Stories at the Passenger's Crossing
Arthur Von Gusse sat quietly, sipping his tea.
It was some dreadful Asian blend — nowhere near as pleasant or aromatic as a solid Brittianian tea; what was the country coming too? The King was becoming far too multicultural, Arthur mused. When Queen Virginia was alive, the Empire always had the best, whether it was English or not. Of course, the best often was English, and if it wasn’t… well, a short war would soon see that it was. Now, all King Wilhelm seemed to care about was making friends, and by extension making everything as foreign as possible. The Passenger’s Crossing was one of the few places left in the whole of Cliffside that hadn’t completely succumbed to the advancing hordes.
And there was a lot of Cliffside. Stretching across the gleaming white cliffs for almost fifteen kilometers, comprised of anywhere from two to seven levels, depending on which quarter you were in, Cliffside was — without a doubt — the central economic and industrial hub of the entire British Empire.
That didn’t mean it was the heart of the empire, of course. That honor still fell to the Royal Palace, half the continent away.
Arthur adored the Passenger’s Crossing. It was a reliably merchant-class establishment, which meant a gentlemen of his caliber could sit and spend the day in a delightful absence of boring gossip, drama, and intrigue. None of the patrons would recognize him, and not one of society’s elite would dare even think of looking for him there. The decor was bright and clean enough, and he did not look entirely out of place in his dark suit and hat. A bit pretentious for a patron, perhaps, but one of the virtues of the reliably merchant-class was a mild admiration of those who had a mind above their station.
The second benefit of the Passenger’s Crossing was the refusal of its proprietor to cater to the newest fad of exoticism. Tea-houses and cafes across Cliffside were succumbing to the allure of the foreign, offering strange new meals and alien decors to entice thrill-seeking clientele with the promise of surprising and delightful amusement within the safe confines of Britannia’s borders.
It was perhaps a natural result of world commerce. Steamships were tugged into the docks by tens every hour, bearing goods from every corner of the empire: fruits from tropical farms where natives climbed tall scaly trees to harvest them, furs and leathers from ice-covered lands full of loud giants and vicious monsters, silks and incense from the mysterious East where ancient wizards still plied their craft. Cliffside was truly a whirling engine of civilization.
No, it was more a whirlpool, dragging the wide world down like a funnel into its streets.
Lower-Cliffside — the first and second levels that spanned the width of the entire city — was full of warehouses stuffed to the brim with treasures from all over the globe, ferried up and down the city by massive steam-powered freight elevators that allowed heavy crates to traverse the steep steps that shot skyward towards Topside.
Upper Cliffside held the upper crust; the gentlemen and ladies of means who strolled casually between the fine merchants of Upper Cliffside and the extravagant glories of Topside, the ground-level mansions, fine restaurants, and rich hotels that served as a welcome mat to the traveling fortune seekers of the Empire.
The Passenger’s Crossing sat on the Midway, straddling the line between Upper and Lower Cliffside in the Gentleman’s Quarter. In a stroke of genius, Peter Zephren, the owner, had built the entire cafe out of an old derelict schooner with the bow sticking out towards the Channel. The hull had been carved out to allow passage under the deck, which shot out over the Midway like an arrow, easily visible almost anywhere in the Quarter. The more expensive seats were furthest out on the deck; the great slope of the city and thick fog in the autumn could give one the illusion of dining on the clouds.
Arthur never dined on the deck; he preferred the quiet and shade of the inner hull. Faint gas lamps hissed away on the table with the soft ticking of the regulating Ventometer providing the quiet background noise of civilization. It was a fine time to get some reading done, and wait for his work to show up.
“Another infusion, Sir?”
Arthur looked up into the sunken eyes of Devadas, the Brass Helmet’s only waiter. Peter Zephren had picked him up on a long expedition to the inner jungles of Asia, and, as the story went, saved his life from a rampaging elephant with a well placed shot to its eyes. Devadas swore to serve Peter for the rest of his life, and followed him as his hand servant. When they returned to Britannia and built the Passenger’s Crossing, Devadas became the waiter, serving every customer with alacrity and gentlemanly manners that shocked and pleased the patrons, coming from a foreigner.
Of course, Peter Zephren could never hire another waiter. He had resisted for years out of respect and concern for Devadas’s pride, until the increasing business demanded he make the attempt. He hired a young boy by the age of ten to take over the gathering of dishes and wiping of tables, but he only lasted a few days before refusing to return after Devadas had broken his arm with a well placed kick. And that was that. The Passenger’s Crossing had only one waiter, and so it was a place for patience; a place to escape the busy — and above all concentrated — city outside.
Arthur flipped open his pocket-watch, glancing over his glasses.
“I suppose so,” Arthur sighed. “I don’t think I’ll be moving for a while yet. Something a bit less…exotic perhaps?”
Devadas bowed deeply at the waist, his skin glittering in the gaslight. He pulled a small box from a nearby cart and flipped it open under Arthur’s nose. Arthur looked with delight at the patchwork array of multicolored leaves in front of him; reds, greens, and purples from all corners of the Empire caressed his nostrils, as he cast his eyes over the carefully compartmentalized box. After a moment, he pointed, and Devadas dipped a small silver spoon into the box, pulling a pile of crisp red leaves into the dim light. Deftly, he flipped the leaves into Arthur’s cup as the spoon, the box, and Devadas vanished as quickly as they appeared.
Arthur leaned forward, holding the cup under the small metal tap that stuck out of the middle of the table like a small tree. He flipped the small valve at the base, and was greeted with a rapid clicking as the cup filled with boiling water. The gaslight flickered before stabilizing as Arthur turned the valve closed. Peter would definitely need to get an engineer to take a look at his piping. A small crack or leak, likely, that was releasing the pressure, keeping a steady flow from the gaslight when the water was being heated.
After four and a half minutes exactly, Arthur sipped the tea. Infinitely better, he mused, feeling the soft curls of aromatic steam filter through his sinuses. Sighing contentedly, he returned to his book with the ticking and whirring gears of Cliffside humming in the background.
A dull thud shook the room. Several patrons shot up in their chairs, and three strong sailors left their drinks to look outside and see what had happened. Arthur didn’t move — it sounded like Phillip de Margot’s Emporium again. Sure enough, not half a minute later, a young thin girl covered head to toe in soot ran past the Brass Helmet, sobbing into her hands. She was followed soon after by an equally soot-covered long thin crow of a man, shouting obscenities at the girl, alternating between English and French, before he stopped, brushed himself off, and stomped furiously back the way he came while muttering to himself. Arthur indulged himself in a small scoff. Even Civilization had its characters.
Philip de Margot was famous for two things in Lower Cliffside. The first was his remarkable ability to have the most bizarre and esoteric tools and materials available for purchase. If you required a 13/25ths spanner, or an original Klickman’s valve before they added the leather seal to the design, then he would either have it or know where to find it. His network of salvagers, scavengers, bargainers, and businessmen stretched far and wide. He was invaluable to any number of historically minded engineers or mechanical scholars fiddling with unique and absurd designs.
The other thing he was famous for was a fanatical passion for tinkering. Phillip fancied himself a bit of an engineer, and always closed his shop two or three hours early to lock himself in his upstairs flat and fiddle with steam-broilers, toggle-switches, and glass-transistors. The results were rarely astounding, but always interesting. The locals knew better than to linger for long on the street above The Emporium after closing hours.
“Arthur, my old friend!”
Arthur set down his tea and twisted to see Peter Zephren walking towards him, leaning heavily on his metal cane. His once strong jaw was softening with age and leisure, and his bones creaked when he sat down.
Arthur happily set his book aside. He liked Peter, he really did. There was a straight-forward no-nonsense manner about him that was a refreshing change after dealing with Topside gentlemen and ladies all day.
There was something too about Peter’s age. Arthur was old too, of course — not much younger than Peter — but he hadn’t worn out his body through constant use and abuse. Travels to Asia, dark expeditions to deepest Africa, even a journey to the summit of the peaks of the Tibetian mountains were all in Peter’s past, and their marks carving their way though his wrinkled skin like winding snakes. Arthur’s life was — both by comparison and necessity — invisible.
Arthur had once tried to get Peter to publish his diaries and sell them to lazy dilettantes who wanted to dream of places they’d never been. Peter had declined, of course; there was still too much of the explorer in him. How could anyone enjoy reading about a place, Peter had asked Arthur once. You can’t understand a place by reading words — you have to see it, feel it, and smell it! Arthur didn’t have an answer for him. There was no explaining books to Peter Zephren.
It’s good to see you, Peter," Arthur smiled warmly. Peter leaned forward, his hands gripping the top of his cane like eagle’s talons.
“So, old friend, tell me a story!”
“Come now,” Arthur shook his head. “Is it come to this? All business and no camaraderie? Even in the Brass Helmet is there no time left for pleasantries?”
“Ha!” Peter’s head snapped back as he laughed. “Look around you Arthur! Have you not heard? The King has just opened trade to the Colonies again, along with a promise to make arrangements between the merchants of the Empire and the Russian Czar. There are even rumors of a royal marriage with France!
Arthur lifted the tea to his mouth. “Our Princess Elzbeth, no doubt.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not.”
Arthur paused, and then set his tea down again. “Our Princess Fredricia? She’s far too young for their Prince Leon.”
“Indeed,” Peter’s eyes glinted. “Far too young.”
Arthur opened his mouth and then closed it again. In his business, rumors and gossip were distractions, mostly. Curios that did little to advance his goals. At the same time, knowing which direction the political winds were blowing provided a level of security that was most advantageous.
“France is going to have another prince?” Arthur muttered, half to himself, as he picked up the tea-cup again. “That does change things.”
Peter nodded slowly. “The world is spinning faster than ever before, and I don’t have much longer to enjoy it. Spare an old man the monotony of manners and tell me one of your tales.” Peter wasn’t one for books, but he loved Arthur’s stories. Any restauranteur knew such things were the lifeblood of their profession; especially Arthur’s tales. They could be quite lucrative, given the proper application.
Arthur breathed deeply, and leaned back in his chair as his eyes flicked behind Peter. Smiling slowly, he gestured out into the street. “Do you see that man there? The one with the silk hat who is talking to the sailor? I shall tell you his story. Once upon a time, there was a lowly Lord who wanted to be loved by all the kingdom. He was loved by his servants, of course, and his few peers, but he wanted the peasantry of the kingdom to love him too. So he walked among them and gave them fruit and wine, and told them how lucky he was to have such wonderful neighbors.”
“But it was not enough. Day after day his fellow nobles laughed and called him foolish. ‘They will not respect you, and they will demand things of you. You demand things of your friends, and hate them if they do not provide. You beg things of your Lords, and think them wise if they deliver.’ But the lord would not listen, and tried again and again to make his new friends happy. But they never were, and demanded more and more from him.”
“Then one day he decided to buy their love once and for all, and so he planned a long journey to the Maharaja of Goa, thinking he could buy his peasant’s favor with an exclusive trade route to the east. And with him, he brought a small scrap of paper as payment. Almost nothing, really, but on this paper, in the King’s own hand, was a full account of a very old and very secret affair between the King and the Archthane of Lithuania.”
Peter glanced back at the man in the silk hat, stroking his leathery chin.
“A foolish man indeed… and how does this story end?”
“The way every story ends when the King is displeased.”
With a quick nod of farewell, Arthur stood, sticking his book in his pocket. In three quick strides, he had circumvented his old friend, and was halfway to the door.
By the time he had left the Passenger’s Crossing, the man in the silk hat had already begun walking towards the Grand Eastern Staircase, no doubt to return to his rightful residence atop Cliffside. His pace was slow and unsteady, the walk of a man with a great deal of weight on his shoulders. He was not quickened with fear, nor laden with certainty. Instead, he walked like a man still embroiled with planning his own future.
Arthur followed the man in the silk hat down the streets of Cliffside. For a moment he envied the man and his ignorance, before he twisted his wrist just so, and a long thin dagger snapped out of his sleeve between his fingers.