Amygdala, p.30
AMYGDALA, page 30
“Ruby Ruthergush,” said Wyley, “and she was better than I.” Anger returned. “I will never give up on this place – you hear me? Perhaps Fontaine understands wha’ it’s like at tha’ vilicious precipice, inches from losin’ it all!” He stormed to the door and lingered there. Collecting himself, Wyley offered a final pledge. “No matter wha’ it takes… I won’t let Ruthergush go. Now, get back to it.”
5. Clean, Silked and Hatted
The door of Ludwig’s chamber felt alien to Lucy, not only smaller, but somehow forbidden. Ignoring this, she placed a hand to the metal and pushed reflexively, hoping her entry would not be seen as some intrusion. After all, it had been her room, too. Why would Ludwig be mad? she asked herself.
“Lucy?!” It was a happy voice, to her relief. Ludwig swivelled around with a swish of his coat and threw his arms wide. “Look at you!”
She leaned against the door, closing it shut with her back. “It’s good to see ya, ol’ love…”
Her voice gave him pause. “You sound… older.”
“Good or bad?”
“Less of a squeak now,” he said. “Certainly good.”
Lucy’s cackle was now akin to a witch, manic and infectious. “Cheeky tit!”
“It’s… great to see you…” He moved his yellow eyes up and down her form. “How do you feel?”
“Like I could slap ya.” She chuckled. “I’m still gettin’ used to it.”
“It’s… strange to see you so… large.”
“I’m almost as tall as you now,” she said, stepping away from the door.
“Though infinitely stronger, I think.”
Lacemaker raised an arm and flexed the muscle. “Yeah?”
“Freyda’s shame! Wyley better watch his back.” They both laughed. “Did Shale see?”
“Yeah, we spoke just before.” I should ask to move back in, said an impulsive, emotional voice within her. No, said something cautious, he probably wanted me out. At last came her reason: Ludwig wants privacy like anyone else. A new chamber is the best thing for me. “So, I’ll be gettin’ a new room…”
“I heard; it was Wyley’s decision,” Ludwig said with a flurry of blinks.
Liar. “Oh, o’ course. I mean, it’s the best thing, innit? I’ll need my space!”
“Certainly! I’m glad you agree.”
“Mmhmm, definitely.” Pause. Change the subject, she told herself. “When you mature, you’ll be a giant, I bet!”
“Acquainting my head with every doorframe, I can hardly wait.” Ludwig was thankful for the shift in topic.
“They make ’em well big enough.” A fake chuckle. “I… I just got done talkin’ to Wyley…”
“How did that go?”
Lucy sucked in a lungful of air. “It’s mire…”
Ludwig relaxed immediately. “Ah, so he told you.”
“We’ve got to stop it!”
“Why?”
“Ludwig?”
“Sure, it’s not exactly legal, but what harm does it do?”
“You don’t mean tha’…”
Ludwig turned to face the window, looking across the rooftops beyond the balcony. “Ruthergush has been stumbling for some time; that can’t have escaped your notice. With all the competition, all those newer Inkhouses, it’s been getting harder and harder to keep our contracts. We’re losing writers, losing everything… Wyley hasn’t got a lot of options.” He turned back to her. “I don’t know what mire is, I don’t know what it does… I-I don’t care! But it’s a product, isn’t it? Through Greta, Ruthergush can corner a market yet to exist!”
“But it doesn’t exist, Ludwig!”
“Not yet. Think about the bigger picture, Lucy. The whole city is talking about it; there will be discussions, advocates, debates, and eventually, mire will be legalised… and that’s how we come back.”
Lacemaker crossed her arms and turned from him defiantly.
Ludwig pressed on. “Moxy used to be illegal, so was grin… attitudes change!”
She swivelled back. “It’s unstable, Ludwig!”
“Unstable?”
“It blew up a Dollhouse!”
“Is this Needlemire?” He knitted his brows. “How would you know that?”
“You saw it at Marvel’s – it melted his face!”
“I thought we agreed never to talk about it! Listen to me, Needlemire was just a fire. You’ve been sleeping for a while…”
He’s hidin’ somethin’. “But…”
Ludwig waggled his finger. “You know better than to listen to rumour.”
“It’s not a rumour! You’ll see when the Yolsh get to the bottom of it!”
“It was an accident, nothing more.”
Lacemaker’s eyes began to tear, but she fought it. An accident, it was an accident, she told herself. But it wasn’t… “I hope you’re right…” What’s he hidin’?
“There is an order of things, Lucy, but that order can change.”
“But…”
“Lacemaker…” Ludwig whined.
“I just don’t feel comfortable… I’m not even a writer anymore; I’m only here to make forgeries – to lie!”
“Lying makes you uncomfortable?”
Lucy felt accused. “Oi, what’s tha’ s’pposed to mean?”
He immediately folded. “Nothing, I didn’t mean anything by it. I just… I just don’t want you getting into trouble.”
“Same to you…”
“I know…” Unsure of what gentle expression had befallen his face, Ludwig turned to a small box upon the desk. “Here, I have a present for you.”
Lucy’s eyes twinkled. “A present… for me?!”
“Of course!” He passed it down and watched as she lifted the lid. “There was no way of knowing how big you’d grow, but I felt confident enough to have these made…”
Lucy failed to hold back tears as she pulled a hat from the box with one hand, and a flutterlace with the other. The hat was blood red with a crooked crown and medium brim, just enough to shade the eyes. Lacemaker placed it over her silver hair and found that it fit perfectly. The flutterlace was a Kivic sort of cravat consisting of a leather collar and a wide, pleated blade of silk. The collar bore the same red as the hat, though the silk was white with red polka dots, matching the shades of her body; Lacemaker clipped it around her neck and admired the frilly material now decorating her chest.
“I love ’em …” she said quietly, looking up to the brim of her hat with glossy eyes.
“Hang on,” Ludwig said, and he pulled from his pocket the ribbon of yellow and black from when they first met. “I had it cleaned up, though it still smells of spiced junivy.”
“I’ve grown to quite like it.”
“Then here.” He tied the ribbon around her hat, pulled her little black notebook from his breast pocket, and fastened it to the left side. “A little extra utility.”
With Ludwig so close, Lucy darted in for a hug. “Thank you!” She squeezed him until he grunted, waiting to feel his arms around her, but they never came.
“Okay, Lacemaker,” he wheezed. “You’re crushing me!”
“Oh, sorry!” Pulling back. “This means a lot.” Don’t obsess, she told herself.
“It’s quite alright.” He rose to his feet and brushed himself down. “Listen, now that your EIP is sorted, I was thinking… Ruthergush has a contract with Tickletwine Laughhouse…”
“Right…”
He shrugged. “Me and Shale were wondering if you wanted to go for a drink?”
“A drink… at a Laughhouse… as a… customer?”
Ludwig laughed and led her from the room. “Yes, as a customer.”
Lucy jumped on the spot. “Definitely! Can we go now?”
“Let’s go find Shale.” He lingered at the door, then looked to her with a smile. “It’s good to have you back, Lacemaker, really.”
6. Glass Bottles
A Laughhouse was a world of banter, debate, cheer and liquid laughter. Those who served the drinks were known as Jesters, masters of talk and mediation. Jesters worked beneath the Minstrel, the owner of a Laughhouse. Pouring drinks was but the surface of a Jester’s duties, for they were also charged with maintenance, and the hosting of witty duels.
“Step up, step up!” one Jester hailed as Lucy, Ludwig and Shale approached Tickletwine, which lay across the street from Browbeater Bookburrow. “We’ve a fresh stock of grin, even a smirk of smile tucked away!”
“Any pucker?” Shale asked as she passed the Jester.
“Plenty, miss Inker, plenty!” The Jester laughed and welcomed the trio inside.
Tickletwine was a warm building of soft golden light, high spirits and merriment held within dark wooden walls. There were three floors held aloft by oakish pillars, each accessible via the carpeted staircase, fenced by finely carved banisters. Below was the islanded bar top where the Jesters served customers at every angle. Behind them was a tall tower that touched the ceiling, jewelled with stock; multicoloured bottles, containing various tinctures, were displayed lovingly upon the high shelves, sheathed by metal gates for which only the Jesters had keys. In the corner, a small group of Dollies plucked a range of string instruments, providing service on behalf of their Dollhouse… and for a little extra bite in their drinks, to be sure.
“It’s so full…” Lucy said in awe of the building, far livelier than anything she had ever seen.
“Fuller than Ruthergush,” Shale said. “Take notes, Lacemaker, this is how it’s done.”
“Shale…” Ludwig scolded, but she didn’t seem to care.
The three Inkers spent a short while looking for a cosy place to sit. Lucy spied a snug little corner, cradled in slithering tangerine. Ludwig and Shale took a seat while Lucy remained standing, palms caressing the fine wooden table. “Can I get the drinks in?” she said.
“I’ll take a blacktar grin,” said Ludwig, moving to the seat with a wall at his back. “But make sure they water it down.”
“Petite pucker for me,” said Shale. “With a touch of tailire.”
“Got it!” Lucy skipped toward the bar.
All around her, animals spoke, debated, wrestled their wit. Not a drop of blood, she thought. This place breathes, it lives. Everyone’s smiling’, everyone’s happy. The Jesters are laughin’, the Minstrel is singin’ with the Dollies, the customers are lost in their talks. Do all of them have contracts here? Could there really be tha’ much success localised in one space? I want it. I want this.
“Greetings, little miss!” the serving Jester said from behind the bar top. “A fine hat, might I say!”
“Oh, cheers, mister!” Lucy replied, taken aback. “Thought it might look silly.”
“Not at all!” the Jester said. “Not seen you about before. You have an EIP? Or are you freelance?”
“I’m with Ruthergush. It’s Lucy Lacemaker.”
“Ah, Ruthergush…” The Jester almost seemed disappointed. “Funny little papers.”
“I’m new,” Lucy felt obliged to say.
“A writer?”
“Yes, actually.” Lucy lowered her voice. “Is Ruthergush a good paper, ya think?”
The Jester had little to hide. “Slipping, perhaps – but they have their readers.” He motioned to a table to the left of the bar sporting a range of articles. “No better place to catch the news than a Laughhouse; fuel for debate, as they say.”
Lucy moved her eyes to the tables. Few were reading Ruthergush. “Right…”
“Didn’t mean to offend, good Inker.”
She snapped her head back, blinking her wandering red eye into alignment. “Nah, you’re fine, ol’ love. I’ll be movin’ on soon.”
“But haven’t you just started?”
“Yeah.”
The Jester laughed. “He’s a lone drop, that Wyley…”
From behind the worktop, the Jester pulled a large black book and opened it. “Let’s see… I’m sure Browbeater had your papers delivered just recently.” He flicked through the book. “Ah, here we go: Ruthergush.” The Jester flipped through pages of names and faces. “Chaplin, Charlie, Charon… Brigard, Bunsen … Wendy, William, Wyley, … Ah: Lucy Lacemaker.” He matched the drawing to her face. “Would you like to be added to our list of regulars? It makes things quicker.”
“Sure,” she giggled. “Jot me down, ol’ love.”
“That’s a cute little accent you have there. Vileborne?”
Deflect. “Yours is Munkton, innit?”
“Good ear!” He smiled, scratching down her details onto a separate piece of paper behind the bar. “So, why the move to Miviam? Work, was it?”
“Yeah, somethin’ like tha’.”
Once finished, the Jester closed the black book and stored it behind the counter. “Now then, miss Inker, what’ll it be?” He extended his arm behind him and presented a full shelf of bottles. Some were tin, some were clay, some were glass, clear and frosted.
“A blacktar grin – watered down; a petite pucker – with a touch of tailire. And for me…” Lucy perused the shelf. “I’ll try a twisted lip.”
The Jester nodded. “Take a seat, lady Lacemaker, they’ll be right over!”
Lucy returned to Ludwig and Shale and perched herself upon a kneeling body folded to a beggars bow; it served as a soft seat. Like a stool, the rotter lay dormant, robbed of its head and personage. Will this be the fate of Wyley? Lacemaker thought. The fate of us all?
“What did you order?” Ludwig asked.
“Twisted lip,” she replied.
“Ah, a good choice.”
“Eh, not for me,” said Shale, turning to Lucy. “Did you put your name on the list of regulars?”
“Yep!”
Shale smiled. “Good girl. Makes things a lot easier if they learn who’re on contract and who’re drifters.”
The drinks soon arrived, but before drinking, Lucy lifted her glass and said, “To livin’.”
“To surviving,” said Ludwig.
“To not being dead,” said Shale.
The Inkers laughed and drank.
For the first time, Lucy’s tongue was treated to the burn of liquid laughter, an alcoholic warmth that sent her body shivering. Ludwig’s grin did little to affect his face, though he drank marginally less than his companions, little more than a gentlemanly sip. Shale lifted the bottom of her glass to the ceiling, halving the contents in one go.
“Right then,” said Lucy, leaning in, “let’s level with each other: how much did Wyley tell ya?”
“Nothing,” said Shale. “I’m staying out of it.”
“Anythin’ I might not know?”
“I’ve only got what Ludwig told me, and even that’s too much.”
Lucy looked at Ludwig. “Go on then.”
He was hesitant to speak. “This isn’t the place.”
“You’re an Inker, use the right words.”
“Well, he told me we were going in a different direction – I asked what it was, he didn’t say. Some new materials started to arrive; I helped store them… then our guest pulled me aside.”
“Yeah?”
“She told me that we were on our last legs, that we wouldn’t last… not without a new market, an open mindset.” Ludwig shrugged and drank again, a touch more this time. “I was against it at first, like Shale, but… thinking about it… wa la wa, it all made sense to me.”
Shale shook her head and hissed, “It’s that type of thinking that started the Trade Revolution: corner-cutting, laziness, scheming. Rather than take responsibility for his failure, rather than changing, or learning, Wyley has embraced forces he cannot control.”
“Lower your voice,” said Ludwig.
“Raise your standards, boy,” said Shale.
“Okay, Shale, if you’re so against this, why stay?”
“I won’t be staying for long.”
Ludwig looked at Lucy. “And what about you? Will you be leaving?”
“Only if we all go,” said Lucy.
“I won’t turn my back on Wyley.”
“Wyley’s finished, and it’s his own fault.”
Ludwig scowled. “Lacemaker!”
“I’m just thinkin’ through it logically.”
“Coldly, you mean. Why abandon Ruthergush when we can save it?”
“You wanna save Ruthergush?” said Shale. “Get rid of Wyley.”
Sensing a loud response for Ludwig, Lucy broke in: “Okay – I’m sorry I brought it up. Let’s just forget about it. Alright?”
“Fine. Now’s not the time for this anyway,” said Shale.
“Okay,” said Ludwig. “Besides, we still work for Wyley – it’s his decision.”
Lucy took another sip of her drink. “Fair enough, fair enough.”
Ludwig was staring at her. “Where’re you from, Lacemaker, you never said.”
“Oh, did I not?” She shrugged. “Well, that’s all borin’ anyway.”
“Tell me.”
“Winiward.”
“All the way from Winiward? Strange that you never acquired the accent.”
“I hung about with a mixed bunch. A lot of accents.”
“Friends?”
“Nah, just shared streets.”
“Any still about?”
Lacemaker looked into her glass. “All gone.”
“You kill them?” asked Shale.
“No, I’ve never… I’ve never killed; more than a few scraps as a Fowler… but never quite finished the job.” Lucy darted her silver eye to Shale, followed by the wandering red. “Where’re you from? Talk to me.”
“I’m from Vallahead,” said Shale.
“Vallahead, as in… where the Voice of Sky lives?”
“Raloma – and yes, the very same.”
“You lived Topside?”
“A while ago.” There was an undeniable pride in Shale’s voice.
“What’s it like?”
“Well, there’s less of a need for wild light with the Glazze so bright. It’s all about finding shade where you can, a quiet pool to sit beside; it gets quite hot in the early tones, you see. Still, there’s an abundance of open air, which is good because almost everyone has a pair of wings on Topside. Wa la wa, wings, talons, beaks.”
“Don’t get much of that in Miviam,” Ludwig said. “Striders, Prowlers, Dousers… but not many Gliders… or Crawlers for that matter. Unsurprising. Kivvas tend to stick to where they’re suited.”
