There is always sound, not simply noise but always sound, throughout the Alabaster City. Carriages stream like silt through a classifier for less-than precious metals and with them are always the popping shock of shod beast hooves reverberating off tall windows and throughout slick alleys.
The Alabaster City used to be known as The York and before that something New and before that something to Damn and before even that a name lost to all save the half-dozen souls that have endured since the dawn of creation (though death is a great stranger to them still they refuse to relinquish this oldest of names, millennia of endurance unable to inoculate one entirely against fear.)
This is a place that fashions itself indestructible and we should not hold that against the location, after all do not mountains also have a similar self-assessment? But mountains are not arrogant. Mountains are not cruel outside of circumstance. And mountains do not regularly cull their occupants.
There is a part of the city that does not tolerate noise of any kind. Those on the streets walk between tall buildings with either whispers or absolute silence upon their lips and some strange power causes even the beasts to step lighter than nature intended.
It is in this part of the city that we find the restaurant and bar, Lavished Precious.
Patrons in the establishment are refined and impeccably outfitted. When they eat, there are no crumbs. When they drink there are no stray drops. When they laugh or cough it is clear and dry. Patrolling the space between bars and tables is a young woman with hair partially free and partially shorn dressed like a trollop dipped in refinement. Elyse Clipton has many several responsibilities a handful of which include: smiling, keeping her garters on and high, listening, gently asking the impolite to leave, following the impolite out the door, slitting the impolite's throat as soon as they are five steps out the door, but smiling all the while. Always smiling.
And who does Elyse serve?
On the upper floor of Lavish Precious is a large private dining room with a circular polished table in the middle. Every Wednesday at three o'clock men whose very breath could be used as currency sit at this table and decide the fates of men. These twenty men, these wicked, well-groomed men insulating themselves against general decency with the whitest of gloves, the sharpest of mustaches, and money, money, money are the New Pinkertons. These men, almost impossible to distinguish one from another as if the room held but one person and nineteen reflections. These cruelly respectable men. Let us listen a spell...
"Horman? What news of the harbor?"
"Arrangements have been made with the Millers and Donaldsons. Their rough trade should ensure further cooperation and mitigate against any further delays in shipment. The percentage they begged was absurd in its ignorance of the venture's true value."
"What was it?"
"Four percent."
The New Pinkertons voices rise as one in cold, immaculate laughter. "You could have given them twice that and they'd be happy for eternity."
"True, Sebastian. But I gave them half and their spirits were inestimably high."
One New Pinkerton leans forward and relights a long cigar. He is different than the others only in that his mustache is yellow and a red emblem is pinned to his jacket: a limbless rabbit of tin. "Enough of that which resists hardship. What of the hard work? What of expansion?"
"An excellent question, Governor Morrow. Excellent."
"Yes! A burning uncertainty which must needs consideration and careful action."
Governor Morrow leans forward impatiently, "Well? Are we to address it or simply stamp around the matter like feathered savages?"
"The Bone Market and their considerable resources and holdings are ours to use. The treaty was signed not two days ago. Similar terms have been extended to Mountains Majesty but they talk of special consideration."
"There will be no consideration, special or otherwise," Governor Morrow says.
"Of course. And this matter should be settled to our satisfaction soon enough. I would not worry yourself."
"And yet I do find myself vexed and, yes, worried over the matter. Do you endeavor to instruct me in feeling? Please, explain to me exactly how it is that I should feel?" hisses Governor Morrow.
There is silence. There is stillness. In this assembly of cruel and twisted men...there is fear.
It is Governor Morrow himself that abjures the quiet, "What of the prodigal? What of Kellwood?"
"He has not yet gained entry to Mission's Mercy. His desire is as foolish and futile as it was the week before."
"I hear tell he lost himself his Death Sheriff."
"I received similar intelligence."
"As did I."
"I have heard of this as well."
Governor Morrow taps the long ash of his cigar into a bone ashtray, "He'll get himself killed most like...but why chance it? I think the wisest course of action is to forego our promises and dispose of the prodigal one and for all. Merryweather? Send your man to his last known location."
"Sir...we did give him our word. Swore it on our sacred honor. And while that is easily done away with there are other considerations. There are rules, how do I say, 'greater than ours.'"
"Craven superstition. Kellwood requires a good murdering. Now..." Governor Morrow puts out his cigar, "...are we to eat or not, gentleman?"
The door swings open and Elyse enters carrying a fat, bloodied dead man at least three times her weight. She plops him on the table sending glasses and silverware to the floor.
The New Pinkertons rise, bow, bare their fangs and set their hungry jaws upon the body.
Elyse leaves with a smile. Very important to always smile.
One New Pinkerton leans forward and relights a long cigar. He is different than the others only in that his mustache is yellow and a red emblem is pinned to his jacket: a limbless rabbit of tin. "Enough of that which resists hardship. What of the hard work? What of expansion?"
"An excellent question, Governor Morrow. Excellent."
"Yes! A burning uncertainty which must needs consideration and careful action."
Governor Morrow leans forward impatiently, "Well? Are we to address it or simply stamp around the matter like feathered savages?"
"The Bone Market and their considerable resources and holdings are ours to use. The treaty was signed not two days ago. Similar terms have been extended to Mountains Majesty but they talk of special consideration."
"There will be no consideration, special or otherwise," Governor Morrow says.
"Of course. And this matter should be settled to our satisfaction soon enough. I would not worry yourself."
"And yet I do find myself vexed and, yes, worried over the matter. Do you endeavor to instruct me in feeling? Please, explain to me exactly how it is that I should feel?" hisses Governor Morrow.
There is silence. There is stillness. In this assembly of cruel and twisted men...there is fear.
It is Governor Morrow himself that abjures the quiet, "What of the prodigal? What of Kellwood?"
"He has not yet gained entry to Mission's Mercy. His desire is as foolish and futile as it was the week before."
"I hear tell he lost himself his Death Sheriff."
"I received similar intelligence."
"As did I."
"I have heard of this as well."
Governor Morrow taps the long ash of his cigar into a bone ashtray, "He'll get himself killed most like...but why chance it? I think the wisest course of action is to forego our promises and dispose of the prodigal one and for all. Merryweather? Send your man to his last known location."
"Sir...we did give him our word. Swore it on our sacred honor. And while that is easily done away with there are other considerations. There are rules, how do I say, 'greater than ours.'"
"Craven superstition. Kellwood requires a good murdering. Now..." Governor Morrow puts out his cigar, "...are we to eat or not, gentleman?"
The door swings open and Elyse enters carrying a fat, bloodied dead man at least three times her weight. She plops him on the table sending glasses and silverware to the floor.
The New Pinkertons rise, bow, bare their fangs and set their hungry jaws upon the body.
Elyse leaves with a smile. Very important to always smile.
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