Aboard the Citation Needed Along the Talarma River - Bastia
The 43rd Day of Roalis in the year 2719
The 43rd Day of Roalis in the year 2719
A
ll along the river bank, egrets stood on long, saffron-yellow legs, scanning the waters for their prey. Frogs, fish, small turtles. For some time he watched them, placing small bets on which one was the best hunter. A small, active bird, slightly bedraggled and stained with mud, was his current favorite. Six out of ten strikes came up with some slimy, wriggling thing. In the margins of the letter he made notes of form, of odds, results.
The letter. He'd been avoiding reading it, as if by ignoring it he could make it go away. Do egrets eat letters? He thought not, far too fibrous, and he'd hate to burden one of the birds with his own obligations. They had enough on their schedules.
It was on thin paper, the kind that would dissolve quickly in water, and written in Uncle Gian's usual flowing hand, and in that strange style he adopted when he thought himself devious. Uncle Gian was devious, just not usually in his correspondence. Mother should have written the letter, she was much better at this sort of thing.
Umberto,
Pursuant to our conversation of the 27th instant, the conversation in the water-side salon, not the library, please extend the greetings of the house of Galeazzo, to our friends and relations across the border, and our well-wishes to same. Of particular note to us is the list of the attached name which should be called upon with all convenient speed upon your arrival in Anaxas.
. . . .
Do keep an ear to the ground for any estate sales, fine art auctions, or similar while you are abroad. See the countryside, visit the stately homes, see what is in fashion and desirable. Country magnates are always dropping dead, I'm sure you can but us on to one or two really ripe opportunities. Real plum jobs. Don't forget, you claim 10% commission as a finder's fee.
Should any difficulty arise, or any issues beset you, Artemesia should be able to sort things out.
Carry on nephew,
Gian
Half a dozen or so more names, all seemingly innocuous. Should any irritating customs officer get a hold of the letter, it would not seem to be an issue. Family gifts, common greetings. Most of that was true. Though not all of it. Untaxed coffee, a case of fine wine that had never seen a customs stamp, a few antiques for discerning collectors all were safely stowed in hidden compartments in the boat. What a way to fund a scholarly career.
And then there were the books. Those had been the hardest to get, the most awkward. Melpomene had been kind of course, she was always kind. They had sat businesslike and formal in the cafe as he listed off the books he required. She had nodded to most of them, said she could get them before he left. Several, however, were quite rare, and collectors seldom parted with them. Still, she would see what she could do. Of course she would. She always liked a good challenge. He had been too much of one.
"Mel," he had said, giving her a wan smile, "I am sorry, but I did not know where else to go. You're the best in the business ." And he had wanted to see her again, once, before he left. A stupid thing to do. Yet there he had been, drinking coffee with her in the usual cafe, taking about books and watching the boats go by on the canal.
"It's all right," she had replied, "it's just business." Her own sad smiled might have meant otherwise. Or it might have been merely awkward. "I'll bring the books I can get by the end of the week, will that be enough time?"
"It should be, yes. I will make sure I am out when you come by."
"Probably for the best."
He pushed the memory aside, and looked at the books in their water-proof box. She'd been as good as her word, and so had he.
For a long while he sat, watching the riverbank go by, occasionally seeing other boats on their own business. No one stopped them, no one seemed to care. He sighed and looked toward the stern. Cannio was still sculling away, long, easy strokes of the oar. It was getting on towards evening, and though he did not look it, Umberto could tell that the big wick was tiring. There was something about his eyes.
"Cannio?"
"Hmm?" It was his usual scintillating conversation.
"I'll take over for a while. Get some rest, have something to eat. I think there are some sardines in oil left, and some of those stuffed vine leaves."
"If you say so," came the reply. Cannio secured the oar and with delicate steps, odd in so large and burly a man, made his way fore. Umberto nodded to him, and then proceeded aft, took his stance upon to solarai, steadied himself on that sturdy platform. The sky was darkening, deep blue before them and burning red behind. He lit the stern lamp, the smallest of magics, and then took up the oar. The boat, enamel-black and sharply tapering, coursed along. Away from Florne, away from home, and towards the border, into the gathering dark, like some predatory slipper.
The letter. He'd been avoiding reading it, as if by ignoring it he could make it go away. Do egrets eat letters? He thought not, far too fibrous, and he'd hate to burden one of the birds with his own obligations. They had enough on their schedules.
It was on thin paper, the kind that would dissolve quickly in water, and written in Uncle Gian's usual flowing hand, and in that strange style he adopted when he thought himself devious. Uncle Gian was devious, just not usually in his correspondence. Mother should have written the letter, she was much better at this sort of thing.
Umberto,
Pursuant to our conversation of the 27th instant, the conversation in the water-side salon, not the library, please extend the greetings of the house of Galeazzo, to our friends and relations across the border, and our well-wishes to same. Of particular note to us is the list of the attached name which should be called upon with all convenient speed upon your arrival in Anaxas.
- To Dr A Ixbridge (Brunnhold) - the usual; well-wishes and correspondence, the requested seed cake with recipe
- To Prof L S Bassington-Smythe (Brunnhold) - affectionate greetings and correspondence, also a gift of a collection of beetles (deceased) found eating your great-aunt Jocasta's vineyards
- To Wm and Fl Pangbourne (Rackford Hall) - well-wishes, reply to an invitation, and seven antique celedon tea-cups, one chipped
- To D Farinelli (Vienda) - the usual insults, correspondence, and a return of her three-volume novel
. . . .
Do keep an ear to the ground for any estate sales, fine art auctions, or similar while you are abroad. See the countryside, visit the stately homes, see what is in fashion and desirable. Country magnates are always dropping dead, I'm sure you can but us on to one or two really ripe opportunities. Real plum jobs. Don't forget, you claim 10% commission as a finder's fee.
Should any difficulty arise, or any issues beset you, Artemesia should be able to sort things out.
Carry on nephew,
Gian
Half a dozen or so more names, all seemingly innocuous. Should any irritating customs officer get a hold of the letter, it would not seem to be an issue. Family gifts, common greetings. Most of that was true. Though not all of it. Untaxed coffee, a case of fine wine that had never seen a customs stamp, a few antiques for discerning collectors all were safely stowed in hidden compartments in the boat. What a way to fund a scholarly career.
And then there were the books. Those had been the hardest to get, the most awkward. Melpomene had been kind of course, she was always kind. They had sat businesslike and formal in the cafe as he listed off the books he required. She had nodded to most of them, said she could get them before he left. Several, however, were quite rare, and collectors seldom parted with them. Still, she would see what she could do. Of course she would. She always liked a good challenge. He had been too much of one.
"Mel," he had said, giving her a wan smile, "I am sorry, but I did not know where else to go. You're the best in the business ." And he had wanted to see her again, once, before he left. A stupid thing to do. Yet there he had been, drinking coffee with her in the usual cafe, taking about books and watching the boats go by on the canal.
"It's all right," she had replied, "it's just business." Her own sad smiled might have meant otherwise. Or it might have been merely awkward. "I'll bring the books I can get by the end of the week, will that be enough time?"
"It should be, yes. I will make sure I am out when you come by."
"Probably for the best."
He pushed the memory aside, and looked at the books in their water-proof box. She'd been as good as her word, and so had he.
For a long while he sat, watching the riverbank go by, occasionally seeing other boats on their own business. No one stopped them, no one seemed to care. He sighed and looked toward the stern. Cannio was still sculling away, long, easy strokes of the oar. It was getting on towards evening, and though he did not look it, Umberto could tell that the big wick was tiring. There was something about his eyes.
"Cannio?"
"Hmm?" It was his usual scintillating conversation.
"I'll take over for a while. Get some rest, have something to eat. I think there are some sardines in oil left, and some of those stuffed vine leaves."
"If you say so," came the reply. Cannio secured the oar and with delicate steps, odd in so large and burly a man, made his way fore. Umberto nodded to him, and then proceeded aft, took his stance upon to solarai, steadied himself on that sturdy platform. The sky was darkening, deep blue before them and burning red behind. He lit the stern lamp, the smallest of magics, and then took up the oar. The boat, enamel-black and sharply tapering, coursed along. Away from Florne, away from home, and towards the border, into the gathering dark, like some predatory slipper.
