by Joseph Lallo
“Oh yeah?” she said, her face brightening.
“Indeed, and you’ll be even more so for your performance in this costume,” Lita said. “Turn and see for yourself.”
Lil shuffled in a circle on her stool to face a mirror behind her. The costume was a ruffled, delicate triumph of color and texture. Blues and yellows layered to produce something not unlike an inverted flower blossom. Her face lit up and, for a moment, she was speechless.
“Well don’t I look fancy!” she said once she found her voice. She glanced down. “Ain’t I gonna trip over the bottom, though?”
“We’ll take care of that on a dummy. I was mostly interested in matching it to your form and complexion. This is my first time working with someone fair skinned. Here, let’s get it off you so I can finish it.”
Lil did her best to wriggle out of the dress without disturbing any of Lita’s work. When she’d done so, leaving the deckhand in her underthings, she hurried off like a child eager to play with a new toy.
“There,” Mrs. Graus said. “Plenty of time for you to meet with Nita.”
“Yep. And I sure do thank you folk for all your hard work to help us out. You reckon it’ll do any good?”
“Showing that the people of Rim can devote themselves to the sorts of things we hold dear will go a long way to making those of my homeland more comfortable with you as a people.”
“If I’d’ve known that’s what it’d take, I’d’ve tried to get one of them singers from Keystone.”
“It is better this way. Every last one of our people could, if pressed, demonstrate some fine work of art. That someone who hasn’t dedicated herself to such a pursuit could do the same means far more.”
“If you say so. You’d know better than me.” She finished sliding on her boots and set about tying them. “Um… Mrs. Graus. I had a question. It might sound a little thick, even for me.”
“What is it?”
“See I… I know my brother’s sweet on Nita. And she’s always been nice and such, but it don’t seem like he’s… uh… I don’t know. Makin’ much headway. Now, if you ask me, I’d say he just ain’t her type. But I’m thinkin’ maybe you Calderans don’t show how you feel the same way we do.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Graus said with a knowing smile. “She mentioned he’d written her some poetry. I cannot speak for my daughter, regarding her feelings, but I can tell you that within our culture it is considered terribly rude to outright reject the affections of another.”
“Seems like the sort of thing that’d cause problems. How’s a lady supposed to tell a fella he’s barkin’ up the wrong tree?”
“It is a bit more nuanced than that. If someone is being rude, or gruff, or otherwise ungentlemanly, then it is quite natural to rebuff that person. What I’ve described is the way we respond to earnest showings of affection. Calderan men know that if their affections for a woman are not returned, then they should seek affection elsewhere.”
“That’s not gonna work for Coop. I love the big lug but anything less direct than a brick to the head is as like as not to slip right by him. If he asked if she was sweet on him, flat out like that, would she come clean?”
“A Calderan man would not be so forward. But I would imagine she would be honest.”
“I reckon that’s how it’s fixin’ to end, then.” Lil lingered a bit, straightening her shirt and pants in the mirror.
“You seem to still have a bit on your mind, dear,” Mrs. Graus said.
“It ain’t nothin’… but… aw, heck, I might as well ask it. This ain’t none of my business, and you can go right ahead and tell me such, but… you know them seats, the fancy ones where we sat and you folks told us all about your history?”
“The union chairs.”
“Yeah. Has Nita ever… I guess you’d’ve said, but has she got anybody who’d rightfully be sharin’ that chair with her?”
Mrs. Graus closed her eyes and thought for a moment. “I don’t believe so.”
“But you said them seats were for partners from the past, right? Cap’n Mack and his ex sat in one. She ain’t never had someone special?”
“As I’ve said, Nita has made something of herself that is certainly to be proud of, but hers aren’t the sort of achievements that would touch the heart of the average Calderan. Perhaps you understand why we might worry for her?”
“Yeah… Yeah, I reckon I understand why you might. But I don’t think you got a thing to worry about. Take it from me.”
#
Three hours after he had successfully “negotiated” access to Dr. Wash’s records, Alabaster was still poring through them. The “office” was hardly conducive to research. Most of it had been crammed with shelves haphazardly packed with contraband of various types. The only work surface was a small, booze-stained desk with a phlo-light above it. Nevertheless, Alabaster was making excellent progress toward his goal.
As much as he enjoyed flaunting his brilliance before an audience, this had always been his greatest skill. It brought a grin to his face. Few men could make the claim of being able to achieve his lofty levels of success through equal application of stirring speeches before adoring throngs and quiet study huddled in a dank shack at the fringe of the fug. Deeply analyzing information, even information as purposely sparse and obtuse as that kept by Dr. Wash, and making sense of the fragments of useful data buried within had permitted him to grow and maintain the fortune left to him by his father. It had allowed him to secure contacts within dozens of different groups beneath the fug, and to broker deals with workers who hadn’t anticipated him to have the necessary level of knowledge of their craft to set the perfect price for a task.
Alabaster was no stranger to the record-keeping of criminals. They used codes and vague language. The goal was to prevent any would-be investigators from determining with whom business had been done, let alone the nature of that business. Wash was better than most in that regard, but not nearly good enough to foil Alabaster. The data kept in the records was almost entirely devoted to tracking pending debts, but that was enough. Big pluses here, little minuses there, and all occurring at regular intervals were quite enough to define a trade schedule. Plugging the schedule together with other clues revealed the nature of the trade. Every third Wednesday he got a shipment of burn-slow from someone within the fug. On the first of each month he received payment for some cheap booze from a buyer in Lock. And once every two months he received a significant infusion of income from an assortment of goods that could only have arrived on the Wind Breaker.
“And thus we discover precisely when to find the Wind Breaker.” He scanned farther down the page. “And wonder of wonders, some additional goods of the same sort tend to come in a few days later, then a few days after that. Correcting for the travel time for that blasted ship of theirs and whatever traders make a return trip and I suspect I can work out their next few stops as well. At least with enough accuracy to find Wash’s counterparts in those places…”
A rapid, angry knock rattled the door.
“Hey, listen, you about done in there? I got business to conduct, and I need my office to do it,” Dr. Wash called from outside.
“Just one more drawer to process and you’ll have the helm of your pathetic enterprise back again,” Alabaster said.
He pivoted on the rickety office chair and inspected the filing cabinet. The bottom drawer simply bore the label “Burn Pile.” Alabaster tugged it open and grinned in satisfaction. The drawer was heaped with slips of paper, all of different shapes and sizes.
“May the heavens praise the shabby trash collection of my peers,” he murmured, digging his hands into the drawer and sifting through the pile.
The pages were different from any of the others he’d gone over. Each had been written by a different hand. Some had the elegant, almost calligraphic penmanship of someone with his own level of education and decorum. Others were barely legible chicken scratch. These were clearly orders or inquiries placed
by prospective customers. None were so foolish as to apply their names to the requests, of course, so tracing them back to their origin would require more work than Alabaster cared to expend, but there was still some value in knowing the wants and needs of the local riffraff. After all, were he to dip his toes in the black market, it would be useful to know the demand he would have to supply.
Most of it was predictable. Sacks of Calderan salt, either given or requested in exchange for collections of scandalous photos or weapons or assorted intoxicants. The sort of things the lower classes used to numb their minds to the drudgery of their lives. Near the bottom of the pile, however, something caught his eye. It wasn’t the content of the note, but the handwriting.
“That’s Mallow’s handwriting…” Alabaster muttered.
He slid the page free and set it down. There was no date, but it had been heaped with enough other dated pages to suggest it had arrived firmly within the timeline of Mallow’s employ with Tusk.
The prior order was satisfactory. Please supply seventy additional gallons of “Honey Umber.” Additionally, regarding prior inquiry, the intended weave is most certainly satin. We shall require three dozen additional bolts. Tint to be determined.
Alabaster rolled his eyes. “Mallow, how many times have I told you not to repeat the same word ad infinitum in your writing? It is at least comforting to know you offer the same flawed service to your new employer as you did to me. But what fascinating requests you’ve made… What, pray tell, is Honey Umber…”
He scratched down the quantities, then swiftly checked for any further messages with familiar penmanship. There was only one.
We are still waiting for the fifty pounds of sea salt you were to provide.
“What is Tusk’s fascination with Calderan sea salt?” Alabaster said, taking note of that request as well.
Now satisfied he’d mined this place for all the information he was likely to find, he pocketed his notes, replaced Wash’s notes, and opened the door. His airship was anchored a short distance away, its weapons trained on Wash and his men.
“Dr. Wash, your cooperation has been most useful. And I particularly appreciate your procrastination regarding your direct orders.”
The masked “doctor,” who had been leaning with crossed arms against the wall of the shack, turned to one of his guards and slapped his arm.
“Ho! What’d I say? Every morning you burn what’s in the drawer. Every morning. What am I paying you for?”
“I have just a few more questions before I take my first payment of salt and go on my way. What precisely is Honey Umber?”
“Ah, I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? If I interpret the note correctly it is not the first time you’ve fulfilled an order for it.”
“I’m a middleman. I don’t make the stuff, I find someone who does,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’s something for decorating or something stupid like that. Pain to find. There’s just one guy. His town’s called… Limpetville.”
“I’m not familiar with the place.”
“Yeah, neither was I. Ain’t too far though. Don’t bother paying a visit. I had to threaten to have the guy’s knees broke just to get enough to fill that order. You ain’t getting another drop out of him.”
“Noted. The man’s name?”
“Robert Kayle. We done?”
“No. As you’ve proved yourself at least halfway intelligent, I present you with the opportunity to share any information you feel I might wish to know.”
“Look, deal in specifics or don’t deal at all.”
“Have there been any particularly notable shifts in the underworld?”
Dr. Wash grumbled. “A few of my courier ships got better offers recently. Heavy lifters. The price on black market burn-slow and phlogiston took a dive. The under-the-table repair crew I used to get to fix things up for the folks in Lock who could afford to send their gear down here has made itself scarce. And apparently finding good security is harder than I thought. That about cover it?”
“For now. Have your men load up the salt and you may resume your business.”
Alabaster turned to leave.
“What about the pins on the pulleys?”
He didn’t even bother to turn around. “Those were spare pins. Why should I waste the time to actually sabotage the pulleys.”
“You… oh you pile of dirt…” Dr. Wash fumed. He reached for a weapon, but eyed the heavy guns of the airship pointed in his direction. “You just wait, Abalaster! One of these days I’m gonna get my hands on you and I’m gonna hand you your own tongue.”
“Heavens above,” Alabaster said mockingly as he stood beside the door to his airship, supervising the delivery of the salt. “How ever shall I endure the vengeance of a petty small-time peddler of sundries, periphery, and ephemera? I, who am eagerly sought by the most potent figures above and below the fug, can only tremble at the thought of the terrible Dr. Wash and his army of two as they tirelessly scour the land. I’ve already been three steps ahead of you since the moment I learned your name. If you believe I don’t have dozens more cards up my sleeve, then I invite you to test me and see what becomes of your precious enterprise.”
Mr. Q took the last sack of salt from the guard and plopped it into place.
“Good-bye, Dr. Wash. It should serve as a salve for your visibly bruised ego that you were bested by the very keenest mind yet produced by the fug.” The others stepped into the airship and its turbines spun up. As it lifted into the air, Alabaster leaned out the door.
“Perhaps, while licking your wounds, you can take the time to learn my name properly. Lucius P. Alabaster!”
#
As the sun was setting, Lil and Nita labored away in the boiler room of the Wind Breaker. For the first time since they’d arrived, Nita was back in her leather-and-canvas work outfit. They’d been working since the early afternoon, and the end was only just in sight when it came to untying the knots the crew’s lackluster repair efforts had tied the boiler into.
“Honest,” Lil said, hauling one end of a pipe that needed replacing while Nita carried the other. “I didn’t realize how bad it’d got or I’d’ve been on this a week ago.”
“These things sneak up on you, Lil. That’s why you need to make a point of staying on top of them,” she said. “If this had failed and you weren’t near a port, it could have been disastrous.”
“Here I was thinkin’ I knew how hard you were workin’, and I didn’t know the half of it,” Lil said.
They dropped the pipe in the hall and picked up the replacement.
“You been talkin’ to your pa or the cap’n? I ain’t seen hide nor hair of either of them. They ain’t even been eatin’ with the rest of us.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. Father’s work with the council takes most of his time. And he and the captain have a great deal to talk about.”
Lil gave her a playful shove. “We got loads to talk about too! You know your ma and sister were sizin’ me up for the fancy dress for that show you folks’ve got us puttin’ on, right? Well them and me got to talkin’, and I learned a bit about how you Calderans deal with suitors.”
“Oh did you now,” Nita said, placing a hand on her hip. “And just why did that interest you?”
“Well, Coop’s been courtin’ for who knows how long, and you ain’t gave ’im a yea or nay. Back home, when a girl or a guy don’t say no, it means maybe. Turns out here if a girl or a guy don’t say yes, it means no. But when a body means no and ain’t sayin’ it for a while, back home we call that stringin’ a body along, and it ain’t a nice thing to do.”
“Is that so? It hadn’t occurred to me…” she said.
“So first thing’s first. Are you sweet on him or not?”
“He’s very nice but…” She laughed nervously.
“Look at you. All this time I known you, ain’t one thing I figured’d tie up your tongue. Fine, I’ll say it for y
ou. He’s not your fella. Now can you tell me why, or is it a Calderan thing to just leave folks wonderin’ things?”
“It isn’t him, precisely,” she began, preparing one end of the pipe to be installed. “I suppose I’ve just never thought about anyone in that way. I’ve never had to.”
“Never had to? Now you got me curious.”
“You’ve seen Lita.”
“Sure I have. What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Lita is taller than I am. She has nice hair, most striking eyes. She is a dancer, a model. She makes costumes, as you’ve found. All I’ve ever done is tinker and work at the steamworks. She’s more attractive and more interesting than I in every way that counts. And she is my twin. All through school, at every festival, we were both there. And given the choice, who do you suppose got the attention?”
“That just means you grew up with a load of dopes who’re doin’ all their thinkin’ below the belt.”
Nita laughed. “Whatever the reason, I can’t say I ever missed it.”
“Never missed it. Now just one minute. I ain’t had much more luck than you when it comes to that sort of thing, and for my part, I can tell you it’s enough to make a girl feel like there’s somethin’ wrong with her. If it wasn’t for how busy the Wind Breaker keeps me, then havin’ you to talk to, I’d’ve probably flipped my lid by now.”
They began threading the pipe into place.
“It just never appealed to me that much. Lita and Joshua have each had good friendships turn into something more and then come to a sour end. I’d rather keep a friend. Romance seems like nothing but a complication.”
Lil nodded and worked at the pipe quietly for a few minutes.
“Can’t blame a body for feelin’ that way, I reckon,” she finally said. “But one thing’s clear. The folks who write songs and write books and paint pictures back home and here all seem to agree that love’s always somethin’ worth tryin’, even if it don’t end right. So keep your eyes open, and you be sure you’re sure next time you ain’t so sure.”
