Down Among the Deadmen

10.

2010-05-17T00:01:00.003-04:00

     In the flat above the Dog & Pony, Geoffrey Tadic thumbed through the pamphlets from today's printing. Only a few had minor imperfections and none needed be rejected outright. Good. He could deliver them to his distributors that evening and by the next all of Azerna would be papered with the Working Body's Manifesto: those of the Working Body were concerned with the underprivileged who lacked the law's protection from dangerous working conditions, unfair recompense and other labor abuses – here calling for fair and ethical treatment of working animals. A load of tosh. Geoff smirked, scanning the Working Body's demands. Especially when there were whole families starving despite working constantly for a few firth, and children with their feet wrapped in rags running messages for a note. And here were these fools concerned with taxi cab horses. But they paid.
     After Xan's little overreaction the other day, Geoff made a point of taking on paying clients and telling Xan about every single one, in great detail. Xan was not the only one who contributed toward the rent. And he'd better acknowledge that soon, so Geoff could get back to important work, like publishing volumes of poetry and first serials. All of these pretentious political works were drab and polluted the good name of the press. Any day now, one of his intellectual offerings would take off, Geoff was sure. He was a purist, interested in acclaim rather than money. And Xan made enough with his works and repairs. They did alright, really.
     So long as Xan didn't take it into his head to throw the press out. Geoff'd never find another place for so little coin, and certainly not one with such space. The press needed space for manuscripts – those accepted, rejected and those in literary limbo, for the machine itself – and it was no pocket-sized works, for the work area at which longer publications were assembled. The press took up almost half the room which Xan and Geoff shared.
     Their beds, mattresses thrown into opposite corners, and dressers for their clothing and personal possessions took up only a modicum of the area. Xan's work table, although neat and expansive, still only partially lined one wall. The kitchen, used on days they didn't make use of the Dog & Pony arrangement, consisted of another table set under the windows. There they housed a small gas burner, a basin acting as a makeshift sink, a pitcher, a loaf of bread, some fruit and other foodstuffs. What little crockery they had was stored in cabinets underneath, if it didn't dirtily clutter up the washing up area around the sink.
     Most of the walls were lined to the ceiling with shelves. Xan kept his neatly stacked with mechanical manuals – some of which he had written himself, and Geoff had printed for him – boxes upon boxes of tools and spare parts, and the occasional works in various states of completion, in which Xan seemed to have lost interest and tossed on the shelf as bookends. Geoff's shelves' contents consisted of books, books and more books – most of them from the press, or from the presses of his literary associates. The kitchen shelves held some teas and basic non-perishable ingredients.
     There was very little privacy, but Xan didn't seem to mind. Nor did the girls Geoff brought up from the Dog & Pony. Xan spent much of the time he wasn't working or sleeping elsewhere, which suited Geoff perfectly.
     This was reflected in the arrangement of the flat, or his annexation of it. Aside from the sheer expanse of the press and its necessary amenities, he had appropriated much of the floor which he'd strewn with folders. He carefully counted fifty pamphlets, before sliding the stack into the envelope and pinning the flap closed. Twenty such envelopes lay around him, only a quarter of them full and a thick stack of papers beside him. Geoff was happily stuffing the folders, humming to himself as he shifted the paper between his fingers.
     Each envelope was inscribed with only one word. Some were obviously names, but others – like Bully or Chartreuse – more abstracted from proper nomen so that one might wonder as to the aspect of those taking charge these envelopes and their contents.
     A knock at the door upset Geoff's leisurely activities. He swore. "Come in damnit. You're early, Chartreuse. I said half past."
     "Excuse me?" The door swung open to reveal a politely puzzled gentleman; he had not been addressed as anything other than the name with which his parents had christened him since school, and then his schoolmates had dubbed him, not 'Chartreuse', but 'Vicar'. Still he attempted to regain his footing in the conversation. "Are you Mr. Tadic?"
     "O drat. Yes. I'm sorry, Mr. –?" Geoff stood hastily and brushed his trousers down to neaten his usually bohemian appearance.
     "I am Mr. Russell Parsons,"said the gentleman in the doorway. "I believe we have been corresponding as to a certain matter for some weeks."
     Geoffrey Tadic smiled with sudden understanding. "Do come in Parsons," he said, and ushered the visitor in with a sweeping gesture. "I'm afraid, as you can see, accommodations are a bit lacking in the coach and footman department. No matter. Hang your hat where you like and pull up a chair. I was thinking of starting a fresh pot of coffee. Would you care to join me?"
     "Thank you." Parsons set his hat in an empty niche left on one of the shelves as the books had toppled at some time in the past and never righted. His coat he abandoned over the back of a chair. "Pleasure to finally meet you. " He held out his hand.
     Geoff shook it carelessly. "Sorry about all that earlier. Was expecting some one. Still am in about a quarter of an hour. Specializes is distribution of information."
     "Should I come back?" Parsons asked, suddenly concerned.
     "Not at all. Chartreuse is discrete. And if you're shy you can hide in the lav." He waved vaguely toward the door in the flat that the gentleman had not entered through.
     "Excuse me? I can what?"
     "Hide in the lav. It's not very spacious, but I can guarantee that Chartreuse won't be visiting that area of the flat."
     "No that's quite all right. I have no issue with meeting this Chartreuse personage. He's a – what a courier– for you?"
     Geoff laughed. "Something like that, yes." He shuffled some papers before shoving his piles of envelopes to one side. "But please, sit. Parsons. There was something you wished to discuss with me.
     "Well I'd like you to publish something, obviously, Tadic. I believe we've been in communication for several weeks. Don't tell me you've forgotten. Or do you have someone else to see to your correspondence?"
     "What? Oh no. But there are so many projects, don't you know?" Geoff winked. It wouldn't do to appear forgetful in front of the client. In truth his little press was none too occupied; rather it was his tab at the Dog & Pony. And the entourage of ladies who longed to appear bohemian.
     "The poetry volume: The Brittle Season."
     "Ah, yes. The Brittle Season, of course. Brilliant new work. You're here to drop off the manuscript, I take it."
     "I am."
     "And I shall, for a modest fee, publish a five hundred print run of these verses. To be delivered in two weeks time. Half of the payment now, half of the payment upon the receipt of the books is my usual standard, but I believe that you qualified for the special offer I extend to artists of certain quality and means, and as such will be paying accordingly."
     "Those were the terms we had come to agree on, yes."
     "Well then, my dear sir, hand it over. Don't be shy."
     "Yes. Of course." Parsons said, a bit dazed by the romp their conversation had taken to reach this natural conclusion. He drew a slim parcel from his inner vest pocket and held it out to Geoff. "Here it is," he said.
     "This is it?" Geoff undid the knotted twine and unfolded the papers. "There are only three poems, here," he said, scanning the few pages in his hand. "Where are the rest?"
     Russell Parsons looked discomfited. "I threw them out."
     "You threw them out?" Geoff turned apoplectic. "Why would you throw them out?"
     "Well. Er. They were no good."
     "I can't publish three poems as a volume. Don't be absurd."
     "Whyever not? Lay out the pages. It can't be more than seven altogether."
     "I'd be a laughing stock. You want me to print three poems? It wouldn't be worth the ink and paper. You have to give me more than this."
     "I didn't think you'd care, honestly," Parsons said, his expression grown lofty. "Don't you charge a fee to print whatever I bring you? I can bring you what I like."
     Geoff stood. "I have a reputation, sir. I promised printing of your work based on the original poems sent me as example. Poems," he said glancing over the work in his hand, "which I see did not make it through your extensive selection process. This is not the work we agreed upon. Come back when you've regained your senses and your poetry." He dropped the manuscript into Parson's lap. "Good day, sir. I trust you remember the door."
     Whether Russell Parsons remembered the door in question, a sturdy construction with a respectable coat of paint, was rendered moot as the thing swung open and the threshold crossed not at all timidly by a young woman: pretty, decently clothed although her choice of head covering sided on the scandalous. Rather than a hat or bonnet, the girl's was wrapped in scarf of the most violent shade of green.
     "Ah, Chartreuse!" Geoffrey brightened instantly.
     "'Ello, Geoff," she crowed. "Where's me paperings?"
     "Oh damn and blast!" His cheery countanence withered. "This dribbler's gone and distracted me from the most important business of preparing your packages, Charry!" He glared at Parsons disparagingly.
     "Oo's this then?" Charry proffered a speculative glance Parsons's way.
     "A no account scribbler, come to waste me time. Pay him no mind." Geoff aped her accent with jovial ease. Chartreuse laughed. It was an old joke between them.
     Russell had been staring in aghast confusion from the moment the door had intruded upon his conversation. Finally he managed to form some of it into words."This is Chartreuse?"
     Geoff winked. "Bit slow, inne? Told you Charry."
     "At your service," The girl dropped a curtsy.
     "But," Parsons had trouble voicing his dismay, "but she's a woman!"
     "Observant, I'll give 'im that." Geoff continued. "Can't fool this one Charry. Not in that get up."
     "You employ a female as a courier?"
     "Should he not?" Chartreuse asked. Her expression grew hard.
     "He may do as he chooses," Russell said.
     "But you would not." Chartreuse asserted. "Any particular reason why you dismiss the notion so?"
     "It is not to my taste; I'm sure you understand."
     "I'm sure I do." Chartreuse snorted. "I see what you mean Geoff. He hasn't a mind to attend to. So, me paperings?"
     "Give us a second, Charry," Geoff said. He quickly counted out some of the pamphlets still on the floor. After scooping them into folders, he sealed and labeled them and handed almost half of his original pile to Chartreuse. "Here they are. There should be summat for all of the usuals."
     "Lovely, Geoff." Charry took the stack and glanced through the folders. "No one too hard to track down I see. So I'll see you this evenin' then?"
     "You know where to find me," Geoff said with a wide grin.
     "You're nothing if not predictable." Charry laughed, laying her hand lightly on his arm for one brief moment. A brilliant image of joyfulness. Then she was out the door.
     Russell stood, his manner all cold politeness. "It seems that we disagree on some basic fundamentals. I should go. I regret that I must seek publication with another party.
     Well I don't," Geoff said, not bothering to mirror his guest's correctness. "I wouldn't print your pages unless you came back with a proper bit of stuff. I'm not one to make my own house a fool for your pride. And if you did manage to bring me something worthwhile, I would distribute it in the manner I see fit, using any and all personages in my employ that I so desire. I find your assumptions tiresome. Certainly, find another means of circulating your meager verses. I'm sure you'll find someone who will satisfy. Might I suggest Mr. Charles Stephens of the Blank Press? You'll find his shop on the Claret near Beggar's Bridge. He may be more to your liking."
     Parsons's dismay flickered only briefly, but it was enough to break his frozen calm. "Stephens? I've heard of Stephens."
     "He will publish your ten pages, as you wish. And he employs no women. He is scrupulously correct in his work and allows few printing blunders to escape his shop."
     "But I should not like my name attached to his press. I've heard it said that he produces dull work."
     "Indeed, sir."
     Parsons floundered. "I should like, well. I should like, sir, to be published by a press well regarded in my circle. You, I hear, are the best. I was quite thrilled to be working with you."
     "As I said, sir: if you wish me to accept your work, you must come to terms with the way I run my business. And I will not compromise my standards for the likes of you. You cannot have it both ways. You may be published as you like by someone you regard ill or you may be published by someone you regard, but at a cost to your particularities of character."
     "As you have said, sir."
     "You needn't make a decision this moment, Parsons." Geoff took a kindlier tone. The struggle was obviously telling on the man. "Get good and drunk to think on it first. I often find that helps."
     "Oh. Um." Parsons coughed.
     "You may contact me within the week. By post or in person, as you know where to find me, and I'm not likely to disappear."
     "Ah, yes. Thank you. I shall think on it."
     "Good day, Parsons."
     "Good day, Tadic."
     Russell Parsons collected his things. He carefully tucked his thin manuscript into his breast pocket before donning his jacket. Once impeccably attired, he retrieved his hat and with a little nod followed Chartreuse's example and fled.
     Geoff laughed and settled back into sorting pamphlets into envelopes. He was expecting another distributor within the hour.

9.

2010-04-19T00:01:00.003-04:00

     That night, alone in her bedroom, Caroline Avery examined the promise she had made to Great-Aunt Mildred. The silver chain still hung around her neck and from it dangled a pendant: precious metals entwined in a tangle, each twisted loop interlocking, but falling without shape against her chest as she let it drop. It gleamed in the candlelight: brass, copper, sliver and gold rings shining brilliantly against the soft white lace of her nightgown.
     Caroline didn't understand. Her aunt had said that she was to keep it safe, and made her promise to never take it off – but to what end? How could she, Caroline, keep it safe and from whom? Who, she wondered, was looking for it? And what did it do? What did it all mean?
     Perhaps Great-Aunt Mildred was simply ill, as Mother had said. Still, she had been so insistent, demanding that Caroline be left alone with her before the necklace was conferred and the vow extracted, making her swear to keep the secret hidden. It certainly was a puzzle. Playing idly with metal loops, Caroline reasoned that her promise would come to nothing. And if so, it would be all the easier to keep. She slid the pendent under the neckline of her nightgown and did up the top two buttons, so that the necklace was completely out of sight.
     Caroline leaned over to blow out the candle, letting the darkness overtake her little room. Of course, the streetlight outside her window still shone through the curtains and crept faintly across the floor. She stared at the encroaching parallelogram of light and the whispering movement of the curtains and contemplated the strangeness of the past few days. It seemed to her that she had been able to do little else since they'd occurred.
     Alone in her bedroom, in the darkness, the gentle heaviness of the jumbled metal loops resting on her sternum was oddly reassuring. Caroline felt an easy warmth spread through her body as the pendant rose and fell with every breath – each soft swell bringing an unforeseen restfulness. As sleep stole quietly through her eyelids to dim her consciousness, Caroline was not at all troubled by the strange deathbed promise she'd given to Great-Aunt Mildred, nor the mysterious present that seemed a charge rather than a gift.

8.

2010-04-05T00:01:00.008-04:00

     Kitty stared at the documents she'd thieved, assessing the paper quality and the fineness of the hand, and wishing like spit that she could decipher it. Being an unlettered, unregistered unruhe had its occasional disadvantages. Still, she found the writing to be graceful yet surprisingly devoid of ornament, and the schematics were clear enough. She traced the line o f a spring as though she could reason out the meaning of the machine through a kind of tactile osmosis. Not that Kitty could ever begin assemblage, nor comprehend what the device could possibly do once constructed, but the images appeared well drafted: clean and precise. The paper was thick and soft – and unsoiled, or had been until her thorough examination. There was great wealth written in these pages, of that she was certain. If she were able to read, this dreadful mistake might have been mitigated, a laughable misunderstanding. For Deadmen do laugh.
     But as matters stood, Kitty could not avoid this foreseeably unpleasant existence. With a modicum of regret, she folded away the plans. She was still ensconced in her haunt in the upper clerestory of Kilford Station; she'd dared not descend into the crowds for the Taker must surely be hunting her. He'd have noticed his missing billfold by now, she reasoned. So she was as good as dead. With no recourse, with no sanctuary, she was trapped above the station. She'd've had to scatter moments after the discovery of her mistake if she'd any hope of seeking the shelter of the Tiere. They would not welcome this burden. Kitty considered herself well and truly severed, as one would cut off an infected limb.
     Oh they would grieve – Corva perhaps the least, despite the blood between them; Corva had always been practical. – But Kitty would not consider bringing her dangers upon them. Even if she dared in desperation to seek out her sister, she would be a ghost in Corva's eyes. No, she must suffer her trespasses alone.
     Only now conscious of tears threatening to dampen and stain her dress and create incongruous, light smudges on her veil of anonymity; threatening to mark her as someone to whom life had taken an interest in subjecting to its smallest indignities, Kitty stifled the sobs; for she would not allow pity and desperation to reduce her very self, in all thought and action, to her immediate, though dire, circumstances. Kitty slowly uncurled, commanding her muscles individually to relax before allowing herself to stand. She tucked the purloined wallet into her most intimate garments, not daring to leave it secreted in the metal box hidden under a particularly large rock in one of unnumbered, unremarkable rubble mounds scattered between the ceilings of Kilford. She had to find a better hiding place; but first, her stomach gently insisted, she had to eat.
     Kitty carefully made her way below, invisible to the masses eddying and swirling through the station. They moved beneath her, alone and oblivious to their solitude, as one mistakes company in a crowd of unknown, unnoticed strangers. All of these people, Kitty marveled, acting merely as decoration for the individual’s hurried commute, each anonymous as the drops of rain spattering in an unsteady staccato against the leaded glass panes, so intent on their own destinations that they hadn’t spare enough mind to perceive the person next to them, and certainly not the slight, grubby girl scurrying through places they had no notion to think she’d even be. It still surprised Kitty, the things people didn’t see.
     Her descent lead through doors marked “Restricted Access” and “Authorized Personnel Only”, down straight ladders affixed to walls and masked by columns, and twisting staircases hidden in the gaps between the interior and the exterior of Kilford Station’s heavy cut stone face, until she slipped in with the ‘Habitants on their ways in their worlds. As one of the many, Kitty left Kilford and lost herself in the shadow-clothed back-alleys of respectability. It was time to become someone else for a while.

7.

2010-03-15T00:01:00.002-04:00

     The Dormitories weren't the most glamorous neighborhood of boarding houses, but the rooms were clean enough and the ceilings didn't leak too badly. And Corva had an arrangement with the publican of this particular establishment – a Mr. Dowelling, who kept several buildings including The Bitter Maid. For a reduced fee, her unruhe made regular use of one of the larger rooms; Corva paid in coin or trade based circumstantially on her financial situation and his mood. Tonight most of the Tiere were bunking in. Ducks, suddenly shy, clung to Corva's skirts with his good arm. The other was in a sling and bound tightly to his chest.
     "What's this now?" asked an attractive boy, who looked to be venturing sweetly toward manhood. He sat on one of the beds next to a girl with remarkably similar features. He had been plaiting her hair, but paused when he'd noticed the new arrival.
     "I've brought another one for you to mother, Hen," Corva said, pushing Ducks forward so that the rest of the Tiere could appraise him.
     "What good is he?" asked the girl whose chestnut hair Hen had his fingers in.
     "He survived a run in with a Taker, Henne. Nicked something off him too. "
     Another of the unruhe whistled appreciatively. Corva withdrew the blue fabric from her bodice. All eyes went wide.
     "Where's Kitty?" Hen asked. Corva blanched.
     "She didn't show."
     "Corva, is she–? Did he–?"
     "She didn't show."
     "You didn't say she were to meet a Taker, Corva." Henne said, her green eyes bright.
     "There was no need," Corva said sharply. "No more about this now. Everyone say hello to Ducks." She placed a hand on his shoulder as he tried to squirm away from view. "Those two are Hen and Henne," she said, pointing out the pair on the bed. They looked a matched set with their heart shaped faces and delicate features. Hen smiled kindly at the young boy, who just burrowed further into Corva's skirts.
     "They aren't even sibs, though they could pass for twins," Corva explained.
     "Lucky for us," Hen said. Ducks was baffled by this statement,
     "Makes us more 'spensive," said Henne as though this clarified things.
     Corva ruffled Ducks hair. "People will pay for the pair of 'em, thinkin' they're gettin' more. Henne and Hen could be türen one day. Could've already been if they'd've left our little family. Specialty tastes, Ducky," she said.
     His expression was all confusion, still. Corva laughed sweetly. Such innocence! "Never you mind, Ducky. Someone will explain it all when you're older."
     The brutish body skulking in the corner gave a laugh that was more of a smirk – a short vicious explosion of mirth. Ducks drew back. He'd known that sort, all over muscles and a hard taste for cruelty.
     "Oh behave, Ducky," Corva said and she ushered him forward. "It's only Kurr. And he won't touch a hair on your head. Will you Kurr?"
     "Whatever you say, Corva." The reply came as a soft growl.
     "He's a good lad really, Ducky. Looks after them as needs it." Corva said as she tenderly stroked the boy's hair. "But that's Ratter. Knows a lot of chappies does our Ratter."
     The small shabby figure on one of the thin pallets littering the room looked up from his pile of ragged clutter – old boots; broken toys; articles of clothing, every one in need of mending. Each object had obviously been once fine but in disrepair for some time. A cracked pocket watch, its casing dented and battered, dangled from a snapped chain clutched in the boy's fingers. He offered a brief nod to the newcomer.
     Ratter did not appear much older than Ducks nor were their circumstances markedly at variance, but the difference between the boys was immeasurable. Already Ratter's expression was sharp and closed. His squint eyes glittered with a shrewd understanding of the world and his place in it. He conveyed himself with the seriousness of one cusping adolescence. Ratter had ambitions. Whereas Duck's main advantage was his seeming innocence. His wide eyes lit with a disarming sweetness, his cheeks appeared overly full despite the gauntness of his frame, and his fragile features made one yearn to swaddle the child and protect him from his lot. In short, he looked a bit like a cherub who had fallen into a coal bin. He stared, wide-eyed, at the gathering of souls, each so varied and distinct, and yet not at odds with the disparity, rather like Ratter's fine trash.
     "And that's the lot of us–"
     "Save Kitty," Kurr said.
     "Save Kitty," Corva amended.
     "D'ya think–?" Hen began.
     "I think that wench can take care of herself. Be the delight of her to have us lose our heads. Now, who pulled today?"
     The talk in the room turned to business.
     "D'ya think Kitty met her Taker?" Hen whispered into his partner's hair.
     "I think Corva's right, Hen," Henne said. "Kitty can take care of herself.

6.

2008-07-07T03:01:00.000-04:00

     Xan pulled Geoff away from his companions. With one hand on his collar, Xan threw him through the pub's side door and shoved him into the hallway.
     "You slagging hurensohn. You utter, utter bastard," he shouted, his face inches away from Geoff's.
     "What the spit, Xan?" Geoff pushed him away.
     Xan pushed him back against the wall, hard. "What the spit -? There was a Deadman in the pub, Geoff. Talking to me. What the fuck did you do?"
     "Me? What makes you think I -?"
     "This isn't funny, Geoffrey."
     "Xan, you're wasting your time, fixing watches for rich toppers and the like. When you can make things like the Viertel - and what about those glass clocks? By rights those things should have shattered. So when someone - not a Taker, mind - but someone asked me if I knew a maker worth his salt, I might've passed your name along. I was doing you a favor, Xan. I was doing us a favor."
     "Yeah, well I can do without that kind of favor. Those pocket watches pay the rent. We eat alright. It's not like we could live off of the press. How many pamphlets did you print for free this month, Geoff? And when was the last time you sold a book, eh?"
     "Leave off, Xan." Geoff shoved past him into the Dog & Pony, back to the bitters and the sympathetic eyes.
     "You'll end up getting us killed, Geoff," Xan said to the wall. He punched it softly before heading down the stair. The whole encounter had left a sour taste in his mouth which put him right off food. Besides, he had a few things he could work on now that Geoff was conveniently distracted by 'The Wonders of the Dog & Pony.' He wouldn't be back home for hours.
     It was cold in the basement and Xan was glad for his jacket. He reached into his pockets and retrieved a pair of thick leather gloves before disappearing behind a row of casks. Almost hidden in the corner, the floor changed from dirt to wood. Xan took a lantern from the shelf on his right. Once lit, it offered a dim resistance to the gloom. He held it close to the floor, searching for the iron ring which served as the trapdoor's handle. Wooden steps led down into a seeming nothingness.
     He quickly descended the rickety construction, built so steep as to seem almost vertical. When the walls turned to brick, he slowed. On his left, situated between two steps, a door hung in the middle of the brick surface. When he turned the handle, the door swung away from him, exposing faint shapes cluttering the space. Xan stepped inside, moving with certainty about the room, he stopped only to light the candles scattered throughout.
     Now cheerfully illuminated, the room proved to be meticulously neat, the crumbling brick lined with shelves stacked hight with books and mechanical baubles. Atop the counters sat instruments made of variously configured lenses, rods, and hinges. Parts of differing sizes had been sorted into tubs which covered an entire will. Jumbles of gears lay spread out amongst the instruments. Xan set the lantern on the central table. He crossed to a metal box which squatted isolated in one corner. Taking a key from the chain under his shirt, Xan undid the padlock securing the box. A vapor of condensation rose as he lifted the lid. From within he took another metal box; this one covered with a thin layer of ice.
     Moving quickly now, Xan retrieved his lantern and made his way out of the lab and farther down the wooden stairs. He navigated a seeming maze of arches and doors as sub-basements connected with boiler rooms and sewer tunnels. Some of the places through which he walked had been abandoned to time, or so claimed the cobwebs and dust. Others were obviously visited regularly and well maintained. His own trail, though traceable through the clean swath left by previous visits, was carefully camouflaged in these more inhabited areas.
     Xan stopped outside a large metal door. Hung on pegs next to the doorway waited several hats, scarves, and coats. He gingerly set down his parcel. After brushing the dampness away from his jacket and further bundling himself against the chill, he pushed open the door with his shoulder, grabbed his box, and darted through. Back to the metal, he shoved the door closed. His breath came away in clouds, and he was glad for the precautionary layers.
     Xan crouched amid one of the rows of gutted carcasses, each hanging from a hook at the end of a long chain, the metal links creaking in the cold. He opened the box; the ice cracked as he threw back the lid. Inside, five smaller boxes nestled against still more ice. He removed them one by one, arranging them in a line on the abattoir's concrete floor.
     From inside of each he lifted interlocking mechanics made completely of ice. He tested the workings of each piece before deftly assembling them. If any part had melted only a little, the works would now fuse together in the cooler temperature and this attempt would have been worthless. The last section contained a single band of rubber interwound with the ice works and an indentation which served as a keyhole. Xan took the chain from around his neck again, inserted the key into the hole, and turned. And turned. And turned. And turned until the band was stretched tight; then he set it loose. The works scuttled across the floor. Its thin, insectile arms waved half a meter above its body, knocking into the surrounding butchered animals on their hooks with such force that the ice splintered. Bodies swung into each other, creating a cacophony of screeching chain and the collision of cold, soft flesh.
     As the inner workings melted under the continual strain of heat and friction, the works lurched and tottered about the floor. It bumped into a nearby stack of wooden boxes, which tore off a limb, snapping it at the joint. The mechanical, hobbled by its lopsided state, slipped on the already melting shards of its components, skidded across the slickness, and careened again into the crates, the impact driving it backwards into a dead pig. The animal spun and arced in a slow circle upon contact, crashing into the flailing ice works as it reached the completion of its rotation. For several minutes, the works teetered at impact upon impact of crates and carcasses, becoming less stable and more frantic with every tick of its gearteeth.
     It tripped over its own wavering mobility components, rolling end over end, coming to rest on what Xan thought of as its back. the crustacean-like legs scuttled impotently, finding no purchase on the air above it. The fury of its death throws slackened as tension in the rubber slowly expended through the chaotic movements. Then it was still.
     The meat still swung noisily in the memory of its agitation. Despite the temperature of the vast space, the ice continued to melt, pooling about itself. Xan repacked his containers and left whistling, his creation slowing melting on the floor.

5.

2008-06-30T03:01:00.001-04:00

     Under bridges, in sub-basements, behind concealed doors in back alleys, inside abandoned water towers, and in the tunnels which connected disparate railway systems - the ones that 'Habitants, while acknowledging their obvious existence, had barely glimpsed from their comfortable compartments aboard the trains and certainly had never ventured into - these places, and others like them, made up the network of seemingly unconnected rooms of which the Tunnel Faire consisted. Here a boy sold watches lifted from dead men. Here a girl sold her virginity for the price of her keep. Here illegal books were bartered for with small treasures deemed unique and beyond common value. Here drugs were traded as frequently as diseases, usually among the same persons. And here the giant amidst businessmen, the being whose single vision had built Azerna into it's current shape, whose personal wealth was staggering, and whose morality was firmly questionable, met with the shadows of men.
     Rothechild sat at a circular table situated in the exact center of a storm cellar connected with a grocery. Piled in the corners, mushrooms and potatoes threatened to roll underfoot of those gathered. The singular lantern provided little enough light to see by.
     "We have a problem, gentlemen. Our operative was not properly greeted. He made contact with young Mister Murdock, but in doing so has attracted the attentions of less reputable members of society as well as his confederates. He has, in short, been robbed. Now that sensitive information, for which I have invested large sums of money, is in circulation. This is not acceptable, gentlemen. I imagine it will surface at the Faire within a few day's time. I expect the documents to be back in the hands of our operative by the end of the week, and any subsequent copies to be destroyed. Then, and only then gentlemen, may we turn our attentions to the parties who have failed us. Is that understood?"
     There was a muttered agreement from around the table.
     "We will be the first to possess a working prototype, gentlemen. That is all."
     And one by one they left the cellar, cramped with mouldering vegetables, to disappear into the Faire, leaving Rothechild alone with his single lantern and the dark.
     "Do you really think you can contain this sort of technology?" asked a voice from the general direction of the potatoes.
     "Of course not," Rothechild replied. "But the child is not to be harmed. When the time comes, I want her brought to me intact. Go back to the Tiere whore and attempt to salvage the situation. This should reassure her."
     The small case hit the table with an audible clunk. Rothechild made his way steadily up the dirt packed stairs, taking the lantern with him.

4.

2008-06-23T09:35:00.004-04:00

     Great-Auntie Mildred was dead, Roger Avery knew. That was why they were here - in the Taker's parlour. He shifted uncomfortably in his new black jacket, pulling at the sleeves. His sister laid a hand on his and discretely returned it to his side. Caroline was supposed to be minding him while Mother and Father made arrangements with the Takers concerning Great-Auntie Mildred's body, and she took the charge seriously. She was forever bidding him be quiet and still.
     The Taker was an austere man with a thin, sallow face and an imposing nose. He wore his hair short and his collar low to display the registry tattoo behind his left ear, a crest the size of a sterling done in faded red and purple, and resting atop it, the skull which signified his position. Roger stared. His own ink - the barest outline of a sea bird in flight was impressive only in its delicate clarity.
     Then Mister Richards began showing Mother and Father coffins. Roger could no longer see the man's registry and so fell into contemplation about something else entirely. The gaslight candelabras reflected in the shine of his shoes, He turned his head to watch the glimmer shift over the convex curve of his toe. Caroline pinched him. Roger sighed. He'd thought the parlour would've been full of dead bodies and cupboards crammed with deadly poisons. Not to mention the weaponry, which should have, in Roger's opinion, decorated the walls. Instead it was all thick curtains and wood and brass. Thin, sallow windows let in almost no light, so the candelabras had to be lit mid-afternoon. There was not a cupboard or weapon to be seen, and all the coffins were empty. Roger was in actuality rather glad that there weren't dead people everywhere, but he would never say so.
     He fidgeted a trifle spitefully. Caroline shushed him primly again, then returned to her pose. She sat with her hands in her lap and her ankles crossed; her eyes gazed daintily at the floor. She looked the picture of a respectful and respectable griever in her black crepe. Roger had seen her practicing the image in her mirror at home.
     He twitched his shoulders in an attempt to settle his coat. It only earned him a reproving glance and still the thing would not lie tolerably against his body. It was his first mourning suit and had been made only just too big. Roger wondered if any of his other relatives were expected to die in the near future. Great-Auntie Mildred had been a distant relation, for whose death custom required the family to mourn one month. Roger thought wearing uncomfortable clothing a poor way to honor his great-aunt's memory.
     Caroline glanced up to meet his eye; in her look was a warning, but it also held a degree of commiseration. Despite the act she put on, Caroline dreaded the visit to the Taker's parlour as much as he, although for very different reasons. Caroline disliked death. It was the smell.
     Great-Auntie Mildred's house had smelled of menthol, ointments, and cloying rot. Caroline, who had with her mother spent many hours in her great-aunt's sickroom, had found it suffocating. But worse was the way the scents had changed after Great-Auntie Mildred's passing. Caroline had expected them to linger and compound in a sickeningly sweet manifestation of loss, but instead they had dissipated all too quickly. Only the faintest subtle miasma remained in her great-aunt's room. It seemed to Caroline that the house, having been in Mildred's care for longer than even Mother and Father could remember, was all too eager to shed the remnants of its possessor. And now they were here to choose a box into which they could place her great-aunts body so as to continue the process of forgetting her. Caroline found it cruel.
     The same odor of absence permeated the Taker's parlour As if everything within was tainted with talcum and faint mildew. It clung to her clothes and hair so that Caroline felt death stifled every inhalation and would not let her ignore this small tragedy. She longed to wash it off of her person.
     Mother was crying into her lace handkerchief; she had been particularly attached to Great-Auntie Mildred. Father put his arm around her shoulders. Roger tugged at his coat sleeves. Caroline took him onto her lap and rested her chin on his head. "Not much longer now," she whispered. "Please behave, Roger."
     Mister Richards made an obsequious gesture of comfort to Mrs. Avery. She stifled her tears, spoke gently to her husband, then collected the children, leaving everything in Mr. Avery's capable hands. They took an omnibus to Felicity-on-Claret and then walked the cobble streets which narrowed and grew quieter as they neared their destination. Copperplate House stood at the end of a cul-de-sac snug between its neighbors. The stone wall surrounding it had weathered with the years and no longer posed as a true barrier between one garden and the next. The wrought iron gate, however, appeared to be a recent addition, turning smoothly on its hinges as the family walked through. The latch clicked softly behind them. The house itself was tall and narrow, a three story brick construction with copper colored shutters on the windows. The front door featured a leaded glass design. The front garden bespoke elegance with minimal care. Flowers lined the walk; a singular pear tree had grown up next to wall. It was unremarkably middle class.
     Upon arriving, Roger went to the nursery, Caroline to her bath, and Mrs. Avery to the basement to see about the tea. Cook was, as ever, in the kitchen stolidly awaiting instructions. Mrs. Avery mentally devised an adequate menu. And checking Cook's boiler to ensure that she'd enough fuel for the meal, Mrs. Avery pressed the buttons for watercress sandwiches, tea cakes, and Ishtan Jubilants, which Roger adored, but she put the kettle on herself because, despite Cook's abilities, Mrs. Avery did not trust her to make a drinkable pot of tea. Oh her husband could declaim the merits of metallic servants, but she was never completely comfortable around all the buttons and spindly arms which jerked and twitched under unseen pressures. She missed Clara, the human who had been both cook and housekeeper for her family from the time Mrs. Avery was a small girl.
     Mr. Avery was enamored with works, useful considering his line of business; she still found it disconcerting. She supposed it was a matter of that to which one had become accustomed. Her husband understood the quiet sophistication of a works for every task, but she preferred flesh domestics. Aside from the mark of status they conferred, one could row with the live ones most satisfactorily when one felt the need. The machines either worked or didn't with no regard for one's feelings. However, much as Mr. Avery would have liked to cater to his wife's preferences, they simply couldn't afford to house, feed, clothe, and pay the help.
     Mrs. Avery had made what her peers acknowledged to be a bad marriage, or certainly a poor one. She had been an In-Law by birth. Her mother sat on the boards of various charitable committees until health began to fail; her father still sits on the Upper collegiate of the Institute. Her elder brothers were first an extravagant wastrel, second a professor of letters, and the third was studying to take robes. Mr. Avery'd had money, but not enough to make him readily desirable. Her circle assumed that she'd married for love and she said nothing to dissuade them, for she did love her husband. But she considered her marriage to him an investment.
     The kettle whistled, interrupting her idle musings. Mrs. Avery made tea. She sent it upstairs in the dumbwaiter and took it into the parlor. A few minutes later, a bell rang to signify that the remainder of tea was waiting for her already in the dumbwaiter. Cook was efficient, she had to admit. After everything was arranged to her liking, Mrs. Avery went upstairs to fetch the children. Caroline was still in the bath.
     When they were all assembled in the parlor, all clothed in their somber black, Mrs. Avery poured them cups and passed around plates for her children to serve themselves. Roger took mostly Jubilants. Mrs. Avery placed a single sandwich on his plate but hadn't the heart to scold him. It was a quiet tea. She didn't expect their father back for hours yet. The calls of condolence would not begin for another week. Roger ate as though he could not escape fast enough. Caroline barely touched her food.
     "Mother, do you think that-"
     "May I please be excused, Mother?" Roger interrupted.
     "Now, Roger," said Mrs. Avery.
     "Please, Mother," Roger said, anxiety spilling form his eyes.
     "If you must," she said and let him go. Roger almost ran into the back garden. Chance's, the puppy's, bark greeted him in a joyful concussion of noise.
     "Mother," Caroline began again, "do you think that Great-Aunt Mildred approved of me?"
     "Oh, darling, of course she did. Why would you ask such a thing?"
     "She was just so, well, peculiar. I couldn't tell. Sometimes it seemed so. But then she would-"
     "She was very ill, Caroline. Now I want you to say no more about it."
     Caroline touched her neck where the silver chain rubbed raw against her bare skin and decided not to tell her mother about the promise she'd made her great-aunt. Mrs. Avery and her daughter finished their meal in silence. From out in the garden, Roger and Chase could be heard playing games that little boys and pups imagine in the autumn dusk.

3.

2008-06-16T11:33:00.000-04:00

     Corva had conveniently forgotten to mention the Taker's mark in the ink of Kitty's contact. The girl was flighty enough - asking rubbishy questions, insisting on her own choice of work. The other Tiere were much more pliant, more easily manageable. Kitty had been trouble since birth. Corva didn't know why she hadn't left her on a church doorstep or abandoned her to the streets as an infant. Only Kitty'd had such a sweet smile. Smart too, even as a kid. Good with her hands. She made a spitting good buzzard too. Brought in a fair bit of capital most days. Kept out of sight of trouble. Oh yes, Kitty was worth something. If only she weren't so damned willful.
     Corva hadn't mentioned his hair color either; called it dark, not red. She was taking a risk with this job. If all went well, an increase in employment by this party was almost a guarantee. If Kitty mucked it up, they'd all be dead. The last think Corva needed was a panic. Best if she kept the details to herself. She paced the half a block across the street from the alley where she'd told Kitty to bring him.
     "Excuse me."
     Corva turned, surveyed her interloper with a professional glance. A boy and his mate. Both barely out of puberty. Round-cheeked, thin-lipped: eager and unsure. Still polite. Too young to have grown into their cruelty. He wouldn't last a quarter of an hour. She had time if only she could convince him that he didn't need a bed.
     She smiled; Corva had a fair smile, she knew. She still had most of her teeth and all of the ones in the front. "Yes?"
     "How much?" he asked in a nervous hush, afraid perhaps that he'd judged her wrong.
     "That depends on what you want," she said, her voice modulating to simultaneously tease and reassure.
     "For this then," he said, growing bolder. He pulled several notes from his pocket. It wasn't much, but still more than Corva had expected.
     "For that, I'll let your little friend watch." She said, "Come with me." Corva led the two boys into the alley beyond, in which she planned to later find Kitty and the Taker. After pocketing the notes, she knelt in front of her current employer. She pulled him out of his trousers, her warm breath stiffening his growing erection.
     She'd been right. He spent himself not long after she'd taken him in her mouth. His eyes shone brightly with excitement and pride. His friend watched with mixed fascination as he re-buttoned his slacks and she spit his seed out onto a rag. She turned to the watcher, "What about you, young man?"
     He looked a bit sick. "N-no. No thank you," he said backing away. "I-I haven't any money."
     "Well then, be off with you," she said, patting her customer's shoulder and giving him a slight shove toward the street.
     I have got to get out of this line of work, Corva thought. Sucking off schoolboys at a fierth a head was hardly a profitable afternoon. If only Kitty would show up with the Deadman. The meeting wasn't strictly part of the agreement, but Corva always liked to know where the money came from, especially when coin was promised. Even with half of the agreed upon amount, Corva could keep the Tiere in lodgings for at least a year, by her reckoning. She could get off the streets, set up a house with velvet curtains and a piano in the sitting room. She would be a Dame, not just a trixter with her tits beginning to drop.
     Kitty was late, the little slag. If she fouled this up, she was dead. You didn't cross the Takers, not if you wanted to wake up breathing. Corva strode the length of the alley, automatically skirting, where possible, the rubbish fouling the ground. She didn't notice them at first. They were only shadows and filth huddling the brickwork. But then a pile of rags whimpered, and she stared until she could differentiate the grey of unwashed skin from the grey of unwashed cloth.
     "My, my. What have we here?" Corva spoke as if gentling a feral creature. Two large brown eyes met hers, "It's Jimmy and Dodger and the rest, Miss. They're dead. 'E killed 'em."
     "Who did?" she asked, not doubting the validity of his statement. The other limp bundles of human clearly lacked the faintest remnants of life. In the case of one, there was little enough of him to approximate any details. She held out her hand to the the little boy. He took it, cradling his other arm to his stomach. His shoulder looked wrong.
     "It was the Deadman. See, Ed said that 'e was just a right topper what got all lost in the back ways. 'Fool enough for 'im,' Dodger said. An' we thought maybe 'e'd 'ave a bit of paper on 'im, Miss - or a coin or two. "E looked the sort. So we jumped 'im, Miss -" here he paused in his narrative to see if an apologetic look would stir her to pity. Rightly assessing that it wouldn't, he continued, "Only, well, he weren't surprised. Knocked Dodger clean cold before 'e could blink. Bashed 'is 'ead in wif a bit o' brick. There was brains everywhere, Miss. All grey jelly like. It was when 'e picked up Li'l Jim that 'e saw 'is ink clear. Shouted to us that 'e was a Deadman and to scatter, but we couldn't, Miss. 'E was too fast an' -"
     Corva stopped him short, "This Deadman, what did he look like? Was there a girl with him?"
     The little boy shrugged, wincing as he did so. "'E looked like a nice suit, Miss. An' I ain't seen no girl. Why, Miss?"
     "Here now, did you happen to notice the color of his pocket-rag?" asked Corva.
     "You mean this, Miss?" He let go of her hand to pull a blue cambric square from the inside of his shirt. "I snatched it orf 'im. Then 'e frew me inna wall. An' I 'eard this pop. An' now my shoulder's gone all funny."
     Corva gently took the fabric from him, already dirtied by his grubby hands. She brushed at a smudgy fingerprint. It was soiled through, but would come clean with a good wash. She neatly folded the fine fabric into a smaller square and, after pressing it briefly to her breast, slipped it into her bodice.
     "'Ey, Miss, that's mine," the boy protested.
     "Hush, Ducky."
     "You know that's funny, Miss. You calling me Ducky an' all. Because ducks 'ave bills, don't they? An' my name's Bill."
     She tousled Bill's hair and took his good hand in hers. "Let's get that shoulder of yours seen to, Ducks."
     Together, they left the alley, Corva leading him through a network of back ways to a Tunnel prof, who knew her. Bill, or Ducks - for she only used the one to refer to him, had unknowingly just joined the Tiere; Corva didn't think he'd mind.

2.

2008-06-08T21:00:00.006-04:00

     The teeth were bent. Again. Xan sighed and plucked the offending gear out with tweezers. He had to wrestle it off of its axle. The works were a mess. Insufferable, pompous Rothers. Thought they could make clockworks more flash if they built the parts out of rare metals. What the sods didn't seem to grasps was that gold, silver, copper, the current choice favorites, were all soft metals, liable to bend under the slightest pressure, especially when the moving parts were as thin and small as clockwork necessitated. Zinc, nickel, and alloys like brass were just as attractive in Xan's opinion and more elegant as they were appropriate to the task at hand, creating sturdy works which required little to maintenance.
     "Oi, Gearhead."
     Xan carefully laid the offending cog on his felt work top before looking up. His roommate's face, grossly magnified, obscured his field of vision. He had forgotten to remove his multi-lense-magnifying spectacles. Something green was stuck between Geoffrey's teeth, Xan couldn't help but notice. He winced. Geoff didn't eat vegetables.
     Xan quickly slid the specially crafted glass circles into their storage position on the frame and swung the locking mechanism into place. He pushed the specs up onto his forehead.
     "What Geoff?"
     "Come down to the pub with me."
     "I'm working, in case you hadn't noticed."
     "Well, stop working and come down for a drink."
     "You go on, Geoff. I'll meet you once I've put this back together." Xan gestured to the pocketwatch, which lay in pieces spread out atop the felt. Geoff snorted his skepticism, but left Xan to his goggles and gears.
     Xan took the little gold cog and put it into one of the many pigeon-hole drawers in his desk, from which several objects - all similarly colored and similarly deformed - glinted. Then he reached into another drawer and withdrew a seemingly identical cog, without the damage to the teeth. It, however, had been molded from an alloy comprised mainly of zinc and aluminum and was only coated in gold. Still it would fool the owner and be less likely to malfunction. Xan slid the gear down the bare axle shaft and pressed it neatly into position. After winding the watch to ensure that all cogs, springs, and sprockets were ticking away properly, he refitted the backing and gave it a bit of a polish. He put the watch in a waiting velvet lined case, in which his business card was already slotted into place.
     Sure that Geoff had already consumed half a cask of bitters, Xan grabbed his coat and headed out, stopping only to remove his glasses upon noticing them in the mirror that hung by the door. He walked downstairs and, after turning left in the hallway, into the Dog & Pony. Geoff was still at the bar, but he had already attracted the attentions of several girls.
     I bet he pays them, Xan thought. He caught Geoff's eye, gave him a perfunctory nod, and slid onto an empty barstool a few feet away.
     The Dog & Pony, aside from being conveniently located beneath the flat, boasted several attractions. Geoff could, and often did, recite the litany of 'The Wonders of the Dog & Pony,' which consisted mostly of young women of questionable moral integrity and good beer. Also, it was in a comfortable sort of state. A mixture of overstuffed armchairs and sturdy wooden barstools cluttered the narrow front of the establishment. The wider rear, past the bar, held clusters of tables set about with chairs generally oriented toward the small stage - barely more than a four by six wooden platform raised a few inches above the floor. Tucked away in a corner was the contraption that kept the back filled most evenings.
     The structure was as tall as a man and encased completely in glass so that all of the workings were visible. A complex system of weights, springs, levers, and sprockets sat in silent anticipation until approached by a person with a viertel note in hand. Several pull stops stuck out through a uniform matrix of bore-hole in the front glass pane, each labeled with a symbol. A corresponding list was hung on the wall next to the machine.
     When one of the knobs was pulled a small octagonal tray slid out at approximately waist height. The viertel was then placed inside and the tray fed back into the glass wall. After a short delay, the works whirred to life, initiating a complicated series of actions which eventually rolled a record onto the victrola, which sat in pride of place at the heart of the machine. A crank unfolded from a side of the box. Once wound and returned to its original position flush with the glass, the music began to play. Amplified by several internal horns, the sound filled the Dog & Pony with surprisingly little distortion. And if that were not wonderment enough, the crank also activated a magic lantern show. Several variations had been contrived, and while there were not as many as records in the Viertel, as the boys in the pub had taken to calling it. Still it certainly provided enough variety to entertain.
     Xan had built the device in an effort to compensate for his and Geoff's - mostly Geoff's - outstanding debts. The cost of construction had been considerable, they had owed far more. Xan had scavenged parts from his considerable collection as well as works in such disrepair that they were thought beyond salvageable by their owners. For the glass - a major expense apart from being the only actually purchased component, he had bartered his services to a window maker for six months.
     In that half a year, he had repaired more works than he'd thought a glazer could possibly maintain. He'd even spent some of that time constructing pendulum-driven wall clocks made entirely of glass. Not very practical, but practicality seem to be inversely equated to cost these days. And they were certainly attractive, before the constant motion of the gears ground the teeth to powder.
     Still.
     Not only had what he and Geoff owed been forgiven, but the two of them now had an open line of credit at the kitchen and the taps, which was supplemented by a share of the proceeds from the device. Free food and drink was another allurement that saw them at the Dog & Pony almost every night.
     From over his shoulder the familiar pop of the Viertel signaled another profitable exchange. "My Darling Billie" this time, it was. Always a favorite. One of the better lantern shows he'd designed too.
     What people don't realize, Xan thought, is that the most impressive mechanics at work weren't the record fetching systems or the shadow play devices, but the workings which received, recognized, and stored payment. Now that was a good piece of machinery.
     It had yet to be fooled by any form of counterfeiting, and Xan was quite proud of it.
     People started applauding the end of the Viertel's routine. Xan smiled to himself and caught the barman's eye. Time to make good use of that arrangement.
     "A pint please, Charlie."
     "And I'll have one of the same," said a voice from behind him. Xan turned on his stool. A gentleman, too fine to patronize the likes of the Dog & Pony stood at his right shoulder. The stranger wouldn't have looked out of place at a private club, but here he was the subject of great curiosity. Sixty eyes banked unabashed stares off of every reflective surface.
     That topper had better watch his wallet, Xan thought, as the man took the seat next to Xan's with a false calm that belied his interest. Xan took a pull from his beer and waited. The gentleman fiddled with the brim of his hat, which he'd placed on the bar top in front of him.
     "Ah, thank you," he said as Charlie set down his glass. Xan still said nothing. The man had a sip of his pint, then cleared his throat, "Um. Am I correct in thinking that you are Alexander Murdock?"
     Xan was momentarily startled. No one had used his registered name since University days.
     "I am, sir."
     "And you claim to have designed that enterprising device?" the man gestured to the Viertel box. Xan grimaced. He said through gritted teeth, "I did design it, sir. And built it."
     "Ah. Yes. No offense meant."
     There was momentary silence as each man drank his beer. Xan hoped that the conversation would prove itself finished, but the topper opened his mouth again.
     "My name is Mr. Swift," he said it as though he hoped Xan would recognize it as a name of some importance. Xan made a noncommittal noise.
     "I have a job that might interest you."
     "Oh?"
     "Yes. Look, would it be alright if we discussed this somewhere a little more private?"
     "What sort of job?" Xan asked.
     "A really big one."
     "How much?"
     "Sir, I'd really prefer-"
     "How much?"
     "I am not at liberty to say, but I can assure that it would be a substantial amount."
     "Of?"
     "Coin, sir. A substantial amount of coin."
     "I'm afraid I'm not interested."
     "Oh, come now, sir. Surely-"
     "Swift was it? Unless your pocket-watch is in disrepair, I think you have the wrong man."
     "At least take my card. In case you change your mind." Swift reached for his wallet in the inside breast pocket of his coat, but it wasn't there. He patted his other pockets in a vain attempt to assure himself of its presence on his person. A foolish self-deception as he wasn't so imbecilic as to have forgotten which had held his purse. Swift cast a quick glance around the bar, running his fingers distractedly through his hair. Xan who had been watching his misfortune with undisguised amusement, started as he caught a momentary glimpse of Swift's registry ink. No, he thought, that man couldn't be -
     "That wretched girl," Swift murmured.
     "What?" asked Xan.
     "I seem to have temporarily misplaced my wallet. I don't suppose you'd be so kind as to..." Swift ended his sentence with an embarrassed half-shrug. Xan sighed and caught Charlie's eye. "Put it on my tab."
     "My thanks," said Swift, taking his hat in his hands and making his way toward the door. Under the soft glow of the recently turned up gaslight, his dark hair shone red. At the threshold he turned, donned his hat, and winked at Xan. Then he was gone.
     Xan drained his pint in a single swallow. He nodded at Charlie. "Same again."
     When the drink arrived, Xan leaned over the bar and hissed, "Spawnspit, Charlie. You've had a Taker in your bar."
     Unperturbed, Charlie said, "What do you suppose he wanted with you?"

1.

2008-06-02T11:30:00.004-04:00

   A billow and hiss of steam obscured her silhouette. With an escaped screech the wheels locked, the engine decelerated in lawful accordance with Nutreonic physics. The 4:54 had arrived.
   Kitty concealed herself in one of the many niches necessitated by the vaulted buttresses and soaring arches of Kilford Station's gothic architecture. This particular alcove provided her a direct view of the entire platform and, as it was near the only exit, the opportunity to appraise every 'Habitant on the train. Other equidistantly spaced recesses had similar vantages, but she had decided long ago that this was the best of all the hidey-holes and had claimed it as her own. It had cost her quite a few bruises - not even being a Tiere from birth granted her undisputed Station real estate. She'd earned the right to ghost, not only here, but at every platform in Kilford as well as several haunts along the Claret and in the outer Dormitories. But she liked the Station best.
   Of course today's ghosting hadn't been of her own choosing, the black under her eye reminded her of that. She fingered the tender swelling gently. Corva had been in a right temper this morning. When Kitty asked why she wasn't buzzing the mark, but meeting up with him, Corva had gone righteous and landed a sweet blow. Making contact on a circling was absolutely against protocol, so Kitty knew that this job was out of the ordinary. She still didn't know why she was playing welcoming committee for some topper; the pain had been answer enough.
   The 'Habitants strolled easily through the maze of doorways and vendors followed by their works, each contemplating his own unfettered journey to the polis. That was another reason Kitty preferred Station jobs - the works. Most often they were porters with flat back and varied numbers of legs. The best quality were self-winders, but she could still spot a few coke run works trundling along, belching black smoke at their masters' ankles. Steam works were strictly disallowed in highly populated public areas, with the obvious exception of trains and other large public service machines, due to the possibility of scalding - or worse a boiler explosion.
   A body could tell a lot about a 'Habitant by their works, or Kitty certainly could. Take that topper in the fancy cloth, for one. An inexperienced buzzard might think him an In-Law due to the shine, especially if they didn't notice that his porter was an old coke-works. Real In-Laws employed flesh-works - a throwback mark of status, being able to afford people rather than the more efficient, less costly, mechanical servants. This man was only a walker, and so worth a circling - less risk than an In-Law and more likely to be pocketing a fair amount.
   He was a tempting mark, but Kitty couldn't afford to be distracted from her main objective. Not if she wanted to eat this week. Corva had already informed her of the penance she would serve for failure. She'd flung it in Kitty's face as casually as her fist moments before. She'd been treated worse when Corva was a furor, but not much.
   Kitty passed the time by singling out other potentials. Rother. Rother. Professor. Topper. 'Habitant, but still a possible. Walker. The crowd on the platform was thinning and Kitty began to worry that she'd missed him, or that, worse, he'd missed the train and wasted her afternoon.
   Corva had said that he'd be tall, clean-shaven, dressed in grey with a blue pocket handkerchief. Typical 'Habitant dress but off season colors to minimize any sort of mishap. She also described his ink, but Kitty would have to get close to see that provided she could see it at all. It could be hidden by the man's hair or under a scarf or high collar. Kitty wanted to be certain it was him before she ever got near enough to spot the mark.
   But the few grey suits didn't sport blue handkerchiefs. In fact, there was only one topper left who was showing blue. An In-Law if Kitty'd ever seen one. His clothing was well-cut and well-worn. The fabric must have been very fine, for despite its obvious usage it did not look shabby, merely comfortable. Also no works attended him. He carried no bags, despite arriving on the train from Seawall, which was so removed from the teeming polis that Kitty, who knew the streets of Azerna better than most and had, in her estimation, walked the entire city in a day, could not fathom a place where roads were still packed dirt instead of cobblestone and salt in the air corroded works in a manner of weeks if they weren't given almost constant proper attention. In her mind, it was as foreign as the purported lands across the water.
   The man's dark hair, worn slightly long as was the current style, curled from under the brim of his soft black hat. He had most discernibly not shaved that morning. The pocket kerchief matched the exact blue of his eyes, which explained his unfashionable choice. He was tall, but her couldn't be the topper Kitty was waiting for - he didn't sound at all as Corva described - but he could serve as the source of her next meal. No reason the afternoon should be a complete waste.
   Not every buzzard would dare attempt to cozen an In-Law, a usually high risk, low yield endeavor, but Kitty needed the lift. If she hid the money at one of her private haunts before joining up with the rest of the Tiere, Corva would never know. Then she could bribe a few of the fare for a clandestine meal or two, as well as their guaranteed silence. The price would be steep, but a full belly and peace from Corva would be well worth the risk. And Kitty knew she was good for it.
   She slid out from the cover of her shadows and strolled aimlessly in the direction of her mark, never close enough to make anyone take notice of her. The remaining travelers skirted the dirty girl clothed in tatters as if she were not there, or rather as if she were another of the vermin who lived in the Station's secret places. Kitty kept her eyes to the ground and walked softly onward in her bare feet. She'd have to ask Corva for shoes before the cold came, but she daren't after this fiasco. Shoes would have to wait until she could redeem herself.
   He was yards away now, oblivious to her presence and ambling toward the exit at an easy pace. Time to start her circle. Kitty drifted into his path, intent on the refuse bin, which happened to be between her and the topper. He was closing surprisingly quickly, only feet away and passing her supposed target. Then they were level. At the crucial moment, Kitty stumbled.
   Now it would go one of two ways, she thought. It always did. Either he would prove himself a proper sort and help her to her feet, or he would force her to relegate him to the abject status of an unwilling ladder. He opted for the third course of action: a surprisingly agile side step and a sharp kick to the ribs. Kitty inhaled at the unexpected contact. "Sodding hurensohn," she muttered. He brushed past her, but started at her daring vulgarity. The momentary proximity was more than adequate. He didn't even feel her hands at his inside coat pocket. Then his leather wallet was secreted in one of the many concealed hollows in her skirt. In a fluid continuation of the movement, Kitty rubbed her ribs. That would bruise, no lasting damage seemed to have been inflicted.
   "Spawndspit," she swore.
   The few remaining travelers accelerated toward the doorway studiously avoiding her general direction . The gentleman had been of course in the right. The girl was only a scabie - a vile, filthy wretch who polluted the very streets of their beloved Azerna. Even their works clunked past her with dumb disapproval. Kitty let the platform clear. Blending invisibly with the throng of bodies coming and going outside the exit, she let the masses move her closer to her favorite haunt. She had been a child when she first watched the workman climb one of the ladders to nowhere and disappear.
   Slipping behind a particular column, Kitty was faced with iron rungs protruding from the marble climbing steadily toward the high cavernous ceiling. Without hesitation she nimbly scaled the rusting rundles. Once at the top, the cornice provided several hand and foot crevices. Taking hold of a particularly ornate flower, she tumbled herself over the molding in a most ungainly manner. The plaster had started to wear from frequent usage. Kitty brushed at the chalky powder clinging to her dress. Then she settled into the nook where wall curved to ceiling. Time to examine her takings. She thumbed leisurely through the contents, pocketing the notes without pausing to examine their worth. Coin would've been better, but one couldn't have everything. He had looked an In-Law after all.
   Her fingertips snagged on uneven corner of the leather. Perturbed, she examined the wallet more closely; the hide was soft, unscarred, and well-tanned. Again she found the offending raised corner and pulled. The back of the wallet hinged open in her hand. Letter-sized papers fell into her lap. She unfolded the top one and examined it, but could not make any sense of the funny little lines neatly covering the entirety of the page. She quickly scanned the rest of the document, hoping for some pictorials that would explain the necessity for all of those words. Nothing. She leafed through the the other pieces of parchment. A calling card, lined with a black edge and bearing a single symbol, slipped away from the rest.
   "Oh, fuck."
   Even a child of three would have recognized the skull embossed with anatomical precision on the card stock. She had buzzed a Deadman.