by William Ray
Thomas harrumphed as if he thought that were a stupid thing to say. Sylvester looked to the tower model, then shook his head sadly and said, “I’m afraid it won’t work that way, Inspector. The design is under patent in the name of Doctor Phand. Without his signature, it just can’t proceed.” He paused, looked at his companion, and added, “Not that everyone will object to that outcome.”
Mister Thomas looked uncomfortable at the suggestion as if directly accused in front of the law officer he thought Gus was. Thomas gave a Sylvester fierce look that Gus would have blanched under, but the younger entrepreneur merely responded with a bland and patient smile until the old vulture finally replied, “I’ve always said it should be a park and not this ugly metal thing. I’ve made no secret of it.”
As he said it, Thomas gestured back towards the model at the center of the room, and Gus realized the metal frame Norville James was so proud to be part of must be the tower planned for Khanom. Gus glanced back at it but still couldn’t quite see what was so significant about the thing, and he was inclined to agree with Thomas that it seemed a rather ugly monument.
Sylvester gave a placating smile and then looked back to Gus, “They nearly killed it on the financing, but with that straightened out we were supposed to sign the final agreement this week. It was the whole point of our trip.”
Gus nodded, although he wondered who ‘they’ were who had nearly stopped the financing. “So what will go in that thing’s place if the agreement can’t be signed in time?”
Sylvester shrugged and said, “That tower was the only thing we were able to get enough of the committee behind. Without it, I suppose we’d be stuck with Mister Thomas’s park. That tower would be the pride of the nation, and if we can’t have it, then I’m not sure there’s much point to any lesser structure.”
Thomas harrumphed again and gestured at the model with his cane, “There likely isn’t enough time to pull together the committee’s ambitious monstrosity as it is. Certainly won’t be if they miss the start of the season.”
“Season?” Gus asked, hoping to draw more out of them. Fashion had seasons, and hunting and fishing he supposed, but towers would seem to be a year-round sort of commodity; but if Phand’s abduction was related to the tower, a time limit on the deal might well be a time limit on the abduction too. “They’re not planning on growing the thing, are they?”
Mister Sylvester laughed merrily and went so far as to slap Gus on the shoulder, reminding him of the rough camaraderie of his army days. “Grow it! Ha! No, Inspector, but they’ll have to deal with the weather. Since Khanom is in the mountains, it gets colder than it does here, so the ground is too hard in winter to start anything. All the digging would need to be done by the end of spring to leave enough time for the foundation to dry, and then they’ll need the entire year to build it. As it is, we’re already being generous, hoping against foul weather and other possible delays.”
“When is the deadline?”
“The eighteenth. Ten days from now,” grumped the older man, “Although we’re headed back to Khanom, so if Doctor Phand turns up, he’ll have to meet us there.”
Gus looked back at the model in the center of the room, trying to figure out why they all seemed so taken with the ugly metal jumble, but the significance of the design eluded him. He supposed he could see why someone would be opposed to erecting it in a park, but not so strongly that they would kidnap at least one of the men responsible for it.
Turning back to the two Exposition councilors, he asked, “I’m sure Ollie asked you already, but did either of you know Doctor Phand apart from the fair? See him at social gatherings, that sort of thing?”
Mister Thomas’s disapproving scowl seemed answer enough. Apparently, Doctor Phand was good enough to build towers and bridges but not quite up to the level of society they occupied. Gus was somewhat surprised by that given the more egalitarian reputation of the Aelfuan settlers. Without families of rank though, Khanom was known as a bit of a plutocracy, so perhaps Phand just didn’t have enough money to socialize in Thomas’s circles.
Sylvester took the question more in stride, but his answer was the same, “I’m afraid not, Inspector. We only met him last year as a result of his proposed tower. I’d imagine his social circle was here in Gemmen rather than out east. We are, unfortunately, still a bit on the outskirts as far as that sort of thing goes.”
Thomas harrumphed again and growled out, “That’ll change.”
Sylvester grinned and gave an enthusiastic nod, “The Empire will see what we’ve built out east, Inspector. The Exposition is going to amaze the world, I promise. Khanom will take her place among the great cities soon enough.”
Gus smiled and nodded, amused by Sylvester’s enthusiasm. It would take more than a fair for the settlements to win respect from the well-heeled traditionalists in Gemmen. Not wanting to encourage a sales pitch for their Exposition, Gus decided to turn the conversation directly to the abduction of Doctor Phand by asking, “What about the green robes? Any chance the kidnappers dressing as Wardens struck either of you as familiar? Secret societies, that sort of thing?”
The elder councilor gave a derisive snort and said, “Secret societies are an obsession of bored and jaded souls back west, Inspector. In the east, we keep too busy to indulge in that sort of nonsense. Besides, we live in the heart of the old elf lands; if there were still Wardens, they would want us dead most of all. Hardly the guise we’d tolerate for sport.”
Sylvester nodded in agreement and added, “The whole thing is most inappropriate.”
“So I guess that’s a no, then,” he said, and looking up, he saw the Chandler’s Crossing inspector was peering out at him. Gus decided it might be better to slip away before Clarke decided to question him as well. Ollie Clarke had held some grudge against Gus from the moment they met and was always hunting for some excuse to drag him in.
Now that Gus actually had a connection to the case through his earlier employment by Alice Phand, it seemed a particularly inopportune moment to risk that sort of harassment. Eager to depart, Gus smiled at the two Exposition men and said, “Well, gentlemen, I’ll be in touch if I have any further questions. Have a nice trip home.”
Mister Thomas grunted his dismissal, but Sylvester reached forward, enthusiastically pumping Gus’s hand, “Of course, of course. Best of luck to you in your investigation. If there’s any news, please do let us know. I’m sure the whole council will be following this case with bated breath.”
Detecting-Inspector Clarke’s head popped out from one of the doors down the hall from reception and peered over towards them, spotting Gus right away. Clarke bore a bushy military-style mustache, the sort designed to emphasize an officer’s stern frown of disapproval, which Clarke emulated quite well for a civilian.
Gus hurriedly promised Sylvester to keep in touch and then moved quickly towards the front desk. Clarke marched down the hall towards the two Exposition men, no doubt intending to ask what Gus had been up to. Even in a dark suit that bore no sign of rank, Clarke’s officious demeanor left no question as to his commission.
While Clarke paused to speak with Thomas and Sylvester, Gus approached the reception desk and explained that he needed to drop a letter off at Saucier’s home. Gus refused an initial offer to pass the letter along, insisting the letter was of a personal nature, which seemed to strike a chord with the man at reception. The receptionist obligingly produced Saucier’s personal calling card, which listed the partner’s address here in town.
Clarke was nodding gravely at whatever Sylvester was telling him and kept glancing back towards Gus as he did. Offering his thanks to the receptionist, Gus dashed off without looking back. He couldn’t risk a wait for the elevator with Clarke right on his heels, so Gus tucked the card into his pocket and went down the stairs as quickly as his bad leg would allow.
~
“Sortilege Conviction”
Amanda Moil of Lower Market has been sentenced to six weeks’
imprisonment for sortilege. She had assured a young domestic servant that she could thaumaturgically restore to her the love of a certain young man and then took a full gold coin in payment without awaiting the resolution.
– Gemmen Herald, 8 Tal. 389
~
- CHAPTER 8 -
The old grinder critically eyed the knife Emily handed him and then looked back to her, slightly concerned. He was an old man, clearly foreign and a fair sight older than the usual fellows who spent their days pushing carts through the street to hawk their services.
His small cap did nothing to disguise his balding pate, nor did the long, curly, white and silver fringe of hair around it. The curls were bound back in a loose tail that hung almost to his waist as if it intended to balance against the long beard he kept tucked into the belt around his thick leather apron.
The grinder brushed the knife off against the apron and held it up, peering at the edge again. His wistful frown as he checked the knife again told her that though he wanted to take her money to grind it down, he was having trouble with his conscience. Finally, his accent giving him away as Tuls, he said, “This knife, it look already sharp.”
Emily smiled at him and reached out to reclaim her knife, somewhat relieved that his honesty would save her the cost of a perfectly good edge. Slipping the blade back into the chatelaine under the decorative apron atop her skirt, she said, “Well, perhaps you could help me with something else then? I have a question about knives.”
He chuckled at that and looked up and down the street, clearly wondering if he could take the time from his rounds to answer. Other grinders worked these streets, and Emily had only picked him to question because he was the first one she came across. Not wanting to go in search of another, she added, “I’ll pay for an edge, and you’ll just have to talk rather than work the pedals.”
The old man grinned and glanced down at the treadle below his cart. He was old enough to be her father, and as much as Emily’s father had complained about his knees the last time she saw him, she suspected the old Tul was happy to turn a few pennies while resting. “Knives, I know!” he replied, tapping the side of his cart. He had several bits of twine along the side of it, each bearing worn-down blades that jangled together when he moved his cart to help draw the attention of customers. “What is question?”
“Have you ever seen a knife with a curve like this?” she asked, her finger tracing across her palm the same arc Missus Casey had shown her earlier.
“I can put edge on curved knife,” he said, but after a moment, he seemed to realize that wasn’t her question. “Is not a kitchen knife. How big?”
Asking Missus Casey the size had not occurred to her, but hoping the banker’s wife had more or less gotten the size right when she had traced out the shape at Lady Wending’s, Emily held her hands apart the approximate distance. “This, maybe?”
“Fisherman use curved knife for nets but is small. Curved and so big, is foreign knife. Not for cutting. For decoration.”
Emily smiled, thinking that was another question she could ask Madame Jande, which she had planned to make her next stop, regardless. Reaching beneath her apron, she produced a half-peis of pennies from the coin purse on her chatelaine and held them out.
The grinder laughed and shook his head, surprisingly nimble fingers plucking away only four of the copper coins. “Your small knife would only cost four. Is fair.” He tucked the coins into a box on his cart and then winked at her and began pushing his cart down the lane, once again calling out, “Knives and scissors! Knives and scissors!”
Happily pocketing away the rest, Emily left the old Tul to his rounds and began her walk to the Sandelle Pavilion. Although technically within Market District, the Pavilion had been built along the edge of Potter, so those of more modest means attending some spectacle or another wouldn’t be passing through the nicer parts of town on their way.
A fair bit of slush still lined the sides of the streets, but the spring thaw had at least left most of the walkways clear of ice. Having suffered through the recent water shortage that resulted from the unusually late freeze, Emily had been eagerly watching the thaw in hopes that the pipes in her flat would soon flow once more. Winter routinely broke some bit of plumbing, and none of it could be repaired until the thaw.
Although there was a covered walkway beneath the rail that passed between Market and Potter, the soot raining from above mixed with the melting ice to create a black slurry. She had worn black boots for precisely this crossing, but not having taken the time to change again after visiting Lady Wending, she was still in the dress she had worn there. Without money to replace the dress if it were ruined, Emily could only hope no one she knew would see her as she lifted the dress up to her knees and pressed on into Market.
Thirteen years ago, Crown Prince Augustus had been delighted by the circus leasing the space at Sandelle Pavilion and had declared his hope that they be allowed to remain longer. Eager to please the young man they thought would soon be king, the owners extended the lease at very generous terms.
When Augustus was famously assassinated, it hardly seemed the time to send them packing, and when Prince Oscar became King Dedrick, he paid a visit to that very circus in public remembrance of his brother. By that point, Emily was fairly certain the Pavilion’s owners were eager to send the circus on, but they could hardly risk snubbing their new king, so the circus had lingered and become something of an institution despite the wishes of the landlords.
In a few places, wooden sandwich boards sat upon the ground, pointing towards the circus’s side shows in the Pavilion’s neighboring lot, including one advertising the otherworldly spectacle of the ‘Mysterious! Magical! Mystifying! Madame Jande.’ It had a painted depiction of a woman, who looked nothing like Madame Jande, gazing deeply into a crystal ball, below which it offered fortunes read, spirits contacted, and advice from the world beyond.
Emily had known of Madame Jande for many years but had only met her in person a year prior when Emily had begun making more regular observances at the temples. Despite the bombastic performances she put forth to earn a living, Madame Jande was a priestess of the Hidden Moon—the same order of Maladriel devotees from which Caerleon himself had arisen.
The side lot was full of large, colorful tents. She wandered down the lane between tents, enjoying the emptiness of the place in the middle of a working day. Most of the sideshows had not bothered to open, but without a crowd, the brightly colored aisles felt like some alien landscape rather than the heart of Gemmen.
Gus refused to go near the place, saying it reminded him too much of his time in the army, but Emily had trouble imaging how the rows of garish red and yellow canvas could seem anything like a military encampment. After she had visited her family two years ago, having avoided them for many years prior, Emily’s sister suggested she move to Rakhasin to start over. Plenty of people did that, for all sorts of reasons, but it seemed like a terrifying place. Emily had asked Gus about it and had only discovered that he did not like to talk about his time in the army.
Madame Jande’s tent was a peak-roofed square made of alternating red and yellow panels of canvas. The entrance to the tent was shaded by a dark blue awning dotted with yellow stars, and dark curtains blocked the opening. Instead of the muscular, dark-skinned Maccian man who usually stood by the entrance, there was a young boy dressed in the same sort of striped pantaloons and a baggy vest that hung to his knees. In his hands, he held the same small wooden bowl.
Generally, the Madame Jande was paid for her advice in advance, and the quality of her performance was determined by the ‘donation’ she received. Those wishing to meet her would put coins in the bowl, the boy would take the offering back to Madame Jande, and then he would return to invite them inside for whatever that donation was worth. A few pennies might get a simple fortune, a few peis a more elaborate advisement. For a twenty-peis gold coin, sometimes you could even get a full séance.
Those hoping
for an audience with the Madame in her role as a priestess of the Hidden Moon were supposed to present a coin for each of the gods of the Trinity of Light: silver for Maladriel, goddess of the moon; copper for Rheena, goddess of hearth and forge; and gold for Phaeton, god of the sun. Emily considered it a large sum to part with, but Madame Jande usually returned it once she was inside.
She pulled open her purse for the three coins she needed but came up with only five silver peis and eight pennies. With a quiet curse that the young boy politely ignored, she sorted through the coins and found one of the coppers was of fairly new minting and still quite bright. Placing the silver at the bottom of the bowl, she rested a dull penny atop it, and then stacked the shiniest penny on top, in place of the gold.
It was a symbolic gesture, and she hoped it would be enough to get her inside, but she muttered a quick prayer of apology to Phaeton all the same. The young boy did not glance down at the coins in his bowl and simply took them inside with reverently mechanical movement probably trained into him as part of Madame Jande’s act.
When he returned a few moments later, the boy gestured her inside with an intensely serious expression so adorable that she had to fight the inclination to reach out and tousle his hair. She wondered momentarily if he was Madame Jande’s son or more likely a grandson, but then Emily’s thoughts turned to her own son, whom she had never seen at that age. It was an unwelcome musing she tried to banish as she stepped into the tent.
Inside, dark fabrics of deep blue and maroon were draped from the ceiling, forming a path along the wall. It turned left, led her around the front corner, and then formed a small round room in the back. The room was lit in odd hues as sunlight filtered through the red and yellow canvas behind her. A small table was placed near the drapes, with a singular quartz crystal as thick as her arm as the centerpiece, catching odd colors from the room as Emily moved past it.
