Amygdala, p.2
AMYGDALA, page 2
As she waited, Lucy moved her frosty eyes back to the streets below, looking to the vast collection of shops and freelance stalls, listening to the flow of trade and productivity. She wished for a life within that world, a life of striving, accomplishment, respect, creation. Survival was the first duty of all young Fowlers, and the wonderful glow of adulthood teased and inspired.
Locket’s economic engine was one of barter, item for item, service for service, fuelled by reputation. A free market of competition. Nobody sold more than they bought, nor bought more than they sold. Currency, to the Kivic eye, was worthless, its only function being to exchange for items of actual quality – a hollow promise to pay. After the Trade Revolution, Locket lay waste to the concept. She observed that the pursuit of empty tokens was but a sickly cousin to the direct exchange of services and goods. This resulted in a free flow of product and left all within the city open to acquire direct fulfilment. Of course, value was relative to the individual. Reputation in the Underbirth also held worth; beginning with nothing, minds weighed with ideas could ascend the social staircase and thrive through competence. Demand, product and public preferment: the life blood of Kivic trade. Yet nature seeks balance, objectivity; always there will be winners and losers, grand thinkers stood proud atop the staircase, far above the living failures serving as the steps.
The rooftop on which Lucy sat belonged to one of the quieter establishments. Like all Kivic buildings, it was a fine display of art and design: dark wood, richly carved, licked by a swirling metal frame. Tisher’s Hide was the name, a charming Laughhouse that poured dark and heavy drinks, traded fairly and respected one’s solitude. This, she knew, was the place Goldune would come.
Sure enough, Lucy spied him approaching from Modrick Square, swanning his way down Teal Street, hands pocketed, head down. Inconspicuous. But Lucy knew better.
Goldune was cloaked in soft sapphire fur. He had four marigold eyes burrowed into a canine face with four large horns sprouting from behind stout violet ears. He stood at approximately ten feet. His red nose twitched as his head lifted, taking in the fine aromas. He wore a long azure coat lined with eight pockets at each side and one at the breast; Goldune kept the coat tied together with the severed tails of conquered opponents, a variety of textures and shades. ‘Slick, groomed, suave,’ some would say.
A fool, Lucy sneered within her head.
He entered through the doors below with his long tail trailing behind, blissfully unaware of the silver eyes pinned to his face. Lacemaker scampered to an opened window, squeezed through the gap, and concealed herself behind a rich wooden beam. She moved along the bones of the building, above the heads of drinking clientele, and leapt across to the high shelves, disappearing behind a line of bottles.
Goldune sat with downcast eyes, facing the shelf; his seat was the folded body of some headless fool. The establishment was sprinkled with these conquered servants, minds long destroyed, kneeling and folded, shamed and objectified. Indeed, the Kivouachians had less of a need for crafted seating when a mindless body could contort so pleasantly. An unrotting vessel had to serve some utility, and with no concept of the grave, they put the dormant to work.
Lucy peeked between the glass bottles and studied Goldune’s face. Nervous, scared, possible regret. This is it. Soon after, he was joined by another. This was a female dressed in a dark Lockettian coat, top hatted and lean. Lucy saw only the back of her head but enough to identify black fur and two pointed ears squashed by the brim. Who’s this? Goldune’s met with many… but never her…
The stranger’s voice was strong and domineering. “Place an order,” was her command.
Goldune waved over an employee. He spoke in a common drawl. “Giz a bottle o’grin, Hetty, love.”
Lucy scoffed. Predictable. As ever.
The stranger raised a finger. “A glass of pucker, roundhead cordial, please.”
Lucy inched closer with a raised brow. Curious… Not the local palate.
The drinks arrived, but only Goldune drank. His voice was strong, but his posture betrayed the act. “Find the place okay?”
“You will not speak,” said the stranger, who pulled a small package from her pocket, stitched together with red lace, and placed it upon the table. “The owner must be obedient, and the establishment suitable.”
Goldune leaned back. “Dimensions?”
“Two hundred square feet, minimum. No Bloodhalls, no riffraff.” She gestured to the package. “Inside you’ll find the products, the list of buyers, and a contract. You will return the contract signed.”
Goldune hushed his voice. “Written by… Fontaine?”
“You will not refer to your employer by name again. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Delay. “This is a tough sell, wa la wa.”
She pushed the package toward him then arose from her headless seat. “Then sell it well, wa la wa.”
“Are the Yolsh outplayin’ us to such a degree?”
“Wexle and her puppets cannot be bested on the streets,” she answered. “We must play a different game, and you will help us play it.”
Goldune was measured as he peeled back the first layer of packaging. “Can I ask…?”
“No.”
“Right, right…” He stopped and fought a rhythmic twitch of his brow, looking to her like a scolded child. “I’ll do my best.”
The stranger’s voice, for a moment, seemed softer, kinder. “We’re doing a good thing, Goldune. You must believe in us. Believe in our work.”
An idealogue? thought Lucy, stroking her chin. Interestin’. Dangerous.
“Your final drop is at Farroway at the next Songtower chime; it’ll be during the town’s red phase, so move promptly. And remember: data.”
Finally, the stranger pulled from her pocket a small clockwork device, flipped open the circular lid, reviewed the mechanisms inside, and snapped it shut. After pocketing the device, the stranger turned, and with a flamboyant swish of her tail, exited the establishment unseen, like a passing shadow.
Goldune drank his glass empty, eyes clenched shut.
Lucy crept back down the shelf, but in her haste, her tail knocked loose a half-depleted bottle, spreading shattered glass and alcohol across the floor. She cringed as Goldune snapped his head to the broken mess; a dark patch oozed through the rug, turning red to black. His yellow eyes moved swiftly up to the shelf, but by then, Lacemaker was gone.
“Onward and upward, Goldune,” he muttered to himself. “Onward and upward…”
He arose from his folded seat and grabbed the package from the wooden table. He gave the item a quick sniff, letting the scent fill his nostrils: nothing. Scratching the back of his neck, Goldune placed the package into his left breast pocket, separating the folded contract tied to it. He stepped out with a whistle and a smack of his lips, leaving the warm light inside, which grew in shades of butter and honey through the walls, floor and ceiling like living fairy lights.
Lucy watched from above.
At that moment, a musical sound roared throughout the Underbirth performed by strings, pipes and bells in the key of D: the fourth tone. Such tones were the city’s measurement of time, an auditory system to inform those without the luxury of light; even the deaf would feel it. There were seven of these tones, each one similar to about three months by earthly reckoning, and with the passing of all seven, a new stanza would begin. Within each township loomed the Songtowers, their function being to musically mark the passage of time in the form of ticks, bells, chimes and tones, similar to minutes, hours, days and months.
Bathed in the voices of the Vileborne Songtowers, Lucy Lacemaker sprang across the rooftops like a darkling sprite, intangible and ever watchful; when ready, she would step into the living world and manifest her scalding ire.
3. A Kivic Freakshow
Vileborne was a masterpiece of Kivic wonderment bound together with delicious architecture. Even the wards furthest from grandeur were well maintained and typically crafted in the three most fashionable styles: Lockettian, Winiwardian and Sombrarian. Such beauty was lost on Goldune, desensitised to wonder.
He looked about himself, calculating. His timing would not be exact, but he was confident enough to dawdle. Goldune knew that his final client was located in Farroway – a small riverside village – at the next chime, during its ‘red phase’.
Days and nights did not exist in the Kivouack, but there were, however, light phases. A light phase was dictated by the shade dominating a particular area of the city; these came in spells of reds, yellows, purples, blues and greens, often melding together like living liquid gems. There was also a ‘black phase’, the closest thing to nightfall. Assured of his punctuality, Goldune started on his way, mindful of the time as it rolled on by.
Outside many establishments, dressing doorsteps and signposts, framed within display windows, were the headless and contorted bodies of living failures. And these headless forms were not necessarily dead in a technical sense, but ‘rottulating’. It would not be prudent to classify the beheaded as deceased, for even when thoughtless, a Kivic body lived. With minds removed, crushed, or devoured, the bodies did not yield to decay, and so, ‘rotters’ they were, disgraced and vacuous.
With heads and limbs capable of reattachment, only the thorough destruction of the brain assured a Kivic death. But the death of the mind was only the beginning, for it paled when compared to the destruction of legacy and memory. This brought indignity to the rotters, for nothing quite burns one’s proud, lingering reputation more than the fiery kiss of shame.
Note: rottulation could be brought about by beheading, damage to the brain or spine, excessive exhaustion, fever, blood loss, or significant shock. Recovery from rottulation was guaranteed, so long as the head was returned with the mind intact.
One might ask why the rotters were bent in such undignified ways. For this, there are many reasons. Simply, the Kivvas were not bound by earthly attitudes, especially in matters of death. But there is another explanation: the freakshow. Animals are surely magnificent, but they are also beasts of blood who hunger for the conquering of their peers. The success of another may shed a cold light, but the fires of their failure warm to the bone. The Kivouachians were not unique in this thinking, they simply did not have the nerve to deny it, for an animal in denial of its nature is nullified, as Locket would often say. And the freakshow never leaves, only does it transform, and it is little without its clowns.
The Kivic concept of shame came down to two factors: mentality and physicality. Locket’s culture placed the highest value on the ability to think, speak and act; to be Kivicly shamed was to have these aspects mocked. For example: beheading was not a lethal process but served as a sound way of rendering one’s foe dormant, deleting all aspects of personality and intelligence, leaving nought but an object. Kivic punishment was the translation of power to shame, not only through fiery words, but through the derision of a proud form, strength bent and folded.
And thus, Goldune smiled at the sight of these lesser beasts, kneeling and humbled, bent and splayed – a reminder to all that incompetence was not tolerated in Locket’s city; that defeat was no point of pride, and that under Locket’s Law, talent, intelligence, and vision, ruled absolutely. Immortal beings, free from the burden of time, long lives teeming with deeds and ideas… so very much to lose.
Despite the distractions, curiosity slowly began to whittle away at Goldune; the package inside his pocket teased and begged to be stripped of its shroud. He looked behind, to his left, his right, then wandered off to the grey shadows of a backstreet.
Comfortably alone, Goldune’s hand pulled the small package loose and fondled the leathery skin serving as the wrapping. Carefully, he peeled back the layers to reveal a wooden box with crude metal hinges. Inside the box was a row of six small bottles. He plucked one free from the collection and held it to his eye. It was a phial of silvery liquid, held within twisted glass and topped with a metal lid. A lavish looking trinket. Interest gnawing, Goldune unscrewed the ornate top and dabbed a single droplet of the substance onto the tip of his finger. Eager for a closer look, he carried the bead to a nearby wall where a lonely vein of light crept. Suddenly, as if insulted, a whip of silver leapt from the wall and set the fluid ablaze, and with an intense, electrical flash, it was vanished in a hiss of smoke.
Goldune winced. With a glance to both ends of the alley, he sheathed the package in his coat and fled the scene with his chin to his chest.
4. The Sefton Bookburrow
Lacemaker followed Goldune from far above, darting across the rooftops, jumping through the black smoke of chimneys. After glancing down, however, she found that he’d slipped away. Perhaps the alley? She scratched her head, then scurried back. After crossing a gap between two buildings, a small flash alerted her. A wink of glass? She sniffed the air. Smells chemical…
She saw Goldune hurry from the alley, stuffing the package into his pocket. His pace had quickened. Before following, Lucy rubbed her chest. Hesitating. Wha’ am I doin’? This ain’t worth it. How can it be? Something within her screamed, keep going! She lifted her nose, inhaled. He’s still close. Follow him. End this. He was moving west away from the lake, toward Sefton’s Bookburrow.
Bookburrows were the banks of the Underbirth; alongside the hoarding and trading of information, they were responsible for restocking local businesses with raw resources. The Burrows kept things fluid and moving; without them, the trade channels would block.
Sefton’s was tucked away in its own private street, sparsely populated and eerie. It was a tall, aching building comprised of wood and framed with twisted metal. A Sombrarian style. The stained-glass windows held depictions of history and fact across the spectrum of red. The street was a cobblestone tongue that wound to the old wooden mouth; the doors were engraved with dates and records pertaining to the building’s construction, and at the base were various signatures carved by the Architects. Kivic doors were naturally big to accommodate the larger moulds but layered within were smaller doors for those of Lucy’s size. It was a rather apt system.
Every time she saw this place, her mouth salivated. To some, Sefton’s was just another shop, whoring out tales of whimsy, dusty mathematical tomes, ponderous poems, and the raw components for larger, more interesting trades. To Lucy, it was adventure, knowledge, growth: the purest form of value. And to see Goldune enter such a special place summoned a territorial anger from within her chest. It was sacrilege.
Lucy snuck in through a round window that stood ajar and hid herself upon the high shelves, silhouetted by beams of light bleeding through the glass behind. There were thousands of bookshelves, mountains of supplies, beautifully carved decorations, and that fine smell of age.
Sally Sefton was the thin bespectacled girl struggling at the peak of a faltering ladder, clasping the frame with her shabby brown tail. Cloaked in a soft black attire (ill-fitted) she began her descent, weaselly ears flapping away the dust disturbed by her dutiful labours. Frizzy golden hair waved across her kind face as she stepped from the ladder. When she turned her blue, magnified eyes toward the door, she scrunched her brow. “No! If you’re here for more erillion, I’ll not be seeing you! Come back at the fifth!”
Goldune rolled his eyes. “It’s me, Sally.”
The Bookeeper pushed her round spectacles up against the bridge of her nose, bringing the world back into sharp focus. “Yes? Do you have something for me, sir?” she asked, stepping behind her desk, piled with books.
“That rather depends. Expectin’ someone else?”
“Oh, no. Pay no mind to my ranting. There’s talk of an erillion shortage; means everyone wants extra – more and more. I have plenty for each trade in proportion, but not all at once! There’ll be a crash soon, mark me.”
“Yeah, not all tha’ interested, truth be told.”
“Have you got something for me or not?”
He placed the box upon her desk and pulled one of the phials loose. “Under your hat it must stay, little miss. And if you find any quirks, note them down for me… Got it?”
“Yes, yes.” She snatched the bottle and buried it in her pocket. “Take a book, if you please. Yolshen eyes could be about.”
“The law about this shop?”
“Peruse a while… I insist.”
While Goldune loitered below, Lucy made inquiries above, skittering around upon the high shelves in search of something new.
The importance of learning was not lost on Lacemaker. Ever she took the chance to read the world around her, for that was the task of all youths: learn, adapt, grow. A strict, objective system with small mercies, but the result was undeniably proficient.
Upon the highest shelf, Lucy spied a book around her size and made her way eagerly toward it. Around bottles of ink, dishes of halo powder, bowls of tailire and spiced junivy, she negotiated, making sure not to dislodge any items with her tail. Upon arriving at the book, Lucy threw out her arms, hugging it with glee, delighting in the archaic scent as it told her the story of its life. Well used, slightly abused; stacked high and away from access for the sake of preservation, she deduced. Second edition?
“Wha’ a lovely, olden darlin’ you are…” she whispered into the pages, pulling away to review the face; the cover did not return her smile, but she knew it was happy to see her… somehow.
The cover was a worn sort of navy blue with a border of black metal – which played a vital role in keeping the book together. The title was presented in the Kivic tongue, a positively strange form of text; with this fact in mind, the written language will be translated, as with all things spoken.
The title read: A Study of the Kivic Mind – by Quinn, Voice of Records.
It was a dull title with little poetry, but it certainly did not mislead, and Lucy was an eager student of psychology. While Goldune feigned interest in the stock below, she smiled, crossed her legs like an infant, splayed the book from knee to knee, and perused the contents, decorating her time with information.
