Updated_PerilInTheOldCountry_SamHooker_EbookFormatting_Nook

by Peril in the Old Country (retail) (epub)

  “I can see your gears turning.” Roman guzzled his beer like it was his last.

  “Hasn’t Nordheim already been discovered?”

  “Every place has been discovered,” said Roman with a dismissive wave. “Every place worth discovering, anyway. Even the ones that haven’t, I’d imagine.”

  “You imagine that people have discovered places that haven’t been discovered.”

  “Not properly. You saw that Sir Wallace, didn’t you? He’s the sort of fussy lad who wouldn’t want his bootprints associated with an uninhabited island. Wouldn’t sell any books.”

  “But what does that have to do with Nordheim? Willie simply can’t discover it. It’s too popular. People won’t buy it.”

  “He doesn’t have to discover it,” said Roman. “He just has to go, and bring something back.”

  “And that qualifies as exploration.”

  Roman nodded. “I looked it up. No official accreditations for explorers, no program at the university. Just a bunch of gits in khaki, writing books about where they went over the summer.”

  “At least he’s qualified, then. Or he will be, once he’s been to his tailor.”

  “Precisely,” said Roman. “What’s more, I know the way there.”

  “You’ve been to Nordheim?”

  “A few times, during the war. There’s a passage through the mountains, don’t even have to go through Carpathia! Only takes a couple of weeks to get there. The hardest part is getting past the gates.”

  “Outside the city,” said Sloot with a gulp. He’d never been outside the city before, and although he was now one of the bloody barbarian savages who lived beyond the wall, he had no idea if they would recognize him as one of their own. He’d been raised as a salt, after all—would they make him eat a baby, or spit on a sidewalk to prove his barbarism?

  The barmaid set another round of drinks on the tall table between them.

  “One above and one below,” said Roman as they each put a beer under their stools. “Don’t worry about the expedition, my boy. I’ve been beyond the wall dozens of times, you’ll be as safe as the Domnitor in his bedchamber … long may he reign!”

  Shoes Fit for a Bureaucrat

  The speed with which the staff had turned the broken shell of Whitewood into a presentable manor was astounding. Using the time it took Sloot’s landlord to manage simple repairs in his apartment as a reference, he’d have thought it impossible; then again, he had neither the elder Lord Hapsgalt’s piles of money nor his flair for employing credible threats to accomplish his goals.

  “What do you think?” asked Willie, who was now dressed entirely in light brown and wearing a pair of tall riding boots, sitting awkwardly in an overstuffed chair in front of the fire.

  “Very nice,” said Sloot. “I would have expected the paint to need longer to dry, but they’ve already hung these animal heads on the walls.”

  “No, the outfit! Do you think I look like an explorer?”

  “Oh,” said Sloot. “Yes, of course.” He couldn’t be sure, but it looked like the very same ensemble that Sir Wallace had worn in the library.

  “But the animal heads help, don’t they? There’s a man at the hunting club who sells them to me and the rest of the lads. Nipsy’s got a bear head just like that one.”

  “I believe that’s a moose,” said Sloot, examining the antlers on the head to which Willie was pointing.

  “All right, mister expert,” said Willie with a sneer, “if you’re so good at identifying things, what’s this sit?”

  “I’m sorry, sit?”

  “Yes! This thing that I’m doing on the chair right now, what do they call it?”

  “A … sit?”

  Willie rolled his eyes. “Right, but which one?”

  Sloot said nothing. He was no master tactician, but he’d worked this one out a long time ago. He couldn’t think of anything that he could say that would approach being taken for correct, and reasoned that a well-placed nothing was the smart alternative to the wrong something.

  “It’s the Brunt of the Evening,” said Willie eventually, with the haughtiest simper he could muster. “I didn’t really expect you to know it, it’s very new. Don’t beat yourself up.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I’ve developed a keen sense of the way the world works.” Willie stood up to lean against the mantle in a pose that Sloot was sure must have been named the Pouting Hedge, or some such nonsense. “It’s not something that you can pick up on the streets, mind you. It comes from spending a lot of time listening to people you pay extremely well. None of them ever contradict me, so I reckon I’ve got it all worked out!”

  “I see,” said Sloot, who’d heard more sense from the congress of goblins who’d taken up residence in the cabinets of his last apartment. They’d gotten into his stock of beans and couldn’t stop laughing at the rude noises that ensued. He’d had to move out for the overpowering smell, and without his security deposit.

  “Well, I suppose Nan will want me to turn in soon. Good night, Sloot.”

  “Good night, Willie.”

  Things really were coming along. They’d barely been in the house a few days, and if Sloot hadn’t known first-hand that it had been a literal goblins’ nest earlier the same week, he’d never have believed it.

  “Are they all gone?” The voice hadn’t come from behind Sloot, or from any other direction relative to where he was standing for that matter. It was just sort of there, as though it had come from every point in the room at once.

  “Sorry,” said Sloot aloud. “Who?”

  Silence. Maybe Sloot was hearing things.

  “The goblins,” answered the voice.

  Silence again. Sloot hoped that he was hearing things. Maybe he was just catching half a conversation from another room, one person standing too close to the flue or something.

  The voice sighed. “You there, have the goblins all gone or not?”

  Sloot’s insides lurched as though his guts wanted to run away. Unfortunately for them, his feet were too alarmed to move.

  “Er, yes.” Maybe if he didn’t move; but even if he wanted to, where would he go? The voice was coming from everywhere!

  “Oh, that’s a relief,” said the voice after another delay, which was just long enough for Sloot’s mind to run rampant with how the blood-and-gore-covered demon speaking to him was going to torture him for eternity. “I’ll just lock up and be on my way.”

  “All right,” Sloot replied, daring to hope that he might not be flayed alive, so that thin strips of his skin could be used for tinsel at whatever demonic celebration plays out during the Yuletide season.

  More silence. Sloot waited for nearly half an hour before he ran for the door. Disembodied voices were new to him, but he knew himself well enough to correctly predict that he wouldn’t sleep very well that night.

  ***

  Standing in the ridiculously long line at Central Bureaucracy had been rated by Achtungfelder’s Guide to Salzstadt as “five stars, would give it a sixth if such a thing were possible.” There was no definitive proof that threats (having been rebranded as “subtle persuasion”) by the jackbooted thugs in the Salzstadt Ministry of Propaganda were responsible for the glowing review; however, anyone who’d ever spent the better part of a week getting a license to use a public toilet might develop suspicions.

  As a matter of legal compliance, it is compulsory at this point to direct anyone having developed suspicions regarding the motives and methods of the Ministry of Propaganda to report to the Ministry of Conversation for a cup of tea. Those not familiar with the Ministry of Conversation will note that it was formerly known as the Ministry of Interrogation. It has recently gone through a complete rebranding, courtesy of the Ministry of Propaganda.

  Early on in the day, Sloot managed to suppress the memory of the disembodied voice and was fee
ling nearly chipper. His contentment nearly rivaled his days of obedient, ignorant bliss, which had ended upon learning his mother’s secret and subsequently volunteering to be a heretical traitor to his country. Perhaps it was due to his having been through the line at Central Bureaucracy so many times that he felt at home here. It may also have had something to do with his knowing that if one is going to spend a significant amount of time standing―with the occasional shuffle forward―one should spend a little extra at Blinzwalder’s on Bittestrasse, where August Blinzwalder makes shoes specifically designed for standing in. They’re entirely unsuitable for walking, but one pair of shoes can’t do it all.

  They were worth it. His feet felt as though they were at home, in their favorite comfy chair with their feet up. It’s a bit convoluted as metaphors go, but anyone who owns a pair will agree that it’s the best explanation available. Buy a pair of Blinzwalders today!

  But despite his general feeling of comfort in his surroundings and his impeccably supported arches, a sense of uneasiness insisted that it had every right to loom over him, and would not be moved. He initially thought that it must have been the doom that awaited him on the road to Nordheim, but he’d spent most of the night worrying about that. That particular dread was practically an old friend. No, this was something new. And it was coming from behind him.

  The ability to feel the gaze of another upon one’s person has been attributed to a number of possible causes: an undiscovered sense that people possess, heightened situational awareness, or invisible goblins who pull the hairs on the back of one’s neck until they stand on end. All are equally credible, and all equally fail to take into account the training manual for the Union of Queue Position Engineers.

  The members of the UQPE, quietly referred to as “placeholders” by people smart enough not to refer to them as such within their earshot, have a well-documented history of politely and amicably working with members of the local community to provide queue position engineering services at a fair price, without a hint of coercion or a single lawsuit involving city-wide riots.

  It is worth noting that the UQPE, like the Ministry of Conversation, has availed itself of the rebranding services offered by the Ministry of Propaganda.

  In the old days, it was rumored that engineers belonging to the union would receive training on intimidation tactics, including―but not limited to―making non-union members feel particular discomfort by staring at the backs of their necks in such a way as to make their hairs stand on end. According to the well-documented history of the union, such things were certainly not transpiring in the line at Central Bureaucracy today; nevertheless, Sloot turned around.

  “Oh, hello,” he said to the sneer given human form in line behind him.

  “What’s that you’ve got there?”

  “My papers? Er, permit applications.”

  “Permit applications? Why would you need those for standing in line?”

  “It’s the other way around,” said Sloot. He imagined that the bureaucrats would have a lot of questions regarding his need for permits to go to Nordheim, so he’d taken the liberty of filling out several additional forms. It could never hurt to have a Requisition for Foreign Mockery or a Writ of Obeisance handy.

  “You’re standing in line to file your own permit applications?”

  “That’s right.”

  From the way that everyone nearby turned to stare at him, Sloot reckoned that he must have slipped into that dream where he was standing naked in line at Central Bureaucracy. It’s an unusual feeling, looking down and being surprised to see one’s self fully clothed.

  “That’s a nice pair of Blinzwalders,” said the man.

  “Thanks,” said Sloot. “They’re my first, I’ve always wanted some.”

  “Stand in line a lot, do you?”

  “Only when I come here. I’ve always heard that a good pair of Blinzwalders makes all the difference, and until today I never―”

  “I don’t suppose you have a union card, do you?”

  “Sorry, which union?” Either the room had just grown a bit darker of its own accord, or the people standing nearby were looming over him with a fair degree of menace.

  “Queue Position Engineers, Salzstadt local. We overlook the average citizen, but a fellow comes in here in a brand new pair of Blinzwalder Buckskin Standers, wing tips and everything, and we start to wonder what he’s got against the industrious union workers queueing up here on the daily.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Sloot. “I work hard, and I’m queueing up. Should I be here more often?”

  “You should have a union card! Especially if you’ve got the coin for a pair of shoes like that!”

  “Or he should have the decency to hire bona fide union labor to do his standing for him!” shouted a scrappy young line engineer with his cap pulled down low, who should definitely be nicknamed “The Salzstadt Kid,” if he wasn’t already.

  “Yeah,” said a pile of muscles who could start moonlighting as a librarian, if he knew his way around a warhammer. “Scab like that could find hisself blacklisted at the door.” The man’s fingers were the size of Sloot’s arm, and therefore had no difficulty in plucking the papers from his grasp.

  “Please,” said Sloot, “I need those―”

  “Hapsgalt!” roared the shaved gorilla. “He’s working for Lord Hapsgalt!”

  “Yes, but not the―”

  “Are you putting me on?” asked the human sneer who’d originally started in on him. His fists went to his hips, and the chorus of angry grumbling around them grew in volume and intensity. “Lord Moneypiles himself is too cheap to squeeze out the silver to support a working man at his trade!”

  “I’m sorry,” said Sloot, “I knew you could hire someone to stand in line for you, but I didn’t know there was a union!”

  “It’s exactly this sort of disregard for the honest salt that’s made it so hard to scrape by these days! Makes me mad enough to say every swear word I know, even make up a few. I’m headed out to the crags tonight, lads! Anybody else want to pop off a few?”

  “I’ll be there,” said the Salzstadt Kid. “What do we do with him?”

  “Get him out of here!” shouted the sneer. “And then I need to talk to my union rep.”

  “With pleasure,” said the pile of muscles, who waved to the queue monitors and pointed at Sloot. “Now, what did you want to talk to me about?”

  ***

  Among the other firsts for the day was Sloot’s having failed to secure their travel permits at Central Bureaucracy. He’d always prided himself on his ability to make it all the way up to the counter without being deterred, and now his perfect record had been blemished. And for what? A nice pair of standing shoes.

  He’d somehow lost his walking shoes in the process of being ejected from Central Bureaucracy, so his walk back to Whitewood had been accompanied by the clamorous “clop, clop” of his Blinzwalders. The soles would need a good sanding down if they were to be useful again for their intended purpose. The cobblestones had wrought havoc on them, but it was better on balance than having gone barefoot. Well, probably. The streets were rather empty at night, so there was no way of knowing for sure whether roaming congresses of goblins were defiling them with their noxious bodily fluids. The safe bet was assuming they were.

  “And Roman will be none too pleased that I didn’t manage the permits,” said Sloot.

  “The valet?” Myrtle looked up from mending a torn sleeve on Sloot’s coat with a quizzical expression. “Why would his opinion matter?”

  “Right,” said Sloot, “because I’m his boss, aren’t I?”

  “Right. Assertiveness doesn’t sit well with you, does it?”

  “I suppose it doesn’t.”

  “That’s all right,” said Myrtle, turning her attention back to her stitching. “I can help, just let me know if he gives you any trouble.”r />
  “How did you get so good at assertiveness?”

  “I helped her.”

  “What?”

  “Sorry, that was Arthur. He’s right, despite his lack of modesty.”

  “Is he listening all the time?”

  “More or less, though I only chime in when my cherished wisdom is particularly essential.”

  “I see.” Sloot noticed that Myrtle enunciated more clearly when it was Arthur doing the talking. Sloot knew that trick. It was a favorite among those who needed to seem smart, whether they were or not.

  “You should practice assertiveness with the valet. Even you should be able to manage it with someone who works for you.”

  “Thanks for that, Arthur,” said Sloot, “but I don’t think―”

  “It’s Dr. Widdershins, please. I’ll let you know when we’re on a first-name basis.”

  “Sorry,” said Myrtle. “A bit tetchy about getting all the mileage they can from their degrees, doctors. I only get to call him Arthur on account of the free rent I’m providing.”

  “Degrees still count once you’re dead, then?”

  “Of course they do!” Myrtle rolled her eyes. “May as well for philosophy,” she said. “Not like you could write prescriptions or anything.”

  Sloot and Myrtle chatted about nothing in particular, which galled Dr. Widdershins to no end. Philosophers tend to disapprove of any discussion not relevant to “what’s it all mean,” or discourses on trees falling in unattended forests. In the absence of meaningful talks, they opt for pondering in silence. That’s where the best epiphanies come from; besides, silent pondrances are far better for a philosopher’s image than saying something that might be seen as lacking depth.

  “Say something deep, or something condescending, or nothing at all.” That’s the philosophers’ credo.

  Sloot was enjoying himself immensely. He generally wasn’t one for idle chit-chat either, but Myrtle had a strange way of making it seem far more interesting than it should.