W
ell, now he was well and truly for it. Abe did not take kindly to sudden shocks or disruptions of her expectations. It was reasonable of course, but unfortunate in the here and now.He was much better at that, though only on account of being perpetually distrubed. When even existing comes as a shock to the system, an unannounced traveling companion hardly rates. Besides, Borna seemed to be a good egg. Or at least one that was tolerable. Quiet, scholarly, and about as objectionable as a slice of buttered toast. Rather pale toast, but toast all the same.
Still, even toast could come as a surprise. Diplomacy was called for.
“Abe, I am so very sorry, I could have sworn I wrote to inform you that I had engaged and expert to travel along with us.” Out of habit he patted his coat, reached into the pockets of his waistcoat. He was greeted first with the remains of dampness, and then the significant crinkle of paper. From an inner pocket he drew forth a squarish letter, properly addressed and sealed with wax the color of old wine.
Damn.
“Rather late,” he said, passing the letter on to his cousin, “but you’ll find everything in order. I meant to send it, apparently so much that I thought I had. My abject apologies old thing.” It was not the neatest of apologies. Rather thin gruel really, when he thought about it. But it could not be helped. Not with the situation being what it was.
And what exactly was the situation? Borna and Abe seemed at least to be having a civilized conversation. Then again, both were very civilized beings. That was a not-insignificant bonus. It was however, not wholly necessary. Borna was coming along to provide a service, not to be an agreeable traveling companion. The fact that he might prove to be so was all to the good.
“Borna,” he said, grabbing a cup of chocolate and oozing into a convenient chair, “you are engaged upon business. Were you not to have something of a mercenary and commercial air about you, I would be both worried and disappointed. Indeed, distressed. This is not some pleasure outing. This is serious business.” At the best of times, auctions were complex and stressful matters. Most of those in attendance would have their pet experts poking around, wheedling information out of servants, auctioneers, and even each other. Alliances would be formed, enmities birthed, and general skullduggery would be the order of the day. He looked at the tall, pale antiquarian and wondered if he would be up to that challenge. Well, he ran a successful shop didn’t he? That spoke to his skill. And Mel had recommended him. That was as near a guarantee and he could hope for.
Steam rose from the chocolate in his cup, faintly refogging his glasses. For a while he sat in contemplative silence, sipping away at the bitter-sweet drink and trying to put all his thoughts in order. There were too many of them. His work rise in his mind, new parsing models, the beginnings of a context-free grammar that might simplify incantations, the irritating inevitability of having to teach students. No. Those were the cares of Umberto Bassington-Smythe. Today, and for the next several days, he was Umberto Gian-Lorenzo Galeazzo. Scion of a family of auctioneers and art dealers, master of antiques, and ruthless scholar. The semantics of incantations would have to be set aside, for now.
And so, Umberto Gian-Lorenzo Galeazzo, his old Flornese accent beginning to show in slight undertones beneath his cultivated Brunnhold accent, addressed his companions. “I have, at least, properly secured passage.” He reached into his waistcoat again, and here drew forth three small slips of cardstock. “These, I think you will find, are our tickets.” He produced them not a moment too soon.
In the posting house now, a commotion rose as various porters and postillions began hauling out heavy bags and trunks of mail. Letters, packages, tedious correspondence, and official communiques, all would be loaded onto the sturdy coach that could be seen in the damp and rain-soaked yard beyond the diamond-paned windows. The loading would take at least an hour. He had time to enjoy his chocolate. Time to smooth our Abe’s ruffled feathers.
“Have you never been to Mr Borna’s shop? You really should. It is fine place, very comfortable and full of the most interesting books. I did see a translation of Buhari’s On the Art of Surgery tucked away, as well as several quite promising looking pharmacopeiae.” He gave a wan sort of smile above his cup. “I am sorry, Abe, that I seem to have forgotten to inform you of Mr Borna’s coming along. My fault entirely. Still, this trip is on business, and I will need the best hand I can assemble.”