I’d prefer us to bid adieu to this fortress through legal means; having to become a fugitive seems tedious, but if the wolf or this pit begins to swallow her whole, I will not wait for a judge’s permission to tear these walls down.
I will doanythingfor her, but she treats me as the villain, all while lavishing affection on the fallen bossman.C’est relou.
My musings are interrupted by the scent of a digger grunt coming down the hallway. The rodent Daniel.
“Boss,” he squeaks, shifting his weight from pigeon-toed foot to foot. While shuffling, he’s still managing to wear an unearned look of self-importance. “Boss,” he repeats. “It’s time, the weekly staff meeting. Bevan always led them, and like Jensen, Dot, the others—they’re waiting for you.”
I pull the damp collar of my uniform away from my neck. “A staff…meeting? Do you expect me to discuss the merits of powdered eggs over powdered potatoes?”
“Uh, no, Boss. It’s about, like, the quotas and stuff. And the Guild, you know, all that.” All that.
I am the King of this gutter now, and apparently, Kings must listen to the complaints of peasantry.
“Very well,” I sigh, smoothing the front of my damp uniform. “Lead the way, Daniel. Let us go and endure this ‘stuff’ you speak of.”
The walk to our assembly is a sensory assault. I loathe this place. I hate the way the moisture clings to the walls like rancid sweat. I detest the alkaline scent of industrial soap.
And above all, I abhor the permanent stench of desperate humanity.
My mundane marshals look up as I enter. Jensen’s face is filled with an endless exhaustion. Dot has her arms crossed, and displays an unconvincing mask of indifference.
The hideously named Skid is tapping a wrench against his thigh. I shudder at the thought of where that utensil has been.
Taking a seat, I feel the weight of their collective nervous tension battering me and for the next hour, I am bored rigid.
Jensen drones on about vent pressure, the broad-shouldereddame de la blanchisserieargues about laundry scrips. Skid wants to talk about a backwater valve, whatever that may be.
It is death by a thousand tiny, bureaucratic stings.
I am doing this for her.
If I have to listen to a man talk about soot for another twenty minutes to ensure she stays safe, I will do it. But by the gods, the desire to kill them all just for the silence is present in my bones. “Anything else?”
Please Gods, let there be nothing more.
“Er, just one thing, er, boss,” Skid replies. “The old boss asked for regular reports on London. You want that too?”
London?
I am rarely confused, but at this moment I have no idea why Bevan has been getting information about the English capital. I hide my lack of understanding behind a mask of icy boredom.
Still, I’m curious.
“Continue,” I drawl, leaning back. “I shall decide if the information is still… pertinent.”
Skid shifts, his eyes flicking to Jensen. “Minimal info this week, just what we heard through the vents. He’s still singing a lot.”
What?
“Go on,” I murmur.
“Nothing big since he bit off one of the screw’s fingers.” He shrugs. “That’s all I’ve got.”
Hmm.
Je suis intrigué.
I stand abruptly, making the three peons flinch. “The meeting is adjourned. Return to your stations.”
