by William Ray
Eventually, the police always came to chase off unlicensed vendors like this one, typically insisting they were securing the public health, although Gus had noticed they generally preferred such concerns addressed with a quick bribe. The police’s collection attempts gave rise to rumors that those health concerns might even be real, but this particular cart’s brisk custom and the trail of discarded cans around it was a comforting confirmation that it wasn’t serving them rat or something worse.
With his paper having long since worn out its entertainment value, Gus found himself chatting with Louis as they lunched by the side of the street. Louis’s little girl was now old enough for suitors, apparently, and it bothered the poor man to no end. He had already forced her to switch bedrooms in their flat, in an attempt to catch one late-night window-rapper at his game. Gus supposed that if the girl took after her mother, then her looks would fade soon enough, so it seemed to him that getting her hitched now might be a blessing. But still he did his best to console his friend and advise him on where to pick up a reliable pistol.
Making their way back to Phand & Saucier, Gus took up his paper and found a spot along the wall across the street where he could make conversation with the loiterers and pretend to read the paper. The top article was something about the deposed queen of Tulsmonia, attempting to rally followers from her exile in Mazhar. The author seemed very concerned about the dangerous possibility of Revolutionary Committee assassins trying to finish the job, by which Gus determined he was reading the Standard, since at the Herald they were probably cheering the assassins on.
Late in the afternoon, the good doctor finally made his way outside, hopping upon his safety bicycle once more and wending off into traffic. Most of the loiterers had given up for the day and moved on already, so Gus folded his paper and pretended to join them as he moved to rejoin Louis. He was confident after this morning’s jaunt that Phand wouldn’t manage to lose them, but did wonder if he’d had the bicycle delivered from the club or just kept several scattered around the city.
Doctor Phand led them into the neighboring Market District, not quite to the standards of White Parasol, where he stopped at a well-to-do brownstone. Once he climbed off his safety bicycle, Phand tossed it amid the flowers in front with a casual disdain that told Gus that this had to be the man’s own home—and he clearly wasn’t the one who tended to that small plot of green out front.
Apparently too cheap to hire a proper valet, Phand was met at the door by a housekeeper in drab dress and long apron. They exchanged a few words, and after a quick glance around to make sure the neighbors weren’t looking, Phand leaned down to give her cheek a kiss before they both slipped inside.
A bit shocked, having seen the man entertaining the likes of Miss Aliyah Gale earlier that day, Gus guffawed and slapped the paper against his knee. “Oh, you dog! Will you look at that! I’m actually starting to admire the man now. I almost feel bad about having to turn him in.”
“I still get paid though, right sir?” asked Louis pointedly, provoking another laugh from his passenger.
“Absolutely. Emily would have my head if I dropped a client for something like that. Let’s go back.” He relaxed, looking down at the paper he’d spent so much of the day pretending to read, and wondered if he should actually glance through it on the way home. Instead, he settled on taking a moment to rest his eyes.
Gus was careful not to let himself fall asleep, which would risk alarming Louis on the trip back. He’d need a bit of sauce before he could handle a proper nap, but with all the new money coming in, he’d need plenty of energy to properly celebrate his success.
~
“Assassins Faced in Mazhar”
A bold attempt was made upon the life of Andra Berengar, the deposed queen of Tulsmonia. Late last week, several assassins scaled the walls of her refuge within the Sultan’s palace in Mazhar. By all reports, their climb up the sheer walls of the palace should have been humanly impossible, yet they did so while evading notice until they reached the parapet of the queen’s domicile there. Bodyguards hired by her loyal retainer, Doctor Gleb Nichols, bravely leapt to her defense, and by their extraordinary efforts, the great lady emerged unharmed.
Speculation of the Sultan’s involvement in the attempt has been angrily denied, and indeed there are rumors of a thaumaturgic investigation being undertaken by his government to ascertain whether the Workers’ Revolutionary Committee assassins used any unnatural methods to facilitate their attempt. Rumors persist of both witchcraft and wyrding being practiced among the Committee’s hooligans, and this latest outrage certainly lends new credence to such claims.
– Gemmen Standard, 6 Tal. 389
~
- CHAPTER 4 -
Baston was an idiot. As an inquiry agent, he was clever enough to get her what she needed, but Dorna could barely conceal her contempt as he reported Edward Phand’s upcoming night out and then tried to pressure her for more money with the promise of news on his business arrangements with the tower.
Whatever Edward Phand’s latest plans for the tower were would be mooted soon enough, and whatever he had learned had no part in the Master’s plan. She assured Baston that the evening’s plans were not with her, that his work was done, and then placed the remaining payment directly into his hand—six gold coins and five silver, with not one penny more.
The agent’s simple-minded greed blinded him to the possibility that she might not really be Alice Phand, and she now understood why the Master had instructed her to go with an independent agent rather than a larger firm. A fellow Warden working in the Khanom constabulary had heard of Baston through his counterparts in Gemmen, and she felt she could now confirm their opinions of the man.
Fortunately, some bit of upper-class aloofness was part of the role, so she was not required to hide her overwhelming disdain for either him, the frowning slattern he kept by the door, nor the false sympathy they offered in their clumsy attempts at comfort for the sorrow she was supposed to feel at the alleged adultery.
Waving her borrowed fur around like a badge of office, she pushed her way out of Baston’s office and marched down the stairs again. Taking a deep breath in the dim gas-lit foyer of the building, she pushed once more into the stinking city outside, glaring around at the orthogonal irregularity of the cityscape.
All that was left of the Elven cities now were the paintings showing their elegantly sweeping curves and the delicate spires rising into clear air with graceful harmony; humanity had spoiled all that and replaced it with cruder stuff. By comparison to those lost marvels, the Verin capital was nothing but a series of unevenly spaced boxes.
Dorna hated Gemmen. It stank, and ever since she had arrived, she could feel the unpleasant grime that layered on everything in the city, even on her own skin. The air was thick with soot, and even a glass of purest water would soon have a film atop it if left uncovered for more than a moment.
The walls of the buildings had been stained by the smoke of passing engines, and the only green visible was in the moldy hay left out for the milk cows at an urban farm just down the street. Steam travel let vegetables be grown remotely, but milk and eggs still had to come from little operations wedged into the heart of the city, and Dorna never trusted the produce of animals trapped in places like that.
Gemmen was a city of pestilence and filth and an icon of all that had gone wrong with the world in the absence of its caretakers.
The carriage they had bought for the mission was waiting down the street, and Dougal was at the reins. She waited as he directed it up to the curb and then climbed inside without waiting for him to lower the step.
Dorna closed the door, watched carefully to make sure they were not followed as they pulled away from the building, and then cast off the wretched animal corpse wrapped around her neck and unpinned that hideous hat she’d been forced to wear. Terry, the other Warden sent with them, had picked those out for her, insisting they were necessary elements of the disguise.
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br /> He’d also worried when they bought the carriage that it looked too cheap, but Baston had never even caught sight of her in it. Terry had been named her second on this mission, though she suspected he was only here to provide money, legal advice, or social influence if things went wrong. So far, he had mostly seemed useless. Seated across from her, he gave her a moment to settle in before finally venturing, “Did he find out what we needed?”
“He did. They’re going to the theatre tomorrow night. We even know where they’re walking from to get there.”
Terry gave a thoughtful nod and then said, “So we just have to pull up, grab the man, and head back home?”
He never remembered instructions, and Dorna wondered again if someone less devoted with half a brain would have been a better choice. She had helped the Master approach him years ago, and he had seemed bright enough then, but having spent more time with him on the trip to Gemmen, she had found him irritatingly obtuse. He couldn’t understand why they didn’t just grab the man at home or in front of his office or why they couldn’t just follow him themselves, asking again and again as if Dorna were making up the plan rather than simply following it.
She took a moment to fight back the several harsh responses that bubbled to mind, then marshaled her patience and said, “No. We hire another cab and driver first and do the snatching in that, so they don’t come looking for our carriage on the way out.”
It was, she knew, a plan of seemingly excessive complexity, but the Master’s mind was far sharper than theirs. If his genius and experience told them all this was necessary, then it would be foolish for mere humans to second guess that. Clearly, for the Master’s purpose it needed to be public yet also completely untraceable, and his purpose was their purpose.
Terry nodded again with a faint gleam of recognition accompanied still by a flicker of doubt. People like him ran the world now—short-sighted, dull men who saw only the immediate profit and no further. The Master assured her this would help bring an end to all that. They needed guidance. They needed wisdom.
Once the Great Restoration came, mankind would have that again.
From the front, Dougal called back, “I found us a driver with a cab to hire.”
He was even more of an idiot than Terry, but at least she had a better idea of what his uses were.
“Good! If that’s done, then our work today is done. You can drive us back to the shop.” Dorna was eager to get out of the ill-fitting, upper-class finery, but from the corner of her eye, she saw Terry was working up the courage to say something, so she turned to look at him. Often the look sufficed to quell whatever nonsense would be forthcoming.
“So, uh, since you’re dressed up and all, there’s an art gallery I wanted to look in on, and I thought you might like to accompany me?” Terry offered in another of his awkward attempts to charm her.
He was a petitioner, or clerk, or something, and socially stationed well above her in most circles, although among the Wardens, she greatly outranked him. Whether he thought she was pretty or was just interested in her influence in their society, she could never quite ascertain, but he was too short for her tastes and lacked any other charms to mitigate that physical inadequacy.
She gave him a cool, disinterested look, the sort that usually shut him up, but he determinedly continued. “They have a lot of Modernist pieces, so I thought you might enjoy it.”
Despite the annoyance she felt from his cloyingly hopeful tone, the gallery did intrigue her. Their expenses had been minimal, and with the extra money in her control, she’d entertained the notion of returning with some gift for the Master. Ideally, she would have liked to restore some true Elven trinket to him, but yesterday she had allowed Terry to escort her to an auction that included a few and had discovered that the prices on such things were astronomical.
Modernism, however, was an attempt by men aping some of the lost styles of the Elves, adopting their love of natural subjects and contrasting intricate detail with flowing abstract shapes. Despite her initial disdain at the idea, some of it was quite good, although nothing approached the true artistry she had seen in the Master’s collections. Certain she would regret it, but with little else to do until tomorrow night, Dorna sighed and acquiesced to a tour of the galleries.
As embarrassed as she was when Terry announced their destination to Dougal, the worst part was the big man’s wink back at her and knowing chuckle as if this were a development in their relationship he’d been expecting. She almost countered Terry’s instruction then and there, but then remembered her goal. She wanted to find something for the Master, so she simply sulked the rest of the way in the vain hope it would diminish both Dougal’s amusement and Terry’s expectations.
When they arrived, she was impressed by the size of the place. The capital’s Central District held not just one gallery but many. Most of the shops were connected by arcades of polished marble into a palace of commerce that Dorna suspected would exceed even the dwelling of the Verin king.
The Modernist movement was popular this season, and many of the shops were devoted to it. A few Easternist pieces were mixed in here or there, either of actual foreign origin or artists who simply copied Longying’s styles, as the Modernists did with the Elves.
The Easternist pieces were an overabundance of draconic themes and splotchy paintings of insects and were often overly abstract in a way that struck her as distasteful. The Elves had included abstract shapes to depict wind, water, and other real things, even if they were not always strictly as they appeared to mortal eyes, but Easternist notions, like the series of ink-blobs arranged to look like a scorpion, only struck her as crudely childish.
Fortunately, the Modernist pieces were predominant at the place Terry had selected, and some were very similar to the authentic Elven ones in the Master’s collections. Gold and gems wrought crude earth into living shapes that glittered and gleamed in the late afternoon light that filtered through the windows. Much of the show was dedicated to flowing depictions of nude women that would have been illegal only a few years ago, but many such social strictures had eased when Queen Muirne had stepped down.
The young Verin king was considered quite liberal and had become an advocate for vague notions of freedom, although Dorna suspected it was only an attempt to save himself from the fate that had so recently befallen the magnar of the Tuls. His censors might allow more images like these, but even with his supposed enthusiasm for the Women Question, he had never advocated for more than that his Parliament should ‘consider’ it.
When she was younger, the Master had laughed when she asked if the Elves allowed women to vote. The Elves had ruled by merit—why would there be elections when the same person had centuries of expertise in their role? Muirne had been little more than a figurehead, but the Elven queen ruled because she was the best suited for her role. Her people had never considered their queen’s gender something that diminished her.
She ignored the more scandalous pieces, and Terry’s attempts at conversation, and focused upon her goal. It was close to sunset when she found something that seemed appropriate, a small wooden box of curling organic shapes that twisted together like intertwined branches, making it impossible to see how it opened. It reminded her of his throne, and she felt the Master would appreciate it, even if it was of human design.
Noting her interest, Terry waved over the gallery’s shopkeep, who eagerly explained to her how it opened and closed. Once she was sure she knew how it worked so that she could demonstrate the gift when she presented it, she agreed to the ridiculous sum the man was asking.
Terry handled the money, so he counted it out for the shopkeep and then tucked the box under his arm—his sense of chivalry apparently required him to carry the thing on her behalf. As they stepped back out into the chilly arcade, he paused and said, “I’ve heard there’s a lovely dinner club just down the avenue. We could stroll over that way and celebrate your find.”
She frowned and said, “We’ve sp
ent too much now. We’ve got to be careful with expenses going forward. I’m not going to waste it on fancy dinners.”
With a hopeful smile, Terry shook his head and replied, “No, he gave us far more than we needed for the mission—he obviously expected you to buy a gift like this with it! If we stick to the plan, everything will work perfectly.”
Dorna was taken aback by the idea that her gift had been anticipated. Was Terry’s faith so much greater than hers that he even considered such a thing? She had never been to Gemmen before, but the Master had. Surely he knew what things cost, but what if that money was for something he expected that they did not yet see?
While she hesitated, Terry smiled and offered, “I’ll pay for it out of my own pocket. How often do we visit Gemmen?”
Looking around at the chilly opulence, set amid a city filled with the desperately poor, Dorna felt this first visit was already far too often for her taste. She had lived alongside the Master’s veil of opulence for most of her life now. For him, it was an easy deception for a greater cause, but merely human, she was faced with daily temptation to leave behind her austerity and share in ready comforts so close at hand.
Now worried that purchasing the Master’s gift was a test she had failed, Dorna let that bitterness creep into her voice as she replied, “And what about Dougal? They wouldn’t let him in unless you brought along a spare dinner jacket that would fit him. You expect him to just sit out on the street while we eat?”
To Dorna’s relief, Terry’s smile faded a bit, and so she pressed on, her voice lowered to a hiss lest some passerby overhear, “We are not here for the fancy dinners of the corrupt upper echelons of the crumbling human state.”
After the uprisings in Tulsmonia, that sort of talk tended to unnerve those of Terry’s ilk. When they first met only a year ago, he would have shrugged it off and tried to persuade her that there was no harm in indulging a bit, but now he just meekly surrendered.