Division 4: Dopebeatz vs. Valentine [Archive]

dopebeatz

02-14-07, 10:59 PM

RADASANTH, February 14, 2007

Dear Sirs:

I was informed of your professional interest in my work by my literary agent and editor, who noted your past generosity toward journalists in my position. As you doubtless heard from him in your earlier correspondence, I have of late been traveling in the company of an astounding character, one Saxby Corningham. He is a man whose accomplishments need no introduction. [i] I am certain that you will find the stories of our travels and travails not only informative, but morally didactic as well.

I have included as a representative sample the following excerpt from a story about one of our relatively less recent adventures, involving a rather nasty round in a fighting tournament held here in Corone. I hope that you will not be shy in replying with your thoughts and (dare I hope) offers of binding contract as soon as is feasible. Thank you, kind sirs, and good day.

Your servant,

HIRAM WASHBONE

CHAPTER I.

AN UNEASY MEAL.

A CHAIR IS TOPPLED - DISCUSSION IS HELD - THE DANGER OF CABBAGE - BYSTANDERS ARE RECONNOITERED - AUTHOR'S UNEASE.

Generally speaking I would find it in bad taste to discuss a private luncheon with an audience with whom I am barely acquainted, but in this particular instance I believe the value of the meal extends beyond social scruples. It is not often that one dines with a luminary, and it is even less often that such a figure deigns to impart what little wisdom he can upon his awed companion. Although I hesitate to do so, dear reader, I must admit that I was in such a position some time ago. Although I have often remembered the occasion with some amusement and satisfaction, only recently did I decide that the thing should be written down somewhere, so that the memory might outlast me, and bring that same feeling to others throughout the murky future. Thus, I shall now begin the tale of that most interesting day, setting general scruples aside for more mundane times.

I had been invited to a personal club by a friend of mine. Although rather noteworthy in his own right, he is not the subject of this story and thus I shall refrain from listing the particulars of his person or our date. After passing a most agreeable half-hour with him, I looked down at my watch and discovered that I had already become late for another meeting with my literary agent and editor, Dorin Weatherby. [He never showed. I'm not complaining; I got my fee without the unpleasant experience of seeing him. - Ed.] With a start I rose, apologies on my tongue. In my haste, however, I knocked over my chair, which thudded on the ground heavily and aroused the ire of the club's restaurant's many waiters. More profuse apologies spilling from my mouth, I bent down to pick up the chair, but found another pair of hands already righting it. Looking up to see to whom the hands belonged, I could not help but smile broadly. It was none other than Saxby Corningham! The old fellow laughed loudly at the sight of me acting the gent in my threadbare three-piece suit, grabbed me by the elbow and dragged me to his table.

Corningham and I had been traveling across the countryside for several weeks by this time. We had met in a pub in Gisela. He was sipping spiced wine, discussing the merits of rope-weed with the patrons. I was counting my last brass farthings on the bar beside him, deciding whether to buy a bread crust or a thimble of ale. After I spouted the little I knew of rope-weed in response to his questions of crowd - among whom there was nary a green thumb - he took an interest in me. I needed work writing, and he needed a literate assistant: Thus, a partnership was born. I became his stenographer, secretary, protégé and pack-mule. He became my mentor, teacher, guide and friend. We had come as far as Radasanth, rambling about the countryside, looking for unusual musical instruments and interesting magical plants as part of his ongoing project to write an encyclopædia of botany and harmony. Upon reaching the city, we had parted for a week, planning to meet up again after some time visiting with old friends. And yet, here we were, only a few days later, meeting in the same splendid restaurant, as if fate had forced us together yet again.

"Ah, Hiram," Saxby said, guiding me into a chair and sitting across the table from me. "It's been like wandering in the wilderness without your help. How have you been? Are all your friends well?" I told him I was well and they, too. "Good, good," he said, removing his quite thick spectacles and wiping them clean with the corner of the tablecloth. "It's always nice to see old acquaintances after you've been apart for a while. I'm afraid I've been stood up, today. Old Henry Horn has pulled another one of his disappearing acts. Do you mind joining me? Your friend is welcome, too, of course." I thanked him for his kindness and turned to the table I had sat at with my old chum, but he had already left, a few coins scattered on the table as tip. I informed Saxby. "Ah! C'est la vie!" He replied, smiling and popping his knobby knuckles. "I've ordered the special. Have you had their mutton before?"

He was well-dressed - far better than I, at the least. His black suit and red handkerchief were both pressed and clean, his buttons gleaming like marbles, his shirt crisp. I imagined his inn was a far more luxurious one than mine. I inquired. "Yes, yes," he said, "It's a good hotel, perhaps one of the better ones in the city, if not the duchy. Ah, grub!" The plate was lowered in front of him by a grave waiter, and Saxby rubbed his hands, delighted, until he saw the heap of mushy leaves lying beside the mutton. "Cabbage," he grumbled, pushing it away with the edge of his engraved fork. I marveled at his disgust; he had never seemed a picky eater before. He smiled at my inquiry. "Haven't I ever told you? Cabbage is the most easily poisoned vegetable, my boy! I haven't eaten cabbage that someone else cooked since 1968!" I asked if he was expecting someone to try to poison him. Chewing a piece of mutton, he leaned forward, holding a finger to the side of his bulbous nose.

"You can never trust these people, my lad," he said, gesturing about the restaurant with his fork. I let my eyes follow his motions. Indeed, these men, their faces pale from the shadows of their top hats' brims, their hands damp and soft from their lambskin gloves, their bellies fat from their dressing-soaked, crouton-encrusted salads, seemed a great deal more sinister now that I knew how easily cabbage could be poisoned. Why, any of these socialites could have tipped in some noxious brew from a phial while a waiter looked the other way. Even more unsettling, their grubby money could have paid for a cook or scullery maid to do the deed for them! "Yes..." Saxby continued, seeing my eyes narrow in suspicion. "You see, no one is beyond suspicion in a place like this. That is why I hold memberships in every club in the city, each under a different pseudonym." I asked him how this made any sense, if everyone in the clubs was potentially malicious. "To throw them off the scent, my boy. Cross their wires." Saxby meshed his fingers together like two spiders hugging. "They may suspect that Saxby Corningham and Philbert K. Swog are the same man, but as long as they don't know for certain..." He tapped his temple with a forefinger and went back to slicing his sprig of parsley into morsels. "Most healthy part of the meal." he said, popping the tiny bits onto his tongue.

After Corningham had finished his meal - except the cabbage, of course, which the waiter eyed angrily but did not mention - we sat back, fingers laced over full bellies, and discussed the rest of our plans in Radasanth. I told him about a lovely young woman I had promised to call upon, a delightful young woman with a taste for bourbon. Corningham nodded, his eyes half closed. "Bourbon. I haven't had a sip of bourbon since 1975. Kills your brain cells. All the vinegar." I didn't think there was vinegar in bourbon, [There isn't. - Ed.] but I noted his distaste and promised to adhere to a strict diet of whiskey. He seemed very pleased by this. I asked what his plans were.

"Oh, a little of this and that," he said as the waiter brought him his dessert, an eskimo pie. "I've entered some sort of tournament, it seems. One where you have to beat up the other people in it. Once you beat up enough people, they give you a medal. I think there are also buxom women involved in the prize. I'm not entirely sure." I protested, sitting up straight. Such a refined old man had no part in a glorified boxing match! Corningham waved his hand to silence me. "Now, now. There's no harm in it. Why, it's scheduled to start today, as a matter of fact. I'm sure that if anything bloody was to come of it, it would have already." I suggested that perhaps he wasn't entirely abreast of the rules of this tournament, and that perhaps his opponent would track him down to this club and have it out with him in the middle of the restaurant. "Impossible," he replied. "I'm a member of this club under the name Sorningham Caxby. No one would possibly make that connection." He had already finished his eskimo pie, and was wiping the corners of his mouth with a napkin.

"And in any event," he continued, "I have my violin with me, for protection." A profound sense of unease settled upon me.