More internment of the water! The city was in a conspiracy. No doubt about it. A familiar anger rose up in him. Fennel took a breath. He bounded down to the street, dusted off his pants, and headed toward the large oak front door where a doorman, who smelled of mothballs and birdseed, waited.
“Greetings, good sir,” said Fennel, tipping his hat.
“Business only I am afraid, lad. Move along.”
As common as the doorman’s greeting was and had always been in Fennel’s life, it would never, ever fail to irk him. His smile grimaced just a bit.
“I’m on the list for the Auxiliary Cultural Committee. I believe I am under Fennel Highwater. Oh, and that lad stuff won’t serve you well. Need I remind you that while I am going into this meeting of dignitaries, you are signing me in like a proletariat lowlife?”
Fennel could gauge from the look in the doorman’s eyes that his comment went over like a lead balloon. This elder man from most probably the District of Jed wanted nothing more than for someone to hassle him. Over time, it had become his secret reason for going to work and Fennel had given him what he wanted. Why couldn’t he just keep his mouth shut? Before they could get into an argument about whether or not Fennel would acquiesce to the power of the doorman, he winked his eye and flicked just the smallest amount of willow seed into the man’s face. He blinked for a second and then, graciously conceded.
“My apologies, sir. You are expected.”
The man bowed low and Fennel raised his chin and headed past. He really didn’t want to get into an argument and ruin his day. He was looking forward to this exuberant meeting. He shook off his disappointment and got a smile back onto his lips.
As might be expected, meetings for the city were anything but glorious. Fennel entered a large banquet hall with chairs facing a central podium. People filled the room, rubbing shoulders and gathering around the snack table full of sugar cookies, smoked salmon, bruschetta, and teriyaki chicken on a skewer. He wasn’t hungry. There were forty people at least hovering about the room in casual conversation. They were predominately the women of the great and minor houses as well as some of the up and coming merchant class—each one more lavishly dressed than the last. The attendees wore over-the-top gowns, blinking bright jewelry, designer clutches and for whatever reason, felt it necessary to drench themselves in perfume. What kind of meeting was this? They barely noticed Fennel’s entrance. He knew no one.
In just a few milliseconds, his entire interest in the evening shifted from one of great anticipation to a terrifying feeling of dread. How much willow seed would he have to blow in order to get any attention around here? On his way there, he had imagined a table with a map and six dignitaries including himself at the helm gathered around making a plan as though it was a war. He pictured himself, of course, leading the meeting and impressing his new-found consorts with his brilliance in cultural planning. They were laughing at his jokes. An old colonel with a monocle was slapping him on the back boisterously.
But the reality, as usual, was not that. He pretended to want to eat food, grabbed some smoked salmon for a plate and stood helplessly in the corner, eating it with his fingers in the hopes of gaining an offended gasp from someone. Fortunately, the meeting started up not much later and he found a seat toward the front of the room.
“Can we have your attention please, friends?” said a portly woman into a microphone. She teetered on high heel shoes with pink bows at the ends, wearing pointy edged black glasses and a long unwieldy necklace of turquoise. She was, most obviously, a lady of society and clearly this was one of her numerous tasks at organizing her extremely bored cadre of friends. The microphone screeched with feedback and she smiled in a half awkward manner. The murmur of the crowd dwindled as they made their way to their seats.
“We are so pleased that so many of you have come to this auxiliary planning meeting for the annual festival. We couldn’t be happier with the turnout. I know many of you and for those I don’t know, please be sure to introduce yourselves to me later. Let's face it, this meeting is as much a chance to catch up as it is to plan this soiree.” Defne Revan laughed and her face squished up into a tiny ball.
“You look glamorous, Defne!” yelled a woman from the back of the room.
“Oh be quiet!” giggled Defne. “Anyway, I am Defne Revan, Chair of the Mayor’s Auxiliary Cultural Committee. We are pleased to have all of you here to provide your thoughts on our current thinking for the upcoming festival. Our evening’s presentations should be very short as I know your time is quite valuable.”
And so began the meeting.
As much as they had said it would be short, to Fennel it dragged on and on. They spent the first thirty minutes introducing different chairs of different committees who all said nothing and all looked about the same. Then he realized that all the people introduced were simply introduced for the purpose of introducing more people. After doing the math over the course of the first hour, Fennel began to feel as though the only person that hadn’t been thanked or introduced was his lonely self. When it finally came time to discuss what the actual plan was, Fennel had nearly lost all interest.
“We are excited to say that we have hired the Barrenwood orchestra to play Debussy for the ball. We will also have the team of Richter and Sons to provide fireworks and they have assured us that this year, the grand finale will come off without a hitch.”
“Boo, that’s what they said last year!” someone barked from the back.
“I realize they have been a little less than reliable, but we have our best people on it, making sure they follow through this time. We will also be having the customary dance in the city center so let's all be sure to get the word out! We don’t want to be out there dancing alone.”
Fennel’s feet twisted in his little shoes. It shouldn’t have surprised him that these people were so boring, he told himself—but longwinded and boring? Did they not understand the power they possessed? Did they not appreciate what a festival could be? In most circumstances, he would have caused a scene in frustration, but he didn’t want to mess this up. So he waited.
The public comment section of the night seemed to take forever to arrive. Many of the women seemed to know each other and routinely interrupted, thus forcing long digressions from the meeting—whether it was on the overcrowding of the stables, to the high cost of the orchestra, to the upcoming city meeting on the allocation of gas lamps. He was at his wit's end by the time they opened the microphone up for comment.
He was determined to not be first. That would seem out of line and diminish his respectability. So he waited for someone to go. Surely someone wanted to be heard. They were so loud anyway. He waved his hand in front of his face to alleviate the overwhelming smell of perfumes. Was he being poisoned? He had almost given up all hope.
“Anyone?” asked Defne. “Anyone at all? Come on people, I know you have opinions out there. I don’t want to hear them suddenly while I have had two too many martinis. Let's get this sorted. Out with it!”
A grey-haired older woman stepped forward from the back of the room and got in front of the microphone.
“Ah, there we go. Ladies and gentlemen, Margaret Pierce has something to say,” screeched Defne.
Margaret Pierce adjusted the scarf around her neck and fussed with her jacket for some time before she whispered in a cackling raspy voice.
“This year,” she said with dramatic effect, “I want some young men with no shirts!”
The room erupted in laughter and howls. Fennel rolled his eyes. What a disaster. Was there no one who actually cared about the content of this meeting? Fortunately, the next woman to go to the microphone settled the tone. She was a regal woman with black olive eyes and deep hued skin. Perhaps she was Persian though he could not say for sure. She was introduced as Fereshteh Imbeta and her presence caused more than a little whispering from the back.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the auxiliary committee. I am so glad that we have the opportunity to plan such a festivity t
ogether. I would like to say, without any hesitation, that I think it would be wise for us to acknowledge some of the complications that come with this year’s event.” A noticeable rumble went up in the room. Fereshteh continued without the slightest hint of bother. “For as long as most of us can remember, and many here more elegant and refined than myself can remember even longer, the festival has been hosted by Barrenwood’s esteemed families. The festival has served as a thank you to all of the people of Barrenwood no matter rich or poor. This year it seems certain interests—and we know who you are—have decided to transition this occasion away from its traditional roots. This festival—while of course a great and wonderful time for all of the city—is also our annual opportunity to remind everyone where we have all mutually come from. I see right through the new re-arrangements of the festival, and I believe most strongly that they are an attempt to move the narrative of the festival away from the families that are the progenitors of this great city. I want it said, here and now, by myself and by my family name, that a line must be drawn in the sand; for if it is not, it will be drawn too late. Yes, it is a festival, but it is the hint of things to come and the greatness of our houses must be on alert when things that have long been are beginning to be undone.”
A few claps went up and a whistle as Fereshteh left the microphone, and then, a small regal Hindu woman, dressed in a crisp black suit, with dour dark eyes ascended to the microphone. Her eyes twinkled like a child’s and her small feet moved like a phantom as she strode briskly to the microphone. She wore the shiniest pointy shoes ever seen. As she walked up to the microphone, a silence crept over the entire room.
Defne squeaked out, “And, of course, our new found friend from Golston, Ms. Vinessi Suleiman of Gaventas.”
Vinessi's voice was punctuated with great clarity and her words came out in a vibrant quick paced staccato. “I realize that we have all not had the great opportunity to meet each other. I realize that our company has made quite a presence in your incredible city and I want to assure each and every one of you, that we mean nothing but the best for all the great Houses. As you know, Gaventas is a very large company with enormous holdings, but we got that way by taking care of our friends each and every step of the way. You are our friends. If there is suspicion, I do not blame you. We have been honored to pay for this year's event and to do so without asking much in return. We want what is best for Barrenwood, its families and look forward in making a return on an investment that will be of benefit to all here in this room.”
Fennel was impressed. He had not noticed this woman in the room and now she was in front of the microphone. Perhaps to the rest of the ladies and gentlemen in the room, this silver tongued emissary was a monstrous miser with great political power (or something else he could not tell), but to Fennel, she was something he had not encountered in a long time. She was on the cusp of sinister magic. She smelled of tree moss and dried leaves. Her black mink coat hummed like eel laughter. Fennel could tell she was part water.
She sat back down from the microphone and Fennel could resist his urge no longer. He pranced up to the microphone and made a long bow.
The room erupted in laughter and awws. It threw Fennel’s confidence off for a second, but he gathered his composure rapidly.
“I’m sorry,” said Defne, “but I am unfamiliar with you, child. Who may I say that we have the pleasure of listening to this evening?”
“Sorry?” smiled Fennel. “Sorry is the state of the planning going on for this most of important of events. I am here to assist, and so fear not, all is not lost. Let me introduce myself. I am Fennel Highwater, at your service.”
More laughter went up, although muted, as something in Fennel’s appearance always blended the look of a child with the personality of a demon. The growing volume in the room clearly agitated Fennel.
He grabbed the microphone and shouted, “Respect is demanded at this moment!”
His brazen and clearly angry tone did what it needed. The room went quiet—at least for the moment. As opposed to throwing Fennel off script, it gave him the boost of confidence he needed.
“Good,” he thought. “I knew propriety still had a place in this fine city.”
It was at this point that Fennel went a little crazy. It wasn’t often he had the chance to be in front of a microphone and for someone who thought about such an opportunity with such zeal and so often, he took up the chance with perhaps too much enthusiasm. He orated into the microphone for far too long, talking of the sordid problems of the human soul, mankind’s capacity to forget, their weaknesses being both their greatest tragedy but also their greatest comedy. He talked at length about the thought power of muscle tissue and the mind/body divide being at the center of the crisis of the enlightenment—how a person’s diet said more about them than their dumb ideas on the human condition. He talked about the festival and how through this basic social mechanism, the sheer power of the collective masses could produce new forms of being in the world that could make life for all more complex and beguiling. He talked about how dreams are made in the company of large masses of strangers being strange and how the light on a building at night, the smell of the Aliber River and the ready availability of alcohol are more important to the soul than any bedtime story. He talked of his statue and how it would be a marvelous addition to the festival. And he went on for just a bit longer about how the well-known fact that the problem of wealth is that it dimmed the spotlight of the soul. They must acknowledge their limitations when thinking and instead resort to the desires of those that have nothing left to lose.
By the time he finished, he realized he had walked the microphone in circles so much his feet were tangled in the cord and he was now at the back of the room. The seats were now half full and those that were present stared at him in stark terror. He wandered back to his seat in a daze, wondering if anyone at all had heard a thing he said. He had talked himself through numerous emotions and sat catching his breath in the front row. His voluble personality had even exhausted him.
When he finally looked up, he realized the only people left in the room were himself and Defne Revan. She was about to leave him he noticed. He shot up from his chair and zoomed right into her world.
“Oh ho ho,” Defne laughed nervously. “What a marvelous speaker you are, Mr. Highwater. What you said about the human soul and all, it is so true. I really would love to talk, but I must attend to my children at home.”
She was nervous beyond belief. Fennel could hear the clatter of her necklace as it banged back and forth on her chest as she rocked on her high heels. It felt like the thud of a judge’s gavel, pounding, pounding down.
She nearly escaped his menacing smile when he puffed some willow seed into her face and said, “Oh, and how you do love everything I said. Yes, my dear, you truly, truly do. I look forward to our next meeting.” He scampered out of the room in a blur.
Defne remained standing there, her necklace slowly but surely coming to a halt, her eyes now far away on a distant star not in the room nor the corroded exhaust pipe sky above.
Chapter 14
The twins each left their mutual meetings and headed separately toward their appointed rendezvous. Both were riding a little high from their previous surreptitious plotting and had their minds in the clouds.
Nevertheless, the journey to the Guild was neither easy nor simple—a drainage pipe along the harbor served as the entrance to the catacombs that fed the Guild’s home. An enormous lock hung heavy on the entry gate. Long ago, the twins had been gifted with certain access to the world, and upon their arrival, its rusted hinges simply creaked open. A small creak of spillage seeped from its entrance making a stinky pool of dung and crud.
Inside the mouth, the tunnels went on beneath the entirety of the city—a labyrinth of steel and bilge that echoed in the movements of the few things besides rats that scurried about its subcutaneous surface. As light as their feet were, the twins still made tapping sounds that echoed down the dark maw of the metall
ic tubes.
Fennel arrived at last. Isabella could hear her him humming a little dityy as he skipped along:
“Under, under, under the ground
a place so sensuously unsound
the earth’s rotten center
has never felt better
then when its been scattered and battered around”
He made a summersaulting entrance into the central corridor that was their typical meeting spot. Isabella had been sitting rather silently, crocheting a hat for Sibel. She had not known who it was for at first, but as she knitted the idea of whom it was for, had come to her. The girl lost in the agony of love. And so they were at the Guild, the home of the assassins and the feral naughty mercenaries that were the pleasure of an occasional Marty assignment. As far as they could tell, the rest of Barrenwood was unaware of their existence and it was understood both in hinted terms by Marty, as well as an overall sense of candor, that the existence of the Guild was a secret to be kept with the utmost responsibility. The entrance corridor breathed a heavy odor of mildew and dank. The sides of the tunnel glimmered from the occasional torch in the slime of its covering.
Fennel approached Isabella and covered his face in a scarf, “My dear sister,” he said in a slight growl, “I’m afraid that we are in a very dangerous place.”
She smiled knowingly and pulled a knife from her sheath.
“Mon frère, I am ever ready for anything. Bring on the assassins of the Guild for tonight. I am most predatory.”
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