Marshsong

by Nato Thompson

  She leapt at Fennel and he dodged back against the side of the tube. They laughed and then made their way toward the Guild’s heavily locked door with a skunk clearly etched into the wood.

  They knocked at the door with one large thud and waited. The door quickly opened and there stood a person with every inch of his body (except his eyes) covered in the black clothes of an assassin. Behind him, the room was black as night except one torch glimmering down the hall.

  “The Guild greets you, messengers,” he said with a slight hint of a lisp in his voice.

  “And Marty McGuinn is ever so delighted to greet you,” said Fennel.

  The doorman opened the door further and ushered them into the foyer. It was a limited bare room with three chairs and a bare bulb. The round carpet in the center also had the imprint of the skunk.

  “We won’t be long,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable. Another member shall join you shortly.”

  He left and there sat Isabella and Fennel on the chairs.

  “As much as I like creepiness, these hooligans certainly set the bar,” said Fennel. He tapped the walls of the little room as though looking for a hidden door.

  Isabella sat motionless on the chair. She was eager for this meeting. Hoping against hope that before Marty returned she would have enough of a handle on the city to pry its lockjaw open—just enough information could add enough torque to wrench a hole big enough for her to slide her little body through. The thought of that nasty log came back to her—the millipedes and fungi stuffed up too close and the pain of her aches and cuts. Ugh. Marty was a pig indeed.

  It wasn’t long before another member, perhaps it was the same man, entered the room dressed all in black, his head again covered except his olive black eyes. They twinkled in the light and his voice came out in a heavy Russian accent.

  “You have come.”

  Isabella stood up out of the chair.

  “This entire ordeal is a severe breach in protocol,” she said as stern as she could.

  “We are aware of that. I hope that conveys its potential value to you.”

  “Whether or not the value, as you call it, exceeds the value of our relationship is something I have yet to determine. I am going to want more than just a meeting to understand this. Please let us know more about whom we are meeting with and how they approached you. What is the nature of your relationship with them?”

  The member shrugged his shoulders. “I am not at liberty to divulge anything. I am here to walk you to the meeting and that is all.”

  Isabella could have expected as much. No one in the Guild knew more than what they were asked to do. Compartmentalized. Their knowledge cordoned off into small distinct boxes. Tucked away in the crevices of black ops bureaucracy.

  “Show us to the room, please,” she said.

  The member opened a door in the cave and ushered them in. They followed through metal doors and tunnels deep into the labyrinth. It was a considerable journey and the length of it told Isabella that whomever they were meeting had entered in an entirely different manner.

  Isabella whispered to her brother, “Please, Fennel, on this one let me do the talking. This is no joking matter and even Marty himself wouldn’t want us screwing around.”

  Their journey led them to a dank, dripping small room with a large oak table illuminated by small burning torches in sconces on the walls. Otherwise, the room was empty. Sitting behind the table were three men in dark black suits with top hats each. The two figures in front, with what appeared to be mandatory black bushy moustaches and stern faces, were young yet old. Men of money. The crouched over man behind them was smoking a cigarette. He had a long wiry moustache and a thin severe body. He was timeless, in a sense. If they were young but old, he was old and perhaps had always been that way—bent, cracked, yet lithe in his tight skin, wearing gingham pantaloons and a pressed, buttoned chemise. The member ushered them in and sat them both at the table.

  As they sat in their chairs, two members stood against the wall at one end and two members entered to stand against the wall at the other end. Either their safety was guaranteed, Isabella thought, or their demise was assured. They were in a very tricky predicament and the only assurance Isabella could tell herself was that no one in the Guild would reasonably double-cross Marty with any hope for survival. These stuffed suits must have paid a pretty penny to make this meeting happen. As she scanned the room, she could sense the power emanating from the smoking man in the back. His bent cool frame sent off an energy unmistakable.

  “What is it you want?" asked Isabella with an icy cold air that she hoped would set the tone.

  One of the two replied, “Greetings. My name is Tristan Bellequant. We would like to make arrangements. To set up business, if you will.”

  “Arrangements?” said Isabella. “How about you tell me who you are and what you want. Vagaries will get you nowhere and frankly, I am not at all pleased with the surprise nature of this visit.”

  “We would have done this differently if we thought there was any other way, but it appears that you like to exist at the periphery of civic life. Clandestine meetings seem to be the only meetings you have. We don’t mean to offend. We merely want to make a proposal of mutual benefit to all.”

  The young gentleman Tristan was handsome to be sure. Isabella could sense ambition in his every move. He mistook his sycophantic nature for genuine personality. His confidence made Isabella ill with contempt for people. She could sense Fennel dying to speak so she kicked him under the table. This was no time for his maniacal mouth.

  “You may have called this meeting, but I want to set the rules. I want the man in the back to do the talking. Yes, you, Castilla. You are the person holding this meeting anyway, aren’t you?”

  The old man’s eyes perked up as he drew on his cigarette. He smiled at being called out and stood up from his chair. “

  Very well,” he coughed. “I’m not much for games myself so let's get this over with.” His voice was raspy and cold. “There is a new game being played in the city.”

  “I suspect the game is bigger than you appreciate,” quipped Isabella.

  “Good. We agree. The game is big. There are many ways to get to the finish line, but it is such a long journey there really is no need to take the long road. Even with the most efficient route, the road is long. My name is Elinore Castilla, as I guess you know. I am chief executive at Gaventas, which as you may know, is a large holding company with many subdivisions. We have in the last few years focused our attentions on Barrenwood as a site for development and exploration. While we have done much advance work in terms of knowing the key players in the city, it has only been recent that we have become aware of you—and you are most interesting, aren’t you?”

  “We prefer to think that everyone is just boring in comparison.”

  Isabella didn’t like where this was going. He was on to her. Her games were becoming reality and feeling her private world brush up against the ever real inner workings of the city felt uncomfortable. Fennel looked a little awestruck by all that was being said.

  “Oh, I am sure that is most true,” Castilla eyed them carefully. “I know about you people. I know about your pacts and your truces. I know about the war of seven hundred years ago. I know about the soft money, the laundering. I know much. I only tell you so you know I am serious. Your secrets, your histories, are safe with me. I have no interest in divulging them. It is of no concern to me. What I didn’t know until recently is that you were in Barrenwood, but alas, I should not be surprised. Myself, I am a simple man who cannot imagine what your world is like. I don’t know what makes you click. But then again, other people are just as inscrutable to me. Worrying about this will get me nowhere. What I can only say is that the basic things that make my world go round seem to turn yours as well. We represent large interests that far exceed those of simply Barrenwood itself.”

  Isabella stared blankly at this strange bent man. He was whispering with a force of something she could
not comprehend. There was nothing remotely interesting about him except that he exuded a sense of vast determination. He was like an arrow flying straight through time. He was mentioning things about her that she herself had no idea about. What on earth were all those references?

  “I am just one of many when it comes to importance, but the scale of Gaventas is an empirical fact. We will be moving into a considerable position in the city shortly and at this point, only the very naïve would ignore it.”

  “What do you want then?”

  “You do business in the city. You conduct affairs. You are not with the great Houses. You are a force of your own and from what I can tell, an important one at that. Due to these kinds of triangulations, I see that a working relationship could be established. We might find common ground.”

  “Do you see the great Houses as your competitors?”

  Castilla showed no emotion. “Quite frankly, most of them have lost touch with the times—so, no, they aren’t competitors. They could easily be collaborators and some have been most helpful. They remain the major force in Barrenwood and thus a constant source of negotiation. I deal with them often.”

  “Do you need help in your dealings then?”

  “Of course. We all do. Let me ask, do you?”

  “We don’t exist, I will remind you. We don’t reckon with anyone.”

  “I know that isn’t true. I have solid information that tells me you conduct business throughout Barrenwood.”

  Isabella found this entire ordeal strange in the extreme. If it was business that she and Fennel conducted, she was unaware of it. Marty used them as messengers and that was pretty much its extent. She longed to know what she actually was involved in and it bothered her to sit with Castilla and have him know more than she (about her). They had never negotiated a deal nor known what the contents of their packages and envelopes were. Nevertheless, upon numerous occasions they had delivered materials to the gates at the Elegiac Hills to the Guild, to the School and even to City Hall’s receiving desk. They had picked up packages in the Miser’s Quarters and watched mysterious packages delivered in the middle of the night by horseback by people eager to not be seen. So thinking of all of this as business was not such a crazy idea.

  “Do you have anything specific in mind, or is this more of a general sort of meeting?”

  “I need leverage on the holdings in the Mortestrate. If you could get the Duke of Revan to relent on the northern section of the city, we would be most appreciative. We have already had a reasonable offer on the table and he continues to flat out reject us for no good reason. I am concerned that the Houses are organizing against us. They feel threatened. But there is no need. We merely conduct business.”

  “I am no fool, Castilla. Business is violence by other means. The Houses are certainly aware of not only this fact, but how your growing status in Barrenwood reflects this.”

  “That is an unfortunate way to look at the situation. I would suggest you take note of which way the wind blows. A friend in Gaventas will certainly be of value over time.”

  Fennel, who had sat quietly for so long, could hold back no longer. He was irritated with how pushy Isabella was being. He wanted to strike a deal. To make a bargain. This gentleman wasn’t wrong. The great Houses were asleep at the wheel with their annoying sense of propriety and lack of any inventiveness. The meeting he had just come from still wandered in his mind—a tawdry group of socialites oblivious to the magic of life itself. Zombies running the world. An overture from the likes of Gaventas felt like an opportunity that Marty surely would enjoy.

  “Mr. Castilla, we are glad you came to us,” interrupted Fennel.

  He reached across the table to shake the man’s hand and the Guild went for their weapons. Fennel backed off.

  “Hold it now, gents. It’s called a handshake. Surely meetings are meant to incorporate the international sign that says I hold no weapon. See, Castilla? I hold no weapon.” Fennel showed him his empty hand.

  Castilla looked down at Fennel’s hand skeptically. “What is it we are shaking on?”

  “Yes, brother,” said Isabella, deeply annoyed with her brother, “what is it you are planning to shake on?”

  Fennel smiled broadly still holding his hand out. “Why, we are shaking on the dream of better things. Surely that is what you came here for and that is what we want as well. The dream of better people, better relationships, better fortunes and ultimately, right, a better Barrenwood.”

  Isabella’s stomach turned. Would her brother never stop making speeches? Lord knows what happened at that auxiliary meeting. She placed her hand on Fennel’s shoulder to sit him down and he aggressively shook her off.

  “No sister,” Fennel said, turning to Isabella with eyes ablaze. “We are doing this my way.” He turned back to Castilla and continued to hold out his hand. “Why do you not shake, Mr. Castilla? Do you have a weapon in your hand?”

  Castilla relented and placed his small limp hand in Fennel’s. They were magically about the same size as each other's. Fennel could feel his blood, his heart, through his fragile wiry grip. This old man was not a man at all. He was a force—a force of history. Fennel’s eyes sparkled.

  “That a boy, Elinore. I knew you had it in you.” Fennel smiled and Elinore Gaventas took his hand back with a frown.

  “I’m not accustomed to shaking for no apparent reason, but it seemed important to you, so very well. My time is limited. I must be gone. I expect an answer from you shortly.”

  Isabella stood up from the table, as the meeting seemed to be coming to a close.

  “We can’t answer just yet as we need time to consult our people, but we will get back to you shortly. Just look for a letter from us.”

  “Not to be too practical, but what kind of compensation will you be looking for if you decide to be of assistance?” said one of Castilla’s assistants.

  “That is entirely impractical,” replied Isabella. “If we do you a favor, it would be just that—a favor. We work in the long-term and money is less of an interest for us than other matters.”

  “Well, then,” said Castilla, “we will be off.”

  Isabella and Fennel got out of their chairs and left the room.

  Chapter 15

  The big night arrived and progress finally showed its ebullient face. By the time Fennel was out of the tub, Isabella was again at her desk, trying desperately to crack the code of the fish sauce. She had to finish tonight because this was the night. The big night when they were going to rendezvous with Savina and the Duke—the big man from the other side whose fifty-seven Chevy soul would lead her straight out of this nightmare. She could feel it. She could also feel the second hand of doom ticking in her sensitive ear. She did not relish the idea of falling flat on her face in a pile of puke just as the exit door opened up in front of her. No, she had to finish in the next few hours. She struggled with it. She could tell she was close, but something wasn’t right: trout scales, pecan shells, tarragon, sawdust, milkweed, wet chub and Carolina salt. But still, something not there.

  Her Eureka moment happened as it so often does by something completely unrelated. It was her annoying brother yet again. As usual, he resented her work on this venture and he had grabbed her by the hair to pull her away from her desk. They wrestled, scratched and fought and when they finally tore themselves apart, Fennel was standing there with a little black clump of her hair in his hands. She stared at him, her mind playing tricks on her and then it struck her.

  “Hair!” she laughed. “Hair! It’s hair! Don’t you see, Fennel? You solved it. Your baby fits have saved the night after all. When I was down and out at the asylum, Minasha Darkglass grabbed a handful of my hair. She wanted to make a balm for me.”

  Fennel threw her little bits of hair in the air in exasperated fashion. Confetti of the head. “Gods, no! Can nothing make you stop?”

  Isabella pulled out her hair and placed it in the mixture. Sipping it, she coughed and spit. Disgusting, if not outright vile. Meanwhi
le, Fennel paced inside the cave, thinking out loud.

  “So, about our good friend, Mr. Castilla. I know you find me peculiar, I really do. I find myself that way as well, I must say, but this man Castilla, I admit a soft spot for the old crow. He is a wiry little thing, ain’t he? A real wizened old shoe of a man. But he has got something. I could feel it. He was such a straight shooter. A real get-to-the-point negotiator and, I have no doubts, a can-do man. I like him, Isabella. I really do.

  “I know Marty isn’t around and I know he wouldn’t like us dabbling these ways, but I am interested in taking up Mr. Castilla’s proposal. Why not help the guy? No doubt he is smarter than those dullards in the high house. He is no-nonsense, but I think almost in a magical way. He is so boring, he is interesting! His lack of interest in being interesting is in fact interesting!”

  Even though Isabella was predominantly ignoring him, she could sense him heading into speech mode—his being pleased with himself becoming a glowing sensation in the room.

  “Who could blame me for moving to the highest bidder?" he continued. “You know, at the cultural meeting, which went very well by the way—thank you for not asking—there was a woman; I forget her name, who hinted at a brewing war in the city, a sort of reckoning that positioned all those pathetic houses on one side. Well, as you know, I am quite the sleuth, and I deduce with my uncanny aptitude for subtlety, that this war is with Castilla. He is the money man, the real can-do operator. He is getting stuff done and those high society vagabonds have got themselves all in a twist over it.

  “I can’t imagine that ol' coot giving some lame gossipy speech. It’s impossible. No, he is a man who likes to stay on target. He is Mr. No-nonsense and now he is giving those perfumed hedgehogs a run for their money. Well, good for him, I say!”

  Fennel banged his cane down on the table. Isabella was scurrying about the floor of the cave picking things up. Startled, she looked up at her brother. She smiled at Fennel most sincerely.