by William Ray
A small stool for the Madame sat behind the table with its back to the dark drapes. Three padded folding chairs sat across from the Madame’s stool, and Emily stood in front of the center one while she waited on Madame Jande. Nervous about the copper substitute, she silently rehearsed an apology for not bringing the proper donation, just in case Madame Jande came out to read her fortune.
When Madame Jande finally emerged, she simply pressed between the drapes rather than dramatically casting them back, and she had not even bothered to put up her veil, leaving it hanging loose from her blue turban. It was an entrance bereft of the usual theatrics Madame Jande used for fortune telling, and Emily relaxed a bit. Clearly her donation had been understood.
As befit a priestess of a notoriously secretive order, Madame Jande was an older woman of indeterminate origin. Emily had heard her use no fewer than four different accents and was never sure which was really her own. The woman’s skin was lighter than her usual Maccian doorman but certainly darker than typical in Verinde. Judging by the lines on her face, she looked older than Emily’s mother, although perhaps that was just hard living.
Stepping into the room, the Madame dropped the bowl down on Emily’s side of the table, the three coins still inside. She gestured for Emily to take them back and then said in what might have been a Pylian accent, “You’re here for more of that tea?”
Emily sighed, shook her head, and said, “No, I’m afraid not. I can barely get him to take the stuff, and he still drinks as much as ever. Oh, and I’m sorry about the copper. It was all I had on me.”
“It takes time! Keep trying and be patient.” She settled down onto her stool and reached under the neck of her robes to produce a small silver medallion. Holding it forward to give Emily a better look, she said, “As for the copper! This was my predecessor’s, passed down from hers, then from hers, and so on for well over three hundred years. See those bumps? It used to be a coin.
“In the age of darkness, symbols of Maladriel were forbidden, so those in our order would take an old silver coin and rub whatever king’s face was on it down to nothing—a disc of the moon, a symbol for the faithful. Maladriel is light in the darkness, she is hope, and when the symbols of hope are taken, we make our own. Phaeton’s priests might be more formal, but Maladriel has never complained when her people make do.”
Emily smiled and mumbled her thanks as she took the coins and tucked them back into the purse on her chatelaine. In the age of darkness, worship of the gods of light had been forbidden nearly everywhere in the world. When Caerleon undid the Shadow Negus, and the Trinity cast the gods of darkness into hell, Maladriel’s faith flourished in public. Madame Jande’s secretive order was now merely a quaint oddity, but Emily often found the old woman’s earthier approach to their faith comforting.
That wasn’t why she had come, however. Emily slipped out the leaf Missus Casey had identified and asked, “Do you know anything about the Wardens? New ones, I mean.”
Madame Jande frowned and shook her head, surely old enough to have bad memories from her youth of the real Wardens. If she didn’t know of any, chances were they didn’t operate as such here in town, but it was a big city. That sort of lead was more than Emily had hoped for though—she had really come to see Madame Jande about her other specialty.
Passing over the leaf, Emily said, “The three who abducted Doctor Phand all wore identical robes of this shade of green.”
The Madame took the leaf and shifted in her seat, trying to get a good look at it in the strange light of the tent. “All the same shade?” she asked, and Emily nodded. When she wasn’t telling fortunes or providing clandestine religious guidance, Madame Jande also served as the seamstress who made and maintained all of the circus’s elaborate costumes. In Emily’s former career, the Madame had also provided her a few of the fanciful underthings she had needed.
“Dark green like this is difficult,” the old woman began, turning the leaf back and forth. “The Elves had a dark green dye that could be done in one bath by hand, but they took that secret with them. To make things green, we need two dyes—one in yellow and one in blue. If you do it by hand, you would need to match each perfectly, and twice, to make all three the same.”
“So all three had to be done together?”
Madame Jande shook her head and said, “Not just together, at the same time. If you dip one and then the next and then the next, it would dilute the dye a little with each extra bit of yellow, so they would not match. If you did enough for all three all at the same time, you would need a very big bath because they would need to be spread out to make sure the same amount of dye gets in every piece without streaks.”
Emily nodded, having had her own mishaps in dying, and said, “It had to be industrial, then. Who could I ask about fabrics of that color?”
“Me.” The old woman chuckled, handed back the leaf, and said, “I watch the market for things, and there’s been nothing of that color for at least the past year or two. If you want to mix it, the dark blue you would need for that color is expensive, which is why the police are that nasty pale olive.
“For something to be this shade, it was either a very expensive private run, or it was bought elsewhere. We use some exotic silks and things for a few of the acts and my side business, as you well remember. I’ve not seen anything large enough for three men in that exact color, though.”
“Aelfua’s full of people now—could someone have learned how the Elves used to do it?”
Madame Jande snorted and shook her head. “If they had, kidnapping would be a waste of time. They could sell that secret to the textile companies and be richer than Cornelius Zephyr.”
The reference to Zephyr was lost on her. She was familiar with the names of most of the city’s commercial magnates, so either he was from someplace else or just a reference from a previous generation. She smiled and nodded all the same and tried to think what Gus might ask next in this situation. He would probably just try to flirt a bit and see what else Madame Jande volunteered; Emily doubted that tactic would help.
“Do any of your acts use knives?” she asked, although she already knew the answer. She had seen posters for the circus’s knife thrower on the way in. Madame Jande nodded, so Emily again traced out the curve Missus Casey had shown her. “I’m looking for knives shaped like this. Is that shape familiar?”
The Madame laughed and said, “A crescent? Yes, I believe I’m passingly familiar with the cycles of the moon by now. It’s nothing used in any of our shows. It looks foreign; maybe you should ask a collector.”
At that, Emily smiled, immediately thinking of just the collector she could ask. Bowing her head, she sketched the triangle of the Trinity before her face and leaned forward to give Madame Jande a kiss upon the cheek.
Madame Jande pished at her, swatting lightly at Emily’s shoulder as if embarrassed by the display. Still, the older woman grinned as she waved her off and said, “Keep pushing the tea, and let me know when you need more.”
Emily promised she would and bade farewell, taking the wooden bowl with her. She returned it to the boy out front, playfully tousling his hair, which earned her exactly the indignant scowl she had expected, although it did nothing to discourage her momentary amusement.
What did, however, was trying to guess at the taxi fare necessary to reach her next destination. She was not precisely sure where to find Francis Parland but knew how to find his address. The closest place to check would be the Potter District’s Constabulary, but she dreaded passing back under the rail bridge on foot again. That left the Market District Courthouse on the opposite side of the district and slightly uphill the whole way. With a sigh, she began her hike.
~
“Fashionable Marriage”
The marriage of Mr. Augustus Froderick Gonlin, only son of Lord Claud Gonlin and Lady Margot Hedy-Loort, youngest daughter of the late Earl of Dountless, was celebrated on the 7th at the Shrine of Rheena in Old Park. The bride was attended by
her little nephew, Viscount Martique, as her page. There were no bridesmaids. The bride wore a short dress of cream, figured satin with lace apron and ruffles and, over a wreath of orange-blossoms, a spotted lace veil. Her page was dressed in yellow satin brocade with stockings and shoes of the same colour and an old gold-coloured satin hat with yellow feather. The service was choral. The bride was given away by her mother, the Dowager Countess of Dountless.
– Gemmen Standard, 8 Tal. 389
~
- CHAPTER 9 -
Saucier’s home was in the same district as Phand’s but on a noticeably more upscale street than his partner’s, and Gus wondered how that had come about. While both men kept homes far nicer than Gus’s flat, Saucier’s was clearly larger than Phand’s and bore more fanciful architectural flourishes.
It was enough of a difference to make Gus suspect that it stemmed from more than just different spending priorities. Despite Saucier’s prominence on their firm’s signage, no one had been complimenting his engineering genius as they did Phand’s, which Gus took to mean Saucier probably managed the financial side of their partnership’s projects.
Although this neighborhood would usually have been far nicer than Phand’s, at the moment it was cluttered with undesirables. One of the new underground rail hubs was being dug not far off, and men had gathered up and down the street, eager to offer their services at whatever labor might be required.
Railroad construction companies had quickly learned that for unskilled labor there were enough desperate souls willing to work for little more than a hot meal, and thus never doled out more than the handful of pennies the law required they pay. As a result, those not selected for that day’s labors had nothing to do but loiter around in the neighborhood, hoping for other opportunities.
As his taxi slowed in front of Saucier’s place, a shabby crowd coalesced around it. They swarmed the moment he stepped out of the cab, barely giving Gus room to pay his fare before they accosted him. Most were looking for jobs, but several had lost enough dignity to simply plead passersby for money or food.
“Hey, hey, take it easy fellas. I’m just a working man!” The crowd slowly dispersed. Although some of them seemed suspicious of his credentials, most just looked disappointed.
There were several calling cards on the front door left behind to signify visitors who had stopped by and received no answer at the door. Glancing over the cards, Gus did not recognize any of the names, and they did not seem to bear any particular marks either, which was fine since he could never quite remember what the various creases or folded corners meant anyway.
Gus looked over the front of the place. The shutters had been left open, but this time of year, that was not too unlikely if the place were left briefly empty. They would only be shut to protect the glass if he expected to be gone through the stormy months of later spring. Studying the windows, however, he noticed the curtains were open in several places.
As a child, Gus had a cousin who had entered service as a footman and had once explained that, as the newest hire, his principal job was to open and close the curtains. A house like this would have expensive furnishings, carpets, paintings, and other pricy knick-knacks that would be gradually discolored if left exposed to the sun. To keep them looking nice, household staff would close the curtains when no one was using the room, so if they were open, then that meant someone was inside making use of the light, even if they weren’t answering the door.
A stroll around the block bought him to a gap between houses that led to a utilitarian alley running behind them. With wrought iron or wooden fences creating a small private space behind each, the alley was barely big enough for a single cart but served as passage for servants and deliveries less suited to the more elegant front entrances. Ducking down that alley, Gus wandered along the back side of the wealthy residences.
He smiled and tipped his hat in response to the suspicious glare from a man shaking out a heavy rug behind one of the neighboring houses. Maids and footmen moved about on various tasks, but most dismissed him from their attention after a brief glance. No doubt enterprising beggars out front made occasional attempts to storm these palaces from the back entrance, but Gus’s carefully nondescript attire set him apart from those wretches, if not quite so high as the folk who lived here.
From the back, Saucier’s home was much like the others. An unpainted wooden fence surrounded the back area and divided it off from the neighbors at eye level, but it was low enough for Gus to peek over with a little effort. An amusing statue of a goblin wearing livery was set out by Saucier’s gate, holding a small metal dish that had apparently been appropriated as an ash tray.
It was clear the sculptor had never actually seen a goblin in person; the broad mouth and high-set eyes were accurate enough, but the body was proportioned like a child rather than having the broad-shouldered, long-armed silhouette Gus had grown accustomed to shooting at during his army days. Although stories of gobs stealing children’s clothes had made it back to Verinde, few people here ever had the ridiculous sight of how poorly they fit.
What appeared to be most of Saucier’s household staff, if not all of them, were gathered in the fenced-in yard behind the house. The five of them had a small table and six chairs that set back from the door and likely served as a place for them to take their meals. In the absence of other duties, it appeared to have become where they whiled away the hours in their master’s absence.
As he approached, a plump young woman—Gus guessed by her apron that she worked in the kitchen—stepped beyond the fence with an unlit cigarette between her fingers. She was many years his junior and, if she took him for some hobbling vagrant, would no doubt call on her fellows to chase him off with a broom. He could be charming when seated or leaning, but women had no interest in flirting with a cripple.
Fortunately, she’d already given him an opening; cigarettes were usually considered an unsuitable pastime for the fairer sex, and over the years, Gus had found that nothing won over a young woman like supportive acceptance of her bad habits. Stiffening to hide his limp, Gus strolled towards her and fished in his pocket to produce a match.
He lit the match and held it forwards, and true to form, she smiled at him and extended her cigarette to allow him to light it. As he did, she said, “Not seen you before. You new? You’re not just back here looking for work, are you?”
With a surge of relief that she had not seemed to notice his limp, Gus grinned and shook his head, saying, “No, no. Got a job. That’s how I pay for all these matches.” That earned him a laugh, and he briefly considered trying to arrange some sort of rendezvous, but a younger woman, particularly already gainfully in service, would expect someone with a better position even if he weren’t injured and, worse, formerly a soldier. Still, it was nice to be smiled at, even if it was just for the moment.
He gestured to the house and said, “I’m supposed to talk with your boss, actually, but they haven’t seen him at his office, and it doesn’t look like he’s been home for a while. Since the house is still open, I’m surprised you’re not taking in the cards.”
The cook rolled her eyes and then blew out a long plume of smoke before she replied, “Been gone for weeks now. The bell kept ringing, so we put a few cards out on the door so people don’t think he’s home yet.”
Over her shoulder, a well-dressed man who was likely the household’s manager loomed quietly just beyond the gate as if worried whom she might be talking with. Ignoring him for the moment, Gus asked, “He left the house open with no one home at all? Wife? Children?” He was about to keep going down the list of potential cohabitants, but the cook interrupted him with a derisive snort.
“Fat chance of those!” She giggled at the idea, which told him quite a bit about Mister Saucier. Gus chuckled as well, quite ready to play the amiable confidant, but that exchange seemed to be enough to incur the attention of the household’s manager. The well-dressed man pressed his way out of the gate and positioned himself de
fensively between Gus and his employee.
“And who might you be, sir?” asked the newcomer in an imperious tone. His arched brow and turned-up nose pronounced quite clearly that he knew this stranger was up to no good and that he would brook none of it. Proper guests came to the front door, after all.
Mirroring the tone with a stiff professionalism of his own, an old army trick Gus had kept well practiced over the years, he replied, “I am Gus Baston, and I am investigating the disappearance of Mister Saucier. You will need to surrender to me any information you have on his whereabouts.”
The manager tensed ready to fight this intrusion of his master’s privacy, but Gus’s tone and phrasing made him hesitate. Instead of demanding Gus’s departure, the man nervously asked, “Are you with the Crossing?”
Gus gave an exasperated sigh, glancing at the cook as if sharing his frustration at her boss’s stupidity. As expected, she was quite happy to see her manager derided by a supposed authority figure and tittered in amusement, which made the manager glare at her until she stifled her laugh and feigned a properly abashed expression.
With a stern frown, Gus said, “He’s been gone for weeks. Has he sent any money for expenses and wages since his departure? If you’re aware of any hints as to his location and conceal it from an official investigation—”
“No, no, we’d never do that,” the man held up his hands in submission to Gus but then hissed back at the cook, “Get back to work. The staff meal will be soon!”
The young woman rolled her eyes behind his back, but she stubbed out her cigarette in the goblin’s tray and pocketed the remainder of it. Gus gave her a saucy wink, and she giggled again before heading inside.
Once the cook was out of earshot, the manager sighed, looked down at the goblin statue, and said, “I hate that thing. Mister Saucier does too, but it was an ill-conceived gift from his mother, so he won’t just throw it out. Instead, he put it back here, and now I must deal with it, and it just encourages them to smoke.”
