The Poems of Madam Albithurst: Procedure

“I cannot fathom,” muttered Sir Juhrooz, as he turned the paper this way and that, “what the purpose of this procedure actually is.”

“Oftentimes,” Mr. Porist carefully positioned his sheers around his earlobe, “the purpose is the procedure.”

My Doppewassl friend stared at the paper for a moment more, before slowly nodding. “For seven days and six nights, I and my fellow trainees caught a drop of water as it slid down a pane of glass. We would then let the drop fall from our fingertips onto the top of the pane, and catch it again and again. We did not know what this was supposed to teach us, and even now I still do not know. Perhaps it taught me nothing, or perhaps I learned something more than mere knowledge. I sometimes remember how it felt, each drop landing on my finger, then falling again after I crooked my knuckle. I remember noting whether I caught the drop earlier or later, I remember trying to flex my finger in different ways to make the drop fall faster or slower, I remember counting how many times I had caught the drop, and forgetting the number after so many times. Sometimes I wonder if our master was trying to teach us the same.”

“Perhaps,” Mr. Porist shrugged as he trimmed his other ear. “Or perhaps your master just wanted some time alone.”

I myself mostly ignored the paper. There was so much of it; stacks and reams and quires all passed back and forth from a thousand places. Glass tubes sucked and spat rolls of papyrus as fast as bullets. So pervasive was the paper that it was easy to ignore, as one might ignore the sound of wind or the drops of water in an ocean.

A bustling party of well dressed clerks shouted across the room at each other, passing papers and heavy mugs of beer back and forth along massive tables. Clothed in fur cloaks and leather arm-bands, they chanted and laughed, stacking and unstacking forms as they sang and drank and ate roasted flesh.

“Holla!” A broad-chested woman strode forward, shoving thick ale into our hands. “Drink and be merry, for we have vanquished our foes and sit victorious at the tables of glory!”

“Victorious?” Sir Juhrooz looked around the room. “I see skinny arms and scrawny legs. I see no weapons, nor spoils of war. Are you truly warriors?”

“You see no weapons of war, no, brave sir knight,” the woman laughed, slapping him hard on his metal back. “You see no armor, but it is not just these tools that vanquish foes. We use the tools of paper and pen, the weapons of clause and dotted line. Contract and agreement are our armor, and through these procedures do we bring about the death of our villainous foes!”

“A poor mockery of true war,” Sir Juhrooz shook his head. “Why, I have fought in twenty wars, each to overthrow a terrible tyrant or foul monster.”

“Ha!” the woman beamed “Do you know how many tyrants we’ve slain?”

“How many?” I asked, uncertain as to which number would be most impressive.

“Well, none,” the beer-swilled woman admitted, “but we’ve thwarted thousands! Millions! Military coup without the proper paperwork? Ha! It’s not done. You have to cross every i and dot every t in this world. If you don’t, well, no one will look at you sideways. You’ve got nothing but your own two hands, and what good is a tyrant with only two hands? Worse than worthless! A joke, is what they are. That is what we do here. We handcuff the power-mad and the cruel, we hog-tie the vindictive and the spiteful. Thousands of wanna-be monsters turning away because it’s too much effort. We usurp the powerful every day, sacrificing them on the alter of red-tape!”

“Fascinating,” I said, placing a calming hand on Sir Juhrooz, hoping his passions would not ignite in the midst of these revelers, resulting in a remarkable, if awkward bloodbath. “Might I ask, what might happen if a particularly violent monster decided to ignore this red-tape, and conquer with a sword and pistol?”

“And an army, perhaps, as well?” Mr. Porist offered, circumventing my poetic intent.

“Ah, well,” the woman shrugged. “Those aren’t in our wheelhouse, really. We stop the monsters who try and gain power legitimately.”

“Is conquering with strength of arms an illegitimate method?” Mx. Image cocked xer triangular head.

“Look,” the woman huffed, grabbing another full glass of beer from a passing barman in a skimpy dress. “Are you hear to drink and feast with us, or not?”

“We am looking for someone in the Sibilants,” I admitted, “and we might be able to find where this person is here?”

“Oh?” The woman laughed. “Who told you that?”

“We’ve still not touched on the most unique aspect, in my opinion, which are the shades red and purple.” Nock floated to the woman, nodding in time with the reveler’s song.

“Ah,” the woman’s face fell. “You have that capricious imp as a guide, do you? Well, we don’t like having the fool thing here, it gives people the wrong idea. Quite wrong!”

“Be that as it may,” I spoke calmly, though I could feel the target of my quest getting closer every moment. “Please, I am looking for the person who knows where the Encinidine is.”

“Hm,” the woman snorted as she gestured to the wall. “Might as well speak to Sparker over there. He knows where things are, usually. Otherwise, you’ll have to ask someone else, and we’re busy celebrating right now.”

I thanked the woman and marched to the wall, where sat a man of copper and glass. A faint whirring and clicking came from his cubical head, where a single light shone bright and clear through silver eyes. With a click and a clack, the man looked up as we approached.

“Good my lord,” Sir Juhrooz stepped forward, placing a hand across his heart. “I display myself most humbly to you, Sir Juhrooz the Circumspect, Doppewassl of the Arcwhite Kingdoms. These are my companions. Whom may I ask do we have the indescribable honor of addressing?”

“Me? I’m Sparker, me. What’s it to ya?” the translucent gears clicked and clattered. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to have a spare cell about you, would you? Running low, I is.”

“Indeed, I must,” Sir Juhrooz patted about his armored person in a marvelously performed display of theatrical exploration. “We Doppewassls are carried into battle by the Steel Horses of Harios, and it is a foolish soldier indeed who does not carry a spare fuel-cell to refresh their mount.”

“Ta,” the man extended a claw to pluck the cell from Sir Juhrooz’s offered hand. “What’s a dopey-vessel?”

“A Doppewassl”, Sir Juhrooz corrected with a genteel smile, “Is a mercenary of no small nobility and skill. A force to be reckoned with are the Doppewassls, whether they fight for the Arcwhite Kingdoms, the Lords of Lamberly, the Netherthanes of the Shadow-seas, or indeed, even the High on High have procured the services of the Doppewassls.” Sir Juhrooz pulled himself up tall. “We are paid twice for our service, for we are as strong as two, as wise as two, as skilled as two, and as effective as any two souls you care to name.”

“Ah, I see.” Sparker slipped the cell into his chest. “REALIGNING POWER GENERATION UNIT. PLEASE STAND BY. Ah, that’s better. Ta, you’re a toff.”

“Might I intercede, noble sir,” I stepped forward with a regal bow, “for we have been tasked with a quest most dire, to find the lost Encinidine.”

“Oh, aye?” the boxy head shifted to the left. “Where’s that, then?”

“We do not know,” I admitted. “Indeed, we do not even know what form it takes. The Duke of Ten Vials was found dead in a strange house some time ago, and even now the Torquates from High on High search for it.”

“The Torquates?” Sparker scratched the underside of its head, its single crystal eye staring and searching. “You don’t say. Hm. Well, I keep my ears to the ground, and no mistake, but I haven’t heard anything about the Encinidine recently. Heard some lady folk offed a Duke for them, an that’s all, recently. Before that, last I heard anything was half a century ago. I could tell you a story of the seventh Encinidine shard. Do you think?”

Now there was no reason to believe that this story would help us in our travels in any shape or form, but I had never heard the story of the seventh shard — the first, second, and fifth shard naturally being those with the most cultural and narrative attraction.

“I would love to hear the story,” I said.

“And I would love to tell it:”

Once upon a time, made specific by the turning of the Myriad Worlds and the Suns therein contained, lay the opening to an underground world. It was a place hidden from Those Who Walked Above, and they preferred it this way.

In the underground world lived a young man of no determinate status. He was strong, for he worked in a blacksmiths, and kind, for he had little else to give to others. He had a wide smile and a strong nose, and his name as was given to him by his mother, was Rop.

One day, Rop was approached by a wealthy woman dressed all in blue. “Please, good smith, my horse has lost its shoe, and I must travel on tonight. It is of the utmost importance.”

So Rop grabbed a horseshoe and hammer, and followed the woman out to the horse, who looked at Rop with a mournful glare. Rop could see that the horse had been run hard for many a mile, and was close to exhaustion. “My lady,” said Rop, “I do not wish to bring suffering to this animal, and it seems quite exhausted. Perhaps you should purchase a room for the night, and ride on in the morning when you both have rested?”

“I cannot,” said the lady, “for I go to meet my love, and if I do not see him tonight, I will surely die.”

“Then perhaps you should purchase a fresh horse, and leave this one to rest at the stable?”

“I cannot,” said the lady, “for this horse has been mine for years. I love it so, and I must keep it close.”

“Then I must use my father’s hammer,” said Rop, “as nothing else would be fit for the beloved animal of a fine lady seeking her love.”

So Rop fit the shoe to the horse’s hoof, and tapped the nails through with both his father’s hammer and consummate skill. At the final blow, the handle snapped in two, and so the shoe was fit.

“Thank you good sir,” the lady said, as she climbed onto the horse’s back. “I shall keep your kindness and service dear in my heart. Here is payment for your troubles.” She tossed to him a coin, worth half the cost of the horseshoe alone. And on she ran to meet her love on a fresh shoe with a full heart, leaving Rop with the coin, the hammer, and the handle."

With that, Sparker fell silent, the story well told.

“I don’t understand,” Image cocked their trapezoidal head. “Which was the shard? The coin, the lady’s heart, or the handle?” Xe paused for a moment. “Or was it Rop himself?”

“That is one of several questions,” Sparker nodded. “Anyway, that’s all I know about the Encinidine.”

“One question more,” I said, stepping forward with gloved hands clasped in supplication. “I was told by the inestimable Mrs. There-and-Back that someone in the Sibilants can tell us more. Indeed, they believe that someone here knows precisely where the Encinidine is. If this person is not you, good sir Sparker, can you direct us to who does?”

“Sir, am I?” the ticking and whirring of gears grew louder. “Well.” After a pause, the man made of glass and copper shifted itself into what could only have been a more comfortable position. “I keep my ear to the ground, you see. That’s the sorts of things I know, not things like the Encinidine. Aye, for things like that, you’d want Lady Song. Knows almost everything, she does, though I’m buggered for bacon if I know how. And if she doesn’t know, she knows who does. Where she is right now, I cannot say. I suppose you could look in the repository.” He pointed with a mechanical claw. “You see that door, with ivory inlay and silver doorknob? That’s the chute where all papers go in the end. If you want to find something, it might be there. Might not.”

I turned to look at this door, the next boundary to cross, the next passage to traverse, the next obstacle to overcome.

Perhaps there was something in the story of the seventh shard that still clung to my soul, for there was nothing about the door that urged caution. I approached the door quite brashly, ignoring the cries and remarks of my fellows. Did they shout for me to stop, or did I move too fast? If they shouted, would I have heard? If I heard, would I have listened? These are several questions I have not been able to answer, so consumed I was with the ivory-inlaid door.

Out reached my hand, grasping at the door handle. Firmly held, I twisted the handle and opened the door.

Down the chute I slid, into the darkness beyond. At the bottom, I knew I would find Lady Song. I would find the Encinidine. I would taste it on my tongue, or feel it on my fingertips.

It’s always just one step more. It always might be the last one.