Perhaps it is time to put together a hydrological expedition; no higher calling than for a sentient to add to the sum total information of their society.
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Hieron wandered to the periphery of the now engrossing Military talk. He did not have a military mind and the talk of troop movements began to bore him. Talk of the supply trains had piqued his interest, but the conversation moved on from that back to defensive positions.
Finding a quiet table he pulled out his note book and began to jot down his recollections from the night of the ball.
Cousin Elizabeth @hadley. The poor child, the only other Tee Cees to not dance were dead or possibly clinically insane.
Nearly a half dozen of the Sea Peas were not asked. Poor things. Their collective hearts must be broken.
‘Madeline Penumbra.’ Heiron wrote. And then underlined. Who was this woman? While he saw nothing in her, so many others did. He would ask Pierre when he had the chance. He tended to rub elbows with a fair number of sentients.
‘Melisande Copse.’ A pretty, young cow. They’d chatted briefly after the Grand March. A Pity that everyone wanted her for the Waltz, but not the other dances. She was a graceful thing, but I see nothing in her.
‘Lizzy Heliotrope.’ So light on her feet. He mused. Perhaps. Perhaps. But others vied for her attention.
‘Eighth’ @Eighth A smile crossed his face. Such a nice, young crustacean. That was a dance out of friendship though. It was good to see him coming out of his shell.
Richard Forester. Hieron took his time writing out the name. The waltz had gone well. They’d talked before and seemed to have so much in common. His desire to someday attend Benjamin Wheatly’s Mercantile Concern was just adorable.
He sat back and sipped at his W&T that had been refreshed at some point.
I must check in on St-Patrick-Hartbrooke @nimelennar if he doesn’t make an appearance at Levithan tonigh, he mused. I must know what Ms. Applethwaite was like.
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[Dr. Franksenketchup enters the Leviathan Club looking very much the worse for wear]
Runtwaste, what’s the best thing for a hangover?
Yes, but besides water. And sleep. A comestible or quaffable that aids in restoration after a night of dancing and overindulgence? Oh never mind all that, just give me an aspirin. And a large pickle juice with two slices of Velveeta and a liverwurst schmear.
Good Gods this hurts.
[reads the paper]
Looks like we’re on a war footing for sure. The plague looks to have resolved a bit. And what this? That old cube has passed to a higher dimension. Quite unexpected. I was sure it would survive that gruesome cutting session.
I wish there was some reportage on what happened later in the evening. The events of the end of the night seem a bit foggy. I do recall that horrible Richard Forsener breaking my heart, and then not much after that. Let’s check my idea book to see if I wrote anything important down.
[written in a very sloppy hand]
Notes to self:
-Very Good Ideas-
Cross a pneumatic carriage lift with a duck to create a quacker jack
Try to breed a lagoderm and sandfish to get some swimming trunks
Inject a bird of prey with the plauge virus - no, no that would be ill-eagle
-Very Bad Ideas-
That awful Richard Fosnerp
[here a very large beverage stain of some sort obscures the rest of the page]
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Oh Dr. franksenketchup @old. I’m so glad you are here. I don’t know what to do. You are old so I’m sure you will have some good advise for me. No one danced with me at the ball. Not my cousin Rocco, not eight. No one. And grandmother says I must get married to secure my place in this new society.
tears pour down into her glass of sherry
What is a lizard to do?
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My dear Miss Farnswarp @Hadley, I think they are all great fools to decline a dance with you. Why, your charms surpass theirs ten-fold. To say nothing of your esteemed saurian lineage!
But my few words are inadequate to the mending of a broken heart. For this, I recommend high doses of ethanol applied internally. There are some rather discomforting side effects, but it is strong medicine after all.
And if that does not cure you, then I will create a custom something in my laboratory to help you. Yes, yes. I think several common kitchen shredders infused with the genetics of a corn plant would help you to handle the unfortunate situation with…
…a maize-ing grates.
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Ms. Farnsworth, Elizabeth if I may. I find it a travesty and an indictment of Weatherby’s social season that you have been treated so shabbily. I most humbly apologize for my own culpability in this grievous offense, and were it to be done again I assure you the outcome would be different.
I would provide a formal introduction to my ward, young Master Thomas Ratchetcrank, but I seem to have the continuing misfortune of never being able to find the boy.
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Tom walks in, spins on his heels and walks out.
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Oh that’s very kind of you to say.
Yes that Tom of yours is always mysteriously appearing and disappearing. Trying to keep track of him leaves one a bit breathless.
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[ Rounder enters the Leviathan, listing somewhat to the left, and heads straight for the bar ]
Hallo there, Rumpthwaite! How about a little hair o’ the cat that bit me?
[ The bottle slides towards him almost immediately ]
Ahhhh, perfect, just what the doctor ordered.
Well, that and this…
[ pulls sketchy-looking bottle from his coat pocket
and downs it in one gulp ]
EVERYFINGS IS WONDERFULLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL
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St-Patrick-Hartbrooke enters the Club, looking reasonably healthy, but moving stiffly as his duel-inflicted injuries protest every step forward as a new provocation.
He summons @Rumpthwaite with a gesture, and orders two rounds of drinks: one of hard liquor, and one of champagne. When everyone has been server, he raises the glass of liquor, and begins speaking, loudly but solemnly.
“To His Majesty, King Grigori; may his long years of service to the Realm be rewarded in the next life, and may he rest in peace. The King!”
“The King!” Several people call out, but not all; the gentlegriffon is not paying attention to such matters.
Once a sufficient moment of silence has gone on after the first toast, he raises the flute of champagne, and speaks his next line with enthusiasm. “And may his daughter, Queen Catherine, live up to his example, and rule us wisely for many years ahead. Long Live the Queen!”
This time, the bar calls back with more enthusiasm, “Long Live the Queen!”
Again, St-Patrick-Hartbrooke is not interested in determining who would court accusations of disloyalty by refusing to toast; instead, the formalities taken care of, he looks around to see if anyone wishes to catch his eye and converse.
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Karekin has been sitting in an innocuous corner more defined by efficiency than luxury which affords a clear view of much of the club. He appears to be deep in sums, or correspondence, and the hunch of his back suggests he has been at this for some time.
He looks up, a smile still on his face from the Toast to Queen Charlotte, and returns St-Patrick-Hartbrooke’s glance
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St-Patrick-Hartbrooke approaches Karekin.
"Ah, Mr. Karekin. I hear congratulations are in order; the rumour is that you acquitted yourself marvellously at the dance. I do apologize for not responding to your letter in a timely manner, but in the aftermath of the Governor’s Ball, I’ve had so many other letters to write that yours got lost in the pile.
“I apologize for not saying so sooner, but thank you for standing as my second; the ending was a shame, but you performed quite well in the role, certainly as well, or better, than could have been expected given the unusual circumstances.”
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[ Duchess Gummibuns floats in, heads down reading the public ledger updates … ]
Oh this is going to be juicy, like either everyone is bluffing or they’re all going to live in boxes!!! How can those buns forget to pay rent on their apartments? What will the papers say?
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Ensign Crusher enters The Leviathan Club, with some sort of gauche stain on his uniform.
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My goldfish, Ensign. What’s happened?
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I was ambushed, sir, outside of the post office. It was a mob of them, one yelled “There’s that spy for New Prussia” and then they set upon me, smashing all the .NET devices.
I’ll be ok. I’ve been hooked before, and luckily this spear didn’t hit any gills.
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Thank cod you’re allright. Those damnable publishers of rags and alternative truths. I don’t know what’s scarier, looming New Prussian agression or the vulgar violence that a mislead population can unleash.
About the .NETs devices, were you able to analyze any of the echolinguistic data before they were destroyed?
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Yes, I checked them all as soon as I recovered them from the waters.
Karekin’s Fisheries are what we expected - completely clean of any signs of sentient sandfish. Almost TOO clean, if you know what I mean, except having met and seen the correspondence from their CEO, it’s no surprise that the fishery is run with an obsessive compulsive excessiveness.
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And what of Dr. Franksenketchup’s fisheries?
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Also free of any sentience.
But, weirdly, all of the crawfish there look just ike Admiral Riptide. Down to the last molt spot. They showed no signs of sentience, but it was creepy how identical they all were. I wager they were low-fidelity clones. No wonder everyone is creeped-out by Castle Ponsfleischmann.
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