The Poems of Madam Albithurst: Mr. Slate

Now, I will not say that this is where the conversation ended. I will say that this is where the important and interesting aspects of the conversation ceased. Hours passed as each of us tried in turn, begging, pleading, promising, and threatening. The two Majesties did not mind our efforts, nor succumb to our pleas.

If you are interested in the fascinating, if at times repetitive and at all times impractical, conversation, you may find them in my poem The Detailed Discourse of the Two Majesties.

After a time, Mx. Image spoke to us and informed us that, as our resident expert on the behaviors of the ruling classes, that Monarchs of all stripes were only helpful when it is on their own impetus to be so. I think we are all quite aware that the rich, powerful, and noble never do anything kind if it happens to be suggested by someone else. Image therefore suggested it might behoove us to wander among the Apex, asking the people for aid.

They provided none, though they certainly provided for a great deal of remarkable conversation. There was one particularly interesting woman I had the delight to speak with. She was impressively broad for such a young thing, with a shining sun of a face and thick calloused hands. She told me of her home, a place she had long-since left and had made no plans to return to. A community that had carved its place into the steep cliffs of a mountain, full of stairs and bridges that crossed the slate bas-relief community like strands of a giant web.

She had been born to a proud man and a harsh mother, and lived with the bee-tenders among whom her father was well respected. Know when I say bees, I do not mean the tiny balls of fur and pollen that drone lazily about the sky. These bees were the size of dogs, and while far more kindly deposed towards her people than most others of her size, they could be quite dangerous when roused to anger. So too were they capricious in their moods, and while the tenders were skilled and cautious at their trade, there was not a year gone by when one was not stung by their vicious abdomens, and sent to the local doctor for emergency care.

It was rare that these poor wounded were killed, rarer still that they would ever return to the paper hives and their fellow tenders.

The woman herself had nearly been stung twice before, each time deftly dodging their sharp thrust, and it sounded quite the fascinating tale that I would have delighted in hearing more about, had our conversation not been interrupted by Mr. Slate.

His limbs were curved and black, slim fingers like willow branches. Hooven feet clopped on backwards legs, and his neck curved up and over like a swan’s. He had two elbows on each arm, and four fingers on each hand. There was something quite un-living about him. When he did not move, he was as still as a statue, bereft of even the most subtle signs of breath, pulse, or thought. But when he moved, he was suddenly alive with vibrant and elegant movement.

His hand rested upon my shoulder. “Ah,” he said, with a turpentine voice and shaved coconut undertones. “Madam Albithurst, I presume?”

“That is me,” I admitted, “though you have me at a disadvantage.”

“No,” the curving neck bent lower, the beady eyes turning left and right, around the bulbous nose as wispy strands of hair waved back and forth. “I am, under order of the High on High, the Grand Constable of the Torquates, Mr. Slate. Do you recognize our authority?”

I bit my tongue at the tall figure’s acerbic words. It’s mouth-less tongue was wet in my ears as it wheedled about, fingers grasping like waving eels.

Perhaps you have never had the opportunity to meet with one of the Torquates of High on High? I myself never had before this moment, and was wise enough to never wish it. If I recognized the Torquates’ authority here, in the middle of the Sibilants, there was no telling what horrors they could cause. If I instead stated that I did not recognize the Torquates as an authority, I might have found myself beset by any number of difficulties best not enumerated here.

“Mr. Slate,” I said at last, “I am afraid I cannot answer your question. Not without understanding the duties or perils my answer may place me under.”

“I, of course,” Mr. Slate coughed twice, “can neither confirm nor deny any duties or perils any answer may subject you to.”

“Then we find ourselves at an impasse, Mr. Slate.”

“That we do, Madam Albithurst,” the eyes of Nock cocked to the side. “I have heard word of a Captain Venriki de’Laisey, who has been steadily working through a particularly interesting case at the moment. I believe you are aware of it?”

Oh, such a vile and vicious man, to use my dear Captain against me, so! I daresay I arched my eyebrow in the most chilliest of manners, and answered him with a tone that could have curdled milk, were I of such a mind; “I am aware of his mission.”

“Only he’s doing a bit of a cock-up. First, he brings a pertinent suspect to the crime-scene, explains the evidence against them, then allows them to leave his custody no less than three separate times over the course of the investigation, allowing them to flee to a known den of depravity, uncertainty, and privacy. I daresay his future career in the Anointed Bulwark is very much in doubt among those who pay attention.”

Hearing this chilled my blood, as my dear Captain cared very much for his career. It was one of the things that made our special relationship so special; the tension between his two passions, one of course being myself. “I am not interested in speaking in riddles, Mr. Slate. If you are referring to the fact that I am neither arrested nor even charged with committing a crime, it is not due to any laxity on Captain de’Laisey’s part.”

“Oh no?” Mr. Slate leaned closer, a long purple tongue darting through his teeth. “Were I not ensconced in another more important matter, I would have arrested you the moment you entered the Duke’s home, on the charge of murder. I’d have seen you convicted before nightfall.”

“I too,” I said, patiently, “have another matter at hand. I am currently working with Sir Juhrooz the Circumspect on a very important mission for the Tentative Alliance. I do not believe even the Anointed Bulwark has jurisdiction over a military band on a mission for the Arcwhite Kingdoms? Especially not in the current political climate.”

“My dear Albithurst, you speak of politics,” Mr. Slate’s fingers curled and extended like uncertain butterfly tongues. “We are above such things. Results are our only concern, and he has provided none. Nor, may I say, have you.”

“Nor you,” I answered with was quite inappropriate candor. “Have the Torquates found even a single piece?”

Mr. Slate’s face bent lower still, until it was nearly looking up at me through un-lidded eyes. “I can neither confirm nor deny. Have you?”

“I could confirm or deny, but I will do neither,” was my rough response. “Mr. Slate, why are you here, addressing me in this manner?”

“Crossing the eyes, dotting the teas,” his head rotated a full half-circle. “So many things to organize and manage and make sure fall into place. We can fix everything, Madam Albithurst. That is our purpose. Why we were created in the first place, and we cannot rest until we are finished. As for you,” Mr. Slate’s face did not change, nor his tone, yet I could not help but detect a modicum of scorn. “Suffice it to say that you are in a great deal of trouble, Madam Albithurst, and if you do not agree to come with us…with me, that is…to a place of my choosing to account for your behavior during this little jaunt of yours, it will go the worse for you.”

“Mr. Slate, I must protest,” I said, as quickly and quietly as I thought was acceptable, while still maintaining a veneer of politeness. “I have behaved as any reasonable and reliable citizen of the Myriad Worlds should. I must insist, if you mean to threaten me, what behaviors have I engaged in that you find necessary for accounting?”

Mr. Slate’s body curled inward, reaching for my shoulders in what was obviously meant to be at once a gesture of camaraderie and caution. With but a momentary pause, while his eyes stared down at me with cold scorn, the dark voice intoned: “My dear Madam Albithurst, you are paying attention.”

Oh, how my face must have been pale! I was terrified, I am not ashamed to admit it. Looking deep into the matted eyes of Mr. Slate, feeling his long thin fingers wrapping around my shoulders, I shook as I never had before.

So frightened, I must have looked, that the Agent realized the danger I was in.

Not a second later, the span of a heartbeat, the thick-bodied Archonarchian assassin was upon Mr. Slate, the two of them twisting and writhing about like snarling wolves at each other’s throats.

It is something indeed, to watch a Archonarchian fight, for their sable and stone-shaped clothing provides little in the way of movement. One indeed could imagine any number of dramatic poses and flashy spins of blade and body, enough to entrance even the most skeptical of dancers. In the art of narrative, conflict must be engaging, entrancing, alluring, else we would never wish to hear of it.

Alas, I cannot give you what you need to appreciate the moment from the vantage of an onlooker. Brusque. Quick. Clumsy. Cruel. The words one uses for a mad dog or speeding train. This was the Assassin’s trade, and Mr. Slate met it with due force.

Instead I will craft a poem for you from the vantage point of one who was saved. For I was saved in that moment, as clear as air.

A future, or perhaps even a lack of future, was ripped away by my Agent friend. In my beating heart, I was counting the seconds until my limbs would move of their own accord, submitting to the High on High and their authority over me. For if I had said the words, if I had acknowledged their power, then it should have been made real. It is not even in the admitting, but in the thinking that one surrenders to the truths and lies of another. Of course, there are those who continuously express the simplistic — if probably true — idea that the High on High have already found power over us all, and acknowledging this does little more than strip away our illusions. I like my illusions where they are, thank you.

I became aware of the shrieking voice of our guide, Nock, as it spun in the air, crying out over and over: Giant by thine own nature, thou art beautiful, strong! Giant by thine own nature, thou art beautiful, strong!

It was not my pilgrim’s intent, I am sure, to form what came after, but after such a fierce and cruel display, I fear what came next was unavoidable. I do not blame her, as things may be very different behind the door, but it is difficult to violently spill the blood of another being in full view of a rotunda full of citizenry without causing a commotion.

It started, as most things do, with a single scream. Then another, and then chaos reigned. My pilgrim and I were perhaps fortunate in some ways, as everyone ran away from us, sparing us the collisions and tramplings that others were subjected to. In other ways we were less fortunate, as since we were spared the crowd, we were easily noted by the well armed and aggressive peacekeepers of the Sibilants.

Of course, the Sibilants is out of the jurisdiction of most every police force you care to name. The Anointed Bulwark, especially, was not allowed to set foot inside the environs, though I doubt there were many who would if they could.

The law of the Sibilants, therefore, if there was such a thing that we of the Myriad Worlds could recognize, was upheld by the dark and shadowy bushwhackers known as the Ayo-Tank. A horrific name that matches their horrific purpose. While I loudly and profanely scorn the act of hoping and dreaming, I must admit I had hoped to never see the Ayo-Tank, after having read about their singular and vile purpose.

But as I have said before, all dreams are ephemeral, and so it was with quickening heart and panicking mind that I watched as the dark shapes descended from the eves, their braided limbs and whirling skirts whistling through the air as their curving blades and thick stone hammers were brought to bear.

I, thinking as quickly as I could, had the presence of mind to grab the Archonarchian, pulling her to my side, away from the staggering Mr. Slate, who pawed at the ground for his head.

“Madam Albithurst!” When I turned, Mr. Porist, Sir Juhrooz, and Mx. Image were standing behind us, Sir Juhrooz’s hands gripping his sword, ready to unfold and unfurl its lethal sting.

“Hackles,” shouted the chilling voice of Mr. Slate, as the dark figure rolled about on the ground, limbs flailing and jerking in their awkward throes. “Hackles and follicles, you will regret! Regret!”

“What do we do?” Image asked, voice as calm as ever. “I do not recognize these words, nor these beings, and I am uncertain as to their intent.”

“Hackles!” Mr. Slate shouted, as the Ayo-Tank advanced with a clatter and snap. No sooner had we collected ourselves, however, when a thunderous crash echoed from far up the neck of the Sibilants. My dear friend, Sir Juhrooz, gripped my shoulder with sudden intensity.

“I know that sound,” he said, with teeth grit tight. “A breaching charge! A resolute advance! Things are about to get violent!”

My immediate response was to tell my friend that things had certainly already been violent, and had been for some time — but my reply was cut short by another thunderous cascade of rumbles and crashes from the neck above us. As we later learned, an entire contingent of the Tentative Alliance armies had descended upon us, breaking in through the spine and swarming down through the upper torso. Turning to face their new foe, the Ayo-Tank let fly a sharp whistling flare, summoning more of their dark kin to the hunt. For myself, I found a nearby piece of fallen masonry, serendipitous in its convenience, and crouched behind it for something approaching safety.

I am sure I need not explain that this was, in fact, the second time in less than a year that I had been surrounded by the sounds of combat. Rifle-fire and the clashing of metal echoed in the air. The coarse feel of crumbling stone under my fingers as they pressed against the masonry. The smell of sulfur, ozone, sweat, and blood.

“We are in danger,” I explained. “Great danger indeed. Is there nothing we can do?”

“We cen fight,” the Archonarchian answered, only to be hushed by Sir Juhrooz:

“We cannot fight and win,” he said, “so we must find a way to escape, or distract. Once their attention is broken, their power is weakened substantially.”

“I find myself in a quandary,” Image pulled closer to me. “Even if we escape this violence — which seems to follow you, I begin to notice — and manage to find Lady Song, we will still need to find some means to escape the Sibilants. Is it possible that in your time here you have already discovered some means of egress?”

“I have not,” I admitted. “I’m afraid that I have been remiss in my efforts. This is the second show of violent force perpetrated near our persons since this whole escapade began, isn’t it? I certainly should have considered how to extricate ourselves from such a situation. I am truly sorry to have failed you all. Will you ever forgive me?”

“Wait!” Mr. Porist pointed. “See? See there?”

I followed his finger and saw the glittering darkness of Mr. Slate’s blood as it glistened on the floor of the Apex. The very floor. If there was a down in this hanging corpse, there was no further down to go. And yet, in the reflection of the dark liquid, the lights glittered further down. A mirrored world further down.

There, of course, Mr. Porist had seen our quarry.

It took little more than drawing our attention to it. We would not survive the aggression of the Ayo-Tank, nor the vengeance of the Torquates, nor the passions of any other group that surely would come to claim their own pounds of flesh and blood.

So we descended further down, to the only place we could go.