A Fine Black Sky
CHAPTER FORTY
The concern of the steen mouse was never of the actions of a mada moth, nor the movements of the contents within the Offices of the South Tower. The passage was merely a means to an end, for it needed to travel the large room to reach its point of entry to the locus of the Nobles.
Keeping to the shadows of the edges of the rooms, corridors, stairs and Halls, the steen mouse eventually came upon the Noble’s Residence.
The tone of Nobledom was entirely separate from anywhere else in the Tower - in fact than anywhere in the City. People in the City of Unity had tried to replicate the design for their own ends, but the history, the life that had passed through those corridors, the simple demonstrative age of the place was something that could only be, and never replicated.
Wood filled the walls and ceiling, covering competently the stone frame beneath. This was wood that had been taken from the forests outside Unity, many centuries ago. It was, in fact, the greatest collection of wood anywhere in Unity. Those who attempted to copy the style had to use paint and cloth to give the impression of wood. The furniture, older than some of the oldest Families, was also of wood, intricately carved with latticework and fretwork beyond measure, and certainly beyond the skill of any current worker. The Noble’s Residence was, in fact, a world entirely apart from the real one. Here, fantasy was the idiom by which they all lived.
And there was no opportunity missed to decorate the many surfaces, spots, areas and walls of the Noble’s Residence, with intricate and expensive, opulent and unnecessary frieze, painting, mural, statue, symbol and carpeted floor, not to mention the designs carved into the very stone with detail so fine, yet entirely lost on those most like the insipid, vain and conformist aristocrat, who could not notice a simple steen mouse scatter across the floor, principally because no Noble would accept such a creature could deign to wander into their beautifully luxuriant realm.
The designs upon the stone and furniture here were not the visions of greatness, nor heroes, not even Gods of any denomination. These were of the Noble Families themselves. Great Grandfathers, elevated Uncles and regal patriarchs. There was, of course, no pictures or the like of the Noble women, except for in the Private Chambers. The hierarchy of Nobility saw women, entirely wrongly, as something just above a Retainer.
One such Retainer, Retainer Forthwind, wiped distractedly at the frame of the picture of the Noble Lady Vuriel within the Private Chambers, and his disdain was clearly evident as he looked upon the likeness of her. The room was filled much like the outside corridors were, with statues and paintings, hangings and tapestries - anything and everything her Husband’s Family either bought, commandeered or collated from those less fortunate, or those who weren’t looking when the Family borrowed it - or more likely subjugated it from that other.
“Certainly not of the high class.” Forthwind muttered, largely to himself.
“Excuse me?” Retainer Forthwind had not noticed the Noble Lady Vuriel had entered the room from the bedroom, fully dressed and at attendance.
The Retainer bowed casually, “Begging your pardon, ma’am. I will be out shortly -“
Vuriel came closer, “No, what was it you said? I’ll have you know that my Family is very well respected -“
“For a Unity Family, yes.” interrupted Forthwind.
“What was that?”
“Not for a Tower Noble Family.” explained the Retainer further.
“How dare you -“
The Retainer then stood proud and turned venomously upon the Lady, “I’ve been working for Noble Families long before your Grandfather pulled mud out of the ground -“
“My Family comes from Manufacturing, I’ll have you know.”
“Dirt is dirt.”
Lady Vuriel then slapped the effete Retainer squarely across the cheek. Incensed, the Retainer raised his hand defensively and rubbed at the mark. Lady Vuriel stared daggers at the Retainer, who stood there dumbfounded, “Now get out!”
It was then that Sir Venal, Husband of Vuriel, chose his moment to arrive. He was wiping his hands on a delicate silk towel, removing the grubbiness accumulated from the invisible world of disease and untidiness within his own home, “What’s all the commotion? I was in my study -“
“I was assaulted!” interrupted the Retainer, looking close to tears.
Venal appeared surprised, shooting a look around the room, suspecting some cad or Deviator had somehow gained entry, “Really? By whom?”
The Retainer pointed then at the Noble’s Wife, “Vuriel? Why? We do not strike the staff.” he admonished her.
“I was insulted.” explained Lady Vuriel simply.
“Really? Forthwind?”
Forthwind looked sheepish, “I said her Family is not a Tower Noble Family.”
Sir Venal shrugged, “Well that’s true. Yet I love you still, dear.” he said to his Wife, with an ineffectual smile.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Vuriel, her arms crossed dangerously.
“I am sorry, Forthwind. She is - prone to these bouts of aggression. It is her upbringing -“
“You too, Venal?” asked Vuriel then, slapping him too across his face. Unable to contain herself, she left the room and disappeared into the bedroom once again.
Sir Venal, knowing not what to say, stupidly looked to Forthwind and shrugged, “Women, eh?” he said, purely as way of conversation.
“I wouldn't know Sir.” replied Forthwind the Retainer.
“No, of course, because you’re a -“
“I prefer men, yes, Sir.”
There was an impossibly long pause, before Sir Venal added, “How’s that working for you?”
“Quite well, thank you.” explained Forthwind.
Lady Vuriel then returned from the bedroom, still very angry. She looked to them both, but mostly at her Husband, “Seriously? You’re conversing with him?”
“Perhaps a week with your Mother -“ tried Venal, ever unable to say the right thing.
Vuriel stared at him, searching for the kind young man she had once married. All she could come up with was, “Perhaps you - stick it somewhere, Venal?”
Venal nodded sagely, then addressed Forthwind, “It’s the Unity in her, I’m afraid.”
With that ridiculous notion, the Noble Lady Vuriel of the Golamberry Family - new money - stormed out of the Family home and into the mirror-filled corridor beyond.
There was much more illumination here, from the many candelabras and standalone candles that perched precariously, often dangerously at the edges of wooden tables, where the tendrils of burned wax took gravity as an invitation to reach for the ground. The mirrors also aided in the illumination, by reflecting back the light from the candles into the corridor. No power pipes were exposed, implying that power was inherent here, and to show it would be a vulgar display.
The steen mouse looked timidly at the gap between one long table and the skirting that it so desperately needed to reach. Certainly it was curious and it was opportunistic, but that mindset only entered the steen mouse’s head when the flight instinct had rescinded.
Yet there were times it would become emboldened. That state of affairs usually occurred when opportunity and curiosity outweighed timidity. The steen mouse was headed home, to its nest, that lay above, in the unused parts of the Tower, once utilised when the Towers were at war. The steen mouse cared not for the history, simply that it was a safe place to bring up a family. There were more creatures within the South Tower than there were people, yet it was the people who attacked, chided, killed and wounded many of the steen mouse’s cousins. Its imperative was to return to its family, in order to sate their hunger. It was truly a dangerous mission, but one that the steen mouse had to make. Not out of choice, for it had none. It was out of a sense of order, duty, and systematic imperative instinct - like all living things it required to propagate the species, and the only way the steen mouse could accomplish this was through hunting and stealing, curiosity and mostly opportunism. That was why it was headed to the kitchens, held solely and completely for the use of the Nobility, and no one else.
The steen mouse was caught then in the open, and the cook noticed it scurry, just as a Chesnik pulled at the cupboard door, thinking he was not being observed, “Shoo! And you! Keep out of there! That’s not for you! Sorry, Sadon, do go on.”
Sadon shook his head amused, “At the good stuff again, I see? Ah, boys will be boys.” He tore heavily into the sandwich of thick meat the cook had made for him, while supping on the green fermented liquid in the thick mug. He crossed his left leg over his right where he sat in the rough and dilapidated chair the cook provided for him daily.
The cook was fussing around, trying to make it look like she was busy and meant to be just exactly where she stood, “Sadon, believe me, I would take from that cupboard, if I thought I could get away with it. Trouble is they stocktake every three days here. Not like the kitchens down below.”
Sadon pointed with a crust of his sandwich, “Ah, but I don't work down there, Muriella. I wouldn't get my dinner if you still worked down there.”
Muriella the cook looked at Sadon, the Scild, then, “Hmm. That’s all you want me for, isn't it? My food.”
Sadon playfully made a grasp for Muriella, who, despite her size and age, was quite sprightly, “Come here!”
She swiped at his searching hands, “Oh, get off with you! You’ll make an old girl blush!” Sadon laughed, continuing his mastication. He suddenly looked off into the distance, remembering something.
“Ah. It’s almost time.” he said.
“Why are you Scilding for him, anyway?” asked Muriella, well knowing the despicable reputation of Sadon’s Charge.
Sadon merely shrugged, “It pays well.”
“Well, with that and your free food -“ began Muriella.
“I nearly have enough now, Muriella. Just one more year, and I’ll have it.” explained Sadon brightly.
Muriella looked to him, “And when you set up this shop, am I to come too?”
Although the pause seemed a little too long, Sadon did however reply, “Oh, you know I have a special place for you, Muriella!”
“And you’re not after me just for my investment, are you?” she asked, waving a rag for emphasis.
Sadon then looked at Muriella with a slant of his head, mockingly astounded she would ever think thus, “That never crossed my mind, Muriella.”
“Sadon, if I didn't know any better -“
“I swear!” said Sadon, spreading his now empty hands in surrender, “When it’s up and running, I will need someone to do the cooking. And there is no one nearly as good as you in all of Unity -“
Muriella stopped her action, turned and stared at Sadon dangerously, “Now, I know that’s rubbish!”
Sadon made another play to grab Muriella around her well fed waist, “Aww, come on, Muriella! Don't be like that!”
Muriella brushed him away again, “Just - just go to your Noble, eh, Sadon?”
Sadon then stood and stretched, “Same time tomorrow?”
Muriella nodded in resignation.
“You know you love me!” joked Sadon as he left the kitchen.
“Yes, but you don't love me though, do you?” said Muriella quietly and to herself, watching with desire the rescinding figure of Sadon the Scild.
And the Attendants, the Chesniks and the Vigilants all trod the carpet with delicacy. Here the order was not speed and efficiency. It was slow and deliberate, calm and noble, where the staff were required to change their footwear to something softer and without the tread, the clod-clod of the hob nail, and never the frittering footfall of the fanciful Attendant. The Chesniks were the only ones allowed to walk with any kind of acceleration, and that was simply because the Nobles never waited for anything, certainly not food or drink.
And certain of the Families had taken to lunching together, for the purpose of simple socialising and to receive or spread the gossip. There were three large Dining Rooms here in the Noble’s Residence, and into one the Chesnik - the Cup-Bearer - walked, followed avidly by the steen mouse.
The room was filled with affluence, from the thick wooden furniture, where the legs and backs of chairs twisted in a perfectly carved uniformity, the table heavy and immovable, with centuries old scratches upon its surface, well varnished and dark, which only accented the cloths upon the table. They were of blinding white, curled into shapes of old and ancient design, through the strict observance of the meal at hand.
The serviettes of Dinner were in the shape of the Tower, those of Breakfast were of the sun upon the horizon, and as no one had seen such a sight, the result was an approximation of the same, therefore practically nothing like the real thing. For Supper, it was the Old Day, a symbolic representation of a creature upon a hill. Again, never having seen that, the Chesniks were forced to represent the concept with a number of triangular protuberances of varying sizes. No Noble complained, but then no Noble ever noticed it having been done - yet they were blazingly quick when it hadn't been performed correctly, or at all.
Convention swathed the walls in viscous offerings, being the only part of the Tower where tradition and the Old Ways was particularly maintained.
And the Noble’s Residence was not only home for the fop, or the rich beyond belief, as there was also a large contingent of Office Workers who lived in the slightly less luxurious part of the Noble’s Residence. The two parties tended to keep themselves apart, but sometimes, and usually around time of sustenance, the barriers dropped, but only partially from the Noble side.
The Dining Room was identical to the other two on this floor, along with the same level of light and decorations - even down to the same dents and scratches upon the walls.
There sat around the table, the Wakelade Family, a new Nobility, with Husband and Wife Bederley and Corlisa, plus the Hadsonne Family of Lyrelinne, being a fifteen year Widow - and her Daughter, Wendona, who could not take her attentive eyes from the young man, Thomrick, at the end of the table, who was in avid conversation with Willmund. Lyrelinne reprimanded her Daughter for staring, and instructed her to continue with her meal. Lyrelinne, however, continued to stare at the Wakelade’s attempting to discern their natural order in Noble society. Bederley merely looked lovingly into his Wife’s eyes, as he fed her from his fork, part of the sickeningly expensive cutlery upon the table. There was a utensil for everything - ballers, ladles, scoops, serving spoons, skimmers, strainers, tongs, presses, squeezers, cutters, graters, slicers, salad forks, place forks, place spoons, teaspoons tablespoons, sugar spoons, place knives, butter knives, steak knives, paring knives, fruit knives, bread knives, cheese knives and peeling knives - all in silver and worth more that an Aberrant’s home ten times over. In fact, what wasn't recumbent upon the table in the form of utensil, could not be used to eat with.
“I think you’re prejudiced.” said Thomrick in hushed tones.
Willmund picked delicately at his food, “I am nothing of the sort! It remains, however, that the Worker, regardless of position, should not be allowed upon the Dinner Table. It is tradition.”
“Which you always say.” reprimanded Thomrick, “Yet there are other traditions I notice you don't observe.”
“Such as?” asked Willmund.
“Such as jus primae noctis? Droit du seigneur? Hanging by the fingernails for theft? And the punishment for adultery doesn't bear thinking about. Blood Eagle for murder? Actually I agree with that one.”
“You are talking generalisations, silly child.” chided Willmund.
Thomrick shot him a sharp look, “And you aren’t? Should not each man - or woman - be judged upon their merits?”
“Thomrick, there is an order to things -“
Thomrick waved his fork, “Ah, that’s what all you Nobles say! There’s an order to that, there’s an order to this - you need to understand - I work, so people like you do not have to. How does that make you feel?”
“We are talking about the Dining here -“
The fork was shaken more vigorously, “Don’t pass the buck, old man! The Nobility need the Worker, and the Worker does not need the Noble.”
Willmund stopped eating and looked at Thomrick, “That sounds an awful lot like sedition.”
Thomrick was unrepentant, “Just look around the table. The couple? They would not survive in the real world, just one floor below us? They have probably never left this floor in their lives. The Widow? She preaches to her Daughter, though the Daughter ignores her. And that Daughter - she looks at me with lust. Not because she wants me, but because she knows she can have anything she wants. And always will be in that exact same position for the rest of her natural.”
Willmund pointed a dangerous, accusatory finger at Thomrick, “The Avden’s have been good to you, Thomrick. It is that Noble Family to which you hurl your insult.”
Thomrick continued unabated, a rant upon his thoughts, “I am just trying to say - look, Father, I am just trying to make you understand that you cannot dismiss people simply because they do not fit your pattern. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of people below you, in this Tower. They all make sure the cogs and wheels keep turning, so that you and several other dozen Families can dodder around these glossy crimson Halls, totally unaware of their existence, save for the Chesniks - sorry, the Cup-Bearers - the Attendants and the Administration that wander into your purview and tend to your needs, all because someone hundreds or thousands of years ago was fortunate enough to have a little money when the Towers were turned into the four pillars of Unity. This is not the real world. This is a fantasy. This is not life, merely an imitation of it. You, and people like you, are animated statues dressed in riches for the pleasure of no one but yourself. I’m sorry, Father, but it has to be said.” Thomrick tucked into his food once again, which was now growing increasingly cold from his distinct lack of attention to it.
There was a long pause while both men ate, then Willmund spoke up, “Well. I hope you feel better after that.”
“Yes I do, Father.”
“Right. Are you coming home this night? Your Mother would like to see you.”
“I shall sleep on the settee.” insisted Thomrick animatedly.
“Suit yourself. I certainly hope your Uncle is treating you well in the Office?” said Willmund, staring at his Son and waiting for him to answer.
But Thomrick did not answer.
The steen mouse was then upon the crumbs, taking food for itself and storing the rest for its family, darting this way and that over expensive shoe and thick velvet slipper. In between the rushing feet of the Chesnik, the steen mouse was silent and invisible in the melee, too small to see for those that looked straight ahead.
The steen mouse neared the hole that would lead between the wood and the stone, all the way up to the place where its nest was. But it was never that simple. The steen mouse had one more impatient and frustrated obstacle to overcome. And it was upon dark, leather-like wings that the beast did hunt. And it was the berfrey bat.
There shone the berfrey bat again, from somewhere hidden and deep within the shadows of the roof, swooping endlessly in the darkness for the prey it would never obtain, for its time was almost over, even and ever anathema to the steen mouse, which scurried into its home - its nest made of paper and guano. The berfrey bat kept vigil a minute or two longer, desperate for the creature to reappear. It simply had not the notion to know when it was beaten, so kept going and going and going, ever hopeful that the steen mouse would tire.
Yet it was the berfrey bat that tired, and it returned to its own home, up in the eaves of the Tower, on the top floor where people rarely went.
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