Another For The Mushroom Patch
There's a certain sense of peace and comfort down here in the boilerworks, if you don't mind the heat and humidity. No proper, self-respecting Victorian would ever soil their boots with these tunnels' sludge, no sir, not even the constabulary. For those reasons and more, this is the place I chose to call home.
The voices here, see, are few and far between; nothing like the cacophony of the stradt's residential boroughs and promenades, where stray thoughts and musings fly about like leaves in the autumn wind. With nary a soul to be found residing in these boilerworks save this old louse, silence is the norm; that's why I hear the man's head-voice far before I could hear his steps or see the light of his hooded lantern.
He is a lord, or fancies himself one; a surface-dweller, merrily oblivious to the things that go bump in the dark beneath the stradt's stony skin. Scheming, he is. Planning, calculating, strolling down musty old tunnels and corridors as if they are his ancestral birthright.
His thoughts are thoughts of coin, and of the subsequent finery and comfort it will afford him. Murder is just an afterthought; little more than a chore to be dumped on somebody else.
Another fool, then. Another for my mushroom patch.
As the lordling makes his way through the tunnels, I ready myself for our meeting. It won't be long before he tolls the bell and summons me, I reckon. I don my ragged traveler's cloak, a threadbare reminder of its old self; the last surviving memento of my days of living on the ground, miles below this lofty world of stradts and skyships. I pull the hood down low; I'd rather not have the man attack me the moment he lays eyes upon my visage.
The bell rings as soon as I exit my abode, its sound reverberating through the complex. It is only now that I detect a hint of uncertainty in the lordling's head-voice, as if it has just occurred to him that these tunnels are nothing like the halls of the lavish mansions he undoubtedly has spent his life in, safe and cozy and pampered.
I make no haste. My bones ache and creak like old wood. Through a labyrinth of tunnels I walk, careful not to touch the pipes. Sizzling hot, they are the veins that bear the stradt's lifeblood.
It takes me the better part of a quarter-mark to reach the bell room. The lordling is there, pacing around the old brass bell.
Even in the dim light of his lantern, his heritage and stature is clear as day: he's a true Victorian, this one, prim and proper. Clad in his close-fitting shirt, plaid slacks, and waistcoat, he looks as out-of-place as a gold coin in a steaming heap of manure. Save for his scornful look, his face is comely; handsome, even. Were I not the shriveled relic that I am, I might even have felt a fire in my loins stir. Alas, that ship has long sailed.
He finally notices me, and his attempt at concealing his startled disgust at my crooked form is commendable.
"You are late, crone", he says, his tone imperious. "Your services are required, bought and paid in full to your lord and master Carabas."
Any attempt at a reply would be purposeless, so I make none. I walk up to the lordling and extend my hand. Taking care not to touch me, he drops the token into my open palm. I already know which token it is, of course; it can only be the Fool. Still, I trace my index finger over the etching to make certain. It is as expected, and my duty is clear.
I beckon to the lordling to follow and start back towards the tunnels. Dragging his body back to my abode would take me hours, not to mention leave me exhausted for days. He has two good legs bulging with life and strength. Let us put them to good use, I say. He follows, his hand at his rapier's pommel, the whole lot of good that will do him.
Another quarter-mark passes, and we are deep in the bowels of the boilerworks. We are very close now. I lead him down another tunnel, close the mushroom patch. He must not see the patch, of course, lest the sight of fungi-riddled skulls and bones shakes him.
Here, this place is as good as any; I will only have to drag his body a couple dozen paces. I turn to the lordling, signaling him to stop.
He's holding a perfumed handkerchief, shielding his mouth and nose from the steam and stench. His suspicions finally start to outweigh his vain confidence. I listen for his head-voice. This is important. This will decide what the lordling receives: swift mercy, or the knife.
The head-voice has turned more sour and vicious than ever. This is not the head-voice of a fool that has just left his folly misguide him. No, it sounds like snakes hissing and rats squealing and crows crowing.
The knife it is, then.
There is no need for words or ceremony. I simply clutch at the lordling's mind and squeeze, squeeze. It bursts like a ripe grape. His expensive slacks darken with urine. Frothing at the mouth, he falls to his knees. His now broken mind now understands, but it is much too late.
I shove the knife deep into his flesh just behind the clavicle, the way I was taught back in the olden days. He lies on the ground for a time, bleeding. Then, with but a rasp, he dies.
As I start to drag him towards the mushroom patch, I ponder the wisdom of it all. Even a wasteful lout like this can be of some use, in the grand scheme of things, even if it is to feed a humble woman and her mushrooms.
A smile reaches my dry and cracked lips. Maybe there is hope yet for us.
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