lacked proper refinement.

Out amid the bustle of the front office, Grossbeak cast his keen grey eyes about, looking for this client. What he saw failed to impress. An indifferent personage in clothes that might be a workman’s best, long hair but shorn close at the sides, and an expression of not-well-concealed bafflement. Charming.

“A long form?” Lorena was addressing the fellow - was it a fellow? - in her usual voice of infinite patience. “Yes, and I am afraid it is rather more than a single form. More of a packet. Filing forms of course, affidavits -- Mr Grossbeak can assist with those as needed -- to be witnessed, descriptions of the alleged invention, drawings, diagrams, more oaths.” She shook her head and looked down on Saunders with something like sympathetic condescension. “I’m no expert, but I have seen the forms.” She drew in a breath. “They are, as I suppose they must be, complex.” She riffled the papers on her desk; a sign of polite dismissal that Grossbeak had seen any number of times. “Do take your seat at the desk, and I am sure our Mr Grossbeak will be along shortly.”

He hung back for a moment, watching the client take a seat at the little desk in its nook. Best to let them get comfortable, catch their breath and so forth, before swooping in and taking charge of the situation. And he would take charge. There was not a doubt in his mind.

“Good afternoon,” he said, when at last he approached the client at the consulting desk. “I am Mr Grossbeak. I understand that you have some questions regarding a patent application?” The briefest caprise of his field was enough to tell that the client suffered from the sad affliction of being human. A disappointment. Was it though? A human but itself was a sad affair to be sure, but a human alone, and alone with a patent application was a curious matter. There must be someone behind this gormless agent, some personage who could not be bothered to perform the tedious legal niceties. A trusted servant then? It seemed reasonable enough. And a trusted servant often implied a competent master.

“May I sit down?” The question was an empty formality as he took his seat before any answer could be given. “Tea will be along shortly, or so I am led to understand. One never can be quite certain in this place.” He gave the agent a papery smile. “While we wait, it will be necessary for you to explain the matter more fully. How is it that we, and by we I mean I, can assist you?” He gave the client a closer, more appraising glance. Clearly an agent, but on whose behalf?

“I will need to understand the nature of the patent request. What novel invention does your principal wish to have patented?” Inventions were enjoying a fertile few years, and quackery flourished along with it. In the inner pocket of his waistcoat he had a list of known patent quacks. Names to watch out for, names to reject out of hand. Peterson and his perpetual motion devices would receive no assistance from the likes of Martin Grossbeak. He was far too shrewd to fall for such flummery. Others had been fools, others had lost pots of money in such ‘inventions’. Not he. He would approach the matter with care. And if it seemed reasonably sound, well, he might nip down to his broker and ask him to keep an eye out for a new company whose shares would be newly upon the market. Shares that he would purchase, on credit of course. “Who is your principal by the by? I cannot begin to advise you without knowing on whose behalf I am providing said advice.”

[Gale]

Painted Ladies Scrying Offices| 14th Hour

52nd Roalis 2720

Gale took the cue and for the most part did as they were told. The wood chair scuffed across the floor as they dragged it out and was shunted back in with a groan. The satchel that they had so desperately been clinging onto all this time was sat upon their lap, serving as a barrier of leather between them and the wood - chipped scuffed, one inkwell, small lip client side, presume more leg room clerk-side. They tilted their chin, catching sight of the tiny brass knobs on draws and cupboards. The bell rang, the next customer stepping into the space that Gale once dwelled in and the cycle of customer service continued. Knee bouncing, the smith kept their eyes down on the surface of the desk, a few measured inhales as they attempted to blot out the echoing sounds from beyond the desk nook.

It would be fine; they would swallow their pride to deal with the Galdori one more time. This was just a means to an end. Their creation would be there and no one would ever dare challenge Gale's right to own it. They pressed their fingers against their collarbone, another deep inhale and exhale pushing away the heat that lingered within. They were steel, they were shaped by the forge fires and had come out stronger than ever. They could deal with this. They had to. Gale's skin prickled as they pulled on the cold resolve of Gunner for strength, their features pinching as they found the steady neutral ground the identity created in their mind.

The smith lifted their eyes when they felt the field pass over them, a slick oily covering that threatened to seep into every crack and pore. Gale from their seat gave him another half bow, the eyes resting on his lips as he spoke. A small, unveiled tug was there as this Mister Grossbeak sat and began his counter scrutiny. It was to be expected, the Smith was not a Galdor - of course they had to be doing it on someone else's behalf. Of course there had to be another brain behind the matter. They pushed aside the next bell ring, the next chortle of noise from another set of clients; the distant clack of something mechanical - a type writer? Gale did not dwell on it. The battle was here, in the now, at this single desk in some tired and forgotten Scrying Office in Vienda.

This was the start of their proverbial war; and they would have to fight it not with fists and firearms, but ever sharp shred of intellect that fuelled their mind at every opportune moment. There was no room for mistakes.

Round one. Start.

One of the service bells rang, Gale ignored it.

"Good afternoon, Mister Grossbeak," Gale began, their fingers gave one last squeeze of the satchel. They laced their fingers together and brought them to rest on the lip of the desk. Their knee bounced, the small clack and fall of the heel against the ground as they weighed up his questions. The matter of tea was another unimportant thing they would shove aside for the moment, it was not important. What was important was making sure they understood every question and prod thrown at them.

Already Gale was coming to terms with his mindset - he was a Galdor, he would think himself better.

They were going to have fun bursting that particular bubble.

"I am the principal designer of this invention, if that's what you're asking." Gale spoke bluntly then. Their features smoothed over into neutral, the thumbs retreating to flip open the leather satchel. They cleared their throat, speaking the first word tightest with a brief tint of cheeks, "Miss Gale Saunders."

They let that hat drop.

"I do have a letter of recognition from my Landlord and a Patron."

They pulled out the two letters first; the first was from their Landlord Mister Aurelian in recognition that Miss Gale Saunders was exactly who she said she was, that despite her field of work being a man's world that she was a reliable as renter, seemed successful in their enterprise and always paid their bills on time. It was generic, but generic was all it needed to be - the fact Gale had broached the suggestion to the Landlord on the promise of renting out larger work spaces should the patent go through successfully was something that Mister Grossbeak had no need for knowing. The second and perhaps more important was from Sergeant Rhys Valentin; further recognition of the design, a backer that approved of the human's activities and acted as a guarantor. Gale did not quite understand it, but apparently it would give them the necessary support to get them through the system and recognised.

They placed them down on the desk between them, hands withdrawing. It was best to get the fact others had given Gale the nod out the way first - least that was what Mister Aurelian advised, having names was a particular kind of ammunition.

"As to the invention itself." Gale frowned. They were unsure on how much of the language this Mister Grossbeak would understand - but did that even matter at this point? He would either taken them seriously, or not. "It is a engine that combusts internally and is small enough to propel a bicycle. A motorised bicycle if you will. Though it does not run on steam. It uses common lantern oil, Kerosene."

They took a moment to pause and gather their thoughts.
"I think Internal Combustion Engine powered bicycle is easier on the word count."

It was vague enough, they did not want to spill all the science onto the man until they obtained a better reading of him. Gale lifted their eyes to the bridge of his nose - it was the illusion of making eye contact. They straightened and pressed their spine into the back of the chair, fingers drumming against the satchel and feeling the hard cover of the journal of notes within.

"If you wish to see it work and function, I do have it outside chained to the bicycle racks. It would be no problem to demonstrate it." Gale gave a small tilt of the head, the corner of their lip tugging in an attempt to offer a smile - it came out more sly than intended. "But I understand if you would rather keep to the paperwork."

"I suppose to answer your question Mister Grossbeak, the advice is for myself." Their eyes slid to the clerk arriving with tea, a small clattering of porcelain as it was settled on the table -

Plain set, minimal decoration- Is that cream? Wait. What? Lemon? That's Lemon? I thought they were bigger.

It was suspicion that Gale eyeballed the set, a brief break in the smooth visage they had attempted to adopt. Shaking their head they dragged their focus back to the task on hand.

"So, how can we help each other?"

[Runcible Spoon]

Vienda -Quillbrook Street Post Office, The Painted Ladies
The Fifty-Second of Roalis, the Fourteenth Hour

H

e could hardly credit it. One revelation after another, and each more suspect that the last. A woman dresses in such a fashion was curious enough, though not without some precedent. Miss Amelia Barlowe, a young lady of his acquaintance was much taken with wearing trousers and traveling about the city on her velocipede. No, not Miss, Dr. Three years his junior and already a fellow of the Royal College of Physicians. Perhaps unconventional women rose high in the professions. It was not unheard of. It remained unconventional. Martin Grossbeak was, to his core, a conventional man.

Convention and law dictated that an inferior like this Saunders woman required patronage, required recommendation. Miss Saunders, to her credit, had already supplied these. Supplied them without need of his services. Well, that was a setback. Advisory services were lucrative. A foolish advisee even more so. It was unfortunate. Unfortunate for his bank balance. That official tally was looking increasingly anemic if late. He would have to borrow more money to pay his legal admittance fees, his provisional membership in the courts, his rent, and his increasing gambling debts. Gods he hated the money lenders. Clever bastards, making themselves only marginally more agreeable than a lack of funds.

This was neither the time nor the place to dwell on his misfortunes. The still-confused Saunders, Miss Saunders, might yet prove useful. If she was here, seeking legal advice at the scrying office, then she had no other legal representation. The sheltering arms of her patron had not seen fit to stretch so far. Typical. No sense of legal niceties these offhanded patrons. All to the better, he supposed, It would mean more work for him. It had better, godsdamnit.

“Miss Saunders,” he said, a what passed for a soothing voice, “If you are indeed the designer of this,” he gave an airy gesture, “contrivance, then I am very much afraid that it will take more than sureties of patronage and good standing to speed along your application.” He gave Sauders a genteel and carefully crafted condescending smile. “Still, I believe I can assist you in these matters.” He extended the smile, luxuriating in its perfection. There was an art to proper condescension. Not the insulting flummery that passed for it now, but true, noble condescension. Another sad victim of this modern age. “Your station imposes additional encumbrances. Examinations, interviews, and considerably more scrutiny upon your invention.” All perfectly true. It would be a massive headache to arrange. “And I am afraid that, although this initial consultation is gratis, more involved assistance does come with various fees and charges. I lay this not to dissuade you, Saunders.” Somehow, calling the client ‘Saunders’ seemed more correct than using ‘Miss’. A ‘Miss’ simply did not dress like a raceway tout strolling about the mews. A ‘Miss’ certainly would never have claimed to have invented a ‘motorized bicycle’. No, ‘Saunders’ it was, and he would take no arguments. Least of all from himself.

Saunders carried on, speaking of kerosene and combustion chambers with what seemed like real facility. Perhaps this was the inventor. Still, it was no doubt all just diagrams on paper. Inventors were, in his rather too-large experience, prone to dreaming and scribbling rather than true practicalities. So much easier to make some drawings, scrounge up some initial funds, and then promise the world (for a fee) before the whole endeavour went tits up and the inventor walked away with a pot of cash and vague assurances that it might have worked, if only there had been more investors.

He stopped dead.

“You have it here? A working prototype?” His eyes grew wide as he tried to imagine that this nobody, this nothing, had not only drafted up some ideas upon paper, but had managed to construct a working model. Rubbish, surely. Saunders did seem one to talk rubbish. Perhaps there was something to this. Perhaps this was more of an opportunity than he had first considered. A working prototype. Well, that would require further analysis, testing, verification, more testing, and all with innumerable forms. Forms to be filled out and notarized, for a nominal fee of course, by Martin Grossbeak, soon-to-be-esquire.

A working prototype. A prototype without a patent. That was in itself a valuable thing, or might be. “If it is available for perusal, I believe it should have a look. It will help in drawing up the correct papers.”

He had forgotten his tea, and only now managed to slurp down a cup. Oversteeped and under hot. He had misjudged it. He could not blame Thea, or even Jane. Precedent counted. They were efficient, the pair of them. It made no matter, the tea was already fleeing from his mind.

“I must say, Saunders, if there really is a prototype, a patentless prototype, I don’t suppose you have considered getting it properly insured?” He started to rise just a little. “That would provide you with some physical, if not intellectual security.” He tutted, thinking about the state of the world. “Any bicycle thefts are sadly common, as I am sure you are well aware.”

[Gale]

Painted Ladies Scrying Offices| 14th Hour

52nd Roalis 2720

Was he squirming? No, squirming would imply that there was some form of pressure being applied. Surely a simple, brain-dead eejit such as Miss Saunders would never be able to apply pressure onto an esteemed Galdor. And he was smiling - not that Gale quite understood the meaning behind it. There was something off about it and his gestures, the way he poured through his words and attempted to find a reason for his involvement and existence.

No, he was slippery- No- that was not the word, it was something else. Gale had yet to place what it was exactly. So instead they focused on him as a whole in the attempt to work out what the word was.

"As expected, Mister Grossbeak." They attempted to mirror him, their hand moved in a gesture to the rest of the scrying offices, "Your assistance is why I am here. And it would be very much appreciated."

Was that right? It felt right.

It was decided it would be better for Gale to go alone on this patent seeking - their Patron was a busy man, he had the law to keep and order to maintain. The fact that him being there with Gale would no doubt raise too many questions and eyebrows did not pass the smith's attention. There was a different kind of safety of him being absent. It took a moment for Gale to work out what gratis meant, but they did not bat an eyelid to the mention that more involvement would cost more. It was expected, the Smith held a similar mindset in regards to their work. Time costs money. But why use such a word, to begin with?

Ah, oes. To keep himself above the common masses.

He held them at a distance with words, a powerful tool that would trick the less educated while in reality it was just a collection of dry waffling. It was to be expected, the points were agreed upon - they nodded as they kept their eyes on the bridge of his nose. It was thick bridge, large pores, a few thin hairs sprouting from it, a single, lone grey one stood out the most. It flicked whenever his jowls moved, the advisory Mister Grossbeak talking but not actually speaking - even if he was choosing to omit the 'Miss' from their name.

Gale noted the detachment but did not rise to meet it. It was largely unimportant in the grand scheme of things. Not that they quite understood the necessity of him and his behaviours as a whole. He was a slimy, greasy rat and Gale could see that - and so would hold him accordingly in their interactions.

"I'm not dissuaded. And the points raised are expected." Gale thumbed the leather again, feeling the seam and the grain in the surface, "After all, you can't just hand a patent out to just anyone. There has to be a process."

And then he stopped dead in his words.

Gale did not control the breaking of their lips, nor the slither of white teeth pulling up into a cat-like grin.

"Of course I do. How did you think I got here?" It was a question offered innocently, "As said, it's chained to the bicycle racks." They watched him slurp down the tea, "I have been ridin' it and modifyin' it over the last... two or three months." It was a ball mark estimate, the fact they were working on the design and function a long time before that was beside the point. He would no doubt see the evidence for himself in good time. He was already hooked; rising from his chair with his surprised expression growing on his face. Clearly, the idea that Gale Saunders, Human metalsmith and woman had created such an invention was beyond his limited comprehension.

But Gale did not move; instead, they smoothed the smirk down and took in a deep, steeling breath. They just had to keep going. The could not stop now, not before it all began. They needed to keep their resolve to see this through steeled, or they would dog this Galdor into submission one way or another.

"Keen are you Mister Grossbeak?" the Smith lowered their gaze to the discarded teacup, "There is no rush; gettin' the correct details down takes time. Less speed and more haste. You may look at the Steel Horse if to sate your curiosity." The smith gave a final rhythmic tap against the satchel and slung it across their torso.

"Though I should raise I do have notes and design drawing's of the prototype here - if you are inclined to look at the technical details first." Their accent slipped then. "Or are ye just be channelin' bein' a boy left with a pup?"

Regardless, if he was in such a hurry to see it then Gale would oblige - they would have to in order to get the matter seen and attended to swiftly and quickly.

"What would be needed in your perusal? I do have some information available already. Though I imagine you'd want to test it some form yourself. Should warn you though, it can go at quite a clip."

The matter of insurance gave Gale pause. It was a luxury, something humans rarely had the finances to access and if they did they would be swiftly conned out of it. The mention of bicycle thefts was something Gale was not ignorant to, it caused them to raise a single eyebrow, their eyelids narrowing to the question. Insurance costs money; something Mister Grossbeak seemed eager to get his tiny rat claws on. No, he was lead by the next paycheck and would probably attempt to squeeze the smith out of every drop they had.

"I am well aware." Gale spoke coolly, "And I thank you for your enquiry. Fortunately, I already have the means in place to ensure the security of my assets."

It's called, I'll blow their fucking brains out.

Gale sniffed and rubbed their nose with the back of their hand.

"Though, perhaps when this becomes popular ye can advise motorized insurance to the common rider. I'm sure many would leap at the idea. But one matter at a time. I'd rather not have my head spin." Gale inclined their head to the world outside and then back to Mister Grossbeak, "What matter would ye advise be attended to first? Where do we begin on all this?"

"I'm quite capable of talkin' on the core principles or go into the deeper mechanical nature. But you know this world best Mister Grossbeak, and I'd dare not presume on the correct order to do things."

[Runcible Spoon]

Vienda -Quillbrook Street Post Office, The Painted Ladies
The Fifty-Second of Roalis, the Fourteenth Hour

H

e knew little enough of engines and contrivances, could not judge them save with the most pragmatical of eyes. Perhaps that would be the proper starting point. A perusal of the device, a brief demonstration, to prove its efficacy of course, and then on to the more tedious aspects of the paperwork. That should do it. Martin Grossbeak, soon-to-be-esquire, blinked, and tried to recollect his thoughts. They seem to have run away with him, or perhaps been dragged about upon the merest rumor of this mechanized velocipede, this Steel Horse. Such a romantical name that, full of dash and possibility. That would never fit with the paperwork. The paperwork was notably lacking in romance, and so too was Martin Grossbeak.

“It would be best,” he said, adjusting his thin spectacles, “that I at least see the device. Proof of concept is a powerful thing Saunders.” Powerful, and noteworthy. It might all be for nothing. Saunders might be a crackpot after all, but something about this most unconventional personage did not fit such a conclusion. There was an unsettling competence about Saunders. In another it might have been unbecoming, certainly humans, and human women no less, should not aspire to such things. Shopkeeping and small business was their lot, they ought not aim no higher. Well, what should be and were, well, they were often quite different matters.

“Further, for a purely nominal fee, I can affix my seal to the initial design review documentation, indicating that a disinterested party can attest to the soundness of the invention. Or at least to its existence” That would do little enough. No one bothered to recognize his seal. Still, a Carrwine’s seal was better than nothing, and a small commission was never to be sneezed at. A curious expression that. He had never known anyone to sneeze in derision or dismissal. Sneezing was quite an involuntary thing.

“I am not a technical man, Saunders, so while I can give your drawings and plans the nod and duly draft the appropriate authentications, the practical demonstration would be of great value.” And Saunders was at least partly right. He did want to see this supposed invention out of pure curiosity. It was a novelty. And, if he played his cards right, a chance at additional fees. Showing interest never hurt in consultations.

And there would need to be more consultations. Oh a great many indeed, all of them. And all of them requiring nominal fees. A few debts might be paid off on account of this Steel Horse. All that was required was to remain in Saunder’s good graces, and hope that the funds would follow. Well, a lien could always be placed on the patron and the guarantor. The law was a magnificent thing.

The law required more paperwork, and so he returned to his seat. “You say you have been working on this ‘Steel Horse’ of yours for some time, and refined over months. Do you have any witnesses to this? Their signatures and statements will be required, of course, and at least two additional galdori, neither of them your patron nor your guarantor, nor any of their family, will be likewise necessary.” All very sound and reasonable. All things Saunders should expect. There were other matters as well, and rather more delicate. Saunders’ station, her status as a woman, would raise further difficulties. Her mode of dress, her bearing and deportment, all of these were in no way female, and yet she had called herself thus. Well, she would know.

“I daresay that you seem an intelligent and enterprising young person, and, provided your device performs as you describe, then I believe we can make a reasonable case for your patent.” The case could be made, the documentation submitted, but all would be subject to approval of the Patent Office, and those officials took a properly traditional view of the lower races. A proper, but tedious, hindrance. “Still, the process requires more support and approval that you currently possess, useful and proper though it may be.” He took in a long, deep breath. “I don’t suppose you are married, Saunders? A husband’s signature, or even a mere ‘x’ would be of considerable utility upon the forms.”

[Gale]

Painted Ladies Scrying Offices| 14th Hour

52nd Roalis 2720

The Smith took the moment to mull over their thoughts; they were becoming jumbled again, the background noise sneaking in and rattling their brain. There was a small shriek of surprise, somewhere - enough to make Gale turn their head to it - but they could not source it. Instead it was just more bodies, more shoving and grumblings of the Post Offices, the dull tone beat of stamps and the crumping of letters as they were thrown into baskets. The smith rubbed down the hairs on the back of their neck, pulled again on the collar of their shirt and then the knot of their tie, before settling their hands back onto the satchel.

There was a patch of polish on the surface that was too thick, and so Gale aggressively thumbed it as they caught their thoughts.

"A seal?" Gale had not considered it. He was a supposed neutral party in all of this, an official to sign and stamp where necessary - was adding the seal advantageous? Probably. "I suppose, it's logical. On the basis, it meets your requirements - no point in putting the cart before the horse. This would be a single payment, aye?"

The smith frowned then, the running of the tongue had turned to the chew of the lip. They could feel their cigarette case tucked in their inside pocket, the round tin corners just pressing hard enough against their binding to remind them that it was there. Yet with that mention in their mind, did they feel the binds that were a little too tight, and a little too digging into their thin skin and rib cage.

No, it was cutting.

Fuck.

There always was an expense; they would have to scrape out what savings they had remaining, probably even sell off what equipment and materials they could spare. It would be a tight few months, possibly even a year; but they could make it. If this patent was a success, they could make the money back in good time - least they hoped they could. They did not want to drag Rhys into their debts; he had enough going on in his life.

No, they would manage. And they would be victorious.

The next question was one that caused Gale to frown. Brow knitting together, they gave a quick drum upon the satchel, flipped it open and rummaged about for the journal - a letter-sized hardcover of faded Buckram, the corners battered and snagged. Sniffing, Gale flicked it open, skimming over their non-cursive handwriting, past the quick cut-outs of thoughts that had been stapled in, over the quick rough diagrams and loose sheets that had been neatly folded and slipped in between pages.

"I... well, guess there are witnesses and some of them did sign-" Gale paused on one page, squinted at the date and then continued, "Human- Wick, illiterate, no- Human, yes- Human, clockworker, yes- Neighbour- Galdor with a Noise complaint- More humans- A different Galdor demandin' an investigation into noise complaint- I had a few of those." They paused as they turned the next page and looked at the collection of letters that had been wedged in. Placing the book down they unfurled the letters and their cursive script given by a collection of disdainful Galdor complaining about them making noise in the industrial district of the city. When Gale refused to relent on their making it was escalated; they remembered having to allow some low ranking Seventen to snoop around their workshop for anything amiss.

It was not, the unusual noise was sourced and the local policing force seemed satisfied with the results. Gale received the proverbial slap on the wrist and the Galdor was told to expect loud and industrial noises when in the Dives. Especially from a metalworking business. But it was an acknowledgement that Gale had been working on their Steel Horse - even if it was described only as working on a mechanical engine and them damning the racket it made in the early stages of development.

"Do informal complaints and investigation results count? I have the dismissal letters here." Gale offered the letters with a wince. They flicked back through the pages of their development journal, "I mean, I do have a receipt for a defunct factory engine too from when I was trying to understand how it all worked together - but that was over a year ago. No. No that wouldn't-" The Smith waved the thought away and continued to flick through the pages.

Gale did not lift their gaze when he posed his final question.

"I don't have a husband. Or a father. Or a man in my life if that's what you are wondering. Least, not beyond the professional and business." They stopped on a page where they had sketched out the spring-loaded fire piston, "And yes, I'm very aware of how my position in society affects things." They thumbed the corner, re-reading the ink on the page and the carefully signed script from one of their literate human witnesses in the corner, "But wouldn't it be interestin' to see how far someone from the lowest rung on the ladder can get?" For once Gale met his eyes, the green orbs hard and steeling as they focused on it, "Don't you think so, Mister Grossbeak?"

Sharply Gale snapped the journal shut, tucked it beneath their arm and stood. They pointed towards the entrance of the office.

"For now, proof of concept it is. As you desire, such ye will receive." Gale dragged their tongue across the back of their teeth and offered him a shrug, "Shall we, Mister Grossbeak? You want me to bring it inside or are ye going to brave the common rabble of the street?"

[Runcible Spoon]

Vienda -Quillbrook Street Post Office, The Painted Ladies
The Fifty-Second of Roalis, the Fourteenth Hour

T

here was little point in refusing to acknowledge that Saunders, for all her impediments, was clearly a clever and intelligent woman. Grossbeak was not so conventional as to let prejudice stand in the way of a commission. That relied upon Saunders having cash in hand, or else the services of a bank. A small laugh nearly escaped his lips. Carrwine’s was her most likely financial institution. That would make an assessment of payment and credit all the easier. Morrisey, the fastidious accountant with no sense of humor and even less chin, well, he would be able to find out. Morrisey was good for that at least. Good for that, and nothing more.

“A seal, yes, that would require a one-time fee. Nominal, I assure you. A half-concord. Quite a reasonable price for surety.” A reasonable price, and no small one for one of the lower orders. Never much in the way of funds; at least not commonly. Leveraged to the hilt, living off meagre incomes and loans, there was not much hope in the way of a swift payment. Still, all services required compensation. it was only just and proper.

Saunders grew uncomfortable at the talk of fees. Uncomfortable enough that she bit her lip and seems to squirm in her chair, almost like she was seeking breath. He had seen the like before, but only in the fine young ladies he perpetually failed to court, fine young ladies in too-tight whalebone corsets who half-fainted decorativly upon convenient couches. Odd how such things always seem to be to hand. Odder still that more handsome or richer gentlemen always seemed likewise ready to offer smelling salts and glasses of brandy to those same young women. Bastards.

Saunders does not seem the sort to wear such a corset. It would not be in keeping with her unconventional appearance. And yet it seems breath troubled her. An asthmatic perhaps? Well, the air was bad enough here, all the smog and smoke drifting down from Soot and the miasma from off the river did no favors to the condition of local lungs. Perhaps that was it. It seemed likely enough.

“Complaints?” That he had not expected. A curious means of authentication, but one which had the possible advantage of being unbiased, at least as to the workings of the curious machine. “I had not considered such, but they may perhaps be worth something, if they have been properly filed of course.” Fat chance of that. The Seventen were about as assiduous in their filing as a frantic student was with their notes. Oh the files would be somewhere; probably water damaged and being gnawed by mice, or else in some obscure drawer in the local captain’s desk drawer. “As to the receipts for the engine? That might be worth attaching, though you will need additional attestations. And someone with a knowledge of the scrap you purchased will need to review your own machine.” His mouth fixed into a mirthless grimace. “Patent infringement and so forth.”

A common enough complaint to be made with patent applications from the lower races. Clearly such inventions were but sad imitations of proper galdori work, stolen and cobbled together. It was all perfectly reasonable. It was often enough true. And yet. And yet Saunders seemed genuine enough, proud enough of this supposed invention of her’s that it spoke to something like legitimacy. Earnestness could be a ruse. No sense in believing too strongly in Saunders. Not without seeing the device.

At last he shook his head, a lamentation for Saunders’ lack of convenient male relations to vouch for her. Another difficulty, another commiseration, another chance to extract a feel. Standing for her before the patent board, standing as her attorney would not come cheap, but it would be necessary. And the funds from that alone might pay for another few months of patronage from Shikeweed, Wensbrooke, & Kenge. A well respected firm, of course, with equally well respected tutelage fees. “If you have neither husband nor father, nor any other personal male surety, that will, of course, be called into question when your application is reviewed. The ordinary course of events, of course. Nothing much that can be done about it. Even my influence will account for nothing in such matters.” His influence? Useless, but there was no sense in telling Saunders such things. Better to let her think he pulled some weight in legal circles, rather than having all his authority seconded from the Carrwine name.

“As to an inspection of the device, lead on Saunders. I have no fear of these streets. I stroll down them daily and have yet to be harassed by anything more dangerous than a skewered sausage seller.” That was menacing enough.