“Greta Urmacher,” answered Wilhelm, in a tone so nasal Sloot thought to offer him a hankie. “She couldn’t be here tonight, something about the time.”
“Isn’t she the clockmaker?” asked a satin-swaddled monstrosity whose gown could easily have been worth as much as the building where Sloot lived.
“That’s right,” said Lord Hapsgalt. “Her grandfather built the great clock in the central square. I believe she’s doing some work on it tonight.”
“Work?” asked the satin gown with a person in it. “Then she’s a … a—”
“A commoner,” said Wilhelm with an enormous grin. “Yes, I know, it’s an unusual choice for someone as fabulously wealthy as I am, but the heart wants what the heart wants.”
“And you approve of this match, my lord?” croaked the greasy ghost from behind his glass of what definitely must have been wine, thank you very much.
“Well, I admit that I was as surprised as the rest of you. I always assumed that Hapsgalt stock would be so intimidating to the proletariat that this common girl would have merely fainted at the sight of Willie, but she’s made of sterner stuff. Her family isn’t rich, but they’ve been in Salzstadt from the beginning. My boy knows what he’s doing! She’ll make him a fine bride.”
The clinking of the rings—and Sloot’s spoon—started up again. Mrs. Knife and the old ghoul both seemed dour. Their applause lacked enthusiasm but attempted to make up for it with malice. The result was terrifying, like a birthday cake filled with wasps.
Lord Hapsgalt picked up a tiny bell from the table and gave it a jingle, which prompted a slew of servants carrying silver trays to flood into the room. A bowl of soup was placed in front of Sloot, who received a crack across the knuckles when the spoon in his hand moved toward it.
“Applause spoons aren’t for soup,” Olga hissed.
Sloot put his spoon down and picked up the one that Olga’s wand indicated. The soup tasted like nothing Sloot had ever eaten before, and did so in such a nebulous way that he was unable to describe it any further than that.
A rail-thin man wearing more makeup than all of the ladies in the room combined cleared his throat. “If Willie’s to be married, then doesn’t the Book of Black Law indicate that—”
“We have a guest with us tonight,” interrupted Lord Hapsgalt, glaring at the thin man. “A mister …”
“Peril,” said Mrs. Knife. “Sloot Peril.”
“Peril?” repeated Lord Hapsgalt. “Sounds Carpathian.”
“He assures me it’s not,” said Mrs. Knife, who sounded less than convinced.
“Fine,” said Lord Hapsgalt. “In any case, Mister Peril, I’m told that you’ve done us a great service today, is that right?”
“Y-yes,” squeaked Sloot, jumping to his feet at the insistence of Olga’s wand. “Well, that is to say, I found some issues with a report that indicated—”
“Thank you, Mister Peril.” Mrs. Knife’s interruption was abrupt, leaving a silence hanging in the air during which Sloot sat awkwardly back down.
“Your good work couldn’t have come along at a better time, Mister Peril. You see, as Judge Heidrich was about to point out before he was so handsomely interrupted, the occasion of Willie’s nuptials means that he’s going to be put to a test.”
“A test?” Willie’s brow wrinkled in disappointment as he whined.
“It’s tradition,” said Lord Hapsgalt. “Now that you’re getting married, you’ll be eligible to take over the family business. The only thing you need to do is to render proof of your worth, by undertaking some great work.”
“No thanks,” said Willie. He started slurping his soup with a lack of grace so deliberate he must have taken lessons. Olga’s heightened sense of etiquette was so affronted that she gave Sloot’s knuckles a whack of pure indignation.
“No thanks?” Lord Hapsgalt glared at Willie.
“I’d rather not, but thanks all the same. Just sounds like a lot of work, that’s all.”
“Well, of course it’s work,” Lord Hapsgalt snapped. “That’s the whole point! You’ve known this was coming.”
“Yeah, I suppose. But really, I appreciate you thinking of me and all, but if running the company is going to be a lot of work … well, it just doesn’t seem like, you know, my style.”
“I suppose you’d rather live out your days at your hunting club, then? Wasting your days at leisure, squandering the fortune that your forefathers have left you?”
“Well that sounds a bit shabby of me, doesn’t it?” Willie paused. “There must be a more flattering way to say it. But yeah, that sounds about right.”
“Listen to him, Constantin,” said Mrs. Knife with a sneer. “He doesn’t even want it! I’m your cousin, I can inherit—”
“And you will,” Lord Hapsgalt interrupted, “if Willie fails to render proof of his worth! He’s my son, and he’ll be given a chance. That’s where you come in, Peril.”
“Me, Your Lordship?” Sloot jumped to his feet again, at the urging of Olga’s wand.
“Willie’s never lived outside of Gildedhearth,” said Lord Hapsgalt, “and part of rendering proof of his worth means striking out on his own.”
“And I’m to strike out on his own … with him?”
Whack.
“Don’t sass His Lordship!” hissed Olga.
“So to speak,” Lord Hapsgalt continued. “I’m giving Willie Whitewood, an estate that we haven’t used in a number of years. He’s going to need a financier to run the place, and thanks to your good work with this report, Mrs. Knife and I are convinced that you’re just the man for the job. Congratulations, Peril.”
“But I don’t want to move to Whitewood!” Willie stomped his foot with practiced petulance.
“Yes you do,” Lord Hapsgalt insisted. “Do you want me to have Gregor convince you?”
Willie looked across the table at the pale old ghoul next to Mrs. Knife, who appeared to be attempting a smile for the first time in his life. It was unsettling, like he’d read books about it but had never actually seen it done. Willie stayed silent.
“That’s a most gracious offer, Your Lordship,” said Sloot over the clinking of rings on glasses.
“Yes,” said Lord Hapsgalt, “it is. I know you won’t fail me, Peril. I should warn you though, we haven’t been inside Whitewood in a very long time. Very good chance a goblin or two will have set up in there. I hope you know someone with a broom.”
“Er, not as such.” Sloot was about to say something else, though Olga’s wand in his ribs indicated that whatever it was could wait.
“I’m sure you’ll work it out,” said Lord Hapsgalt.
“He could hire Nan,” Willie suggested.
Lord Hapsgalt’s hands curled into fists and rested on the table. He closed his eyes, and reopening them, directed his gaze down into his lap, which must have held some reserve store of patience that he desperately needed to dip into just then.
“That would be difficult to do,” said Lord Hapsgalt through clenched teeth, “given that you haven’t seen her since I dismissed her on your twenty-first birthday! I am correct in that assumption, am I not?”
“Oh,” exclaimed Willie, wide-eyed with apparent realization. “Right, right. I was speaking hypothetically, you know, if she were still around somehow.”
“Even if she were,” growled Lord Hapsgalt, his furious gaze fixed on Willie, “she’d never find work at Whitewood, or any other Hapsgalt estate! You hear me, Peril?” Lord Hapsgalt was standing now, and shouting in Sloot’s direction. “That woman will never set foot in Whitewood, on pain of your death, and the deaths of all those you hold dear! Am I in any way indicating to you that I am anything other than completely serious?”
“Er, no sir,” said Sloot. Whack. “I mean, yes sir,” whack, “there will be no Nans employed at Whitewood, Your Lordship.”
Anothe
r whack.
“What was that for?” Sloot hissed.
“You’re doing fine,” whispered Olga. “A little bit too fine, actually. I’m warning you, Peril.”
“Good,” said Lord Hapsgalt, his reddened face attempting to readjust to its usual pallor. “Let’s get on with dinner then, Mister Peril has an early start tomorrow.”
***
Several courses and dozens of whacks later, Sloot managed to fill his belly on the most decadent and unidentifiable food he’d ever seen, grovel out a series of farewells, and make the long walk back to the front doors of Gildedhearth. He was just about to step out onto the street when a runner approached him with a note on a pewter tray.
“Message for you, Mister Peril.”
“Er, thanks,” said Sloot. He fished in his pocket for a coin to give the boy, who chuckled and turned away before Sloot managed to find one. His livery was likely more expensive than Sloot’s entire wardrobe, not that that was saying much.
It was a simple piece of parchment, folded and sealed with a blob of red wax. The seal was a single knife over three bells. He cracked it and read.
Don’t forget who’s done you this favor. You may begin to repay me by hiring a young woman by the name of Myrtle, who will apply for a position in Willie’s kitchen. I’ve got my eye on you. —Mrs. Knife
Gallons of Blood
At one time or another, a person in need of help simply had to place a sign in their window saying “Help Wanted – People Not Vociferously Agreeing with Political Views of Proprietor Need Not Apply.” At some point in the city’s long and colorful history, one or more bureaucrats (almost certainly more) realized that their lack of interference in the process was giving people the impression that getting things done without paperwork was a perfectly viable means of conducting business. There were other matters as well, such as the operation of restaurants, the renaming of streets, and the public airing of grievances pertaining to the weather; all of which had gone unchecked since time immemorial, with neither records kept nor taxes paid.
This chaos may have been good enough for your average Carpathian heathen, but Salzstadt held itself to a higher standard. That’s what happens when you’re unlikely to be the blood sacrifice to some deified farm animal on any given day. This was how Central Bureaucracy came to be.
The innumerable cogs in the machine of Central Bureaucracy worked tirelessly to ensure that nothing got done too quickly, because they didn’t want people getting the wrong idea. Success and prosperity, if too easily won, gave common people the impression that the same could happen to them, and that was just trouble waiting to happen.
One of the most successful means of keeping the wheels of commerce turning sensibly slow was really long lines; thus Sloot found himself standing in one of the longest lines of his life the following morning. He’d gotten to Central Bureaucracy before the sun had come up and the doors had opened, and although he was the first person through the door, he only got to walk a few feet inside before becoming the end of the line.
Scores and scores of people, some wearing powdered wigs, some with armloads of papers, and most of whom were obviously professional queuers wove a tight and orderly line that maintained itself via an intricate system of velvet ropes. Sloot had been through Central Bureaucracy several times during his career, and he knew three things about it.
First, it is generally pointless to try and understand the system of velvet ropes. Better just to stay in one’s lane and wait it out. The only people who seem to know what’s happening with the ropes are the lobby staff, who occasionally open a section of rope, wave a few people through, and then close it again, generally just before Sloot can make it past.
Best just to nod and smile at the staff, and at all costs avoid asking them “Isn’t there anything you can do?” That phrase always seems to open the section of rope that leads to the back of the line.
Second, best not to think too hard about the professional queuers, as frustration tends to slow time down. Professional queuers are unionized. They spend their days standing in the lines, talking to people at the front desk at length, then going to the back of the line again.
While most professional queuers are contracted to queue on behalf of someone else, some are hired by Central Bureaucracy just to pad the lines. It makes standing in them seem more appealing. Rumor has it that the original Head Bureaucrat got his start in nightclubs.
Third, one should have one’s forms filled out in advance. One will have to re-do them, of course, because by the time one reaches the front of the line, they’ll inevitably have changed; nevertheless, the mere presence of a fresh sheaf of papers legibly filled in goes a long way toward establishing that one fits in.
The staff can smell out confusion in a person, and seem to find great amusement in opening ropes and directing them to the back of the line.
Sloot was like a fish in water here. Had anyone been counting, they’d have known that it only took him eleven hours to complete the requisite postings for Willie’s staff, while eleven and a half was the standard for that sort of thing.
When he left, the sky was the same amber color it had been when he’d gone in, only coming from the other direction. The jarring “clank, clank” of his mother’s watch in his pocket reminded him that he hadn’t yet shared with her the good news of his promotion, so he set out across town. He’d bought himself an extra half hour, so why not?
Sloot’s mother, Sladia Peril, lived in the same tenement building where Sloot had been born and raised. It was a vast apartment with far more room than she needed, which suited her, as bemoaning the cost of heating unused rooms is a favorite pastime of elderly salts. It chafed at Sloot’s instinct for making sound financial decisions that they were both wasting money by not sharing it, but Sladia insisted that it just wasn’t fitting for a man Sloot’s age to live with his mother.
Of course, she’d first said that when Sloot was ten years old. That’s how old she’d been when she came to the city and gotten her first “coin fetching” job in the salt mines. The mines were always looking for young children who could wriggle into severely hazardous nooks and crannies, and Sladia had managed to negotiate herself a very generous wage doing just that. That was a long time ago, before children were allowed to join the miners’ union.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Sloot, Mum.”
Silence.
“Oh, right,” said Sloot. “They were all out of waffles down by the docks.”
The clacks of several locks sounded from the door. It eventually opened, and Sloot rushed in to appease his mother’s dislike of open doors.
“Can’t be too careful,” she said as she reset the locks. “All of the murders that have been going on of late.”
“Glad we’ve got the passphrase, then.”
Sladia had always been hyper-vigilant, instilling more than a bit of paranoia in Sloot from a very young age. She did have a point, though—the bloodless murders had started up nearly a dozen years hence. At least three or four corpses turned up every month, without so much as a single drop of blood in or anywhere near them. The constables hadn’t managed to pin the grisly spree on a culprit, though they had imprisoned dozens of people over the years who had been careless enough to look the part.
“You look thin,” said Sladia, once she’d shown Sloot into the parlor and brought him some tea. Sloot knew that she didn’t actually think so, but she was a traditionalist. There are certain things that mothers are expected to say to their sons, and who knew if the goblins were listening for that sort of thing?
“I’m fine,” he replied dutifully. “In fact, I’ve got some good news. I’ve been promoted!”
“Well it’s about time,” said Sladia. “You’ve been in the counting house for nearly twenty years now! Supervising then, are you?”
“I’m not in the counting house anymore. I’m the personal financier to non
e other than Wilhelm Hapsgalt himself!”
Sladia dropped her teacup. Her eyes went wide and her jaw dropped open. Sloot even thought he felt the “clank, clank” of her watch speed up in his pocket.
“My son, that’s wonderful! When did this happen?”
“Last night,” he replied. “It’s why I couldn’t join you for the Feast of St. Bertha. I was in Gildedhearth, sitting at Lord Hapsgalt’s table.”
“You were not!”
“I was.” Sloot abandoned all pretense of controlling the ridiculous grin that had spread across his face. “Vasily Pritygud had entirely botched a report, and nearly told Lord Hapsgalt that he needed to count his money.”
Sladia laughed. “I’m sure His Lordship would have needed a change of trousers if he’d read that!”
“Probably. I fixed the report, and Mrs. Knife thought my work was good enough that I should fill this post! I’d have come and told you sooner, but I had to go to Central Bureaucracy to get started on hiring the younger Lord Hapsgalt’s staff.”
“At his table! For the Feast of St. Bertha! Oh, my son! You’ve made me so very proud.”
“Thank you, Mother,” Sloot beamed.
“Not only that, it means I finally get to retire!”
Sloot’s head cocked to one side.
“Retire? Mother, you haven’t worked in the salt mines in twenty years.”
It occurred to Sloot that his mother may have parted with her marbles. At last! It was tradition after all, and Sloot was running out of ways to avoid answering questions about his frail and doddering mother, who was far from frail and had never once doddered. She’d never so much as called him by the wrong name or sent a card with a painfully small amount of money for his birthday.
“Right,” said Sladia, speaking very slowly, the way people tend to do when they have something unpleasant to say. “That’s true. And I haven’t had much real work since then, but … well, there’s something we need to discuss.”
Sladia picked up a candlestick and walked out of the room, motioning for Sloot to join her. He followed her down a dusty old hallway that she obviously didn’t use on a daily basis, or possibly even an annual one. Producing a key from the pocket of her apron, she unlocked a door. The two of them walked into the empty room and Sladia locked the door behind them.
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