- 15 Winter 519
“You want me to do what, now?” Caspian asks, crossing one leg over the other at a jaunty angle, fingers tapping a curious melody against the bar.
Perched in clear discomfort on the adjacent barstool, Telemius Powell, accountant and 32 years of age, straightens his glasses and continues to cradle his tankard of ale, the largely unsipped contents of which threaten to spill under his close ministrations. “I – humbly request, that through the facilities and services as assumed of your professional sector, and as according to the delineations supplied by your sister, that you attend the funeral of my late great-uncle Padrius Powell, and in the course of your surveillance determine the approximately precise location of the chest of mizas and Powell family heirlooms that he has left behind.”
At once, Caspian bursts out laughing, doubling over to clutch his knees. When his laughter subsides, he dares swig from his tankard – only to succumb to cackling uproariously, and subsequently choke on his drink.
“Sorry, I actually – “ Caspian sighs, stifles another fit. Grins widely at the other bar patrons who are now looking over, their expressions ranging from befuddlement to communal mirth. “I most certainly heard you the first time. I just wanted to be sure.”
Telemius regards him dubiously, but doesn’t seem offended – which is a sad thing to consider, maybe, that he’s quite used to people laughing openly at him.
“So, just to make sure we’re on the same page – One, my sister acknowledged that she is, in fact, my sister. For the most part she pretends otherwise, I think out of sheer embarrassment. Two, your uncle Paddy left treasure, actual buried treasure? Please tell me there’s a riddle and a rhyme involved? And three – oh gods, I don’t really have a third. But you said you want me skulking about at a funeral? And who am I meant to play at said funeral, exactly? Supposing someone asks how I knew the dearly departed?”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Telemius admits.
“How close is your family, then? How affable was the old gent? I could be craven cousin Paxton, Paxton Powell. Or someone else entirely – yes, I think that’s safer. Did he have any habits?”
“Habits?” Telemius frowns.
“Did he – I don’t know, have an enthusiasm for anything in particular? His cravats, his shoe polish, the wines in his cellar?”
“He could get very particular about his poppers.”
Caspian stares – then bursts out laughing once more, this time enough to make Telemius flush and the bartender wearily sigh.
“If you aren’t interested – “ Telemius begins.
“On the contrary. Let’s have it, then, the when and where’s?”
Telemius tells him. And casts a wary eye of his suit, which today has materialized magically as a wall of fringe, all the way from his lapels down to hems of his flared slacks, in a gradient of lavender to deep aubergine. “If it’s not too much to ask – “ Telemius starts. “ – but could you please wear black?”
Caspian claps him on the back, waves the bartender over to refill his glass. “You’ve made my day, darling. Consider it done.”
Whatever anxieties Telemius had been accumulating seem to lyse from him now, and in sheer relief he takes up his tankard with both hands, polishing off its contents in time for the bartender to ask if he’d also like another round.
WC: 560
Perched in clear discomfort on the adjacent barstool, Telemius Powell, accountant and 32 years of age, straightens his glasses and continues to cradle his tankard of ale, the largely unsipped contents of which threaten to spill under his close ministrations. “I – humbly request, that through the facilities and services as assumed of your professional sector, and as according to the delineations supplied by your sister, that you attend the funeral of my late great-uncle Padrius Powell, and in the course of your surveillance determine the approximately precise location of the chest of mizas and Powell family heirlooms that he has left behind.”
At once, Caspian bursts out laughing, doubling over to clutch his knees. When his laughter subsides, he dares swig from his tankard – only to succumb to cackling uproariously, and subsequently choke on his drink.
“Sorry, I actually – “ Caspian sighs, stifles another fit. Grins widely at the other bar patrons who are now looking over, their expressions ranging from befuddlement to communal mirth. “I most certainly heard you the first time. I just wanted to be sure.”
Telemius regards him dubiously, but doesn’t seem offended – which is a sad thing to consider, maybe, that he’s quite used to people laughing openly at him.
“So, just to make sure we’re on the same page – One, my sister acknowledged that she is, in fact, my sister. For the most part she pretends otherwise, I think out of sheer embarrassment. Two, your uncle Paddy left treasure, actual buried treasure? Please tell me there’s a riddle and a rhyme involved? And three – oh gods, I don’t really have a third. But you said you want me skulking about at a funeral? And who am I meant to play at said funeral, exactly? Supposing someone asks how I knew the dearly departed?”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Telemius admits.
“How close is your family, then? How affable was the old gent? I could be craven cousin Paxton, Paxton Powell. Or someone else entirely – yes, I think that’s safer. Did he have any habits?”
“Habits?” Telemius frowns.
“Did he – I don’t know, have an enthusiasm for anything in particular? His cravats, his shoe polish, the wines in his cellar?”
“He could get very particular about his poppers.”
Caspian stares – then bursts out laughing once more, this time enough to make Telemius flush and the bartender wearily sigh.
“If you aren’t interested – “ Telemius begins.
“On the contrary. Let’s have it, then, the when and where’s?”
Telemius tells him. And casts a wary eye of his suit, which today has materialized magically as a wall of fringe, all the way from his lapels down to hems of his flared slacks, in a gradient of lavender to deep aubergine. “If it’s not too much to ask – “ Telemius starts. “ – but could you please wear black?”
Caspian claps him on the back, waves the bartender over to refill his glass. “You’ve made my day, darling. Consider it done.”
Whatever anxieties Telemius had been accumulating seem to lyse from him now, and in sheer relief he takes up his tankard with both hands, polishing off its contents in time for the bartender to ask if he’d also like another round.
WC: 560
x
Boxcode credit: Antipodes!