Vienda - The Standard
The Thirty-Second of Loshis, thirty-six Minutes Past the Eighteenth Hour
The Thirty-Second of Loshis, thirty-six Minutes Past the Eighteenth Hour
T
he Inspector’s pipe suits the man. A solid thing in wood the color of old honey. A pipe for thinking. A pipe for concentration. The man handles it like an old friend. His movements are exact, economical, unhurried but fluid. This is a ritual he can complete many times. And it is a ritual. There is no mistaking it. Gods know he has enough of his own. Again he turns his glass, clockwise, anticlockwise, and clockwise again. A ritual for a ritual. His own have grown strange, uncomfortable. Futile gestures against chaos, entreaties for calm and equanimity of thought. They serve their purpose. They are not enough.
They are never enough.
The ritual of pipe is not one such. This is a ritual of comfort, perhaps of contentment. Whatever ghosts haunt the Inspector, ghosts raised by riot and by ruin, have not poisoned him so deep as to be robbed of this small comfort. Still, this is the Inspector’s place. His private office. At the Elephant, or behind the indigo door in Chancery, he might feel much the same. A man at home with himself, with the task at hand, with curious company.
“Purely hypothetically? I would approach such a situation of considerable caution. It may be nothing, it may be the tip of a very delicate iceberg. There is no sense in stirring up superiors without cause. The facts must be assessed, examined, scrutinized with as impartial an eye as can be had.” Ledgers upon ledgers, tedious manifests drawn up in equally tedious hands, reports, inspection notes, all of it he has gone over a dozen times. A maze of commerce, a labyrinth of figures. All of it is still swimming behind his eyes. His eyes are not impartial. They are seeking names, patterns of malfeasance.
The former still lurk in shadows. The later he has found in abundance.
“Then, I would begin compiling models that can explain the patterns in the paperwork, in the movements of persons and goods.” And then he would sit alone in his rooms, a snifter with sixty drops of hygeth dissolved in brandy at hand, and he would try to see the thousand threads tying everything together. He has done it all before. He will do it all again. What are conspiracies by policies enacted in secret? Policy can be analyzed, its effects determined with some degree of plausibility. What are the effects of a conspiracy? The effects that are meant to be unseen?
“I am not a man of action, Inspector.” At least not what is usually meant by such words. “But I know how to provide information to such men.” He gives a nod. “Their Majesties’ government likes to think of itself as an active and energetic force.” And so it is. Half the time it is acting against itself in a thousand ways with great energy indeed. “Even so, I require data, leads, information. The more the pattern we can see, the more we can imagine the shape of the missing pieces.” The ale in his glass has barely been touched. It is a drink to be savored slowly. Slowly, and alone. “I would begin with Balfour. Or rather, I would begin to try and peace together whoever it is that signs that name. We need to know who created Balfour, and why.” A small gesture toward the Inspector’s notebook, not quite a request, but near enough to make the intent clear. “Your notes would be invaluable. Your notes, and any other documents that cannot be easily requisitioned through normal channels.”
The notes alone are reason enough to stay in this dim and wood-smelling place. A long and quiet read. And just a little magic to fill in the gaps and speed his thoughts. It is reasonable. It is sound. It is excuse enough not to follow the Inspector to his lodgings. Already he is out of place and out of sorts. It will serve his fraying nerves not at all to be wholly within the Inspector’s power. The man may be no more than he seems, nothing but a fellow public servant. He has been wrong before. He cannot risk being wrong again. “It would perhaps be better if I remanded here, with your notes and my papers. In the time it takes you to shed the official costume and return, I may have something more. I may have something that neither of us saw within our own disparate investigations.” He may find nothing at all. Still, he needs time to think, time to assess.
“Besides,” he raises his glass with a half-smile, “I still have my glass to finish, and it is a most thoughtful brew.” He takes one more sip, letting the smooth bitter-sweet liquid play upon his tongue before a long and leisurely swallow.
“And just one more thing, Inspector” his colorless eyes narrow now, fixing the man as one might an insect in a collection, “Who was it that removed you from this case?”
They are never enough.
The ritual of pipe is not one such. This is a ritual of comfort, perhaps of contentment. Whatever ghosts haunt the Inspector, ghosts raised by riot and by ruin, have not poisoned him so deep as to be robbed of this small comfort. Still, this is the Inspector’s place. His private office. At the Elephant, or behind the indigo door in Chancery, he might feel much the same. A man at home with himself, with the task at hand, with curious company.
“Purely hypothetically? I would approach such a situation of considerable caution. It may be nothing, it may be the tip of a very delicate iceberg. There is no sense in stirring up superiors without cause. The facts must be assessed, examined, scrutinized with as impartial an eye as can be had.” Ledgers upon ledgers, tedious manifests drawn up in equally tedious hands, reports, inspection notes, all of it he has gone over a dozen times. A maze of commerce, a labyrinth of figures. All of it is still swimming behind his eyes. His eyes are not impartial. They are seeking names, patterns of malfeasance.
The former still lurk in shadows. The later he has found in abundance.
“Then, I would begin compiling models that can explain the patterns in the paperwork, in the movements of persons and goods.” And then he would sit alone in his rooms, a snifter with sixty drops of hygeth dissolved in brandy at hand, and he would try to see the thousand threads tying everything together. He has done it all before. He will do it all again. What are conspiracies by policies enacted in secret? Policy can be analyzed, its effects determined with some degree of plausibility. What are the effects of a conspiracy? The effects that are meant to be unseen?
“I am not a man of action, Inspector.” At least not what is usually meant by such words. “But I know how to provide information to such men.” He gives a nod. “Their Majesties’ government likes to think of itself as an active and energetic force.” And so it is. Half the time it is acting against itself in a thousand ways with great energy indeed. “Even so, I require data, leads, information. The more the pattern we can see, the more we can imagine the shape of the missing pieces.” The ale in his glass has barely been touched. It is a drink to be savored slowly. Slowly, and alone. “I would begin with Balfour. Or rather, I would begin to try and peace together whoever it is that signs that name. We need to know who created Balfour, and why.” A small gesture toward the Inspector’s notebook, not quite a request, but near enough to make the intent clear. “Your notes would be invaluable. Your notes, and any other documents that cannot be easily requisitioned through normal channels.”
The notes alone are reason enough to stay in this dim and wood-smelling place. A long and quiet read. And just a little magic to fill in the gaps and speed his thoughts. It is reasonable. It is sound. It is excuse enough not to follow the Inspector to his lodgings. Already he is out of place and out of sorts. It will serve his fraying nerves not at all to be wholly within the Inspector’s power. The man may be no more than he seems, nothing but a fellow public servant. He has been wrong before. He cannot risk being wrong again. “It would perhaps be better if I remanded here, with your notes and my papers. In the time it takes you to shed the official costume and return, I may have something more. I may have something that neither of us saw within our own disparate investigations.” He may find nothing at all. Still, he needs time to think, time to assess.
“Besides,” he raises his glass with a half-smile, “I still have my glass to finish, and it is a most thoughtful brew.” He takes one more sip, letting the smooth bitter-sweet liquid play upon his tongue before a long and leisurely swallow.
“And just one more thing, Inspector” his colorless eyes narrow now, fixing the man as one might an insect in a collection, “Who was it that removed you from this case?”
