Amygdala, p.20
AMYGDALA, page 20
When Ludwig returned, he found Lucy curled up by the window, knees drawn to her chest, back turned to the mess she had made. “What did you do?!” he blurted, jaw hanging open.
“I’m sorry… I’ll clean it up…” she whispered back.
“It’s a mess!” He wandered in and snatched the papers from the floor. “Did you write over my work? Lucy!”
“It was a test… I used old copies…”
He paused, looking to her amendments, then to her, perfectly still and docile. “You know… you got my handwriting perfect. I mean… spot on.”
“So wha’?”
“That’s… a rare talent. Well, I’ve never seen it done before.”
“It was a stupid idea.”
Ludwig wandered closer. “No, it was a desperate one. Wyley was unfair. You’re new here, still learning; it’s unreasonable to expect you to rewrite an entire article in that time.”
“I should have got it right the first time…”
“True… but we all make mistakes. You ought to have seen my first paper.”
“So… that’s it… I’m stuffed…” There was no answer, and so Lucy took it as confirmation. After some silence, she heard him tidy up, put away the components and brush down the floor. Then came the sound of scratching, the smell of fresh ink. She turned back to see Ludwig, legs crossed, leaning over her work. “Whataya doin’?”
“I’m rewriting your paper.”
She sprang up. “Wha’?!”
“I can get this done for you.”
“But – but… my handwriting! Wyley’ll notice–”
“–He’ll notice nothing; I’m writing in Inker print.”
Lucy scampered closer. “Ludwig, don’t risk it!”
“You saved my job.”
“I got you in tha’ mess to begin with!”
Ludwig paused and met her eyes. “But you didn’t need to get me out of it; few would do the same… few have. Despite everything, it was… decent of you.”
Lacemaker watched in silent awe as Ludwig produced an elegant copy of her work, amendments included, and all in the uniform Inker print. Relief and gratitude built inside her with every word inked. It felt as if she were hanging over a terrible chasm, but with every stroke of Ludwig’s hand, a soft ground formed beneath. Every now and then, Lucy would sprint to the window, out onto the balcony, and peer past the metal rails to glimpse the distant Songtower. She brought Ludwig a candied bar from beneath her shelf, holding it out for him to bite, brushing the crumbs from his collar. Like a machine he worked, darting his yellow eyes between the two copies, ensuring the quality as he went. Upon reaching the final page, Lucy pulled the tin of pounce from his belt, and the moment he inked the final word, she powdered the page.
“Right, get that to Wyley,” said Ludwig, rising from the bones of his backside with a wince. “Quickly now!”
“I will, thank you!” said Lucy, gathering the pages together with the largest of smiles prettying her face. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She ran down the corridor, voice fading with distance. “Thank you, thank you, thank you….”
Lucy was silent as death as Wyley flicked through the amended article, a flutter of the hearts with each turn of the page. His face was relaxed, eyes focused, movements slow and considered. Upon reading the final page, he slapped it onto the table. “Good,” he said.
“Good?”
“Nice handwritin’, amendments made, delivered on time. Good.” He leaned forward. “Whataya want? A kiss? Get out.”
Lucy jumped to life. “Oh! Yes, sir!”
“Before you go... Sombra is releasin’ the erillion figures to quell the concerns of a shortage… I want you to help report on it.”
“Thank you, sir!”
“As it turns out, Voice Wexle has spoken out about a paper published by Starklook. It seems some of the information on Polly’s Tab was unauthorised. Could be a leak, could be a harmless error. But either way, this is an opportunity for us smaller Inkhouses, so let’s not squander it.” Wyley eyed her up and down. “In the meantime, I’m sendin’ Ludwig and Shale out to sell off our old stock; go learn somethin’.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Oh, and Lacemaker.”
Lucy turned, beaming her smile across the room.
Wyley pointed at a pale splotch across her chest. “That ink in your fur?”
“Oh, just a spot of cream… ya know, Ludwig brought a tin back…”
“Ah, well… make sure you have a wash.”
A nervous laugh. “Ah ha! Will do!”
“Off you go.”
Lucy found Ludwig waiting at the bottom of the stairwell. Upon seeing him, she waddled over and wrapped her arms around his left leg, clinging to him in a release of appreciation.
“Okay…” said an awkward Ludwig, “you can let go now, Lacemaker…”
Lucy only smiled and squeezed harder.
“Lucy – ow! You’re going to rip the seam!”
She pulled back and cackled. “I’m thankin’ you, ya silly tit!”
“Did he notice?”
“I’ve still got my job… thanks to you…”
“We’re even then.”
Lucy nodded and blew the air from her lungs. “Even.”
“Right, we’re off to sell some old stock.”
“Great! Let’s get crackin’!”
Eyes widening. “Have you ever sold anything before?”
Lucy pulled a funny face, leaning forward, hands on hips. “Not a sausage, ol’ love.”
At last, a laugh from Ludwig. “Well, this should be entertaining, if nothing else.”
The two met Shale at the entrance of Ruthergush, standing beside a small cart of old papers. “Still alive then?” she greeted, looking between the two.
“Just about,” said Lucy. “Just about…”
3. On the Make
Shale pulled the cart along with her snaking tail as all three Inkers felt the hot breath of Ruthergush soften, escaping onto Piper Street. Miviam was a place of trade, first and foremost, and precious few ever ventured there for the simple act of sightseeing. Walking up Piper, Shale felt tempted to sit upon one of the soft, folded bodies, trade off the stock for a few rounds of liquid laughter and be done with it. If not for the thought of Wyley, she might have indulged the temptation.
“We can’t be in that position again, Lacemaker,” said Ludwig, dragging behind. “We need to start working together… communicating.”
“We share a room, Wiggy,” said Lucy, riding in the cart. “We talk plenty!”
“Please don’t call me ‘Wiggy’… Ludwig is fine. Listen, we talk about who would win between Locket and a million Fowlers – not work.”
“Locket would def win though!”
“Not the point, Lacemaker!”
Shale remained quiet as the two bickered behind, keeping her sharp eyes peeled for any potential customers. The lure of a Laughhouse grew with every cackle from Lacemaker, every tidy word from Ludwig. Her long nails scratched across the floor as she moved toward a Chopper’s display of Fowler meat. “Some papers, miss?” Shale said, dragging the cart into view.
“I’m not givin’ away fresh stock for no dry ink!” the Chopper answered. Her serpentine body coiled into a defensive posture.
“It’s cheap.”
“How cheap?”
Ludwig sprang to action. “Two papers for a twelve-inch Fowler.”
The Chopper spat to the ground. “Twelve inches?”
“That’s plenty small!” Ludwig pointed at a row of hanging youths, their heads finely removed, bodies splayed for viewing. “We’ll take it raw.”
“Come off it!” The Chopper wormed her way to the row of small bodies and poked a particularly fleshy one with the tip of her tail. “These are the finest, juiciest little Fowlers you ever did see!”
Shale stepped forward. “Ah, but these papers are brimming with information; did you hear about the scrap down Klayton Street?”
“No?”
“You see, miss, old news can still be news. You want to be in the loop, no?”
“O’ course I do!”
“You care about information, I can tell.” Shale smiled. “You know what’s rubbish and what’s worth reading.”
Lucy watched curiously from the cart.
The Chopper’s posture became proudly erect. “I certainly do!”
“Plenty of good reads for your customers in and out of town,” said Ludwig, tapping the edge of the cart. “Three papers for a twelve-inch Fowler. Is that unreasonable?”
The Chopper looked at the papers, then at Shale, back to Ludwig, then to her hanging stock. “No…” she admitted. “Fine, but I pick the papers.”
“Done,” said Shale. “Lacemaker, help the lady.”
The Chopper plucked a plump young body down from her display and passed it across to Shale who tied it to her brown leather belt. Lucy handed over the three papers, and with the trade completed, each bid the other a good tone.
“Not a bad haul,” Ludwig said proudly.
Shale shook her head. “Only got one.”
“Yeah, but for a bunch of old papers!” Lucy squeaked. “Tha’ was great!”
Shale glanced back. “Were you paying attention?”
“Sure was!”
“Good, just keep quiet and learn.”
Lucy scampered out of the cart and pounced before her, walking backward as they moved further down the street. “Can I try sellin’ somethin’?”
“No.”
“I can do it!”
“Lacemaker, the biggest heads are the easiest to snip. Mind your ego!”
“We could let her try,” said Ludwig.
Shale rolled her eyes. “Maybe later.”
Such was the routine for the rest of Piper Street, visiting each building boasting stock, entering into negotiations, and hopefully, departing with something worth the effort. They made their way through Piper, Virerose and Royden Street, and by the time they reached Shakels Square, the cart was carrying a decent collection of Fowler bodies, soaps, oils, and a new belt for Ludwig.
“Can we visit a Candy Shop?” asked Lucy. “Oh! Can I trade wiv one?”
“I don’t think so,” said Shale. “You eat plenty already; don’t think I don’t know about your little stash.”
“Oi, who told you tha’?”
Ludwig scratched his neck nervously, ignoring the squinting silver eye of Lacemaker.
Shakels Square was a wide market of Freelance stalls west of the lake, run by traveling traders from out of town. Around the perimeter was a wide spectrum of establishments, hosted within large, proud buildings. At the centre was an enormous water fountain, white stone refined to the image of a hundred headless bodies, all contorted together, fresh water spilling from stone gowers. Upon the basin was an inscription reading: ‘remember all the fate of false revolution, born of envy, ended by duty, preserved in shame’.
“Who are they?” asked Lucy, looking at the array of stone bodies, horned, scaled, nippled, smooth and furred.
“The Trade Cartels. Idiots who began the Trade Revolution,” said Shale. “The carnage they caused… and all to protect a hoard of worthless metal.”
“Wha’ ’appened to ’em?”
“Winifred and her Yolsh got most. As for the rest, wa la wa, the city turned on them. It was a mess.”
Lacemaker’s blood ran cold as she considered the prospect. “Must have been a lot to clean up. Did you live through it?”
“I was only a Fowler.” Shale craned her neck, eyeing up the statue, thinking, remembering. “Locket’s Law is more than words; it means self-regulation. We can’t let fools like this harass better folk. Empty vessels produce the most noise, but noise is all they produce.”
“Well then, that about does it,” Ludwig cut in, draping his long black coat over the new belt. “Not much left to sell off.” He looked to Lucy fondly. “Would you like to try your hand at sales, Lacemaker?”
“Oh!” she gasped excitedly, bouncing up and down. “Would I ever!”
Shale screwed her face. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“She’s been helpful,” said Ludwig, “and she’ll never learn if she doesn’t try. If Lucy sells some papers, it might lighten Wyley’s mood, and that can only be a good thing for all of us.”
“Fine…” Shale said, pulling the cart toward Entervowel Street. “I know just the place to start. Keep up.”
4. An Open Wound
As the three Inkers made their way through Miviam, the last of the sweet lavender light was chased away by the invading red; a battle of colour was taking place throughout the town with a clear victor in the form of wine, rose, blood, berry and twirling scarlet passion. A red phase ignited in Kivouachians a desire to fight, feel, shame and dominate. As the Inkers crossed to Entervowel Street, through a warmly lit alleyway, Lucy spied four silhouetted figures fighting over the right to fondle a member of their fallen party. The shadow of a twitching body was all she could make out, but it looked to be fresh.
“It’s a matter of psychology, I reckon...” Lucy said.
“Oh, you think so?” replied Ludwig. “Like that thing we did with Wyley, eh?”
“Yeah, yeah! Relational memory, that’s right! Red is the colour of blood, blush and a hard-slapped arse.”
Ludwig burst into laughter at the comment. Shale hid her chuckle.
Lucy continued, “It’s no wonder we get so… carnal durin’ it.”
“Did you know Yeshua’s Circus is mostly dominated by a red phase?” Shale called out, turning back to watch Lucy’s face. “So, you might not be alone in that observation.”
“I didn’t know tha’, actually! Have you ever been to Yeshua’s, Shale?”
“Once or twice… Yeshua hosts the Vambalaya Gala at the end of each stanza, you know, a celebration of sorts. I went once.”
“Nice, was it?”
“Words will never do it justice.”
Entervowel rested at the outskirts of Miviam, a quiet street that curved up and down with degrees of intensity, a stream of stone. The street was mostly a mix of Jewellers, Toyshops, Tailors and Bookburrows on the right, with Candyshops, Dollhouses, Chopshops and Laughhouses peppering the left. Following in parallel above the street was a canal of black water, and through its foggy depths, various Dousers swam.
Ludwig turned to Lucy. “So, how much do you know about negotiation?”
“I can read faces, character, body language and situations pretty good,” she said.
“True… but it doesn’t matter how well you can read a situation if you can’t control it. And you won’t have time to play any of your long mind games here; negotiations are fast, ever-changing, and exceedingly difficult to predict.”
“Right,” said Lucy. “Don’t s’ppose you have any pointers?”
“The key to any negotiation is information gathering,” he said. “You’re brilliant at that through observation, but in a negotiation, you can’t just sit and stare, you’ve got to engage, be interesting, project outwardly.”
“So, I’ve got to learn everythin’ about them through chatter?”
“Not everything, Lucy,” Shale began, “just the points of interest, things you can use to bring them to your way of thinking, and that means showing empathy.”
“Empathy?”
Ludwig raised a finger. “Don’t mistake empathy for weakness,” he said. “To empathise with another is merely to understand their point of view, and once you understand that – what they value, what they want – you have leverage… the means to get what you want.”
“Yes, yes, o’course I get tha’,” Lucy said, puffing out her chest. “I reckon I’m good at talkin’.”
“Good at talking?” Ludwig repeated.
“Yeah! I can read a face n’ all tha’, but voices are important, too.”
“Voices are important, too?” said Shale, winking at Ludwig.
Lucy went on: “Sure, I’ve spent most of my time watchin’ from afar, keepin’ my distance, learnin’ about a subject through observation. I think a face says more than words, but how those words are said is also important, right?”
Ludwig snapped his fingers. “See what we did there? Me and Shale took the last few words from each of your sentences and mirrored them, thus making you feel engaged with, thus leading you to expand upon your points, thus granting us more information about your perspective, all while saying nothing about our own, and keeping the conversation alive.”
A wide smile stretched across Lucy’s face. “That’s not a bad trick!”
“It’s simple but effective,” said Shale, “and once you have a decent picture painted, you can close the deal confidently. And remember, ‘no’ is the word you always want to hear.”
“No?” Lacemaker screwed her face.
“The word ‘yes’ is a word of commitment. Saying it makes us feel obligated, like there’s no turning back. If you use the right words, ‘no’ can be a word of agreement without being binding; it makes us feel safe, secure. Calibrate your questions.”
“And remember,” Ludwig said, “the last impression you leave is more important than the first; it will shape your next meeting. Take your time, think carefully, end strong.”
Lucy hummed with enthusiasm. “Got it! I’ll do my best!”
Near the end of the street, on the left side, sat a raggedy wooden building, held in place with an exoskeletal structure of metal. The Sombrarian style. Above the entryway was a sign that read: ‘Browbeater Bookburrow’. Ludwig, Lucy and Shale regarded the building with wonder as the smell of old spice, powder and paper filled their nostrils. Outside the building was a crowd of a dozen, the flair of raised voices echoing through the air, bouncing off the walls.
“Something’s wrong…” said Shale, beginning to slow.
The Bookeeper stood before the crowd with arms thrown wide like a prophet before a mass of sceptics. “There is plenty of erillion for each trade in proportion!” He forced his voice through a constricting throat. “I cannot grant what you ask!”
“Do you have enough or not?!” said one at the head of the crowd. “We should know!”
“Not enough for everyone at once!” said the Bookeeper.
“That’s not an answer!”
Lucy ran ahead a few steps. “What’s all tha’ about?”
“I’m sorry… I’ll clean it up…” she whispered back.
“It’s a mess!” He wandered in and snatched the papers from the floor. “Did you write over my work? Lucy!”
“It was a test… I used old copies…”
He paused, looking to her amendments, then to her, perfectly still and docile. “You know… you got my handwriting perfect. I mean… spot on.”
“So wha’?”
“That’s… a rare talent. Well, I’ve never seen it done before.”
“It was a stupid idea.”
Ludwig wandered closer. “No, it was a desperate one. Wyley was unfair. You’re new here, still learning; it’s unreasonable to expect you to rewrite an entire article in that time.”
“I should have got it right the first time…”
“True… but we all make mistakes. You ought to have seen my first paper.”
“So… that’s it… I’m stuffed…” There was no answer, and so Lucy took it as confirmation. After some silence, she heard him tidy up, put away the components and brush down the floor. Then came the sound of scratching, the smell of fresh ink. She turned back to see Ludwig, legs crossed, leaning over her work. “Whataya doin’?”
“I’m rewriting your paper.”
She sprang up. “Wha’?!”
“I can get this done for you.”
“But – but… my handwriting! Wyley’ll notice–”
“–He’ll notice nothing; I’m writing in Inker print.”
Lucy scampered closer. “Ludwig, don’t risk it!”
“You saved my job.”
“I got you in tha’ mess to begin with!”
Ludwig paused and met her eyes. “But you didn’t need to get me out of it; few would do the same… few have. Despite everything, it was… decent of you.”
Lacemaker watched in silent awe as Ludwig produced an elegant copy of her work, amendments included, and all in the uniform Inker print. Relief and gratitude built inside her with every word inked. It felt as if she were hanging over a terrible chasm, but with every stroke of Ludwig’s hand, a soft ground formed beneath. Every now and then, Lucy would sprint to the window, out onto the balcony, and peer past the metal rails to glimpse the distant Songtower. She brought Ludwig a candied bar from beneath her shelf, holding it out for him to bite, brushing the crumbs from his collar. Like a machine he worked, darting his yellow eyes between the two copies, ensuring the quality as he went. Upon reaching the final page, Lucy pulled the tin of pounce from his belt, and the moment he inked the final word, she powdered the page.
“Right, get that to Wyley,” said Ludwig, rising from the bones of his backside with a wince. “Quickly now!”
“I will, thank you!” said Lucy, gathering the pages together with the largest of smiles prettying her face. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She ran down the corridor, voice fading with distance. “Thank you, thank you, thank you….”
Lucy was silent as death as Wyley flicked through the amended article, a flutter of the hearts with each turn of the page. His face was relaxed, eyes focused, movements slow and considered. Upon reading the final page, he slapped it onto the table. “Good,” he said.
“Good?”
“Nice handwritin’, amendments made, delivered on time. Good.” He leaned forward. “Whataya want? A kiss? Get out.”
Lucy jumped to life. “Oh! Yes, sir!”
“Before you go... Sombra is releasin’ the erillion figures to quell the concerns of a shortage… I want you to help report on it.”
“Thank you, sir!”
“As it turns out, Voice Wexle has spoken out about a paper published by Starklook. It seems some of the information on Polly’s Tab was unauthorised. Could be a leak, could be a harmless error. But either way, this is an opportunity for us smaller Inkhouses, so let’s not squander it.” Wyley eyed her up and down. “In the meantime, I’m sendin’ Ludwig and Shale out to sell off our old stock; go learn somethin’.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Oh, and Lacemaker.”
Lucy turned, beaming her smile across the room.
Wyley pointed at a pale splotch across her chest. “That ink in your fur?”
“Oh, just a spot of cream… ya know, Ludwig brought a tin back…”
“Ah, well… make sure you have a wash.”
A nervous laugh. “Ah ha! Will do!”
“Off you go.”
Lucy found Ludwig waiting at the bottom of the stairwell. Upon seeing him, she waddled over and wrapped her arms around his left leg, clinging to him in a release of appreciation.
“Okay…” said an awkward Ludwig, “you can let go now, Lacemaker…”
Lucy only smiled and squeezed harder.
“Lucy – ow! You’re going to rip the seam!”
She pulled back and cackled. “I’m thankin’ you, ya silly tit!”
“Did he notice?”
“I’ve still got my job… thanks to you…”
“We’re even then.”
Lucy nodded and blew the air from her lungs. “Even.”
“Right, we’re off to sell some old stock.”
“Great! Let’s get crackin’!”
Eyes widening. “Have you ever sold anything before?”
Lucy pulled a funny face, leaning forward, hands on hips. “Not a sausage, ol’ love.”
At last, a laugh from Ludwig. “Well, this should be entertaining, if nothing else.”
The two met Shale at the entrance of Ruthergush, standing beside a small cart of old papers. “Still alive then?” she greeted, looking between the two.
“Just about,” said Lucy. “Just about…”
3. On the Make
Shale pulled the cart along with her snaking tail as all three Inkers felt the hot breath of Ruthergush soften, escaping onto Piper Street. Miviam was a place of trade, first and foremost, and precious few ever ventured there for the simple act of sightseeing. Walking up Piper, Shale felt tempted to sit upon one of the soft, folded bodies, trade off the stock for a few rounds of liquid laughter and be done with it. If not for the thought of Wyley, she might have indulged the temptation.
“We can’t be in that position again, Lacemaker,” said Ludwig, dragging behind. “We need to start working together… communicating.”
“We share a room, Wiggy,” said Lucy, riding in the cart. “We talk plenty!”
“Please don’t call me ‘Wiggy’… Ludwig is fine. Listen, we talk about who would win between Locket and a million Fowlers – not work.”
“Locket would def win though!”
“Not the point, Lacemaker!”
Shale remained quiet as the two bickered behind, keeping her sharp eyes peeled for any potential customers. The lure of a Laughhouse grew with every cackle from Lacemaker, every tidy word from Ludwig. Her long nails scratched across the floor as she moved toward a Chopper’s display of Fowler meat. “Some papers, miss?” Shale said, dragging the cart into view.
“I’m not givin’ away fresh stock for no dry ink!” the Chopper answered. Her serpentine body coiled into a defensive posture.
“It’s cheap.”
“How cheap?”
Ludwig sprang to action. “Two papers for a twelve-inch Fowler.”
The Chopper spat to the ground. “Twelve inches?”
“That’s plenty small!” Ludwig pointed at a row of hanging youths, their heads finely removed, bodies splayed for viewing. “We’ll take it raw.”
“Come off it!” The Chopper wormed her way to the row of small bodies and poked a particularly fleshy one with the tip of her tail. “These are the finest, juiciest little Fowlers you ever did see!”
Shale stepped forward. “Ah, but these papers are brimming with information; did you hear about the scrap down Klayton Street?”
“No?”
“You see, miss, old news can still be news. You want to be in the loop, no?”
“O’ course I do!”
“You care about information, I can tell.” Shale smiled. “You know what’s rubbish and what’s worth reading.”
Lucy watched curiously from the cart.
The Chopper’s posture became proudly erect. “I certainly do!”
“Plenty of good reads for your customers in and out of town,” said Ludwig, tapping the edge of the cart. “Three papers for a twelve-inch Fowler. Is that unreasonable?”
The Chopper looked at the papers, then at Shale, back to Ludwig, then to her hanging stock. “No…” she admitted. “Fine, but I pick the papers.”
“Done,” said Shale. “Lacemaker, help the lady.”
The Chopper plucked a plump young body down from her display and passed it across to Shale who tied it to her brown leather belt. Lucy handed over the three papers, and with the trade completed, each bid the other a good tone.
“Not a bad haul,” Ludwig said proudly.
Shale shook her head. “Only got one.”
“Yeah, but for a bunch of old papers!” Lucy squeaked. “Tha’ was great!”
Shale glanced back. “Were you paying attention?”
“Sure was!”
“Good, just keep quiet and learn.”
Lucy scampered out of the cart and pounced before her, walking backward as they moved further down the street. “Can I try sellin’ somethin’?”
“No.”
“I can do it!”
“Lacemaker, the biggest heads are the easiest to snip. Mind your ego!”
“We could let her try,” said Ludwig.
Shale rolled her eyes. “Maybe later.”
Such was the routine for the rest of Piper Street, visiting each building boasting stock, entering into negotiations, and hopefully, departing with something worth the effort. They made their way through Piper, Virerose and Royden Street, and by the time they reached Shakels Square, the cart was carrying a decent collection of Fowler bodies, soaps, oils, and a new belt for Ludwig.
“Can we visit a Candy Shop?” asked Lucy. “Oh! Can I trade wiv one?”
“I don’t think so,” said Shale. “You eat plenty already; don’t think I don’t know about your little stash.”
“Oi, who told you tha’?”
Ludwig scratched his neck nervously, ignoring the squinting silver eye of Lacemaker.
Shakels Square was a wide market of Freelance stalls west of the lake, run by traveling traders from out of town. Around the perimeter was a wide spectrum of establishments, hosted within large, proud buildings. At the centre was an enormous water fountain, white stone refined to the image of a hundred headless bodies, all contorted together, fresh water spilling from stone gowers. Upon the basin was an inscription reading: ‘remember all the fate of false revolution, born of envy, ended by duty, preserved in shame’.
“Who are they?” asked Lucy, looking at the array of stone bodies, horned, scaled, nippled, smooth and furred.
“The Trade Cartels. Idiots who began the Trade Revolution,” said Shale. “The carnage they caused… and all to protect a hoard of worthless metal.”
“Wha’ ’appened to ’em?”
“Winifred and her Yolsh got most. As for the rest, wa la wa, the city turned on them. It was a mess.”
Lacemaker’s blood ran cold as she considered the prospect. “Must have been a lot to clean up. Did you live through it?”
“I was only a Fowler.” Shale craned her neck, eyeing up the statue, thinking, remembering. “Locket’s Law is more than words; it means self-regulation. We can’t let fools like this harass better folk. Empty vessels produce the most noise, but noise is all they produce.”
“Well then, that about does it,” Ludwig cut in, draping his long black coat over the new belt. “Not much left to sell off.” He looked to Lucy fondly. “Would you like to try your hand at sales, Lacemaker?”
“Oh!” she gasped excitedly, bouncing up and down. “Would I ever!”
Shale screwed her face. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“She’s been helpful,” said Ludwig, “and she’ll never learn if she doesn’t try. If Lucy sells some papers, it might lighten Wyley’s mood, and that can only be a good thing for all of us.”
“Fine…” Shale said, pulling the cart toward Entervowel Street. “I know just the place to start. Keep up.”
4. An Open Wound
As the three Inkers made their way through Miviam, the last of the sweet lavender light was chased away by the invading red; a battle of colour was taking place throughout the town with a clear victor in the form of wine, rose, blood, berry and twirling scarlet passion. A red phase ignited in Kivouachians a desire to fight, feel, shame and dominate. As the Inkers crossed to Entervowel Street, through a warmly lit alleyway, Lucy spied four silhouetted figures fighting over the right to fondle a member of their fallen party. The shadow of a twitching body was all she could make out, but it looked to be fresh.
“It’s a matter of psychology, I reckon...” Lucy said.
“Oh, you think so?” replied Ludwig. “Like that thing we did with Wyley, eh?”
“Yeah, yeah! Relational memory, that’s right! Red is the colour of blood, blush and a hard-slapped arse.”
Ludwig burst into laughter at the comment. Shale hid her chuckle.
Lucy continued, “It’s no wonder we get so… carnal durin’ it.”
“Did you know Yeshua’s Circus is mostly dominated by a red phase?” Shale called out, turning back to watch Lucy’s face. “So, you might not be alone in that observation.”
“I didn’t know tha’, actually! Have you ever been to Yeshua’s, Shale?”
“Once or twice… Yeshua hosts the Vambalaya Gala at the end of each stanza, you know, a celebration of sorts. I went once.”
“Nice, was it?”
“Words will never do it justice.”
Entervowel rested at the outskirts of Miviam, a quiet street that curved up and down with degrees of intensity, a stream of stone. The street was mostly a mix of Jewellers, Toyshops, Tailors and Bookburrows on the right, with Candyshops, Dollhouses, Chopshops and Laughhouses peppering the left. Following in parallel above the street was a canal of black water, and through its foggy depths, various Dousers swam.
Ludwig turned to Lucy. “So, how much do you know about negotiation?”
“I can read faces, character, body language and situations pretty good,” she said.
“True… but it doesn’t matter how well you can read a situation if you can’t control it. And you won’t have time to play any of your long mind games here; negotiations are fast, ever-changing, and exceedingly difficult to predict.”
“Right,” said Lucy. “Don’t s’ppose you have any pointers?”
“The key to any negotiation is information gathering,” he said. “You’re brilliant at that through observation, but in a negotiation, you can’t just sit and stare, you’ve got to engage, be interesting, project outwardly.”
“So, I’ve got to learn everythin’ about them through chatter?”
“Not everything, Lucy,” Shale began, “just the points of interest, things you can use to bring them to your way of thinking, and that means showing empathy.”
“Empathy?”
Ludwig raised a finger. “Don’t mistake empathy for weakness,” he said. “To empathise with another is merely to understand their point of view, and once you understand that – what they value, what they want – you have leverage… the means to get what you want.”
“Yes, yes, o’course I get tha’,” Lucy said, puffing out her chest. “I reckon I’m good at talkin’.”
“Good at talking?” Ludwig repeated.
“Yeah! I can read a face n’ all tha’, but voices are important, too.”
“Voices are important, too?” said Shale, winking at Ludwig.
Lucy went on: “Sure, I’ve spent most of my time watchin’ from afar, keepin’ my distance, learnin’ about a subject through observation. I think a face says more than words, but how those words are said is also important, right?”
Ludwig snapped his fingers. “See what we did there? Me and Shale took the last few words from each of your sentences and mirrored them, thus making you feel engaged with, thus leading you to expand upon your points, thus granting us more information about your perspective, all while saying nothing about our own, and keeping the conversation alive.”
A wide smile stretched across Lucy’s face. “That’s not a bad trick!”
“It’s simple but effective,” said Shale, “and once you have a decent picture painted, you can close the deal confidently. And remember, ‘no’ is the word you always want to hear.”
“No?” Lacemaker screwed her face.
“The word ‘yes’ is a word of commitment. Saying it makes us feel obligated, like there’s no turning back. If you use the right words, ‘no’ can be a word of agreement without being binding; it makes us feel safe, secure. Calibrate your questions.”
“And remember,” Ludwig said, “the last impression you leave is more important than the first; it will shape your next meeting. Take your time, think carefully, end strong.”
Lucy hummed with enthusiasm. “Got it! I’ll do my best!”
Near the end of the street, on the left side, sat a raggedy wooden building, held in place with an exoskeletal structure of metal. The Sombrarian style. Above the entryway was a sign that read: ‘Browbeater Bookburrow’. Ludwig, Lucy and Shale regarded the building with wonder as the smell of old spice, powder and paper filled their nostrils. Outside the building was a crowd of a dozen, the flair of raised voices echoing through the air, bouncing off the walls.
“Something’s wrong…” said Shale, beginning to slow.
The Bookeeper stood before the crowd with arms thrown wide like a prophet before a mass of sceptics. “There is plenty of erillion for each trade in proportion!” He forced his voice through a constricting throat. “I cannot grant what you ask!”
“Do you have enough or not?!” said one at the head of the crowd. “We should know!”
“Not enough for everyone at once!” said the Bookeeper.
“That’s not an answer!”
Lucy ran ahead a few steps. “What’s all tha’ about?”
