by Sam Hooker
Since the Fall of Salzstadt, the dead hadn’t been going into the ground where they belonged. Thus the air in the city had a higher concentration of effluvium, thanks to the rotting of the proletariat. That meant that if the air were warmer, the city would stink more. This presented a conundrum for the elderly in the city, as acknowledging an upside to the cold specifically violated several bylaws that the Salzstadt Chamber of Curmudgeons held dear. As luck would have it, the unspoken agreement to pay no attention to the walking dead had gone into effect immediately following the Fall. That meant they’d be breaking more than just rules if they brought the matter up. They’d be breaking tradition. The elderly would ignore their own legs being on fire if tradition demanded it. Henceforth, the Chamber could—nay, should—leave any discussion on the matter off of their agenda until further notice.
There were more goblins around since the Fall as well, though that had no olfactory effect. Scientists have long been baffled by the phenomenon known as Boolean Olfactoration of Goblins (BOoG), whose summary theory states that one goblin can pollute the atmosphere to the same effect as any larger number. Scientists who are interested in the phenomenon—colloquially referred to as BOoGers—have come to the Old Country from all over the world to study it.
Sloot reflexively hunched his shoulders against the cold as he left his meeting with Flavia through the particularly unremarkable door. Uncle’s contractors had obviously put a lot of effort into making sure that it was completely unremarkable in every way. No further description is available, due to the excellent work that said contractors performed.
“What are you still doing here?” Myrtle asked.
“Myrtle! I—nothing!” Salzstadt was a big city, and the chances of running into any given person by chance were so astronomical as to be suspicious. The Ministry of Propaganda was very clear about that in their posters, which encouraged citizens involved in such coincidences to submit themselves to the Ministry of Conversation. Just to be on the safe side.
“You’re being cagey,” said Myrtle. She turned her face a bit, but kept her eyes on him. A classic sign of suspicion. “Did you just come out of the Inquisitorial Complex?”
On the off chance that it has been undersold to this point, Sloot Peril was no good at lying. He was only marginally better at keeping secrets, which was unusual, because secrets are nothing more than truths that dally in the darkness and ask their keepers to lie on their behalf. He hadn’t told Myrtle that he’d been recruited into Uncle, and every passing moment made the lie seem all the more enormous and damaging. That meant that that particular moment, more so than any other up to that point, would have been the worst possible time to tell her.
“I—” Sloot began, having no idea where he’d end up.
“No, that’s ridiculous,” said Myrtle. “But what are you doing here? You should be halfway to Carpathia by now!”
“I just—”
“I felt you thinking about me, which was very sweet by the way, but then I figured out you were in the city.”
“Well, I—”
“I tried teleporting to where you were, but I met with some resistance. I ended up standing in front of an unmarked door, which was weird. I have no way of knowing what’s behind it, obviously.”
“Obviously,” said Sloot. Unbeknownst to the good folk of Salzstadt, dozens of nondescript doors in the city led into the ministries of Conversation, Information Defense, Scrutiny, and about a dozen others that could have you out of your home in the middle of the night, and under a very bright light in your pajamas before you could say “hang on a minute.”
“Don’t tell me you’re scared,” said Myrtle. “You’re a ghost, remember? Nothing out there can hurt you.”
“It’s not that,” said Sloot, then instantly wishing he hadn’t. It would have been very convenient to have heard a bit of reassurance and been sent on his way again, perhaps even adding in a quick trip across the veil so they could have a kiss for good luck.
“What, then?”
“It’s just … Willie.”
“What about Willie?”
“He’s right over there.” Sloot pointed at the specter of Willie, who was walking into some government building or another. The only people who would know what went on inside it were the people whose jobs provided them desks there. Even then, if you asked one of them, they’d probably say it was their first day and they weren’t really qualified to answer that sort of question.
But the mystery of what might or might not be happening inside the building—or what Willie might be doing there—would have been eclipsed entirely in the mind of any bystanding statistician. As previously mentioned, chance encounters in Salzstadt were almost unheard of. Two within as many minutes were almost certainly a conspiracy.
“That’s odd,” said Myrtle. “What’s Willie doing, going into government buildings?”
“I have no idea,” said Sloot. It’s a convenient distraction, though. “Should we follow him?”
“It’s risky,” said Myrtle. She was right. You didn’t want to wander into the wrong government building unprepared. There were places like the Department of Conversions, where anyone guilty of any misdemeanor infraction against the Domnitor—long may he reign—could bypass the hassle of a trial and simply submit themselves for ten years in a labor camp in exchange for a clear record, no questions asked.
It should be emphasized that not a single question will be asked. The second a person walks in, they’re seized by guards and processed. They’ll find themselves performing some task integral to the production of root vegetables within the hour. The Department of Conversions should win the award for most efficient department every year, but the honor usually goes to Central Bureaucracy, where it takes forever to do just about anything; however, the lawyers who run the place won’t be outdone by some jumped-up human cattle processors. It’s surprisingly easy to threaten award committees with a lifetime of courtroom battles.
It should be noted that the aforementioned reference to “threatening award committees” has been stricken from the official record, and any further references to it will most likely land the referrer in a position to report themselves to the Department of Conversions. You have been threatened. Er, warned.
“He’s been so volatile of late,” said Sloot. “He could hurt someone if we don’t keep an eye on him.”
“I suppose,” said Myrtle with a shrug. “I’m not picking up on any potential futures in which walking through that door gets us any more dead than we already are.”
“Are you? Er, technically?”
“What, dead? Well, I died. I think that counts.”
They walked as casually toward the door as a demon and a ghost could manage in broad daylight. Fortune favored them in the form of a pair of recently deceased old men. They’d collided with each other in a race to secure the last copy of the newspaper, and landed in a literal heap of limbs. They were shouting at each other about whose leg was whose, and each of them still had an arm firmly gripping the last copy of the Salzstadt Courier.
Sloot shook his head. He was glad for the distraction, but the Herald was the clearly superior periodical. They printed it on thicker paper, which meant additional uses in unmentionable capacities. He’d always felt bad for anyone he saw on their way into the lavatory with a copy of the Courier under their arm.
They wandered casually past the quarrel and its audience with no further scrutiny. Myrtle pulled the door open, wincing very mildly in anticipation of whatever unspeakable bureaucratic horror might be waiting within to ask her for permits within an inch of her life.
“Oh my,” said Myrtle. Sloot caught a glimpse over her shoulder of a dozen or so men kneeling before Willie. He’d liked to have known what was going on, and had been on the verge of asking Myrtle what she thought that might have been, when he felt a familiar tug from behind his ear and was no longer there.
“It’s been a long time, Mr. Peril. Edmund?”
“Lengths of time having transpired between meetings which m
ay or may not have occurred in the past, and any meeting which may or may not be happening at the present time, shall in no way be used to establish, in any legal sense, intentional associations between any parties who may or may not be in attendance.”
Winking Bob cleared her throat.
“Furthermore,” Edmund continued, “uses or alleged uses of any and all words, including but not limited to ‘meetings, ‘occurred,’ ‘attendance,’ or ‘time’ shall not constitute an admission of guilt or acknowledgment of same.”
“Thank you,” said Winking Bob. “Now then, Mr. Peril, it seems as though you’ve been a busy little bee since you shuffled off the mortal coil. I’m curious to know, whose side are you actually on?”
If the option had been available, Sloot would have elected to plant himself firmly on the side that rejected the concept of sides altogether; however, he was as uncomfortable with the minor paradox that would have been created by that as he was with just about everything else he’d been up to since correcting Vasily Pritygud’s disastrous financial report. So, at the very least, he could take some solace in the fact that he didn’t have to think too hard about that. He’d have done it, too—taken solace, that is—if he weren’t morally opposed to optimism.
“Cat got your tongue?”
“Altogether possible,” said Sloot. “Roman’s got the rest of my head, but I can’t be sure that every little bit is still in it.”
“Clever,” said Bob with a wink. A little too on-the-nose for Sloot’s taste, but then he wasn’t really calling the shots. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Sloot had always chafed at that particular phrase. No, in fact, he hadn’t! Was it outrageous to think that a “please” was in order? He’d never actually say that to a person, of course. Not because it wasn’t the sort of thing said outside a retirement home, but because it sounded dangerously like standing his ground.
“My loyalty to the Domnitor is unwavering,” said Sloot. “Long may he reign.”
“Long may he reign!” Bob laughed. Sloot didn’t care for her sarcastic tone, though to be fair, he hadn’t really liked anything about his day thus far.
“You really are something, Peril,” she continued. That’s just the sort of thing that people say when they don’t want to say anything in particular, but don’t want anyone else in the room to be the one talking. “You were on your way to Carpathia when you got picked up by Uncle, and you’ve been doing the bidding of the Serpents of the Earth since before you died. Well, trying, anyway. But not very hard.”
“I’d be doing a better job,” said Sloot, suddenly feeling as though he might be the sort of person who stood up for himself, “if I didn’t keep getting summoned by one person or another without notice.”
“Use of the word ‘person’ by unrepresented parties present at meetings which may or may not be underway shall not be construed to represent any specific person, persons, person-like objects, or future or former persons who may or may not find themselves under indictment at any future juncture.”
“Thank you, Edmund. Look, I’m going to come right out with it, because I have some people waiting to sell me a very large quantity of blood.” She paused. “Or do I?”
Edmund drew in a breath. Sloot waved his hands madly.
“I waive my recollection of having heard anything from anyone, and if there was anything to be heard, I disavow ever having had ears.”
“You should have been a lawyer,” said Bob. Despite her approving tone, Sloot had a hard time thinking of it as a compliment. “I need you to tell me what you know, Peril. If you don’t, I’ll have to use this.”
Sloot Peril was an accountant. As such, he’d have been hard-pressed to remember every document he’d ever seen in his life, or subsequent to it. This one, though, was special. He’d signed it himself the first time he’d met Winking Bob, as part of a negotiation to get him into Carpathia. He’d even memorized the contents, which had been quite easy, since it was a blank piece of paper.
Bob had a collection of papers exactly like it, most of which bore signatures of people far more powerful, impressive, and alive than Sloot was at the moment. At her convenience, she had confessions to just about anything she could concoct.
“Is that really necessary?” asked Sloot. “Or ... wait, is that even a credible threat? I’m dead! What can you do, have me posthumously thrown into the salt mines?”
“Apparently, you haven’t been dead long enough to learn just how dire a threat that really is. No matter. No, Mr. Peril, while I could employ this document to your great detriment in a number of ways, whether you’re alive or not, that’s not its true value. Do you honestly not grasp the significance of a document signed by the financier of a Hapsgalt?”
Money is just bits of metal and paper, if you’re being literal with wanton abandon. While Sloot appreciated literal interpretations of just about everything in nearly every context, he understood what Bob was getting at: money, metaphorically speaking, is power. Furthermore, having insanely immeasurable piles of power available means that one is able to hire someone else to manage said power for one, while one indulges in more amusing pursuits. Case in point, Sloot had managed Willie’s finances while Willie had done little but be seen wearing fashion that had yet to trickle down to the unwashed masses and, in most cases, never would.
“I don’t suppose it’s worth pointing out that a dead man’s signature is worth very little,” said Sloot.
“It is not,” said Bob. “In fact, I’d go so far as to say it’s completely worthless, insofar as ghosts are ill-equipped at performing signatures. That’s why whatever I write atop your signature will be easy to pass off as having been executed before your untimely demise. In fact, it will be far more believable than the truth.”
“I’m confused.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“What is it you want from me, exactly? Am I to provide you with some incentive to put my signature back into your safe? I’m short on funds at the moment.”
“No, no, I don’t need any money. Well, not the sort to be had from anyone less than princes, anyway.”
“So, you’ve already decided to use it? Have you called me here to gloat?”
“Colder.”
Sloot went silent. He hated guessing, which was a standard trope with accountants.
“You’re no fun,” said Bob with the affectation of pouting disappointment. “I want information, Peril. Information is power, you know.”
“I thought money was power.”
“It is. Lots of things are power. Raw sewage can be power, if you’ve got a long enough hose and can point the nozzle at the right people.”
“What sort of information?”
“The kidnapping,” said Bob.
“The alleged kidnapping,” said Edmund.
“Yes, the alleged kidnapping of the Domnitor.”
“Long may he reign,” said Sloot.
Bob rolled her eyes and chuckled. “If you say so.”
“If you are alleged to have said so, at this or any future point in time, which may or may not—”
“Are you representing Mr. Peril now, Edmund?”
“Sorry. Habit.”
“Well,” said Bob with a sigh, “we very nearly got there on glib repartee alone, but such is life.” She winced. “Sorry. Tell me everything you know about the plot to kidnap the Domnitor.”
“Long may he reign.”
“Stop that!”
“Habit. Look, all I know is that ... wait, what happens when I tell you everything I know?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing,” Bob repeated. “Specifically, the paper bearing your signature doesn’t turn up in the Counting House of the Three Bells Shipping Company, on the supervisors desk, attached to the uncorrected version of the report written by Vasily Pritygud, advising that the Hapsgalt fortune—which, officially, is now part of the Three Bells Trust—should be counted at the earliest convenience of the head financie
r.”
“What? Why? That’s just mean! You’d stand to gain nothing!”
“You really don’t understand how evil works, do you?”
“The use of the word ‘evil’ in this context,” Edmund droned, “is set forth in an uncopyrighted and non-specific context to illustrate the intent of certain threats, or innuendos alluding to the delivery of such.”
“I got that,” said Sloot. “I don’t think that any lawyers within earshot would try to use that, of all things, as leverage in court.”
Edmund turned to look at Winking Bob. “You were right, He really doesn’t understand how evil works.”
“I forge your approval of that report,” said Bob, “and financial markets will crumble under the uncertainty associated with the outcome. Sure, the end result will show that you were wrong, but that will take months.”
Vasily was wrong, Sloot fumed silently. He’d never so much as misbalanced a column in his life.
“By the time it gets sorted out, the economy will be in flames.”
“Figuratively speaking,” Edmund offered.
“Tell that to the grocers,” said Bob. “I’ll never understand the unwashed masses’ affinity for throwing flaming cabbages, but at the first sign of trouble, the price of cabbage goes through the roof. Fiscal chaos brings out the worst in people. Anyway, once they figure it all out, the first thing to happen will be the posthumous revocation of your credentials. Your name will be chiseled into the stone of the Wall of Heretics next to Jerry the Newsboy.”
Jerry the Newsboy, according to the official record, had said a swear word—the one that the elderly insist is shouted at least three times in every song written more recently than their fiftieth birthday—in reference to the Domnitor’s mother, long may her son reign. As to the question of whether it was true, well ... his name was on the wall, wasn’t it?
“And to top it all off,” Bob continued, “since I control the timing, I’ll make a fortune.”
“How’s that?”
“I own all of the cabbage farms in the Old Country.”
The shame! It didn’t matter that he’d never get an accounting job in the Old Country again, of course. But to see his name on the wall, and to go down in history as the worst accountant the world has ever seen? He simply couldn’t let that happen.