1 Soul Bound
1.2 Taking Control
1.2.4 An Artful Carnivale
1.2.4.13 No pets, no half-breeds, no lice
7:00 am, Thursday June 8th, 2045
2 bells of the afternoon watch
Lunday full, 8th day of the month of KrevinBelember, A2F1600
This time they took the exit away from the canal, and found themselves on a dingy street so narrow that the jettied upper stories of the houses nearly met at the roof level. The area wasn’t abandoned, but it was missing something vital. Something which had caused the buildings to sink so low, that most now had steps going upwards leading to an entrance on what used to be the second or third story. She remembered feeling something similar, in a dilapidated area near Budapest whose landlord had collected rents but delayed repairing for over a decade in hope of landing a big redevelopment deal. Yes, hope, that was it. He’d had it, but the resident hadn’t. The foundations of their community had decayed along with the foundations of their houses.
In a few places the steps went diagonally up the face of the building, carrying on all the way to the roof. The nearest door had a sign offering beds in a common room at two bronze osella coins per night: “no food, no washing, no pets, no half-breeds and no lice.”
Bored youths hung around on the stairs, partially blocking people trying to get up or down, much to the irritation of one householder who leaned out of her window and raucously threatened to poison them, “like the vermin they were”, if they didn’t go do something useful with their time. They ignored her, not even bothering to look up, and apparently she feared to come down because nothing more happened.
Bulgaria, back in character as their guide, waved his hands expansively as if proudly showing them a quaint feature of Torello. “And this area, my fine folks, is The Doss, where sailors and other transients can find a place to kip at nights, while their boats layover between voyages.” He added with a wink, “Don’t leave your belongings in a room during the day, though, and sleep lightly.”
Bulgaria: {Before we move onwards, let’s take a few precautions to reduce the temptation to opportunists. Make sure you have nothing detachable on you, such as belt daggers - keep them in your stash.}
Alderney: {Kafana, you hold Tomsk’s left arm with your right hand. Wellington, stick to her left side, so she’s between you. Bungo, you’re big; you should lurk behind them like a paid merc - try to look vaguely ominous and grim. Bulgaria will lead you, and I’ll be about. Somewhere. Don’t worry if you can’t spot me.}
Kafana: {What’s the plan if someone physically attacks us? My Vessel self has been practising sleep charms. If Grattelard the assassin turns a crowd against us, I should be able to be able to affect quite a large number of targets, but I don’t know how many.}
Wellington: {Everyone but Alderney stays within range of the anti-magic protection from Tomsk’s sword at all times. No wandering off, we treat this like hostile territory. You’re our healer. For a physical attack to work, they have to take you out first. I wouldn’t expect a repeat of his same tactics, though. When he tries again, it will be something different, like dropping a building on top of us then setting it on fire, stampeding an escaped high-level monster in our direction, or framing us breaking Ruffo’s Rules and letting the count do most of his work for him. If it does come to physical combat, we do whatever Tomsk and Alderney say - mostly Tomsk, but Alderney gets an override because she knows the local dangers best and may not have time to explain something. That work?}
Tomsk: {Kafana, let’s hold off on the magic if we can. In the first instance, we try to de-escalate, evaluate and evade. If needs be we can all jump in a canal and you’ll hitch us a dolphin ride. I’m more worried about what you’re going to do if you see an injustice that you feel needs righting. Can you stop to consult first, give Wellington a chance to plan? Even if someone is being beaten or abused? We’re not all-powerful. Some of the mercs around here could wipe the floor with us.}
Kafana: {Hey, I’m not that much of a loose cannon, am I?}
Bulgaria appeared to be concentrating on polishing his fingernails against the lapel of his shirt, Alderney was looking intently at her toes, Wellington was looking up at the sky, and Bungo was even trying to whistle nonchalantly. Tomsk, on the other hand, was giving her a patient but very direct look, implying he’d wait as long as he needed for her to answer.
Kafana: {Okay, okay, no being a white knight without consulting first.}
All five of them simultaneously sucked in air, as though they’d been holding their breath, and pretended to wipe sweat from their brows.
[Group skill acquired: “Mime Tableaux.”]
Kafana: “Sheesh, you guys are the pits! Anybody would think I kept getting you all killed."
Five eyebrows raised simultaneously and her plaintive "It was just the once!” only made their identical expressions turn even more sceptical. Nightmare visions of her friends turned into rotting zombie accusers bombarded her mind until all that remained was a desperate mortified desire to shrink away into safe invisible nothingness.
Her thoughts stayed trapped in this spiral until they were interrupted, after measureless heart pounding moments, by the ending of the tableaux and a realisation about her own mental reaction that hadn't been possible while her attention had been in the grip of the group skill. Bulgaria being thrown into a canal to become a zombie after being stabbed by some random mugger? A meaningless death with no style of drama? Absurd! If it ever happened, she'd full expect to see him rise back above the surface a moment later, riding a dolphin to the accompaniment of the James Bond theme tune. She shook her head to clear away any lingering effects, concentrating on visualising Bulgaria removing with two fingers a small wiggling fish from his breast pocket and then walking into the Lobster Pot to order an elaborate cocktail. She chuckled. Why did he have an ambition to be 007? He must have seen the films at a formative age.
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They arranged themselves to Alderney’s liking and headed south through tangled winding streets. Kafana felt thoroughly lost within minutes. She considered checking her map, but decided it would be more atmospheric to let Bulgaria and Alderney surprise her. They walked past a sailor slumped against a building. At first she thought he was drunk, but then her mind noticed what was missing: he had no legs.
Kafana: “Why hasn’t he been healed? Any priest who can do resurrection ought to be able to fix maiming.”
Tomsk: “Like the watch, the priests of Cov tend not to enter the Arsenal unless directly invited to by Count Ruffo.”
Bulgaria: “Most priests powerful enough to do it prefer being feasted up at Alto. A man like that poor sod could wait a month or more at the main Sanctum before someone finds time for him, and how would he feed himself while waiting? No, most times if someone in Basso or Arsenal or in the villages beyond the walls gets badly injured, they just have to live with it. Live with it, die, or join the Royals.”
Bungo: “The Royals?”
Bulgaria: “The Royal Court of Hermits, Mendicants and licensed Panhandlers. They maintain that they’re the last remains of the sovereign bloodlines left after the wars that followed the loss of the High King, and that they’re keeping alive the tradition of holy men who allow others to gain merit by charitably supporting their solitary meditations.”
Wellington looked skeptical: “Really?”
Alderney: “Of course not, but It’s quite a large gang, so people have nothing to gain by openly insulting their beliefs. They’ve got mudlarks who scavenge for flotsam and jetsam, beetles who gather dried dung for burning, and toffsmen who search the sewers and dunnekins for dropped items. They turn nobody away for being too sick or weak, and they do their best to look after their own. I can’t speak for other cities, but the Royals don’t force anyone to stay, or maim them to look more piteous. Some of the things they find get sold, but much gets recycled for their own use. In a way, they’re a bit like smelly wombles.”
She pointed out a thin dirty figure, who couldn’t have been much more than six years old, slip a piece of bread to the legless man, exchange a few words with him, then scamper off.
Bulgaria: “In other ways not. They’re pretty fixed in their outlook; they don’t allow members to take regular paid employment without permission, and 50% of all proceeds from begging go into the common pot. Their narrative might provide unity and console them, but it also makes them insular - they can act like lobsters in a pot, making it hard for members to transition back into the mainstream economy, pulling back down those who look like they might be about to succeed by expressing social disapproval, and shunning those who do leave.”
Kafana: “In the same way that those who do leave, like Lazarillo, reject that part of their past? I see the same thing happening in arlife, with a deepening divide between those in gainful employment and those with few prospects. Little prospect of earning good money today. Little prospects of ever gaining the skills they'd need to get hired. Little prospect of improving things for their children."
Wellington: "Who would benefit if an executive decided to hire a human whose skills were at a level that, even working 12 hour shifts, they achieved only half as much work as the company's usual machines and expert systems? Ones that would operate reliably for 24 hours every day, and which the company could hire and run at a quarter the cost of providing a human worker with the minimum amount tasteless gloop needed to delay their starvation one more day?" He shook his head before Kafana had even finished opening her mouth. "The executive would be fired by the company's shareholders before the job advert could even be posted. Nobody would benefit."
Bungo: "Is the only option to discarding people? I know there's little consolation in sour grapes but, when you're stripped of hope and respect, envy and resentment come easily. That divide isn't just economic, and it affects whole groups not just individuals - it's dangerous, Wellington. For most people, what they feel changes what they see. As the divide gets wider, communicating across it becomes harder leading to reduced understanding and empathy. Your life, your mind, your spirit - they enter the dark together."
A scar-faced mongrel was chained to the entrance of one of the houses, and Bungo paused as the group steered around the territory defended by its growls, then continued.
Bungo: "When you're in a dark place like that, previously unthinkable decisions start looking less important. In that place, it takes only a small step to move from 'people like those elites show more consideration for their pets and fancy clothes than they do for my individuality, freedom or welfare' to 'I don't recognise those elites as the sort of people who have human rights - so I'm under no obligation to offer even basic consideration to them.', when previously the barrier impeding that move seemed more like a wall whose stones were sturdy values and whose mortar was temptation-tested pride."
Tomsk put a reassuring hand on Bungo's shoulder: “Reflecting back the emotions others feel towards you is a very natural human response. I've met people with a fair amount of control over response, but all of them say it took them time and effort to learn - nobody is born with the ability. Judge yourself not by your screw ups, but by what you do about them.”
Kafana wondered if Bungo was talking from personal experience, but Wellington just cocked his head: "It still doesn't make economic sense for individual companies to change their hiring policies, even after taking into account the cost of insuring the company's expected profits against risk of being negatively impacted by the actions of resentful members of the sub-optimally skilled demographic. As things are currently, it is cheaper for companies to keep a lid on negative perceptions by running public relations campaigns."
Currently? Was Wellington thinking about changes in arlife, or was he thinking about Torello, where beggars and nobles still walked the same streets and saw each other without spin-doctor intermediaries? Better the latter, she decided. Discussion of arlife could wait until Alderney wasn't recording her 'Newcomer’s Walking Guide to the Arsenal'. Time to be Kafana, not Nadine.
Kafana: “Well either way, it's past time the priests started looking after them equally. If Cov’s priesthood can’t manage, maybe I can help Vittoria do it on behalf of Mor.”