The Poems of Madam Albithurst: The Mansion of Lady Quixtactictle

Mr Porist and I then followed Lady Quixtactictle to her mansion — a term of endearment in this case, as the Grand Junction was simply not large enough to contain a residence of the size people of Lady Quixtactictle’s status are accustomed to. As such, Lady Quixtactictle’s domicile on the third level of the Grand Junction was merely fifteen rooms large, and somewhat humble in terms of decoration and extravagance.

In truth, it reminded me quite strongly of the small house in which I saw the crumpled and life-less form of the Duke of Ten Vials. Where Sir Venriki de’Laisey brought me to suggest that because my hat-pin had been found in the clutching fingers of the dead Duke, that I might have had something to do with the poor man’s death.

An absurd notion, but I had come to be grateful for Sir de’Laisey’s rash behavior, for without it I might have never known that the Encinidine was no longer in the immediate care of the High on High. I might never have sought out the wisdom of Mrs. There-and-Back, might never have traveled the Velvet to the Grand Junction, might not have met the Golbegigenthwaite.

Now, as I sat at the sprawling dining table of Lady Quixtactictle, I was more than delighted at the opportunity to share a meal with such an old friend. It was also a delight to watch Mr. Porist, the poor thing, as he carefully and cautiously examined his surroundings, so unused to such environs as he was.

It is, perhaps a singular curse of we Sensates, that we can never experience something for the first time more than once. At best, we can taste a vicarious sampling of the sensations through the eyes of others, as they sense for themselves the very things we have long since become dead to.

Mr. Porist gaped wide at the long effervescent leaves that dangled low to the ground from their hanging pots. He giggled at the frescoes as fresh water dribbled down their curves and cracks. He breathed in awe at the gemstone vases and marbled statues, and fingered the golden forks and brass knives as silver servants stood at his side, carefully trimming his ears with bright carving blades. “I’ve always done it myself,” he admitted when the servants had withdrawn.

“It is a bit of an extravagance, I’m sure,” Lady Quixtactictle nodded, curling a thin digit around a tiny bell and ringing for supper. “I know a great many people who enjoy having servants clip their nails or polish their horns. Myself, I prefer to handle such personal grooming myself. I find it an annoyance to have to constantly train and teach others how I prefer something to be done.” She looked at me when she said this, my dear Lady friend, and for the life of me I could not understand why her eyes were filled with such intensity. I felt like she was trying to tell me something, but I could not decipher what.

The first course came at the sound of Lady Quixtactictle’s bell; a shallow soup of bread and lemon. Quite exquisitely made, however, as the grain of the bread was a thick and musty contrast to the sourness of the lemon.

“Now I must insist,” our hostess chided as we ate, “that you keep me in suspense no longer. What brings you both to the Grand Junction? Whither are you bound, and for what reason?”

“Myself,” said Mr. Porist, politely answering with a dab of his napkin on his lips, “I am traveling to the shores where the Tides of Three Shades reside. A friendly crab of my acquaintance holds an amber shell there for me.”

“How marvelous!” Lady Quixtactictle smiled wide, showing her many teeth. “I do so enjoy a good crab. And what will you do with this shell when it is in your hands?”

“I will put it to my ear,” Mr. Porist looked off into the ether, a wistful smile playing about his lips. “I will listen to what it has to say.”

“Why?”

I am only partially ashamed to admit that this was a question that had not crossed my mind. Lady Quixtactictle did stare at my friend until he set his spoon aside and clasped his hands in front of his chest. “You see, I am a man of very little notability. I work, I relax, I have a certain number of friends. I have never sought anything in my life, beyond what I have. So much has fallen into my lap from well-trodden paths. Like a vacationer. A tourist through life. I have seen beautiful things, but always after another. I have climbed wonderful steps, always just in front of another. I have found new things, when shown by another. And I wondered, I couldn’t help but wonder, I tried to not wonder, but I couldn’t stop myself from wondering…Was there another path to the side, hidden in the underbrush?”

“And was there?” Our hostesses teeth clicked together.

“There was,” Mr. Porist nodded. “And a path to the side of that one, also well trodden. I read books, pamphlets, and even wandered through the libraries of several different organizations.” I did not ask, as I did not wish to be impolite, if he had perused the Grandiose Guild’s library at all. “I met strange and wonderful creatures — not in person, you understand, but through the writings and paintings of others. A thousand different lives to live, with different people and different strides. I could live my life any way I wished, there was always someone else who had done the same, or same enough as to make no difference. And still I wondered. So now I seek the amber shell, held tightly in the claws of a friendly crab.” Mr. Porist heaved a sigh. “I will listen to what it says. It is the only place I have left to hope.”

Lady Quixtactictle looked to me, a knowing glint in her eyes. Yet again, I could not grasp her intent. “Well,” she said, “I wish you good fortune on your journey.”

“As for me,” I said, to cover my ignorance, “I am traveling to the Sibilants.”

At hearing this, my dear friend dropped her spoon and pressed her lips together. “No! My dear Madam, what on Klap could drive you to such a terrible place? No, do not answer, I can see it in your eyes. You are, after all, still a member of the Grandiose Guild, aren’t you? I can see you have gripped the idea of some new sensation in your sights.”

“Indeed I have,” I answered. “You must have heard already, the news of the departed Duke?”

My dear friend was quick on the uptake, and quicker of tongue. “Of course, I should have guessed. Some say the Archonarchy sent a trio of agents to assassinate him, and take the Encinidine for some heathen experiment. Some say he was struck from behind by a jealous lover. And, my dear, I have personally heard your hat-pin was found clutched in the dear Duke’s fist. If you wish to hide from the grasp of the Anointed Bulwark, there are so many places to hide that are not so…/disconcerting/.

“I am not trying to hide,” I’m afraid there was more offended tone in my voice than I had wished. “I have it on good authority that someone who knows the location of the Encinidine is currently residing in the Sibilants. I am certain that if I find the Encinidine first, I will perhaps along the way find the Duke’s killer as well.”

“Ah,” my friend gave a knowing wink. “And if you should have the opportunity to taste the Encinidine as well…”

“I am a member of the Guild,” I admitted.

“So I have heard,” the Lady grinned. “Well, I cannot say I ever believed such rumors of your culpability. I found myself wondering why you would ever do such a thing; if you had set your sights on romancing the Duke of Ten Vials, I am certain you would have informed me of your intentions. And if not, what possible motive would you have for killing him?” She paused here, because we both knew the answer.

“It is true,” I admitted, “my hat-pin was found in his hand. It is a fact most regrettable, for it has caused no end of frustration. I assure you, Lady Quixtactictle, it is not only bad form to murder someone of such notability, but also I must admit to a remarkable unfamiliarity with the process. Had I killed the poor Duke, I doubt I would have been able to do so without leaving enough clues that a blind bloodhound could pin the murder on me. Suffice it to say, the fact that the Anointed Bulwark has not arrested me, or even detained me for any length of time, should be proof enough that I am innocent.”

“But you do ache for a taste, don’t you?” her dark eyes glittered mischievously. “No matter. I am surprised you think you can reach even a piece of the Encinidine before the Torquates from High on High lay claim to them once more.”

“I am, in fact, not certain at all,” I admitted, “but I am committed. It is the duty of all Sensates to seek out new and unique sensations, that we may craft poems of them and share them with the Myriad Worlds. These unique and fiendish moments must be kept, held, cataloged, experienced, else they will be lost forever.”

My dear friend did not answer, but rang the bell again, calling the second course to the table.

This being a light supper, the second course was a small plate of Wuisht, still warm from the pot. Mr. Porist delighted at the meal, clapping his hands with every bite, and admitting through full cheeks that he had, indeed, never had real Wuisht, and he begged to meet the Aeolam chef, that he might compliment his skill, talent, and heart.

For myself, in all my travels, I have had Wuisht from a multitude of places, all of which could be considered real. One could argue, with its historical origins, real Wuisht can only be found on the streets of Bayobam, specifically near the wharf. One could also say that real Wuisht can only be made by street vendors, using copper pots and pans. I myself might be most sympathetic to the idea that real Wuisht must be made by an Aeolam non-male who has learned the art from their second mother. I might also say that real Wuisht must be made by an Aeolam in the red-sands of the Outside Hills near Huuwaki. I might also say that real Wuisht is no better nor worse than any other kind of Wuisht.

That the chef was from the Blue School is not insignificant, though I have never placed undue stock in titles and accolades. For one such as myself, who has more names and titles than one knows what to do with, it becomes remarkably clear that after the fourth or perhaps fifth, any further titles do little more than provide an extra moment of pause when entering a room while the herald announces you. While I will not disagree that it is a worthy effort, to give such servants something to do, it becomes quite bothersome to note that titles are just as worthy and meaningful as book-covers.

Put simply: the fact that my friend’s chef had received their education at the Blue School, while charming, did little to season the somewhat bland concoction on my plate.

It is not their fault, of course. The Aeolam have incredibly sensitive tongues, and few are those who can bring themselves to flavor food well enough for those of us with deader senses. Nevertheless, I could tell the food was well prepared, and so I politely added my own commendations to Mr. Porist.

“I am delighted to hear how you appreciate it,” My friend nodded. “It took quite a lot of effort to get him here from his home. It is quite expensive to ferry an Aeolam these days. You know they cannot cross the Velvet without risking madness, so I purchased a visa from the Grand Sorcerers of Passageways to open a gate for him. Quite expensive, and dangerous as well.”

I saw this as the perfect opening to discuss one of the remarkable events which I had so far experienced on my jaunt. “There was an Aeolam on the Golden Howdah we began our travels on. I watched her embark; she was quite well dressed in silk and resplendent jewels. Someone of importance, I might have guessed…and she did not bring a coffin with her.”

“Really?” Curiosity and concern played about in equal measure on Lady Quixtactictle’s face. “Did she not bring chains, or perhaps a powerful soporific? Was she not attended by guards to protect the other passengers?”

“No,” I said, dipping my head slightly to suggest a secret. “She was, instead, slain not one evening away from castoff.”

No sooner did I mention this point of gossip then I heard, from the direction of the kitchens, a great clatter as though someone of greater-than-average height had dropped a large tray of metallic composition. Mr Porist turned in his chair to look in the direction of the noise, and turned back none the wiser. Me, I did not look away from our host, studying her countenance for some hint or clue as to what she knew, and what she thought about it.

“Slain?” I could read only surprise in her voice, not shock. “How very odd and unexpected. Did her madness push her into violence?”

“I do not think so,” I said, pausing only briefly to chide myself for not even considering the possibility. “She had locked herself in her cabin, and it was there she was found. I myself believe it more likely she was murdered with intent.”

“How ghastly!” My host’s many fingers interlaced in thought. “I find myself wondering if it has something to do with all these warriors cluttering up the Grand Junction like dust in a corner.”

To hear my friend say this, I was most relieved, for it is incredibly bad manners for a visitor to comment to a host on things they find unusual or unfamiliar, unless the host broaches the matter first. “I must say,” I said, perhaps a bit quicker and more forcefully than was warranted, “I have never seen so many soldiers, infantry, and folk-of-war in one place that wasn’t a battlefield. And from so many different nations and worlds! I do hope there isn’t a war brewing?” Frankly, the issue had been bothering me quite excruciatingly, and to be given permission to discuss it was alleviating.

“Someone thinks there is,” Lady Quixtactictle nodded in sorrowful commiseration. “The Kingdoms of Arcwhite have mobilized their entire army, and the other regions have answered in kind. I know that half wield weapons of war, while half bring tools and instruments of no clear purpose. It is my consideration that they are not preparing for war. They are preparing for something else entirely”

“What on earth could require so much preparation?” I asked, quite certain my friend knew no better than I.

Sure enough, she shrugged. “I hear tell a kind of alliance has been formed, to defend the Myriad Worlds from incursion. Tentative, of course, and most cautious, but an alliance nonetheless. And the Archonarchy has responded in kind. No fewer than six of the Old Kingdoms have made public statements decrying the aggressive stance of the Tentative Alliance, and expressing support to the Archonarchy.”

“Six!” I was amazed that even three of the Old Kingdoms would ever agree on anything. “Does this have anything to do with their great construction?” I asked, knowing full well the answer.

“My,” she said, her eyes careful and searching, “you have heard a great many things on your jaunt, haven’t you?” With a sigh, she leaned back in her seat. “No one knows what it is, but three months ago, I saw bands of shipwrights and engineers amassing much as the armies of the Myriad Worlds are amassing now. They were from the Old Kingdoms, yes, but from other places too. There were Ogres and Dworgs, Esquin and Rim-runners, even a few of the Imwii races. There were smiths and carpenters and doctors and priests…and no one knows where they went.

“Surely,” I said after a moment of confusion, “they bought tickets?”

“No one has any record,” my host grinned without a hint of joy. “For myself, I am certain they were commissioned by the Archonarchy, to aid in this ‘construction.’”

I did not respond at first, and to explain why it is important that I first explain the complicated relationship that I have with Sennk music.

Perhaps you have not heard of Sennk, as it is a style that has only recently spread across several of the more experimental Myriad Worlds. To detail its entire history would not only take longer than this entire poem, but also would it betray the poem’s very purpose, as such information can easily be placed in books, lecture halls, or similar places of factual recount.

I cannot say that I like or dislike the music itself, and I shall explain why momentarily. First, I must explain this singular fact: Sennk music plays off of the very fantasies that I so passionately despise. There are sounds, notes, melodies, and harmonies that fill Sennk like a sponge, creeping into every crevasse until it is perfectly saturated, but in the hands of a true master, those sounds will never be heard. It is, to put it in perfectly plebeian terms, the notes that are not played that are of premium importance. It is the audible white-space that provides the foundation of the experience.

How can I enjoy it, then, when all it does is play off of what we expect, what we plan, what we hear without hearing, see without seeing? What are these notes but waking dreams that are played with by a skillful taxidermist, giving them life on the end of a puppet’s string? Yet the dark and cruel part of me truly enjoys it when the trick is played, and the ear stumbles where the dreams are pulled out from under it.

Because of this awkward love-hate affair I have with the style, I sometimes find myself paying more attention to things that are not there, expected or otherwise. The white-space is, after all, as much a part of the hereandnow as anything else, and I am hardly one to neglect. As such, I heard quite clearly what was not said, and so responded to Lady Quixtactictle thusly:

“Do you know what they are constructing?”

My dear friend was caught unprepared. “No, of course not! What a question to ask! How on earth would I know that?”

“You seem to know it requires engineers and shipwrights,” I cocked an eyebrow, “and doctors and priests. For the life of me, I have never seen a priest nor doctor at a construction site, save when something goes wrong. I’m sure I wouldn’t have made the assumption you have.”

“Well, it’s only that we all know so little,” she floundered, quite ineffectively. “You know what they say about the Archonarchy. They could be doing anything behind that door. Perhaps they think doctors are necessary? I’m sure I don’t know.” Collected again, she leaned forward, licking her fork clean, “I, of course, have my own theories, but such is not a proper subject for discussion over a meal.” She reached out and rang her bell once more. “The final course, a Pashmram salad made fresh. With a small glass of port, there is nothing finer, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

I did agree, as it is terrible manners to contradict your host. I myself was particularly fond of Pashmram, having first tasted it on a jaunt to the Northergale. There, it was the only sustenance of comfort, made and provided by our guide, a burly Wergwar barbarian by the name of Lurt. We survived the harsh climate with a steady supply of dried whicker-jerky, save for the few occasions when a scout spied a tender crop of Pashm under an outcropping or overhang. That evening, Lurt would spare no pains to get a fire burning so he could simmer the leaves properly, until the edges curled brown, not black, and stewed the Pashm’s heart in wine and crushed Koni nuts. It was horribly bitter, but largely comforting.

So I was shocked to see that on my plate, cradled in the leaves, was a pile of chopped Ganuunut, barely cooked. It astonished me to see a chef who had studied at the Blue School make such a strange substitution, as Koni nuts were not rare, nor expensive, especially compared to Ganuunut. True, Koni nuts were difficult to shell, and required constant attention to cook properly, but any chef worth their knife was certainly capable.

No sooner had this oddly substituted dish hit the table in front of our host, than she said; “Madam Albithurst, Mr. Porist, you must forgive me, I just remembered!” With a sudden surge of energy, Lady Quixtactictle stood up from the table, gesturing for me and Mr. Porist to remain seated. No sooner had Mr. Porist and I shared a glance of confusion, than Lady Quixtactictle had absconded from the room, her dress flowing behind her.

For no less than five minutes, Mr. Porist and I were forced to sit in silence, and neither of us was rude enough to eat or converse without our host present, unless the subject were of an interest only to ourselves, but of course the only subject either of us could think of was the gathering armies just outside our host’s door.

At last, Lady Quixtactictle returned, running into the room while carrying a tiny box. “I have a gift for you, Madam Albithurst,” she said as she opened the top with a flourish. There, in the middle of the cushioned case, sat a ring set with a marvelous gem as large as a pea pod.

“Lady Quixtactictle,” I gaped at the shimmering crystal, “I cannot accept such an astounding gift.” It was not just politeness that encouraged my response, but I have never been one to bedeck myself with large gemstones, preferring as I do jewelry of thin metals and intricate designs.

“I insist,” our hostess demanded, pulling the ring free and forcing it upon my finger. “See how marvelous it shines on your hand? Oh, you are a gorgeous woman, Madam Albithurst, of a style and class far beyond that of mere nobility. Please, wear this ring for me?”

“It is quite unique,” I stammered out, staring at the giant gem as it covered my finger. “I do not recognize the stone. Wherever did you find it?”

“It is a rare and important gem,” Lady Quixtactictle stroked the stone with a single digit, like a mother caring for an egg. “It was quite…expensive to acquire, from a far away land. Please take it with my blessing, and take care not to lose it. Now, what were we talking about?”

I found myself quite at a loss at this question, as I had no memory of what had prompted this remarkable and unexpected gift. I was spared the awkwardness of my ignorance, however, by a thunderous explosion that tore apart mansion’s front door.