[Closed] Hidden in Plain Sight

[Emilio Sanguini]

Hamis 9, 2720

A bookstore in Kingsway Market, late morning.

Sometimes, rain was good. Rain brought life and nourishment to plants and animals. Rain quenched fires, washed away dirt… but like a good number of things, rain was a double-edged sword. Too much of it could drown a field and wash away seeds and young plants. It caused floods, such as those experienced in parts of the Dives earlier in the season when the Arova swelled past her banks and washed into homes and businesses along her shore. And, sometimes, the rain wasn’t the problem at all, really. More the change in the air as clouds gathered and departed. It was this, Lio hypothesized, that was making his bad leg angrier than usual.

Luckily for him, today was a day that he was obliged to spend a good deal of time seated behind a table at a local bookstore, signing copies of his latest novel, a whodunnit set in a sprawling country mansion titled The Twisted Clock. The assistant of his publishing agent, a perpetually fretting young woman named Eveline Cavalcante, had managed to source at his request a short stool with a cushion to be placed under the table and allow him to elevate the bothersome limb, which helped immensely. That, and the fact that most who came to the signing were simply happy to shake his hand and exchange a few words made the task much more bearable. He did not know what he would have done if this had been some sort of social event where he was expected to mingle with other industry professionals and appear polite and personable and on his feet. Cancelled, likely, appearances be damned.

It was much easier to ignore his leg and not be grumpy seated in a rather comfortable chair in a rather cozy bookstore, away from the weather outside. Despite the downpour, there had been a line when the signing had started. This was not a surprise; the book had been well-received by both critics and readers alike, and things moved at a steady clip for about an hour before they began to slow down. Eveline appeared once more at his elbow.

“How are you, Mr. Sanguini?” she asked, “do you need anything? Another cushion? A break?”

“I’m quite alright, Miss Cavalcante, thank you,” he replied.

“You’re sure?” the woman asked, her fine brows meeting in a furrow above the bridge of her round glasses, “it’s really no trouble, Mr. Baines did tell me to get you whatever you need.”

This was a trend with young Miss Eveline Cavalcante, as Emilio had come to learn in the short time they had been acquainted. She was very new, and very eager to please. It was a good quality in an assistant, but not so much when it resulted in mother-henning a man that was nearly twice her age. She meant well, of course, but it was tiring to have to continuously find tasks for the woman to do to keep her busy and out of his hair.

“A cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss,” he offered, “any kind is fine, with the barest bit of milk and sugar.”

Eveline seemed happy for the task and hurried off, with a “Certainly, Mr. Sanguini,” leaving Lio once again to his own devices to greet the next bookstore patron who had come to request his scrawl.

[Bailey Sneed]

Vienda - A Bookshop in Kingsway
The Ninth of Hamis 2720, Afternoon

S

o, the Lame Man has a name. A significant development. A man with a name is much easier to trace. It can even be done at a remove, say, at a worn table in a public house over a pint of strong ale and a vegetable pie. A more congenial sort of tracing. Detailed paperwork, well, it is the way of the modern age. Around the back of the Census Office and the Archives he’s become something of a regular figure; chatting with the porters and the coffee girls. The clerks avoid him, he is beneath their notice. More the fools they; he’s made a little extra on the contents of their pockets.

A wise thief never passes up the opportunity to hone their skills.

The contents of conceited men’s pockets has been the fruits of one sort of practice, the name of the Lame Man another. Both valuable, both fungible to the right buyer. The fences back home bought trinkets and watches. Mr Shrike paid for the information.

“Discretion is required, Bailey.” Always enjoying the fact that ‘Discretion’ is his middle name, is Mr Shrike. It does make for a mild laugh, and the golly does have a sense of humor. “Keep a fair distance and don’t raise the alarm. I want the particulars of the man, his habits and his associations. I do not wish to spring you from the Barbican on charges of menacing.” Mr Shrike, hollow-eyed and less-than-properly shaven has been looking ill. Too stretched, too pale. Papers and diagrams pinned along the walls of the little room he uses as a study. Names tacked up, lines between them, pages of ledgers torn out and affixed here and there, visitor logs and appointment calendars piled up in stacks. It has seemed mad at first, even random. That had been another worry. Mr Shrike might be many things, but random had never been one of them.

In time, the papers had taken on a more sensible structure. Details of the comings and goings of men, some with names even he recognizes. Magistrates, Incumbents, greencoats. “This Lame Man, he’s one of this lot?”

“Unlikely, but I require data to verify. Background check. Full workup. Virtues and vices, known associates, favorite haunts. I’ll handle the compilation and the paperwork.”

“Never in life Mr Shrike, you’ve enough damned paperwork to sort.” A quick gesture around the room was enough, and Mr Shrike had nodded.

“Carry on Bailey. I leave it in your hands. But take care.”

“Right you are. And how much of a danger can a pretty-faced lame man be?”

He had spotted the Lame Man first at Kingsway, then around Crosstown a few times. Busy places both, and rumor was too thick to parse quickly. Too many kovs with gammy legs it seems. They must be popping up like mushrooms in this season. Well, the slickness of the streets is always dangerous, especially to flash gollies with no sense in shoes.


The Lame Man had been easy enough to follow, as it turned out. A Smike’s End man apparently, and distinctive enough to be remembered by barmen, shop keepers, and that fraternity of solid-looking men who were forever unloading carts and wagons. Always a good source of information, the men of that fraternity.

A few well placed questions, and a few better placed coins, and the streets on which the Lame Man is most often seen were made known. From there, the man had been easy enough to follow. It had been no great surprise to learn the man haunted a bookshop. Mr Shrike had said the man had some association with writing. What had come as something of a shock was to learn that the Lame Man, one Emilio Sanguini, was a noted and sometimes feted author.

Out side the bookshop now, and dressed in his best clothes. Deep rust nearly new, a clean neckcloth well tied, scrubbed to the nines at the bathhouse on Camden Street. At some remove he might pass for a callow golly youth. Close up, that error would be easily pierced. Papers in his pocket, official ones and not even slightly forged, naming him the trusted servant to one Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed, esq. Today, as on every day, he is plenipotentiary, a loyal extension of a government official. Funny that, now he comes to think on it. By the transitive property of authority, that makes him an organ of government as well. And they say wicks have no place in such matters.

The ringing of the bell as he enters the shop. A fine smell of paper and of well-kept old wood. Books arrayed upon tables and on shelves, most with titles whose acquaintance he has never made. The book of the moment, the latest magnum opus of the celebrated Mr Sanguini, appears in many copies just to hand. Perhaps he can do with an improving book.

A desultory flipping of the pages, reading a passage here and there. The prose is solid, even lively in places. Lively, and with a familiar echo. Perhaps that is an especial power of Mr Sanguini, to always seem vaguely familiar. A misfortune to be sure.

“What in the name of the Lady of Hours are you doing in here?” A bookseller, a matronly lady of fine and upright bearing. A lady who must be someone’s fearsome aunt. She had aunt written all over her.

“Which I am here to purchase books, improving books, and acquire the signature of the celebrated Mr Sanguini.” It is true enough. An improving book or two will serve him well. He has run out of the better sort of tally dreadfuls. All of Caseby’s oeuvre is finished, owing to the lady having been found face down in the Arova last year. An unsolved murder worthy of her own pen. Broadhallow, that crafty fellow, has put out nothing in recent months. A pity. Now there is a man who can write a real twisting tale. Better than the sordid bodice-rippers and paper-thing murders of so many others.

“Your kind is unwelcome. Loathsome. Bastardly. Rootless”

“Forgive my correcting you madame, but I ain’t no bastard. Proper nuptials my parents had, and I ain’t no wanderer neither. Viendan born and bred.” More Viendan that this pleasant creature. That accent is new enough, three or four generations here at best. Vowels are all wrong and the cadence too languid. The lady has bumpkin relations, country folk. Probably visits them on holidays. Loathsome. Bastardly. Rootless. “Now, as a woman of business, I fancy my coin is as good as any.” He reaches into his pocket and reveals a handful of tallies and even a concord. “Money’s money, so they say, and no matter the source, money don’t stink.” He gives a small and perhaps elegant bow. “Besides, I’m here on behalf of my principle. A busy man in their majesties’ service. Now, do you want his custom, or shall I locate a more amicable bookseller?”

Herself looks perplexed, even uncomfortable. His hand moves ever so slightly, just enough for the coins to catch the light again. “You are a servant?” He smiles. The coins have done their work. Everyone has their price. “It is most unusual.”

“I am a trusted agent madame.” He bows again, this time there is a little mockery. He can afford it now. The lady is bought and will be paid for. “Send an inquiry to the gent, by all means, but it will annoy him. A great lover of books is my principle. Don’t go losing good money over thinking me what I ain’t.”

At last she nods, with some discomfort. “Bold claims from one such as you, but money is, as you say, money. Be quick about your business, then get out. Should you call again, you will be thrown out without a moment’s notice.” Charming. An unenlightened woman, this bookseller. A lady refusing to see the changes in the offing. And there will be changes. For the good of the city, it must be so.

She huffs, but says no more. And so he joins the line of ladies and gentlemen waiting for their signatures. He will buy the book of course, and perhaps a few others. Mr Shrike is not a great man for novels, but he’ll hold no grudges if several are purchased. The line is long enough for him to read more of this work of popular but literary fiction. There remains something familiar in the words, a cadence and an eye for description that echoes the best of the tally dreadfuls. It echoes Caseby and Broadhallow. More elevated of course, more rarefied, but the same energetic drive and facility with words. Perhaps he should read more improving books.

The line dwindles, and at last he stands before the Lame Man. The signature will be easy enough. It will unlock a number of other mysteries. Those are Mr Shrike’s mysteries. Here and now, he has mysteries of his own. “Mr Sanguini,” he says at last to the too-pretty man before him, “I cannot say I have read your books, but while in line, I devoured a few pages. Excellent stuff. Like a tally dreadful, but for gollies. Will there be blood, Mr Sanguini? With a name like that, I should hope so.”

[Emilio Sanguini]

Hamis 9, 2720

A bookshop in Kingsway, afternoon.

The line of patrons awaiting his attention continued to grow, though not alarmingly so. It was an acceptable clip, and most were glad to simply shake his hand, exchange a few words, and then move on and go about their business. Most, but not all. There was one woman who grabbed his hand in both of hers, professing how much she adored his work and insisting that he simply must come around to her home for tea. Lio, of course, had little interest in such things. The woman would not be deterred, however, and only relinquished her grasp on him when he told her to call upon his publishing agent and see if they could make something work. She was very clear as she gave him her name to address the inscription, and he committed the name to memory with every intention of passing it along to Mr. Baines and making clear he was to decline any offers of tea or other refreshments.

As the line moved, he noticed, off to the side, a moderately well-dressed young man having some sort of heated conversation with the proprietress of the store. He couldn’t hear the conversation, as it was kept at a polite volume that was well under the general din of the place, but it carried on for a time. The woman seemed displeased at first, but whatever the young man said to her seemed to placate her in the end. Much to Lio’s surprise, after they had finished exchanging words, the lad joined the line, a copy of his new book in hand.

There were several more enamoured ladies, disinterested husbands, and other sorts between the young man and the author, but the steady clip at which the line moved was maintained for the most part. Soon, it was the young man standing before him. A wick, as was made evident by the glamour surrounding him. Strange for a wick to be interested in crime fiction, as most of the genre was tawdry tales where his sort were painted as the villains. Lio did try to avoid such tired tropes himself — there was plenty of crime among the galdori that could be explored. Then again, perhaps that was why the young wick was interested. Whatever the proprietress’ concerns had been, Lio hardly shared them. He seemed well-mannered enough, and surely intent on buying the book if he were standing in line to have it personalized. There was the question of writs and whatnot, but it was not Emilio Sanguini's job to check credentials. His job was to smile and sign books and collect a cheque at the end of the day, and he was obliged to do nothing more.

He chuckled at the comment about his name. A smart lad, then, making the connection. He wasn’t quite sure of the origin himself, but it was easy to guess. Sanguine, bloody. His family history was certainly stained red in places by the long-running military ties, if nothing else. The bit about tally dreadfuls was mostly ignored. There was sure to be some bleed-through between his works, though he did his best to avoid anything obvious. No point in acknowledging it, especially as he assumed the lad meant it as a compliment.

“I’ll not spoil it for you,” he replied, reaching out to take the copy from him and open it to the front page, taking up his pen. “After all, where is the fun in reading a mystery if you know the ending already?”

He looked up with a smile, his grey eyes meeting the wick’s. “Who shall I make this out to?”