(( Feel free to bring your galdori characters in, and converse among yourselves! This thread is meant to get social conversations started, but please don't rely on my NPCs to reply. They're too busy eating little cakes. Thread's open to any gollies who have a bit of money and/or class. ))

There was a certain tea shop, hidden in a nook in some posh Uptown neighborhood, called the Oak Room. It was one of those closely guarded secrets of the galdori upperclass that everybody knew about. As such, it was always packed, but very discreetly. It was an ideal place for a comfortable and informal gathering.

Over the subdued hustle and bustle of afternoon tea, a group of gentlemen and ladies drew cups to their lips, wearing expressions that could only be classed as Concerned. They were dressed to the nines, as one always was when out in public, but there was an air of clandestine sneakery to the entire luncheon that struck Mark, the server, as odd.

"Well, there's no point in beating around the bush, now, is there?" said Mrs. Van Hilt crisply after a long sip of blistleberry tea. She was a severe grandmother with a full set of teeth, all of them originals. "How many of you have had husbands or wives investigated?"

Several people around the table nodded slightly, perhaps not wanting to admit the shame that was a government audit, but knowing they were among people who shared similar experiences. The table was long enough so that those at the far end had not heard Mrs. Van Hilt, but it was doubtless that they were engaged the same topic of conversation.

"They brought my son in for questioning," said the timid Mrs. Dearborn, who looked too much like a fawn to take seriously. "He's only twenty-four, just returned from Mugroba."

"It's the army they're targeting," said Mr. Headworth, a banker. "Anyone who has access to weapons."

"I think, ships," said Mr. Headworth's senior clerk called Mr. Soldington. He frowned and twitched, embarrassed to have been noticed by the group at all. "Aeroships. I was taking down numbers last week, sir, and I noticed the list of audits and the ownership in Allied Wingspan were very similar."

"My husband was kept half the morning in one of their interrogation rooms," barked the mad Mrs. Pomphrey, whom no one would usually believe, as she was prone to exaggeration. But they nodded in solidarity as she continued, "And he's got nothing to do with ships or the military! They were listening onto his scrying, I know it!"

Mrs. Van Hilt, at the head of the table, pursed her lips and coughed.

"Well," she said again, "it's time someone came out with it. We're being watched. It's clear now that our own government doesn't trust us."

She had the privilege of age that no one would judge her too harshly for these comments, and no one did. There were a few pitying glances from some of those with only minor grievances, and a few looked outright skeptical, but the bankers, Mrs. Dearborn and Mrs. Pomphrey nodded sagely. It was more than they had the courage to say themselves.

From far down the table, a garishly dressed man rolled his eyes, somehow audibly. Everyone turned to look at him.

"I don't think it's quite like that," said Mr. Dervish loudly, chuckling and shaking his head to the others as though sharing in some kind of personal joke. His wife simpered and giggled. "Look, we're all a little...on edge, with this increased security, but it's for the good of the kingdom, isn't it? They're just trying to protect us."

He was a greasy, nervous-looking man with a young, attractive wife, and although he had accomplished very little in his life, he was known throughout the city for his family's outrageous antics. The Dervishes were the Wrong Sort of People. They crashed galas and stole prawns from hors d'oeuvres from parties, passed out drunk on lawns and bought exotic animals for show; it was a family tradition to purchase gaudy and prohibitively expensive vehicles whenever they were invented, and for Dervish men, to wind up in Seventen custody after a night of revelry was something of a rite of passage. It did not endear them to the members of High Society, though there was always something to be said for notoriety, and despite how distasteful the Dervishes behaved, they were always on the guest list. It was worth it for the chance to have your home in the Weekly.

"I don't know about you, Mr. Dervish, but I don't think any small bit of security is worth losing my privacy!" Mrs. Van Hilt sniffed.

"You're blowing it out of proportion, dearie," said Mrs. Dervish, earning her glares from everyone sitting nearby. "After all, we all sacrifice freedom for security, all the time. Why, we could be living in tents and hunting wild animals for food, naked as jays, if you'd have that! Then we'd be free, indeed." She gave a silly little laugh. "But we're civilized. What does it really matter if Margaret's husband was marginally inconvenienced, if it keeps us safe?"

Mark, the server, was listening with some mild interest. He had nothing at all to do that day besides serve these spoiled gollies their tea and crumpets, and his mind began to stray to his girl at home, who was waiting for him to clock out. But he looked up briefly when someone mentioned a name he recognized, and went white as a sheet.

"This Jon Serro character - what's he like?"

A mustachioed man, portly as a keg of wine and twice as wide, was inspecting a scone with dignity. "I mean, why are they all so fascinated by him? He seems like a poor decision-maker to me."

"Haven't the foggiest, Brent, haven't the foggiest," replied a tall, thin man who looked like some kind of bursar. "I tell you what, if you had a galdor in charge, the whole operation would have been successful by now! Humans just haven't the head for running things, when it gets down to brass tacks. I'm not worried."

"I'm not worried either, no, not me," said Brent casually, chuckling. "After all, the more disgruntled they are, the more likely they are to work for someone who affords them a bit of freedom! My locomotives will brighten up the human population, give them dignity, an honest way to make wages. You know the real source of rebellion, of course, Horatio. It's all down to concords."

Had he possessed so mundane a thing as a soul (and there were many who might well have had grounds for doubt), these would have indeed been the times to try it to the limit. As it stood, however, all questions of metaphysics aside, Shrikeweed was perplexed, befuddled, frightened, and above all deeply annoyed. Everything, it seemed, was going to wrack and ruin or at least darting off for an extended holiday in the nearest and most fashionable netherworld in what could only be the largest assemblage of axiomatic hand baskets yet conceived. He was, to put it plainly, utterly at a loss. The events of the recent past were as alien to him as if they had happened on some other world; in a way, one might hold that observation to be true.

The world in which Shrikeweed had lived most of his life was a papery, civilized world. It was a world where people wore sensible but aesthetically pleasing shoes, dressed neatly, tended to conduct their business in one set of largely interchangeable walnut paneled rooms or another, and above all wrote things down. This, to Shrikeweed, was the real world; everything else was just so much irrelevant illiterate noise. And now, for reasons that he could not properly fathom, the unpeople of that other world, the world that did not take place in civilized chambers or take down its affairs in small neat script, were intruding themselves in a most alarming and unwelcome manner.

It wasn't merely that the unpeople, those members of the great, grimy, illiterate, masses were getting it into their head to cause unpleasantness for no reason at all, that had unnerved Shrikeweed, it was the general sense of madness and inversion that hung over the city like a particularly acrid smoke. Paranoid Seventen, a series of horrific murders, the very real and very personally terrifying fact of his having been interrogated by one such paranoid Seventen, the continued evil of cabmen, all combined to leave him far more unsettled that he would have liked.

Misery, the say, loves company; the same can be said for aggitation and it was this need for the society of the equally confused that had brought Shrikeweed to the tea room. At present, just hearing them natter on in their largely disconnected and oddly superficial tones concern and carefully crafted outrage soothed him. Nothing was so calming , so natural, and indeed so very civilized as artificial emotion and being surrounded by it stilled the angry buzzing of his mind. Hypocrisy and tea he though quietly to himself, the very essence of civilization. And what fine things they both are.

He took a sip of his tea, it was over-steeped and slightly bitter from the tannins, and slowly, and listened for a moment to babble about him. When, at last, he heard the inventor remark on how his as yet unrealized railway would provide the rabble with gainful employment Shrikeweed could not help but laugh. "Certainly their destructive impulses would be put to good use in the making of tunnels. Now all that has to be done is to convince them that various hills and cliff faces are somehow oppressing them and you'll have your earthworks finished in no time at all."

There was a good deal of hearty chuckling at Shrikeweed's pronouncement, some of it slightly nasty but most of it good-natured. Locksme indulged himself in a slightly longer laugh than the others, one that left him with a red nose.

"Too true, my good man, too true," he said, with a grin that made him look like a bulldog. "Say, haven't we met? You look terribly familiar, I must say...wait, don't tell me...yes, it's on the tip of my brain! Wait! Yes! No! Yes! Yes...that party, with the unfortunate moa-related incident."

"Oh, that party," said a lady to his left, one with a very small head on wide shoulders. She shrieked with sudden laughter, causing Locksme and the others to wince. "I thought I would die, didn't you? Oh, the fun! And that poor man!"

"Yes, Belinda, it was funny..." agreed her meek companion, a pale man who looked like he could be her son but was more likely her husband.

"Shrikeweed, was it?" interrupted Locksme, a man with little time for the conversations of others. And although he was clearly the type of businessman to remember everyone he ever spoke to by full name, height, weight and birthdate, he added, "I am terrible with names, so do forgive me if I am in error."

"It was indeed during an occasion of feathery mayhem that we met. I must thank you again for your, shall we say, spiritual support?" Shrikeweed grinned. It had been very good brandy. "And you are quite correct concerning my name, Mr. Locksme isn't it, quite correct indeed." Locksme was not the only one in the room with a head for names, though it was probably safe to say that he did not collect his in a little book as did the archivist.

Shrikeweed took another sip of his tea, it was, if anything, worse than the first. "In all seriousness, however, I have to conclude that your idea has at least some merit. Give the rabble jobs, jobs that probably involve truly grotesque quantities of physical labor, and they will simply lack the energy to heave bricks through windows or burn down inoffensive buildings. The problem, as I see it, chiefly lays in communicating your noble intentions to these people. I doubt very much that you could simply stroll down to the workhouse of your choice and expect to be cordially received by the occupants."

Augustus Persiflage, the thespian, was an avid patron of the Oak Room. It had was the ideal place to sit back with a cup of tea and study lines. But on this day Augustus was visiting the Oak Room for a different reason. He realized, along with the other galdori, his privacy was being invaded by the government. In any other case, Augustus wouldn't have cared, but since he was a member of an organization that, if light was ever brought to, he would be shunned by polite society.

Augustus sat back in his chair, brushing his navy blue coat and straightening his necktie. Perfection was an inevitable part of his life; everything needed to be perfect, always. While continuing his chores of perfection, he listened to the conversation going on a few chairs over. Everyone was all in a fuss, as they had every right to be, but it would have been better to meet in some one's home. the Oak Room was too open and anyone could be listening in on the openly private conversation.

Chiming in on the conversation was a necessity after hearing the man with the mutton chops elaborate on Mr. Locksme's plan. "Well, if there are any humans on Vita that need to be working for Mr. Locksme, it's the ones that work in the theatres. Humans, I don't understand how they even acquired an acting career. I swear it takes them ages to learn their lines; they are much better suited for physical labor." Augustus wasn't speaking to anyone in particular, but he was sure someone would chime in with a response.

Shrikeweed shot a glance, a none too friendly glance, in the direction of this new speaker. What his ocular organs took in was the image of a man who spent a great deal of time perfecting what the gentleman in question no doubt thought of as an impeccable appearance. It probably was an impeccable appearance too, the man seemed to fairly sparkle with artfully crafted nonchalance. In his present harassed and harrowed state of mind such an ostentatious display of elegance was a bit like the sound of fingernails on a distant memory of slate; not exactly unpleasant, more the reminder of unpleasantness. Of late Shrikeweed had begun to neglect some of the more intricate portions of his ablutions, and while he was far from looking in the least bit shabby, there was a certain disarraignment in his general appearance and deportment. He looked like a man who had not slept well in some time, which was exactly the case.

"Acting? You are concerned with acting? If a little bad acting was all we had to worry about from the lower orders I would be dancing in the streets. Dancing I say, and gladly too.

"However, we are not plagued by a multitude of incompetent actors but rather by mobs of dangerously enthusiastic practitioners of impromptu urban renewal and applied sociology."

Zalika sat striaght backed, chin high and turquoise eyes on the conversation around her. She was dressed in her finest bastian gown, a purple high collared piece with delicate beading along the bodice. Lifting her tea cup, she sipped daintily, before replacing it.

"Do not fear the mobs, Mister Shrikeweed. The Seventen still control these streets, and I assure you the 'mobs' are aware of it. T'will be a cold day in mugroba before the citizens get the one up on us. I tell you, the humans and this silly rebellion, thats not what we should be concerned about. It's the wicks, they're the source of the problem! Have you not noticed, the fights and the hovel in our streets...all half-breeds!" The woman shook her head in disgust.

"I wouldn't be suprized if it was a wick running this Serro's hand. We should be enforcing the exodus more, get rid of them all. Humans will follow like so many little sheep once their wick influences are out of the picture." Looking around the table at the paranoid galdori, she cleared her throat, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow.

"The government does not spy on its citizens, or at least not without good cause. It is looking for those who caused so much death and distruction, because as surely as it is a rebellion, there are some galdori who would take sides. Sympathizers. Do not bemoan what the government do to protect you my good sirs and ladies. T'would you so eagerly bite the hand that keeps the half-breeds from stealing your daughters and killing your sons?"

Locksme had been smiling broadly, about to answer Shrikeweed, when Zalika spoke up. All eyes immediately turned to her, and after a few moments of her speech came to the realization that she was an officer.

'Seventen officer' was still a relatively odd position for a woman to fill, at least according to the ladies of society at the table; even some of those in support of the Seventen's actions raised eyebrows, though a few who considered themselves 'progressive' beamed at her. But Mrs. Van Hilt scowled. She and a few others stood up promptly at Zalika's pronouncement.

"I would hardly expect a foreigner to know much about it," Mrs. Pomphrey said loudly, causing a few embarrassed looks. She was elderly, and the elderly were more likely to come out with lines like that, but still they'd wished she hadn't said it. It was a stupid thing to say and it made them all look foolish.

"It seems our conversation is being monitored even now," barked Mrs. Van Hilt into the silence, not wanting to waste an opportunity to prove a point. "If we cannot assemble freely anymore without unwanted persons eavesdropping...well!"

The unformed conclusion hung on the air, and a few people looked uncomfortable as Mrs. Van Hilt looked around meaningfully at everyone. She shot one last nasty look at Zalika before picking up her coat and nodding to Mrs. Dearborn, who followed her nervously. Mrs. Pomphrey hurried after. A few others gave Zalika a mistrustful glance, and several others left quietly. Soon the arrangement of tables was half empty.

Locksme cleared his throat and dropped a few glugs of brandy into his tea. He passed the flask around generously.

"Well," he said, "that's some excitement, isn't it? Can't see what all the fuss is about, myself. I've had some very cordial dealings with our government." He grinned mischievously, pulling out one of his empty coat pockets. The others chuckled timidly, not wanting to draw the ire of the Seventen officer.

"I find a man's worth lies in where he's led, not where he's coming from," he went on, as though their conversation had not been interrupted. "These civilians merely need a good direction. My locomotive will take them places. Far from Vienda, far from their troubles. It will lead them to a better life, to hope for the future. We are on the brink of great discoveries, my friends! These are exciting times! I am confident that all our city needs is a good kick in the pants and a new perspective. Faced with the challenges of the new industrial era, what man would doggedly stick to pointless warring over age-old rivalries?"

"Jon Serro would," answered a swarthy Mugrobi man, who had been sitting quietly until then. His accent indicated that he was a local. "He is blind to opportunity and peace. He wants nothing less than the destruction of our government and our society. He fancies himself some sort of savior."

Eucephalus Strychnine had sat in on the conversation up to this point. He sat out of direct view of the windows of this exclusive tea shop and dressed in a way he imagined would make himself less notable. His utter failure at subterfuge did still succeed in making him quite unapproachable—his clothes managed to outshow even upper class galdori. His cravat was not immaculately tied, nor was his velvet-collared great coat fully buttoned, and he wore black trousers before evening. Surely, he imagined, no one would take a person so sloppily dressed to be the aesthete publisher of fashionable quarterlies. He gladly poured a jigger more than was polite into his tea cup.

Last week, Ogden-Birchlangshire had been audited. Oblivious to the goings-on of the world outside of his particular niche of fashion, he had been under the impression that some passionate fan had been abusing their government position to gain an interview with him. The auditor had left the Glorious Muttonchops Quarterly publishing house flustered; Eucephalus was left with a sense of far greater celebrity than he deserved.

The conversation in the tea-house came as a cold shock to him. Any common galdor was being audited, and his auditor was not an overzealous enthusiast. Quickly draining his brandy fortified tea, he spoke: "Why should we even keep these sansculottes around?"

He looked at the engineer, "Why should you have to invent employ just to keep these spoiled children from harming respectable citizenry? Would it not be better," pausing emphatically, "If we promised this 'Jon Serro' and his supporters salvation from our dreadful society and governance with a permanent trip to an inhospitable corner of the world? They could build their own bid for freedom in the form of your locomotive!"

A very slight nervous twitch passed across Shrikeweed's face before he realized what precisely was going on. His attempt to suppress it only managed to turn it into something like the grimace that accompanies a failed sneeze which was not, precisely, the intended effect.

"Ah the Seventen, yes, of course. No doubt we all feel much better knowing that at least one of the street gangs is nominally on our side. Preening about in those ghastly uniforms they're all so proud of, asking impertinent questions, and throwing one's entire sense of order out the nearest window. I know my own worries to put to rest following a lengthy interrogation; the fact that a wholly unexpected crop of worries were substituted is, of course, immaterial.

"As for the spying, by all means please continue," Shrikeweed said in a tone of utter sincerity that was almost entirely foreign to the man. "Nothing could put me more at my ease than knowing a gaggle of suspicious-minded gentlemen and ladies were taking down all manner of notes in incongruously ostentatious grey ledgers and memorandum books."

At some point in the conversation, though he could never afterward recall precisely when, a second cup of tea appeared before him. He noticed it now and took an experimental sip. It was marginally better than the first. "And Mr. Ogden-Birchlangshire raises an interesting point," he said holding his cup halfway between his mouth and the table, "but I fear that once again we are confronted with the fundamental problem of our present inability to make the mob, or those behind it, see reason or engage in civilized discourse. Of course, if they could see reason and be civilized we would not be forced to endure our present difficulties."

(( for the love of god, give me a chance to check my post in the morning for spelling errors. ))

Zalika watched the rabble go with a practiced patience, simmering inside as she sipped her tea. If the old biddies wanted to leave on account of her position of authority, so be it. The less the merrier. Foreigner indeed...they would not be saying such if it was their purses at stake in the hands of a filthy half-breed. Taking the flask of brandy as it passed, the Seventen poured a small drop into her tea.



She laughed politely, drowning the rest of her expression in her cup. It was insulting, and by Alioe if she was in uniform she would have said a thing or two. Glancing at the mugrobi, she gave him a nod. It wasn't her place of birth, but it was still part of her, and she respected the man's opinion.



The bastian laughed out loud at that, nodding appreciativly and raising her tea, ready to back the man's comment - when the lengthy speech of a one Mister Shrikeweed caught all ears. Audiably, Zalika smacked her teacup onto its saucer, and shot the smart alec a tight smile.

"If you would so prefer, my good sir, I can request all Seventen removed from these city streets to let the humans and wicks assult you at will. And I can even go so far as to pull back our intelligance on the galdori operatives accused of alligence with the human resistance. Perhaps, that would be the way to go, do you say? Let the mangy witches defile your proud city with their hitched skirts and the violent wicks kill and rape your sons and daughters, hmmm? Because if you prefer that, my good sir, I will gladly pull my fellow officers from the ridicule and derogatory comments...from the threat of attack and constant violence...from the streets of this fine city. And leave you to the abominations that want to tear you apart from the inside out." She was standing, hands on the table, glaring at the man. Blinking, she straighted and sat, lacing her hands in her lap.

"Anyone can move a mob, all you need to do is take out its figure head. In this case, its this Jon Serro fellow. Remove him, and this little uprising will die. Miserably."

A lump of stunned silence followed. This was afternoon tea, after all, and talk of killing, raping and near-outright threats of violence weren't usually seen until after supper, when someone's grandfather had had a spot too much whiskey. One woman fanned herself vigorously.

"See," whispered a woman to her friend out of earshot, "they're all like that. They've become little more than violent, vindictive, self-serving thugs! It is a disgrace."

"Splendid," said Locksme, in a falsely cheery tone that suggested that things had gotten out of hand quicker than usual. He put his hands together and gave Zalika a pointed look, one that hinted at a growing deficit in goodwill. "Perhaps, my dear, this is not the best place for this little tet-a-tet?"

The stout man cleared his throat and straightened his cravat, pouring himself another cup of brandy and splashing a shot of tea into it. His beady eyes glanced up at Eucephalus. "As I was about to say - in no way, shape or form do I wish to suggest that I am hiring a bevvy of humans and wicks out of mercy or charity, my good sir! They are quite necessary to build my machines. I can't do all the heavy lifting myself. Heart's not what it used to be, what?" He tapped his well-padded chest and winked.

"We can't talk freely while she's here," whispered another man to his friend, who was eyeing Zalika with mistrust. It seemed her outburst was not going to be easily forgiven. "This isn't a bloody town hall meeting. Let's go to Barney's."

"Forgive me, madame," said he in a conciliating tone, "if my words seemed to be wholly in jest or calculated to give undue offense. I fear that circuitous speech is often understood to be of an ironic and whimsical character and, alas, I am prone to such speech and to all the confusion that habitual circumlocution engenders." Here Shrikeweed stopped, aware that he had, without quite intending to do so, given a perfect example of the sort of speech for which he was apologizing. "I am sorry," he said laughing at himself, "that was both incredibly unhelpful and highly illustrative of my point. Even I am somewhat at a loss. Allow me to attempt a rephrase: I tend to speak in a confusing manner, for this I apologize."

He took another sip of tea, cleared his throat, and continued in what he hoped was a less circuitous manner. "The spying I don't mind in the slightest. I am all for for it, a very proper thing spying, very civilized. Let us have more spies with all possible speed. No madame, it is the uniformed constabulary to which I object. If we must have police, and clearly we must given the gravity of our current situation, let us have the good sense at least to have secret police." And it was then that it struck him, like a two pound block of cheese traveling with great speed or a cobble thrown by a member of the mob under discussion, "Unless, of course, you already have secret police and the green-bottle flies are little more than a distraction. Something eye-catching to divert the attention of the public while the real work is being done by others more sensibly dressed. Yes, that's probably it. Very commendable. Very devious."

After not being able to create a suitable reaction to Mr. Shrikeweed's comment, he plopped back in his seat and listened to the happenings of the people. He was strategically seated; being able to hear almost every conversation, no matter how private. The silent whispers about the plain clothed seventen were swarming around him. She was not being welcome warmly by a majority of her fellow galdori. Ironically, a woman designated to keep the peace and her fellows safe was being attacked for that very reason. It was better than a satire.

After the events of the officer verbally assaulting Mr. Shrikeweed and bringing up subjects-that-one doesn't-speak-of; Augustus was astonished and appalled, she should have been disposed of at that moment. Silently agreeing with people at the table was not getting the blonde actor anyway, he needed to speak, be jovial, and give his own accounts on the happenings around him. He didn't know where to start, though. Everyone seemed to be preoccupied with the people they arrived with and could care less about Augustus' opinion.

"Well, wouldn't that be the most clever thing this government ever did." Said Augustus, acknowledging Shrikeweed's comment about secret police. He took another sip of his tea and continued. "I wouldn't be surprised if our government was training it's own secret paramilitary force, an amalgamation of the seventen and the army. They would be quite adamant." Augustus' mind was racing at the possibilities, he had acted in too many political thrillers for it not to be. "If this idea does come to fruition, they would probably be going under the guise of the Palace Guard. They would do all the bidding of the King, Queen, and Headmistress; even the High Judge from time to time. I would never want such an organization to exist, it would be quite horrible for every race."

Mr. Ogden-Birchlangshire was stunned at the path the conversation had taken. After ordering another cup of tea—a rare cultivar from the cliffs of Gior, golden and flowering—he spoke. "The ever amiable Mr. Shrikeweed does highlight an important point. Seventen uniforms are terribly gauche. While there is no doubt in my mind of the necessity of a strong peacekeeping force, it could help put fellow galdori at ease if this organization had dressed less like thugs. I have some friends in Muffey, I am sure they would gladly design uniforms that are modern and respectable."

Eucephalus shrugged and began sipping his tea. The very thought of those brutish humans and wicks rioting in the streets made him ill at ease. Maybe that human 'poet' would be one of them. Maybe he's going to break my office's windows. I imported those, they'll be impossible to replace, he thought. He felt compelled to volunteer himself in this time of crisis, if only to save his office. It would be no good for it to become a wick brothel. He stroked his ornate muttonchops.

"If it is not impertinent to add, I feel I could be well suited to this spying business. Anything to help the common interest in keeping these savages from our expensive carved mahogany doors. And children."

Zalika watched even more people leave with a straight back and an aloof sort of face. She only spoke the truth they wished to hide about their ugly grey city. The truth they couldn't handle. Disgraceful really. As Shrikeweed spoke again, she couldn't help but smile at his last comment. It was completely inaccurate, but altogether an amusing thought. Sipping her tea, she quietly turned her turquoise eyes to the new speaker, and promtly rolled them. These people lived in paranoia. Did they honestly think the Seventen and the government had time to organize such a ruse? And to what end? What purpose did it serve spying on these idiots?



Zalika chuckled a little, putting down her tea.

"That, for one, is something I can agree with sir. I was originally posted in Bastia, and t'was something of a running joke, the design of our uniforms. Altogether brutish, alas, we are not the ones who create them. That I do believe would be a question for someone higher up in the ranks than I." As he continued on, she gave him a warm smile and a nod.

"You sir, are a smart man. I thankyou for the small gesture of trust." Looking over at Locksme, she picked up her tea again.

"Do you have any wicks left to employ at the moment, Mister Locksme? With all this Anhau business, I have begun to notice a steady decline in numbers. I don't quite know what I think of it yet, to be perfectly frank. A long lost city of wicks, suddenly found? And they are all congragating there...If there is something to be suspicious of my good sirs and ladies, it is that, not your own government."

"Madame, it is not the government I distrust. Indeed, it would be foolish and a thing altogether absurd for a member of the civil service to engage in that astonishingly popular vice." Shrikeweed took another sip of his still not quite acceptable tea and wondered where he could get something more to his taste. Something with bergamot possibly, or something earthy and smelling faintly of pine trees. "No, it is the efficacy of the constabulary which I call into question and which is the thing which unsettles me most. Forgive my uncharacteristic bluntness, but it does not appear to those of us who are not made to wear the green that the Seventen have accomplished anything like keeping the rioters from doing exactly as they please.

"Now I know that you, or some other worthy officer, will tell me that you have foiled countless plots and prevented untold acts of violence or stemmed the tide of some outrage or other. And I know that you will also tell me that secrecy is of the utmost importance and other such things of that nature. All very well and good, and no doubt all very true as well, but it does little to allay our fears and suspicions. Something visible, something that says that civilization can endure and even thrive in the face of these barbarians, must be done."

Shrikeweed raised his cup again as though to take another sip of the strange brew, and then seemed to think the better of it. He put the cup down very carefully on his saucer and with a grin that was not entirely demonstrative of the soundest of mental conditions said, "Perhaps if we appeared to give in to some of their demands? Surely that would throw them into complete and utter disarray."

Augustus glanced over to the fabulously refined man. The fellow blonde looked as though he was as obsessed with perfection as Augustus was. The previous statement had made him ponder. What of the children? The uneducated masses didn't know what the age of consent was; most wicks had children at twelve, or so he thought.

"Sir, the spies of the world would be granted a great advisory and comrade if you decided to go into the espionage business." Augustus was being sarcastic, of course. He did not know the man and didn't know of his accomplishments, but a good jest was needed in such a time of tension. "Sir, if you spy as well as you dress, I fear for the safety of the resistance." Augustus was being rather nice to the fellow dandy. He wasn't sure if it was because he liked to be nice or because he thought he was cute.

"And as for espionage attire, thank Alioe that you can wear whatever you care for as a spy."

Eucephalus Ogden-Birchlangshire was shocked at the suggestion Mr. Shrikeweed uttered. "Good sir, you are not suggesting we think of these savages as people? They may wear clothes and pantomime language, but they have no magic. They are merely animals that resemble the galdori. We have already been too charitable in letting these plowfeet live amongst us."

Mr. Eucephalus returned to a relaxed position after that exclamation and listened to the youthful sharp-jawed toffin speak. His words were sweetness to Strychnine's ears. There is nothing Eucephalus loved more than to receive praise. Eucephalus said, "Friend, you are quite right as to the many assets I can offer to those who profess espionage. Mayhaps our charming Seventen officer sees things the same way and will recommend me to her organization."

Turning to her and beaming quite the smile, "Speaking of, I find we are in agreement. Wicks amassing in a so-called lost city are far more trouble than our just government could ever be." He resumed drinking his tea and obseved the pattern rain droplets formed on the window pane. It would really be a shame for humans to destroy such a lovely tea house.

Locksme beamed at Zalika and nodded enthusiastically.

"Yes, yes, the mysterious Anhau," he said, mispronouncing the name terribly. "Exciting, isn't it? Like a piece of the past rising out of the mist! But of course it's a good thing, in the end. More routes for the locomotive, more space to expand business..."

He leaned in conspiratorially, mustache bristling. "If you ask me, we couldn't ask for a better circumstance. An untouched city full of naive, trusting savages! The wicks will get them hooked on the concord, on their leaf, on fancy clothes and whatever it is they use to dye their hair those awful colors, and before you know it you've got a population dying to work for very low wages."

Straightening, he added, "Though, of course, my company is in the business of generous compensation. More than fair."

"Treat them as people? Never in life sir, never in life," said the archivist with a laugh. "No, what I propose is that we do something so utterly unexpected and counter to all previous action that these ruffians will have little choice but to engage in serious discombobulation. Then, while they are in that happy state, the forces of civilization and reason can quietly swoop in and clean up at least a portion of the mess."

Shrikeweed took another sip of his tea, swallowed hard as though the liquid had been mysteriously transmogrified into a ball of solid teak, and continued. "I have some small experience in matters of this sort." Realizing what the likely interpretation of this remark was likely to be, Shrikeweed hastily tried to revise his remarks, "Not in dealing with angry mobs mind. In such matters I have no experience and would have been content to go my whole life without the need to acquire it. But I do have some small experience in pressing an advantage brought about by unprecedented behavior."

And then, without preamble, explanation or even the remotest semblance of ordinary courtesy, Shrikeweed launched into what may have been the strangest and most incongruous story imaginable in such circumstances. "I am a notoriously terrible player of cards. I am both unlucky and deficient in skill and as a result of this I tend to loose heavily. Everyone of my acquaintance knows this at such a deep level of their minds that I don't believe they take much interest in what I am doing at the table. I say that I am unlucky because I seem to be cursed with perpetually terrible hands, and I say unskilled for I know that a skilled player of cards could make something of even the poorest and most anemic of hands. This I cannot do.

"However, on one particular night about a year ago, fortune saw fit to make me its plaything and granted to me such a hand of cards that men would have sold their own mothers to have even had the privilege of being dealt a hand half so fine. With this surely winning hand in my possession I began to bet heavily, wagering vast sums of sundry pocket change, a book I was especially fond of, and several other items of little or no importance to my tale. My opponents failed to notice this behavior on my part, and when the time came for the players to reveal their cards and for the winner to take all, they were struck dumb when the totality of accumulated cash and sundries fell to me. For the rest of the evening they were so flummoxed that even with terrible hands I was able to use their confusion as a weapon to my own advantage. By the next evening the effect had sadly dissipated and I returned to my customary habit of loosing. but it is at least illustrative of the point that an unexpected change in the normal pattern of behavior can be turned to one's advantage."

He looks around, vaguely aware of the fact that he had gone on too long and on an entirely ridiculous line and said to no one in particular, "Might I have another cup of tea? I seem to have finished this one."