Eileen Gunn - Questionable Practices

“Gedrecsechet,” Ged said. “Ged, if you please. And what do you do, Mr. Santosh Philip?”

“I am an architect,” said Santosh. “A designer,” he corrected. “Anything from an ashtray to a city.”

“Cities? Really?” said Ged, intrigued. Only a small number of cities had known designers, and he thought he remembered all their names. “And what cities have you designed?”

“I am afraid you would not have heard of them. They are small cities, and far away.”

“Try me,” said Ged. Like other members of the Palgolak Church, he was a fount of knowledge.

“The city I am most proud of is a suburb of Maruábm called Bmapastra,” said Santosh. “A cruel high-desert climate, dry and cold, but I aligned the city to tame the winds and situated parks over its geothermal vents. It’s rather a cheerful place for such a bleak setting. Temperature never gets much above freezewater, but they have fresh fruits and vegetables year-round.”

“I have heard of Bmapastra, but was unaware it had been completed. My congratulations, sir. Certainly your name should be as well-known as the city you designed.”

“Well-known, sir? It gets no visitors, except from Maruábm, whose citizens consider it a place to escape, briefly, the grimness of their own city,” said Santosh. “I am astonished that you have heard of Bmapastra.”

“You are not familiar with the Palgolak Church?” asked the vodyanoi. He gestured at his yellow robes. “I am its librarian. You should have been astonished had I not heard of it.”

“Ah, you are the relentless seekers of knowledge?”

Ged smiled a huge saurian smile and licked his lips with his huge tongue. “That is our joy, sir, and we are an ecstatic sect.”

“Then perhaps you can answer a question for me, if you would?” Santosh asked diffidently.

“What I know I can share,” said Ged. And that was true, technically, although what he didn’t want to share remained his own.

“Who was the architect for the magnificent station?”

“Ah, a sad story there,” said Ged. “His name is lost to history. If it could be known, I would know it, I assure you.” It frustrated Ged to have to tell a story with holes in it.

“Lost? How could that be?” Santosh scratched his head. “Surely the station was built during the Full Years, the blossoming of the city?”

“It was, and if you think that was a well-documented time, you’re quite right. But the architect — that first architect — fell in love with his own creation, and fell afoul of those who sought to control it. After seven years of fighting with the government for his beloved’s freedom, he found himself first accused of heresy, and then declared quite mad. He was locked up, and they threw away the key. And his name.”

“A mere architect?”

“He was fortunate he was not blinded. We take our architecture very seriously,” Ged said.

“I see you do. I see you do.” Santosh was clearly taken aback by this.

“But let’s not dwell on that,” said Ged expansively. “If I spent my time interrogating the things I know, I’d never have any time to learn anything new.” He laughed.

“I am honored to have met so learned a person on my first day in your city. Perhaps you could tell me what caused the recent damage to the station and environs?”

Ged’s face became serious. “Slake-moth feeding season.”

Santosh looked at him quizzically.

“They’ve been particularly bad this year,” Ged said in a noncommittal tone. He did not want to go into the details: his friend Isaac was among the many people still missing.

Santosh nodded uncertainly, as though he had never heard of slake-moths. “Any plans for cleaning it up? Good bit of work, that. I’ve never done a reconstruction on something quite so big and complicated and historic. Wouldn’t at all mind getting the contract.”

“The mayor is soliciting bids, but I told you what happened to the original architect. No one wants to take on this project.”

“Good grief, man, that was hundreds of years ago,” Santosh replied. “I’m sure we needn’t fear a repeat.”

“This city is not welcoming to the stranger, my friend. Be careful on the streets, and in the pubs. And in the mayor’s chambers.”

“I am aware of that,” said Santosh, with a friendly demeanor, “and I thank you kindly for your concern.”

He did not say he was armed, or he was ready for anything, or indicate in any way what his means of defense might be. Whatever he’s relying on, Ged thought, he’s good enough at it that he doesn’t feel a need to bluster about, scaring people off. I will not worry about him until he has rebuilt the station.

( with apologies to K. W. Jeter )

After my tumultuous adventures resulting from Lord Bendray’s attempt to destroy the world, I sought, naturally, to restore my equanimity, and I had thought that moving my modest clockwork-repair shop to a little-noted part of London would guarantee me obscurity, a modest living, and surcease of adventure, not to mention the calming of the unwonted physical excitement that has disturbed me since Miss McThane assisted in the culmination of my efforts. But the events of a cold, foggy day in early November reminded me that no man’s adventure can be declared done until he himself is Done.

I opened my shop a few minutes late that morning and was startled to see, waiting in the chill outside my front door, a man in a light jacket with a similarly attired child and a large rucksack. I was surprised that my faithful Able had not detected them and apprised me of their presence with a warning bark. Still asleep on his pillow, I thought: Able was getting old, and his hearing wasn’t what it once was.

Naturally, I admitted the visitors to my shop and offered them a bit of tea to warm themselves. I apologized for the interior chill. “It is my custom not to burn coal so early in the winter season,” I said, “so there is none in the scuttle, else I would surely have my man set a fire. You must be so terribly cold in those thin jackets.”

“Nah, they’re technical,” said the visitor. “Mine and my kid’s. The fabric creates a thermal barrier that absorbs heat from your body and releases it when you need it. Pretty spiffy, eh?”

I had no idea what he was talking about. “Are you a visitor from afar, sir?” I asked. Perhaps this was how they spoke in India.

“I’m from the Colonies,” he replied in a jovial manner, as if this were a great joke. I looked at him. “Really,” he continued. “Descended from William Bradford of the Plymouth Colony, and that’s the truth.”

I was about to ask for an explanation, when Creff, my aforementioned factotum, arrived from my workroom at the back of the shop, where he had been attending to the matter of an extremely large package that had arrived earlier, occasioning my delay in opening the shop.

“Good lord, Mr. Dower,” he began, not noticing the newcomers, “that scoundrel Scape must think you’re running some kind of a garrage here for him to store his belongings in. Not that I don’t wonder whether he came by these things honest — ” He broke off as he saw we had visitors.

“Ah — excuse me, sir,” he said to me, and stepped back.

“In a moment, Creff,” I said, and turned to the man who had come into my shop. “What can I do for you, sir?” I asked.

“I have an appointment here with a Mr. Scape,” he said.

I could scarcely mask my astonishment. “Mr. Scape? Why, sir, he — ”

“ — is right here, sucker,” said a too-familiar voice, and that very rascal appeared in the doorway of the workroom. He leaped forward to clasp the hand of my visitor.