[Closed] A Preamble (Umberto)

[Antranig Borna]

Ophus 23, 2719

A. Borna Rare Books, The Stacks, late morning.

It had been an uneventful morning so far. Though, when one owns a bookshop, eventful mornings are generally unwanted, as they tend to signal that something has gone wrong. The only pressing matter that Antranig needed to attend to, after making breakfast and ensuring that the family banderwolf, Darcie, had been walked, was the need to write a set of letters to several of his contacts concerning a book that had been requested by one of his regulars. This was a task which was easily done seated behind the shop counter with a good pot of tea, and so that was where he found himself. Truth be told, it was where he found himself most days, which suited him perfectly well.

Sunlight streamed in the front windows, warming the shop against the frigid winter day outside. A sign on the glass of the front door proclaimed it was open, and gold calligraphy stamped on the window declared a simple but apt name for the business inside: A. Borna Rare Books. It was a modest shop, neatly organized and arranged. Tables and comfortable chairs near the windows offered places for students and other patrons to peruse the volumes that filled the openly accessible shelves, while further back, behind the counter, the more rare or expensive tomes were kept under the careful watch of the store owner himself, available upon request. Currently, one of the comfortable chairs was occupied by Antra’s son, Taniel, a boy of about nine, who was nose deep in an adventure novel.

Antra shifted as he finished the second of his letters, sitting back as he waited for the ink to dry, and turning his attention to the street outside. The cold had failed to hinder the usual morning bustle. People of all sorts wandered by, some laden with bread and other parcels, others with their collars turned up around their noses, hunkered down into their coats as they made their way through the snow and slush.

Taniel looked up from his book, and then out the window as well when he saw where his father’s attention was focused. “Are we going out today?” he asked.

"Around lunch,” Antra replied, “I’ll need to mail these letters. We’ll close up for a bit and stop somewhere to eat, how does that sound?”

The boy sat up and stretched his arms over his head. "Good," he replied, before taking up his book once more and continuing to read.

Antra smiled, watching the boy for a minute before he eye the little bell above the door, It remained silent, so he took up a fresh sheet of paper and began to write again.

[Umberto Bassington-Smythe]

The Stacks - A. Borna Rare Books
The 23rd of Ophis, late morning

H

e had awoken early again, the uncomfortable light of a bright cold morning streaming into his eyes. Bleary-eyed and blinking, he reached for the nearest time piece. It was an ornate table affair, the work of his horologist uncle in Vienda. A fine thing, and with numbers large enough that even with his unspectacled eyes, he could make out that it was about half-past the thirteenth hour. Far, far too early to be considering rising from his bed. A blessing then, that he’d fallen asleep on the reading couch in the study. At some point, he must have either gone in search of a blanket or that rascal Fionn has snaffled one, a damned-great heavy one, from some closet or other and tried to inexpertly smother him. A good enough lad, that Fionn. Still humorless of course, but that seemed to be the boy’s perpetual state.

His own state was rather more conflicted. On the one hand, staying in, draped over his reading couch like some libertine in a classical painting had its appeals. He might have done it, were it not the crick in his neck, the mounting need for a glass of water, and the realization that it was the twenty-third.

A stretch, long and languid, like a dissipated cat, relishing in the sound of his popping joints. A curious thing, that such movements should feel so pleasant and sound so horrific. There was probably some moral or other in that. He had no time for morals. Not today, or any other day. Morals always put him in mind of humorless starched shirts who disapproved of anyone having any ideas. Fionn, it could be presumed, had some morals. Umberto, did not. He had principles. And one of those principles stated that one never leaves one’s book-seller and literary contact waiting.

With a moderate thunk, his feet hit the floor and he arose, marionette-like, to his feet. The over-large house was silent. Fionn had duties on campus today, probably something tedious and menial. Pot-scrubbing or laundry-bleaching, or something. Just as well. It made it easier to perform his morning ablutions uninterrupted by officious young men in blue darting around, tutting about neckcloths. He did manage to find a clean one, along with a decent coat the color of faded wine, and an unobjectionable suit in the Bastian fashion. A quarter of an hour later, he was very nearly presentable and dashing out his front door, a piece of thick toasts in his teeth, into the cold forenoon air.

Lampwine Square was never at its best in winter. It was never at its best in spring either. Or summer. Or autumn. It was a rather cramped space, all shabby brick and worn paving stones, and one that seemed to always be about to come into some due season that never arrived. It was a waiting place, standing in a temporal queue for some unknown day when old brick and peeling plaster were to have their hour upon the stage. Today was not that day. Tomorrow would not be either.

It was his favorite thing about the square.

Brisker now and matching with the brisk air, he walked on, out of the square and down Lattimer Street, then through a series of side streets with forgettable names, and then on to Petheridge Street where his agent awaited. Or, he hoped Borna was waiting, waiting with the books he had been trying to locate. There was every chance of it. The man knew his trade, he had his connections. It was through those connections that Borna had been recommended to him. Mel had always cultivated good contacts, and she never led him astray, not even now. Her heart-shaped face and wide, amused eyes, her low and mischievous laugh, rose unbidden but not unwelcome in his mind. He indulged in the memory, just for a little while. It would do him little good to hold that face and that laugh too long in his mind. He might grow too wistful, too romantical, too melancholic. Today was not a day to indulge in lost hopes and happy memories that shudder and smart. No, today was better left to more professional, more academic, matters.

Before him now, the shop door; it opened with the usual faint and brazen jangle. A good sound. A proper sound. A proper shop. Borna, the great, tall, pale egret of a man behind his counter, the ornamental boy curled up in a chair, reading some frivolous adventure, the smell of paper, and leather, and ink. Yes, all very right and proper.

“Morning to you, Borna.” He does not disturb the ornamental boy in his readings. That would be an unconscionable rudeness. “If you’ve managed to get my books, as your letter seems to indicate,” here he produced a crisp note with an expertly broken wax seal, “then I’ll take them off your hands, for the agreed fee.” He gave the rare book dealer a conspiratorial wink. “And speaking of fees, how would you like to gain a little more, by way of a special commission? I, and by I, I mean my uncle, needs a man of probity and letters to come and either sneer or nod at a collection of interesting books that just came on the market.”

[Antranig Borna]

Ophus 23, 2719

A. Borna Rare Books, the Stacks, late morning.

It seemed that almost the exact moment he turned his attention away from the door and back to his letters, the little bell sprang to life and signalled the entry of the first customer of the day. He almost began his usual welcoming spiel, but a familiar voice cut him off with a cheery hello, and his eyes settled on Umberto. Antra knew him only through a handful of meetings, the first of which had been at the behest of one of his Bastian contacts. Miss Pallis had seemed to like him quite well, and had been kind enough to send his business Antranig’s way. Antra, himself, found the scholar to be largely agreeable, if somewhat chaotic. The man seemed to have an energy about him that was seldom at rest. He had to imagine that Mr. Bassington-Smythe was only ever truly still when he was asleep, and possibly not even then.

“Good morning to you, as well,” he said, giving Umberto an amiable smile. "Yes, I have them right here."

He set aside his pen and rose from his stool to his full height. The books Umberto spoke of were waiting with the other pickups on a shelf behind the counter. Antra bent down and retrieved a parcel of volumes, neatly wrapped in brown paper, upon which was written Umberto’s name, and placed it on the countertop.

As Umberto continued to talk of his uncle's need for someone of Antranig's particular expertise, one of Antra's pale brows arched. "A commission?" he asked, nudging his glasses back up his nose. "I may be. To which collection are you referring?"

[Umberto Bassington-Smythe]

The Stacks - A. Borna Rare Books
The 23rd of Ophis, late morning

I

have,” he said, running his finger along the edge of the parcel of books, “come into some information that part of the book collection of late Edmund and Julietta Steerpike is coming up for private auction. I have some very, very slight acquaintance with the family.” In truth he had met one Steerpike several times in Bastia. An elegant and self-possessed young lady of, much celebrated the beauty of her person and the brightness of her society. He’d met her for the first time in a lecture in Anastou, and later at a handful of social occasions surrounding genteel auctions in Florne. Antiques actions and tours of stately townhouses were a good enough reason for a party as any, and Miss Steerpike seemed to enjoy decorating such affairs with sprightly conversation. “They are disgustingly rich and possessed a great number of the sorts of books that one would expect of such people.” He leaned in closer, a conspiratorial wink forming in his eye. “However, I am not talking of the collection of tedious work that might sit unread for years on a study shelf. No, this is the private collection.” It was nothing scandalous, merely unusual, at least if the rumors were true.

“Several rare early editions of novels by Stevenson-Brightly, including a manuscript copy of Lattimer, A Butler’s Tale, the rejected first draft.” Mel had often wished to read the early drafts. They were said to be more experimental, more psychological, before the publisher demanded formulaic romances be added. “A folio edition of the pseudo-Apollonious De Horticultura, with color-plates by Caradosi.” He deepened his conspiratorial look. “And a supposed second edition of Arabella Bellgrove.” He doubted the latter. It was widely regarded as among the worst three-volume novels ever written, with prose so purple it was nearly beyond the range of mortal sight. The second edition was doubted to have existed at all, but from time to time, bits and pieces of it seemed to circulate in the hands of private collectors, but nothing was ever certain. “If the latter is authentic, and if I can acquire it for my uncle, well, I may well be able to get further into his good graces.” And acquire an increase in funds. The bills for obscure scholarly tomes , chalkboards, and a steady supply of his necessary mineral water were growing extravagant.

The books in the paper parcel had not helped in the slightest. Obscure Monite grammars, commentaries on the same, and works on computational methods for interpreting semantics did not come cheap.

“I have my doubts about the latter, of course. But I am no great judge of provenance. But when I read the catalog, I thought to myself ‘I know just the man’.” Borna was good. Careful, knowledgeable, and not bad company for a brief jaunt. “I can offer you a twenty-percent finder’s fee, regardless of provenance, and thirty-five if it turns out to be the real thing.” Or if it could pass. Uncle Gian had his scruples, but not so many as to get in the way of profit.

“So, care for a jaunt to a country house in a few days' time? I could use a trustworthy agent and a congenial traveling companion.”

[Antranig Borna]

Ophus 23, 2719

A. Borna Rare Books, the Stacks, late morning.

Antranig generally disliked gossip, however even he had to admit that it could be useful on occasion. He had heard rumors of some grand collection going up for auction from a few of his other regulars, but hadn’t made an effort to look into them. It seemed, now, that Umberto had done all the looking for both of them. Antra recognized the names and titles as they were rattled off, and with each one, his interest was more and more piqued. Especially so by the last one. The fabled second edition of what was widely known to be the worst literary triptych in recent memory would fetch a tidy price, if it were authentic. A tidy price that he had just been promised twenty percent of, with more if it was real. He scratched his jaw in thought as he considered the offer. It would be foolish to turn down, he knew that. Even if the copy of Arabella Bellgrove wasn’t authentic, the other items that Umberto had listed would be more than worth the trip. He had several customers who would be interested in those alone, and he had to assume that was only a fraction of the works that were on offer.

As Umberto mentioned that it would entail a “brief jaunt” to a country house, Antranig couldn’t help glancing over Umberto’s hatted head to the youngster lounging in the chair by the window. Taniel was always bored when he was dragged along on his father’s business, and Antra couldn’t rightly blame him. Literary types tended to be a tad on the stuffy side, and had houses full of things that children were generally not allowed to touch. He, too, would have found that incredibly dull as a child, especially when there were other things he could be doing.

“You have my interest,” he said, “but I must ask — how brief is a ‘brief jaunt’? I’ll have to make arrangements for Taniel.”

“You could leave me by myself,” the boy piped up. “Darcie and I can look after the shop!”

Antra smiled. “Leaving you in the care of a bander is not something I’m particularly inclined to do,” he replied, “especially after the pair of you tracked snow and dirt all around the house just the other day.”

The boy’s ears went pink as he hunkered down in the chair and hid himself behind his book, and his father’s attention returned to Umberto. “So, on that note, how long do you expect we’ll be away?"

[Umberto Bassington-Smythe]

The Stacks - A. Borna Rare Books
The 23rd of Ophis, late morning

A

rrangement. He had not considered that. Children and their needs never entered his head. What were children to him? A logistical nuisance. Still, something would have to be done with the ornamental child and with the banderwolf. No hope of hanging them up in a closet like a pair of old coats put away for the season. For one, they would attract moths. For another, both of them would likely complain. That was reasonable. He would complain too, being subjected to a handful of days in a dark space smelling of cedar and antique wool. The bander would savage the coats. Neither were ideal.

Well, the disposition of the child was not really his concern. Not directly at least. It was no doubt reasonable to trust in the instincts of the antiquarian. He knew the child. Umberto did not.

“The jaunt,” he said, trying to sound and reasonable and carefree as seemed appropriate, “will be only a few days.A week at the outside. Two days for travel, two or three for the auction itself - or so I am led to understand - perhaps a day to settle any outstanding business, and then home with all convenient speed.” There was no convenient speed. Ruts in the road all filled with ice and snow, cold winds, and being rattled half to death. The thought of the bruises he’d have was already depressing.

“We’ll have to go overland to Muffey, more’s the pity, and cross the river there. We'll have to rattle through the supposedly genteel country between there and Vienda. Overnight lodgings somewhere congenial, then on to the Steerpike residence.” A small mild curse on Cannio. He had taken the boat on some errand of his own. Slipping down-river to Vienda with goods in sealed and waterproof boxes, boxes that would have been the perfect thing to carry home books from the auction. Boxless, boatless, and dreading having his brains stirred up by the rattle of the mail coach, he pressed on. “I’ve booked my own passage on the mail coach to Muffey on the 27th. Mine and my cousin’s.”

It was the first time he had thought to mention Abe. Brilliant. His wits were not with him today. Presumably they had remained home on the reading couch. “She’s a physician and has some small interest in the collection. I can assure you that Dr Ixbridge is a most congenial traveling companion.”

That at least was a comfort.

[Antranig Borna]

Ophus 23, 2719

A. Borna Rare Books, the Stacks, late morning.

Five days was a jaunt indeed. Darcie would have to be considered as well. With the weather as it was, it would be prudent to plan to be away longer, lest they get waylaid by a sudden blizzard or bad roads. Antra was quiet for a moment as he thought about it. He did have a few friends who wouldn’t object to looking after Taniel while he was away. It was a bit short notice, but he could still likely find one of them who was available and wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on things while he was gone.

“That should be fine,” he said, nodding. “I’m sure I can find someone willing to look after things here.”

Transportation had to be considered as well. Umberto mentioned the mail coach, and Antra considered it. Then he mentioned a cousin of his would also be joining them. Dr. Ixbridge was a name he didn’t recognize, but he was quickly assured she was a decent travelling companion. The mail coach still made sense. It may be a bit cramped with three people, especially considering the fact that he was a good half a foot taller — at minimum — than most anaxi, but it made sense for the three of them to travel together. With everything coming together, Antra nodded again.

“I’ll see about joining you,” he said, “I was going to the post house today anyways. The three of us might as well travel together, given we’re all going to the same place. Provided Dr. Ixbridge and yourself wouldn't mind the extra company, of course.”

[Umberto Bassington-Smythe]

The Stacks - A. Borna Rare Books
The 23rd of Ophis, late morning

D

r Ixbridge,” he replied. “Will likely have her nose in a book for most of the traveling.” It was not quite an answer, but it did have the advantage of truth. Abe could read a book in the most shocking of circumstances. That was a boon, for it was winter, and they would do well if the roads were only shocking. No doubt the mail coach would throw a wheel at Cetheram, forcing them all to stay at the worst posting house in the six kingdoms. The better sort of fleas disdained the place, and instead it was infested with the bitterest dregs of the siphonaptera. Even his father, the noted entomologist,would be pressed to sing the praises of the Cetheram fleas. The beds were hard as stones, the food was worse, and what passed for the wine, well, that could not be mentioned, even in the coarsest of company.

He once spent a particularly dreary three nights in Cetheram. It was during his student years. He thought he was trying to find himself. All he found was the very incarnation of why he could never really warm to Anaxas. Yet here he was again. Drawn back into the orbit of the place. There was nothing for it but to try and make the best of it.

Borna at least was a fellow expatriate, even if he was a towering giant from Gior. He could, at the very least, see the country from the outside. Yet the man seemed to have more affection for the place than Umberto could ever muster, and he was half native. Or at least, it claimed so on his birth certificate.

The antiquarian seemed to have made up his mind. Well, that was something. Better than something. He had his expert. Ha! Let Uncle Gian and his merry band find one better. Mel was out of the running at least. She was too good a soul to latch onto Gian and his machinations. Well, not without a considerable fee or a chance at something really astounding. Arabella Bellgrove would be astounding. No. Even no she was not that cold. Damnit. He should not dwell on her, upon her laugh and her wry smile, on her love of strange old books and better yet, talking on and on about them until the wee small hours. No. Best to set that aside or his heart would break again. Leave it to the past. The past was prologue, preamble. There were other matters to attend.

“As to my views of your coming along, I cannot help but think that I am in favor. Being as that was a non-trivial aim of my coming here today.” He tapped the parcel of books. “These being the other.” Now he took them up and placed them in the crook of his right elbow. “The twenty-seventh then, as our starting date. Four or five days of uncomfortable travel, dull society gathers, a scintillating auction, and a chance for us all to acquire some very interesting books. A professional outing, and you cannot say fairer than that.”