Hunters & Collectors

by M. Suddain

  Shabazzniov looked at me with astonishment. ‘… Your notes?’

  ‘I suggest we arrange a table for this evening.’ He stared at me as if I had just suggested we bathe together. He pressed his knuckles to his lips. ‘I feel as if this was already plainly explained to you, Mr Tamberlain. We do not allow critics in our establishment. And in fact, if I can also put this delicately, you cannot make notes on our Undersea.’

  ‘Because it’s closed, yes.’

  ‘No. You cannot make notes on our Undersea because you are legally forbidden from writing about or profiting from your stay here.’

  I scoffed. ‘By what law?’

  ‘By the laws stipulated and appended in detail to the contract you signed yesterday.’ Beast was squinting at me. ‘The contract forbids you from disclosing anything that goes on at Hotel Grand Skies, much less offering your … “views”.’

  I could not look at Beast. They were fucking with me. ‘It’s his birthday!’ said Ms Zhivast brightly.

  ‘Indeed. We shall have to have a celebration – when our unpacking of the Franz incident is done and Spring Rounds are over and things are back in order.’

  Ms Zhivast stood and went to put our notebooks in the safe. Gladys still did nothing.

  ‘I’d like to see that contract,’ said Beast.

  ‘Of course, Mr Woodbine. Ms Zhivast will show it to you.’

  I turned my head as what I assumed was a tropical parrot appeared in my periphery. The drinksman stood beside me with a vibrant, rainbow-striped elixir in a bulbous, long-stemmed glass topped with green foliage and flowers and some kind of miniature taxidermied bird of paradise. ‘What is this?’

  ‘Your breakfast cocktail, sir.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘You don’t like it,’ whispered the registrar.

  ‘What, no, I … it looks delicious.’ I took the glass. ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘It’s a Quintuple Rainbow,’ she whispered. ‘It’s my favourite.’

  ‘Well, then let’s just dive right in … Yes.’ I searched the thicket for an entry point, finally found the pink straw. A zesty, sugary explosion in my mouth. I felt like I’d just fellated a unicorn. But there was a decent amount of booze in it. ‘Mmmph. Now that’s a drink.’ Ms Zhivast smiled brightly.

  ‘So, now we have everything settled.’ Our concierge took a clean, white cloth from the tray, and with great formality draped it across his palm. He then used the silver tongs to take cubes of ice from the bucket and place them very carefully on the cloth, and I noticed that the ice hadn’t even begun to soften. ‘I will call another omelette station to the lobby. And I will secure you another pillow.’ The concierge took a step closer to me as he said, ‘You must know that we are simply mortified by all this. All of us.’ Ms Zhivast nodded feverishly. ‘That you’ve come so far, and got confused about the date, and have brought unsolicited companions, and have been given an incompatible apartment, and are a pillow short, and have fallen out with your bed.’ The ziggurat of ice on his hand was steaming faintly, as if it was still in the cold place it came from. ‘But it’s important for you to understand and accept that as an inductee not all your expectations can be met. You are not on the surface of the world. Things are different down here. You can broach an upgrade with Mr Espantapájaros, but I’m certain he’ll give you the same answer.’ His eyes were drilling into mine; it triggered a certain animal panic. He let the tongs drop into the bucket. He folded the cloth carefully over his tiny ice temple. He stepped towards me, offered me the pack.

  ‘It’s his birthday!’ said Ms Zhivast, again. Shabazzniov ignored her.

  On the way out, though, he took my arm, whispered hastily: ‘I’m so sorry I had to be firm with you in there – it was for my staff’s benefit. They get unruly at this time of year. They pick up on any hint of rebellion. I can’t be seen to be soft, or to be playing favourites. We must have order.’ As we went to the Grand Staircase, and down into the vast primeval wilderness of the lobby below, he glanced back over his shoulder to where Beast and Gladys were following. ‘I have spoken at length with Management on your behalf, explained that your girl is unfamiliar with the kind of establishment we run, and that she was acting, rightly or wrongly, in what she perceived to be self-defence. But they are taking this very seriously. I urge you to keep your staff in order, and to make no more missteps. You should know I’m on your side, and that I’m still deeply in love with you. I must go.’ He left me at the bottom of the stairs, holding my cocktail and my ice pack. The hazy, greenish air bubbled over the slabs of marble. I held the ice pack to my head as I wandered out into the space. Needed time to process everything. Not writing about trip means not getting paid for trip, which means not being able to pay staff, or cover expenses, which means being technically insolvent. Not technically. Literally. What it means is ruin. Everything was clear now. My friends were in danger, and unless I could find a way to speak with Management I might never get my meal.

  ‘Don’t go far!’ called Gladys. Ignored her. She’d be sucking up to me for the next hour because she knew she’d pulled a bullshit move with the registrar. Saw I was near the restrooms. Decided to visit, if only to clear my mind, to splash a little water on reality.

  The conveniences were large and well maintained. But there was an attendant in there, and I hate that. Oh, you want to turn the tap on for me like I’m some fucking germophobe? You want to spritz me with a scent that’ll take three bars of soap and a chemical decontamination shower to cleanse? A boy about my size, with a pale, sculpted face and oiled-back, widow-peaked hair, gazing at himself in the mirrors above the sink. I was about to back quietly out when he turned suddenly and said, ‘You are the Tomahawk.’

  ‘Hmmm? Yes, that’s me.’

  ‘We’re all very glad to have you here, sir.’

  ‘Oh? Well, it’s always nice to meet fans of my work.’

  ‘Your work, sir?’ The young man had smooth skin and the piercing eyes of a mountain hawk. ‘What work do you do?’

  ‘I … well, I’m a forensic gastronomer.’

  ‘I don’t know what that is, sir.’

  ‘I’m a critic.’

  ‘Oh no, sir. That can’t be true. We don’t allow critics here.’

  ‘… Right. Well, this has been –’

  ‘We hear you’re a traveller, sir. On your spindle. Is that true? Word gets around. I heard about the incident with the bed. Everyone’s talking about it. Sofie down in furnishings was beside herself. In tears. DeSally in the Twilight Rooms said you’d been disfigured. There’ll be consequences. Especially if it leaves a permanent mark. Some toilet water, perhaps?’

  ‘Um. No thank you, ah …’

  ‘It’s Tommy, sir. Everyone is so excited to see you. I was speaking to the Blade earlier, and he mentioned that DeSally in the Twilight Rooms mentioned that she’d been told the Tomahawk was coming next week. And then the Blade heard from Mae-Mae who told DeSally that actually you’d come early. Which caught everyone off their marks.’

  ‘The man’s name is “the Blade”?’

  ‘Woman, sir. She’s my friend. She works in our barbershop, Razor Arcade. I gave her the nickname because she’s so masterful with the cut-throat. And as I said, sir, she heard about you from DeSally, who heard it from Ragselnov in admissions.’

  ‘Ah, makes sense.’ I turned to see myself reflected in the mirrors.

  ‘What does, sir?’

  ‘That thing you just said. All of it.’ A small, purple egg forming on my forehead. Hardly noticeable. A strandy tuft of lint crouching spiderlike on my lapel. I looked down at my shoes. Not my shoes. A pair of shoes that are made specifically for you by a master craftsperson, that you have worn in to the point that they feel like an extension of yourself. You know these shoes. Shoes. What strange things. And feet, too, for that matter. Stranger still.

  ‘That’s the staff though, sir.’

  ‘Beg pardon?’

  ‘The things they say. Ms Armolade and the Buffer have asked t
o change shifts so they can work together.’

  ‘You don’t say. And the Buffer …?’

  ‘Another nickname, sir. Massimo. He’s the best shoespit we have.’

  ‘Ah. Massimo.’ And I couldn’t see that they were any cleaner than they were the day before.

  ‘He doesn’t think much of that woman you keep. Him and Franz were best friends.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘He’s a little cold on you too, sir. Since you made Ms Zhivast cry.’

  Turning quickly from the mirror. ‘I’m sorry, what?’

  ‘Just now, in her office. They say you shouted at her over a faulty bed.’

  ‘No, no. Listen. There was no shouting.’

  ‘DeSally says you called her a ginger piglet.’

  I stepped quickly towards the boy, put my cocktail and my ice pack on the marble sinks. ‘Listen, Timmy –’

  ‘Tommy.’

  ‘Tommy, there’s been a misunderstanding. I never shouted at anyone, I never called anyone a ginger piglet, and I never made anyone cry.’

  ‘Not ever, sir?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘The staff are all gossips, sir. It’s the same every Harvest. Maybe if you wrote her a quick note she’d feel better. And then Massimo would stop talking about hunting you.’

  ‘Sorry, what?’

  ‘I have pen and paper.’

  A note. Yes, that would probably defuse the situation. I took the pen and paper, scribbled a quick message of support.

  Ms Zhivast,

  My apologies if my complaining upset you. I’m clumsy in a number of ways. Hope you’re feeling better. Thank you for the ice, and the Quintuple Rainbow. They really helped! Bring me some of your writing when you can.

  Warm Affections,

  Jonathan Tamberlain

  ‘Warm affections.’ Tommy smiled. ‘Massimo will die.’

  ‘Oh? Well, maybe I should change that, let me –’

  ‘I’ll see she gets it.’ He slipped the pad and pen in his pocket. ‘Will there be anything else, sir?’

  ‘There never was anything, Tommy.’

  He smiled. ‘We know you’ll do well here, sir. Once your brow has deflated. We know he’ll come to love you.’

  ‘Who do you mean? Shabazzniov?’

  The boy’s face drew tight. His brow fell over his eyes. ‘No. No I didn’t mean Shabazzniov. Why would you think I meant Shabazzniov?’

  Holy fuck. ‘It’s … I meant nothing by it, Tommy.’ Where was Gladys? She usually senses when things get this weird.

  ‘He thinks he’s better than us. Always talking down to us, giving us orders. We all hate him. He doesn’t participate in Harvest celebrations. He thinks he’s high above it all. He swans around with his boys, Shad and Misha. They think they’re high above us, too. They won’t even send one note today. Except to each other. And they’ll do it as a joke.’

  ‘The cads.’

  ‘It’s no joke, sir.’ His piercing black eyes narrowed, his jawline sharpened.

  ‘Of course it isn’t. Well, I must be –’

  ‘He’ll want to mark you, sir.’

  ‘He’ll want to what me?’

  ‘To mark you.’

  ‘He’ll want to mark who?’

  ‘It’s his calling card. Mr Shabazzniov likes to put a mark on every guest before they go into the system. So they’ll never forget him. When you ascend you’ll take whatever marks you have. You’ll have them forever.’

  ‘Forever?’

  ‘It’s forbidden. Marking guests. Master turns his eyes. Maybe Shabazzniov had someone rig your bed so you’d fall out. He has all the tricks. He pretends to be your friend, but he isn’t.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I suspect he’s jealous. A fine tall-man like you. Even with the bump. Girls like rugged men. We crown our Harvest King tomorrow. There’s talk. But I can’t say more. I’ve already said too much.’

  ‘Agreed. Well. This has been … astonishing, Tommy. I really must –’

  ‘I have a message, sir. That’s why I’m here. I think you’ll want to smell it.’

  ‘… Beg pardon?’

  ‘A note, sir. This toilet water has a message in it. From an admirer.’ Where in fuck was Gladys? The boy presented the red-glass bottle as if he were posing for an advert. I didn’t recognise the brand.

  ‘It’s poison gas.’

  ‘Why would it be poison gas, sir?’

  ‘… Because the label says: “Poison Gas Attack”.’

  ‘Just a little in-joke, sir. It isn’t poison.’

  I reluctantly offered my wrist, noticed that the young man had no scent whatsoever. I heard the squit, felt the chill against my skin, I raised my wrist to my nose. I smelled burnt lemon, sandalwood, a boozy, soapy sweetness held in a bubble of warm collapsing air. I was falling before I realised. I was falling backwards through darkness. I didn’t even feel myself hit the floor. I had time to think, ‘This is the end. I’m done for,’ before they fell on me. I felt bodies around me, a velvet bag slipping over my head, a woman’s voice saying, ‘You smell like a lovely food.’

  NOTES ON BEING DRUGGED

  ‘Gee-ah!’

  ‘Jonathan, shh, no, hey, shh, you’re safe, you’re in my health and wellness suite? Here. The canoe sofa.’

  ‘… The fuck?’

  ‘Gods, Jonathan, you’re out running around? Making girls cry? You shouldn’t taunt the Children. Here, let me see that head.’

  ‘Fuck off me!’

  I was in a large and very familiar office. The rosewood shelves lined with books and Eastern artefacts. The oak desk with inlaid leather and gold tooling. The canoe sofa of lacquered wood upholstered in green leather. And of course, the padded meditation mat in the corner. I smelled the acrid scent of the perfume sticks they burn in temples to expel bad spirits. And there was a familiar form standing in front of me.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jonathan. I heard you left your apartment, and I couldn’t believe it. And I heard you’d been injured? You can’t be marked, it’s … Well, what could I do? I sent the staff out with a fast-acting sleep remedy.’

  ‘Wait. Are you saying you drugged me?’

  ‘No. Sleep remedy. To help you rest. I’m your doctor. Here, my canoe sofa. Sit, rest.’

  ‘I don’t need fucking rest, I just woke up an hour ago.’

  ‘Let the calm in.’

  ‘Go fuck yourself, Rubin. This is the limit. Am I lying in a toilet right now?’

  ‘Let’s keep the energy positive. Let’s breathe together?’ He took a step away. He raised his arms, released his breath in one gush as he let his arms flop by his side. I smelled cake. I almost gagged. ‘You’re not breathing with me.’

  ‘As I said, go fuck yourself. Take yourself out for a nice dinner, invite yourself back to your place for coffee, and then fuck yourself.’

  ‘I hear your anger, and I honour it. I’m sorry for dosing you, Jonathan. Please take a seat? Recline? Or not. This is a safe place.’ He was wound up. Even by his standards.

  ‘The fuck did you give me anyway?’ My head was filled with violet sparks.

  ‘Oh. Like I said, a sleep remedy? Tranquilax.’

  ‘The rape drug!’

  ‘It has legitimate medical applications, Jonathan. Just because some bad men use it for bad things.’

  ‘What did I do, Rubin?’

  ‘Jonathan?’

  ‘All I wanted was a meal. Just a single great meal in a place where the world can’t find me and ruin it. Now I’m lying drugged in a toilet in an inn where all the guests have been murdered. What did I do?’

  ‘Well. You came a week early.’

  ‘How was I supposed to know you meant 12/24 TC?’

  ‘Because at our first meeting in the ballroom I specifically said, “Terrestrial Calendar”?’

  ‘No you didn’t.’

  He pulled open a drawer in his desk and removed a battered tape-machine. He punched a button and we heard his voice, far away and coated in sand: ‘We’ll expect y
ou to catch the Night Ferry at 10 p.m. on 12/24 of the celestial month your invitation arrives. That’s Terrestrial Calendar. Are you listening, Jonathan?’

  ‘Yes, yes. And I’ll be dining in the Undersea that evening?’ He pressed Stop.

  ‘That isn’t my voice.’

  ‘You know it is.’

  ‘Why am I here? Why did you drug me?’

  ‘I sleep-remedied you because I need your help. It did not go well, Jonathan.’

  ‘What didn’t?’

  ‘Has she mentioned the session we had last night?’

  ‘Who? Gladys? No.’

  ‘Good. Because it did not go well.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘I mean, wow. I just wasn’t prepared for … And I took the advice you gave me? About, you know … being manly?’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘And I was, Jonathan.’

  ‘I’m sure. Try to breathe. Let calmness in.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m a very … centred individual.’

  He went to study his shelves.22 He does this when he’s self-conscious. ‘She’s such a fascinating specimen. From a clinical perspective?’

  ‘Of course.’

  With both chubby arms behind his back he pretended to study the dead rows of books. ‘I’m interested in anything you can share with me to help me understand her. It’s important that I do, hey? … Does she have many suitors?’

  ‘Beg pardon?’

  ‘Gentlemen callers? What have you?’

  ‘You mean like a paramour, or a wooer? An inamorato?’

  ‘A gentleman caller, yes.’

  ‘I have no idea. Why would you want to know?’

  ‘It’s background. I need to know my patients if I’m to be clinically effective. Yes?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Her journals are a tantalising insight, but they’re as far as I can get until she lets me in. Her Water Bear mods are beyond what I even … I mean, her mind is firewalled and heavily encrypted. I even brought her flowers? Peonies? Just to oil the wheel?’ He lifted his copper wastebasket to show me the flowers. He bent to smell them. ‘Such a fascinating specimen. From a clinical point of view.’

  ‘Of course, completely clinical. So clinical it’s alarming.’