by Joseph Lallo
Enforcers of such blockades have a tendency to look the other way when paid well to do so. Thus, in this forgotten crevasse or that, long systems of pulleys, ladders, and other unnerving modes of travel served as a means to deliver people and cargo down to the fug without drawing the attention of those up top or down below. The black market, like an infestation, found a way to hide in places most would believe would be unlivable.
At the base of the cliff, atop the accumulated detritus there, stood a small but sturdily built shack. It was the building equivalent of the sort of person who lurks at the edge of the light in a dim alley, skillfully walking the line between wishing to remain unnoticed and catching the attention of the proper people. Two stout men stood on either side of the door, arms crossed and eyes staring out into the blackness of the fug-shrouded night. The only light came from the mostly veiled moon. The men were, like most hired muscle beneath the fug, grunts. Long dark jackets contrasted with their pure-white skin and shaggy black beards. Their statue-like vigil only ended when two other figures approached. The watchmen, eyes adjusted to the darkness, stirred and drew revolvers from their belts.
“Gentlemen,” Alabaster’s shrill and overconfident voice called from the fug. “You would do well to replace your weapons. I am, most assuredly, a man your employer wishes to see.”
“No one sees Wash wifout our say so,” rumbled the first guard.
“And no one said so,” added the second.
Alabaster continued, unconcerned about the tightening grip the guards had on their weapons. His sole companion on this venture, Mr. Q, shifted a hand toward his jacket. Alabaster stopped him.
“I wouldn’t, Mr. Q. These dolts, even at a glance and a brief exchange, have established themselves as vastly inferior to even your limited intellect. Sudden threats of force have a tendency to startle cattle and wild animals,” Alabaster said. “As the shack behind you is far too small to be a warehouse of any meaningful value, and yet it is well guarded by two great slabs of meat, am I correct in assuming that your employer currently resides within?”
The guards remained silent.
“I shall interpret your unwillingness to answer as evidence of instructions to not confirm his presence, and thus his presence is confirmed. Please inform your employer that I come with a business proposition. I believe he will be quite interested in discussing it. I am frequently a profitable man to collaborate with, and I am a costly man to ignore.”
Again the words did not sway the guards, but they did penetrate the walls. Mr. Q and the guards exchanged leaden intimidating glares in silence, then each glanced to the door as a sequence of latches and locks clicked and it swung open. The person who stepped from inside wore heavy clothing from head to toe. Between the comparatively blinding phlo-light illuminating the doorway and his long, dark hooded jacket, he stood as little more than an eerie silhouette. The grim reaper may as well have answered the door. As eyes adjusted and he stepped out to investigate the ruckus, that silhouette became much more distinctive. A mask extended out from beneath the hood, curving out and down like a beak. Black lenses replaced the eyes, his face utterly concealed. His gender, or even his species, wasn’t clear by looking at him, but when he spoke, it was with a deep male voice and with what Alabaster would call a “lower-class” accent muffled by the plague-doctor mask.
“All right, all right. What’s all the noise?” he said.
“Are you the ringleader of this little circus?” Alabaster asked.
“I’m in charge, yeah. And if I was you, I’d look in a mirror before calling someone else a clown.”
“My ‘good’ man, you had best watch that tongue of yours. You are addressing…”
“I know, I know. Lucius P. Abalaster or whatever.”
“Alabaster,” he snapped. “And it is a relief to discover that you are familiar with me. It suggests you have a head on your shoulders.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know things. I know you were the first one in and the first one out of that new hole they dug to replace Skykeep. What’s the name… Quartzvault.”
“Yes. A formidable prison that, naturally, was incapable of containing my brilliance. And though my reputation precedes me, as you have no doubt striven to achieve, your own identity is a mystery beneath my notice.”
“Call me Dr. Wash. So you here for business or what, Abalaster?”
“Alabaster,” he corrected again. “And yes, I have business on my mind.”
“Well talk quick. You got…” He fished a watch out of his pocket. “Two minutes to make this worth my while.”
“I imagine you do a brisk trade in Calderan sea salt.”
“Heh, yeah. A lot passes through my hands. That all you’re after?”
“It is one of two things. How much do you have?”
“How much you need?”
“Quite a bit.”
“Well however much you need, I got. So long as you can pay what it’ll cost you.”
“And through what means did you acquire it?”
“Caldera, dummy.”
Alabaster crossed his arms. “Presumably there is an intermediary.”
“Yeah. And that’s for me to know and you to wonder about. You get other people’s repeat business when you don’t go repeating other people’s business. Simple as that. What else you after? Clock’s ticking.”
“If you are unwilling to answer my questions, then it suggests you won’t be able to supply the second commodity I am shopping for.”
Dr. Wash rolled his hand in a “get on with it” gesture. “Which is?”
“Information.”
“Oh, hey, if you’re willing to pay, then I got it. Costs more than a couple of bags of salt, though.”
“Have you had any dealings with the Wind Breaker crew?”
“Payment up front when it comes to info. I don’t take credit on stuff I can’t repossess if I don’t get paid. You want me to start coming up with a number for all of what you’re after, you’re gonna need to do two things: gimme a list of what you want; gimme that list before I get sick of talking to you, which is just about to happen.”
“I want free, complete access to all your records. Who you’ve sold to, who you’ve bought from. Their schedules. Everything.”
“You ain’t got the money for that. I know you were a big shot up north a couple of months ago, but word has it Ebonwhite seized most of what you had back when he locked you up. I don’t know what you did, but you must’ve had him seeing red.”
“My exploits, for now, are to remain the subject of the fearful nightmares of those who have roused my ire, but I assure you, what I have to offer in exchange for your cooperation on this matter should be more than enough to convince you.”
“Still waiting for a number, Abalaster.”
“I was more interested in barter.”
“What do you got to trade?”
Alabaster fetched a pocket watch of his own and consulted it.
“If you think that watch is enough, you ain’t thinking straight.”
“No, no. This watch is a family heirloom, just one of many pieces of my fortune that I was pleased to discover escaped the treacherous claws of Ebonwhite’s overeager collection men. What I offer you is your life and livelihood.”
Both guards stepped forward and closed ranks in front of their employer. He pushed them aside.
“Spread out, boys. Unless I got this guy figured wrong, he ain’t so dumb as to threaten my life with just one guy while I got two.”
“About that much you are correct. I am threatening your life by assuring you that failure to cooperate will leave me with no recourse but to destroy your operation. Your very presence here is in violation of both surface and fug law. It would be problematic if you were to be revealed to either. Or both.”
“You’re gonna threaten me? Who’re you gonna rat me out to? Ebonwhite? You rat me out, I rat you out. To him I’m small potatoes. You’re number one on his list, pal. If anythi
ng, you should be kickin’ in something extra to keep my mouth shut about you.”
“It is unfortunate that you aren’t wise enough to do things the easy way, but it is not unexpected. I shall simply have to destroy your organization in the more direct, physical way.”
A low hum, unheard until now, gradually grew louder. Alabaster snapped the watch shut and pocketed it.
“Mr. P is, at the very least, learning punctuality,” he said.
Alabaster’s airship pulled into view. Both guards spread out and raised their weapons toward it.
“You think you’re gonna have your boy in the sky gun us down? Airship guns ain’t what you’d call precise, pal. You’ll be dead same as us if he starts shooting. And even if not, my boys would get their shots off before we were through. That, I promise you.”
“He isn’t after you. Unless I signal him to abandon the plan, he will drag our ship’s anchor through that.” Alabaster pointed at the large pulley system a short distance away. “Rather difficult to remain in business if you haven’t got a means to transfer goods, eh, Dr. Wash?”
The ship continued toward them, lights flickering to life and targeting the pulleys.
“Do act quickly. He may not be much of a pilot, but Mr. P has illustrated himself to be superbly capable of destroying things with his anchor. It is something of a specialty for him.”
Dr. Wash’s guards acted. One of them pointed his pistol squarely at Mr. Q, and the other targeted Alabaster.
“What’s the signal?” Dr. Wash demanded.
Alabaster raised his hands in compliance of the pistol pointed at him. “In my inside right pocket you’ll find three flares.”
Despite his compromising position, he did not seem concerned. The guard dug the flares roughly from Alabaster’s pocket.
“I wouldn’t activate them, though,” Alabaster said. “The signal calls for one or more of the flares to be lit. Make the wrong choice and not only does the pulley network come down, but Mr. P opens fire indiscriminately.”
Dr. Wash hesitated. “Go ahead, pull down this elevator. You think I ain’t got more?”
“Inside left pocket,” Alabaster said, hands still raised.
The guard thrust his hand inside the pocket and revealed three twisted bits of metal. Not knowing what to do with them, the guard handed them off to Dr. Wash.
“What’re these?” he said.
“Retaining pins for pulleys on elevators six miles north of here, two miles north of here, and ten miles south of here respectively.”
Wash hesitated again. Though his mask hid his face, there was little doubt what sort of an expression he wore.
“I suppose those distances are eerily accurate? You didn’t think I would come here without doing my due diligence, did you? Contingencies upon contingencies, Dr. Wash. That is how you play the game at my level.”
“It’s a bluff. You just brought a couple of pins to spook me.”
“You are free to believe that. Just as you are free to operate as normal and risk destroying your own network. Or you can inspect your network and find which of the pulleys have been sabotaged. If I remember correctly, each network has between twenty-five and sixty pulleys, some hidden far enough within enclosures to require hands-on investigation. And who knows if I only sabotaged three? Still, no matter. You’ll just need to shut down your operation for a few months to repair things. I’m sure you haven’t got tight deadlines with individuals unlikely to take excuses.”
Dr. Wash glanced up. The ship was getting terribly close.
“Guns down. We’ll talk terms, Alabaster, but make with the flares.”
“The terms are full, unrestricted access to your records, and a small monthly stipend of Calderan sea salt. Say… two hundred pounds?”
“Two hundred pounds of salt a month!?”
“Against the alternative, a bargain.”
“… For how long?”
“Until I say otherwise.”
“… Fine.”
Alabaster straightened his coat and pulled two of the flares from the guard’s hand. A quick twist to the top of each sent streamers of green and teal skyward. The airship veered aside and slowed to a crawl.
“I do so enjoy doing business with a rational thinker.”
#
Lil stood atop a small stool, light blue fabric draping down across her body and all the way to the floor. In all her life, the young Cooper had never had a dress tailored specifically for her, and it was clear from her expression and constant fidgeting that she was not fond of the process. The only thing that made it tolerable was the fact that it was Lita and her mother doing the tailoring.
“Hey, how come Nita ain’t here?” Lil said, looking around.
“I believe she said she had to locate some hardware for your ship. Arms out, please,” Lita said.
“Oh, that’s right! We’re set to start fixin’ it up today. Say, you reckon you’ll be about done soon? Me and her are supposed to work on it together,” Lil said.
“A good costume takes time. Joshua has already imposed some stiff requirements in both how it should flow and when it must be finished,” Lita said. “But I believe I shall have it pinned together before much longer.”
“Good. I’d hate to have her be stuck fixin’ it herself, what with its bein’ broke as much my fault as anyone’s,” she said.
“If you hold still, it will go more quickly,” Lita said.
“Sure, sure,” Lil said. “Say, since when do you make dresses?”
“I don’t make dresses,” Lita said. “I make costumes.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Costumes are meant to enhance a performance.”
“Oh… And a dress wouldn’t do that?”
“No.”
“Good thing you’re in charge then. Me, I’d’ve thunk one was as good as the other.” She scratched her head, dislodging a few pins and nearly causing the incomplete dress to fall off. Lita hastily restored it. “Say, Mrs. Graus,” she went on, “I sure hope you’re feelin’ better after that medicine we brung you.”
“It took time, dear, but I feel quite myself again.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“I hope to finish painting my first major sculpture in ages in just a few weeks,” she continued.
“A few weeks? Boy, most everything takes forever and a day, don’t it?” Lil said.
“A masterpiece is not finished until it is finished, and to rush it is to turn one’s back on inspiration.”
“Glad I ain’t had none of that.”
“What?”
“Inspiration. Seems distracting. I like a job that’s good and quick, so you can spend the night how you like. Seems to me Nita’s the same way.”
“Sometimes I think Nita and Grandfather Graus share a muse,” Lita said.
“Analita…” Mrs. Graus said sternly.
“That something she oughtn’t to say?” Lil said.
“Donovan’s father was… less personally prolific than most successful members of our society,” Mrs. Graus said.
“… Is there any other way to say that? A way that ain’t so genteel like? Seems like you glossed right over the bit that was supposed to explain what you were workin’ at.”
“I apologize. These are matters so fundamental to our culture that I sometimes forget they do not apply as thoroughly to yours. You see, we believe that true art is the product of creativity. Grant Graus made the fortune that paid for this estate by making clockwork contraptions. They were commissioned, and with rare exception he made precisely what was asked of him. They were works of unmistakable craftsmanship, but all the creativity came from the commissioner.”
“But these contraptions still had to work, right?”
“Naturally.”
“Seems to me he had to work all that out. And that’s plenty creative.”
“Perhaps, but not the creativity that properly honors the spark of the divine imbued i
n works of true art.”
“Sounds to me like you two ain’t got too high an opinion of this Grant Graus, and same goes for Nita.”
“No, no, no!” Lita interjected quickly. “She is family and we love her dearly. It is just that we know she’s capable of so much more, and we worry she’ll never achieve it.”
“You Calderan folk are free to feel the way you feel. I ain’t one to judge. But back where I come from if someone saved the lives of family and friends over and over again, that’d be a person worth bein’ plenty proud of.”
“And I agree with you, but she is a Calderan,” Lita said. “If she is happy, I am happy for her. But in our culture she simply won’t have the life she deserves if she doesn’t commit herself to something more traditionally revered.”
There wasn’t an ounce of animosity in her voice. Lil got the genuine impression that Lita’s feelings were out of concern for her sister’s own success and happiness. But all the same, the discussion was putting a bad taste in Lil’s mouth.
“If you were Calderan, you would understand,” Lita said gently.
“No offense, Lita, but I sure hope not.”
“Would you hand me the roll of saffron gauze, Mother?” Lita said, holding out her hand. “I must say, Lil. It is a pleasure to tailor to your form. You have remarkable shape. So lean, yet so strong.”
“Quite so. Like something from a Teffis painting,” Mrs. Graus said.
“That any good?”
“He was a profoundly influential artist from my youth. We, sadly, do not have any of his works, but I am quite certain if you go to the statuary gardens, you will find at least half a dozen figures very much like yourself.”
“I’d’ve thunk makin’ a statue of somebody’s the sort of thing you’d only do to a pretty lady.”
“You don’t think you’re pretty?” Lita said.
“I know I ain’t. I’m dishwater plain back home. If I wanted to turn a fella’s head, I’d have to slug ’im. Which I done plenty of times, mind you.”
“Here, Lil, you are an exotic beauty,” Lita said.