A Fine Black Sky
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The bitular beetle, hardy and powerful, dark and creepy, scurried hurriedly across the flagstones, avoiding the correlative Chesniks and Attendants, only to hit the wall, markably shuffling efficiently under the many booted feet that crashed about it, never intentionally attacking, but coincidentally crunching millimetres from the bitular beetle’s strong black carapace.
Once upon the relative safety of the wall, the bitular beetle climbed the stone, until it reached the sill, whereupon a whole new gamut of challenges faced it. Yet it continued its march ever onward, past scrap food of crumb and rind, beet and berry, not to mention the discarded crockery, combined with many a utensil. But once traversed, the bitular beetle was done. And it followed a course it had so many times before, upward around the stairwell, into the Common Area, where a cacophonous riot of noises, calls, hawkers, salesmen and clients, all combined with the explosion of colour, dulled as it was beneath the many and varied shade, amongst the ever-night and the shadowy corners bereft of illumination.
From underfloor, the Chesniks rose, carrying many delights of food and drink, passing through the crowds expertly, hip swivels indicating the practiced dancer, for it was only the most sure-footed that survived the seditious Common Rooms, where principally the tired Trader would repose, with Scild - their security - in tow, while imbibing of spirit and victuals, all as part of their grand scheme - talking plans, making connections and wagering upon the stock, even as the ordinary man or woman sat stoically, serene and cautious, awaiting their hot drink in a delicate cup, before taking in the beautiful wares once more about the floor.
The tiny morsels these people dropped were not for the bitular beetle, however. It had a mission in mind, if one could call it a mind, to venture to the great green and glowing tree that grew with many a branch, throughout the South Tower, primarily designated for sustenance and the production of the same. Again, the bitular beetle cared nothing for the product of people’s mongery, simply that opportunity had kept the species alive for as long as the South Tower had stood, and that the bitular beetle knew nothing save the universe of stone, noise and dust, not to mention the cacophonous clatter of the many hearts and minds, all macerated together in one gigantic pulse of energy, that tried to prevent the bitular beetle at every turn. It had to be said, however, that the bitular beetle took nothing of it personally, as it had not the wit to encompass such a concept. In fact it had little but the wit to search for food and to copulate, but then the same could have been argued of much of the general populace, by some.
Crawling from safety, the bitular beetle bee-lined for the next cover, narrowly avoiding the falling boot of an Attendant, firmly upon a path where not one distraction would set him upon a quibbled course, even from an animated beetle, being the bitular beetle in pursuit of an instinct.
Yet somewhere deep in the jungle of indifferent arbor, that Attendant with decades of service was waved over by a large man, who appeared dressed of the purchased garment of the fayre, ill-fitting and with far too many pockets.
The man talked vigorously and at volume, “I say, man over there! Could we perhaps order a drink? I would like a Destant Slice and my Wife would like -“
The Attendant stopped and looked over, “Sir?”
The man shot his eyes skyward in consternation, “I said, I would like to order drinks. Now, as I said -“
The Attendant lifted his thin calloused hand to halt any further utterance from this man, “No, what I meant by my surprised exclamation, was not for you to repeat yourself. It was an incredulous explosion of wonderment. I am, as you can plainly see, not a Cup-Bearer, or Chesnik, as some colloquially call them. I am an Attendant. Sir.”
The man shifted upon his position, to face the Attendant more directly, “Look, it doesn't matter what you call yourself, I would like a drink - now. I mean, don’t you know who I am?”
The Attendant made no attempt to supposition, yet paused for dramatic effect, “And, with reciprocation of the commonest of tongues, do you not know who I am?”
The man was, perhaps for the first time in his life, almost speechless, “I - well -“
The Attendant then looked about him, finding his target with practiced efficiency, “You! Cup-Bearer! Here!” The Attendant awaited the Chesnik, “These two - people - would like to order a drink.” He then turned to the couple, but principally to the man, “There you are. Problem solved.” The smile that crept upon the Attendant’s lips came from a twenty year attention to the needs of others, with little or nothing to do with appeasement. He could not, however, prevent himself commenting as he walked away, “I mean, I’ve never been treated like this before? Who do they think I am? Some kind of common server?” And thus he was gone, into the midst.
Even so, and which was more, the bitular beetle was indifferent to the machinations of general chit-chat and the intrigues of the Princes of the Towers, namely and principally Rapio Praefuscus, the one known to a few as Eighteen.
Talk was common of his dalliances with the Deviators, presumed amongst many as the act of a networking Noble, being preparatory work for the scheme ahead, namely the ascendancy upon mortal determinism of the position to which he was born into, being the Lord of the North Tower. Yet more, however, believed it to be the corruption of position, the adrenaline fuelled plotting and germinating pollution of effervescent exhilaration, leading to a situation dependent upon the pertinaciousness of another. In other words, Rapio had, potentially, fallen under the spell of the criminal class - the Deviators - and was controlled by the same. The bright lights, smells and noises of attending often stole away the weak willed. Temptation was strong, and upon this eventuality, only the strongest survived, and the assumption became that Rapio was not ever thus, despite the Family he came from.
The bitular beetle mingled amongst the intrigue, the power plays, the rigidity of discourse, the obvious and less obvious subterfuge, and the hidden criminality of the light fingered and over clumsy, in the dingy, smothering and dusty space, where the lungs were set upon by the closeness, the heat, the cloying odour and smoke of the Narikelah Pipes, cautiously creating a cloud above the turbaned Trader, their clothes of wrapped fabric in abundance, as though they hid something beneath, and most likely did. But it was the noise, the clinks of crockery, glass and produce, the rings and bracelets and the endless chains, the laughter, some genuine, and the raised voices in chatter that offended the ears and drew the attention.
Many of the Traders sat upon their deep and comfortable chairs, or cross legged on the thick cushions around the low tables, in discussion and trade, while keeping an ever watchful eye upon the Tickers - the fast gesturing people who kept all within the Common Area apprised of the current trend or cost throughout the Hall - never missing a beat. Commerce here was akin to politics and death, in that it never stopped, not for anyone, even the bitular beetle upon its adventurous jaunt toward the Verdure Plant - that which provided sustenance - and freedom.
And within, Burdan, a spirited Trader, sucked upon the Narikelah Pipe he kept nonchalantly at the corner of his mouth, and expelled the smoke in one large gust, like a cumulous cloud into the collected vaporous air above, even as he spoke, “We two should agree, upon something or other, lest time escapes us?”
His supplier, the extemporaneous and difficult Caldwell, raised an eyebrow as he sipped his piping hot dark liquid contained within a silver stemmed glass, “You think we have not? I know for myself I have made much of my time with you, Burdan.”
Burdan took a further toke of the filtered pipe, chuckling a little, blowing out rings of smoke, evanescent in their rise above, “I can see, my friend Caldwell. I can see.”
“You surely are not filled with regret?” asked Caldwell, leaning forward an imperceptive fraction.
Burdan was rapid with his reply, “By no means! Our latest ventures are productive, certainly. Let me assure you, my friend, that should one require it, through you I would supply it.”
Caldwell returned to his relaxed position, a certain smile creeping upon the corners of his mouth, but it was the eyes, becoming shadowed, that told the real story of Caldwell’s manner, “This I well know Burdan! If it were not ever thus, I would part even now. As it is, I feel we have a - mutually beneficial arrangement?”
“This we do, of which I am sure.” agreed Burdan carefully.
“But tell me, friend,” began Caldwell almost as soon as Burdan had finished the final vowel, “Was it yourself who conversed with Samer who is, to wit we both are in beholden of the truth, a sworn enemy of mine? You would not, dare I speak it, be tendering from another?” he asked, raising his eyebrows expectantly.
Burdan’s face turned red, “I assure you, my dearest, oldest friend, that any discourse I may have partaken in with that Samer fellow would only be to reprimand him upon his misadventures.”
Caldwell took a sip of his hot liquid, “As you say, my friend, for I would hope it would not be for another purpose?”
“You can rest assured, my esteemed friend, that there is only one supplier in Unity, and it would be your excellent self.” explained Burdan.
“So you say, my friend.”
“So say many.” hurried Burdan efficiently.
Caldwell replaced his glass upon the table between the two men, “As it may be. So, a reduction in storage? Simply as a recompense for any inconvenience caused?”
Without hesitation, Burdan replied, “That would seem - most efficacious, my good fellow. And in regards to the matter in hand?”
“You can be assured that the flow of goods will continue, for as long as you may need them.” agreed Caldwell.
Burdan’s complexion returned to it’s natural demeanour and colour, “Superb, old chap! Another?” he gestured to the empty glass before Caldwell.
“Most assuredly.” smiled Caldwell. And it was, then, that convivial conversation continued unabated.
Yet there was never a mountain that the bitular beetle could not overcome, be it crumb, cloth, or boot, and over the same did it venture. The Scild, the security to the recumbent Trader, had become distracted by the flurry of feet floating upon a gaseous vapour, made present by the flotation of dust and debris upon the air, like a small ground fog of detritus. Upon his distraction, the Scild’s eyes fell upon the bitular beetle that sauntered casually over the tough and tarnished leather, purchased upon the cracks and scratches of duty. Long did he watch it, that when he lifted his head, he did not notice upon what he collided with, in this instance a tray full of drinks that a Chesnik was falteringly scuttling through the throng with. When the contents had crashed about the floor, the Scild’s honour was punctured and he leaned down to aid the Chesnik by picking up the mess he himself had helped make. Upon doing so and while in the process of apology, did the Scild spot something unexpected.
The Scild’s eyes fell upon an old Charge, “Drewett? I - what are you doing here?”
Drewett looked surprised at being noticed, “Owin. I would rather you hadn't seen me like this.”
Owin helped Drewett by lifting a handful of crockery and placing it upon the tray, “But -“
Drewett nodded with a sunken smile, “Yes, I lost it all. We all, all the Drewetts - we seem to have fallen upon hard times.”
For want of comforting Drewett correctly, all Owin could manage was the further lifting of detritus, “I can see, but surely not you? I remember how shrewd you were, when I Scilded for you, back in the day? Ruthless, venomous, tactical - just exactly how a good businessman should be.”
Drewett shrugged in resignation, “And it would be that nature which has driven me here, to take any employment I can.”
“Even with your handicap?” asked Owin.
“Yes, even despite it, Owin. It seems that they care not for the disability one suffers when it comes to paying for accommodation and living expenses.”
Owin shook his head in disappointment, “That truly is a shame, and when they care so much for a conflict that will never come?”
“Such is the way, I am afraid, Owin.” shrugged Drewett, who suddenly looked concerned, “I hope I did not hurt you when I spilled the tray?”
Owin waved a dismissive hand, “Oh, don't worry about that, Drewett. It’s a minor thing, and already it heals.” There became a long silent pause before Owin spoke again, “I cannot bear to see you like this, Drewett. I have a small amount saved away -“
Drewett placed a comforting hand on Owin’s forearm, “I would not hear of it. I thank you most graciously though for the offer.”
“It is no less than you deserve, for the kindness you showed me upon my first Scilding.” explained Owin rigidly.
Drewett then found an occasion to allow his face to lighten up with a broad toothy grin, “Good to see you are much improved, however.” he jostled Owin.
“Ha! So I am, sir! So I am!” agreed Owin. Upon noticing a Worker coming close, he called to the man, “Here, Worker. Take this tray to the kitchens.” he instructed, then returned his attention to his old employer, “Well Drewett! You simply must come for a meal sometime? Mylla would be so pleased to see you and your good Lady.”
“Certainly!” agreed Drewett enthusiastically, “I will inform Madlen upon the end of her shift.”
“And perhaps then I can persuade you to take my offer?” winked Owin.
Drewett nodded humorously, “We’ll see, Owin. We’ll see.”
The Worker who was handed the tray looked first at it, then at the Scild and decided that arguing was not conducive to a successful day, so took it upon himself to take from the Scild the tray and motion away. However he did not move in the direction of the kitchens, as instructed, but toward the Verdure Plant, where his destination had been intended. He left the tray on the very next empty table and carried onward to his destination.
The General Worker came upon the shadow under the staircase, where stood another, feverishly biting his nails and starting when his friend had entered the small space. The first man spoke, “How goes the plan. Graeg?”
Even the words shook something loose in the second man, Graeg, “I’m really not sure we should be doing this, Artor. I mean, if we are caught -“
Graeg then received a murderous stare, “I don’t plan on getting caught, Graeg. Do you?”
“Well, no, but -“
“Just tell me it’s in place.”
Graeg could not help himself. He replied with eyes downward, “Yes, Artor. It’s in place. But -“
“Good.” interrupted Artor, allowing no dissension from his accomplice.
Yet there was a feverish look still upon Graeg’s complexion, “I’m really not sure it’s going to work. What of the Scilds? Not to mention the Vigilants, the Chesniks, the Attendants, the Traders themselves -“
Artor replied vehemently, “We’ll be in and out before they realise, Graeg. Look, I’ve been observing these people for months. They’ve barely a brain cell between them.”
Still there was something unshakable in Graeg, “I don’t know, Artor. Many of them are quick on the calculation.”
“Well, I do know, okay?” pointed Artor painfully, “Ever played the Three Flip Trick?”
Graeg shook his head amused, “No, obviously, because it’s for mugs, but I’ve seen it done plenty.”
“Well, I know the trick to winning at it.” explained Artor proudly, “And it is with this trick I shall distract them, while you -“
It was Graeg’s turn to interrupt incredulously, “Wait. You know the trick and that’s your tactic? Oh dear -“
“Not having second thoughts, are you, Graeg?” enquired Artor dangerously.
“Of - of course not, Artor. You know how much I owe you. I will do anything you ask me, you know that.”
“Good.” smiled Artor, “So, at three then? North end of the Traders, by the Trinketeer.”
“Yes, Artor. At three.” agreed Graeg, with seemingly no recourse. Graeg knew beforehand of the likely success to this venture, it being somewhere close to nil. Yet he was compelled by duty and honour to his friend, though it would likely mean his life. Then the two conspirators parted, and only one was convinced of success.
And from a hidden place beneath the discarded tray, scuttled the bitular beetle, closer than ever to its destination. It could see, could sense, could desire of its nourishment, if only it had the cognisance to apprehend it. But it had not. It simply scurried on, while the vallalauga millipede continued its own ascendency upon that green and luscious plant.
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