As was the practice in those superficially gentler times, Fletcher Brunestadt introduced himself to his fellow traveller as he sat alongside her, midway in the serried ranks of seats, conveniently adjacent to the bell-push, an expediency he found apposite in some circumstances. Alighting a moving bus carried some peril in icy weather, and his art was such that urgency was less of a requirement than precision. So, when the time came, he rang the bell, tipped his hat, and faded into the crowd, before the evening got darker, as it always did when he was working.
“Fletcher Brunestadt, botanist third class, married,” he said, offering his hand. Botanist is a fitting catch-all term he used frequently, carrying, as it does, a close approximation to part of his role. Occasionally, he would say, “chemist”, but he found it invited a level of suspicion entirely absent from “botanist”.
Read more: The last bus to Vale by Martyn WintersThe New Rome game rules dictated an outright lie was forbidden and was punishable by all manner of distressing chastisements. “Married” was a fine line, one which some magistrates would cast a gimlet eye over and declare dolus specialis, but most would let pass, understanding that married can be past tense, and et uxor could easily be ex ante.
“Orwen Soto, desirderant first class, unmarried,” she said, not turning her head. She reached out a white gloved hand and touched the tips of his fingers. More of a pass than a grasp, a bow to convention rather than the embracement of unity dictated by the statutes of the Saeculum. This was never going to be easy; he thought.
Brunestadt could see why she excelled in the desirderant moiety. Her reflected image in the darkened windows showed a fulgent profile, a loosely curled fringe dancing above dark eyes, a pert nose, high cheekbones, and full lips, all set in skin so pale it appeared almost translucent. And the scent, drifting like a cloud of glory, almost invited him to inhale deeply, but he eschewed the indulgence, just as he abjured any bodily pleasures when under contract.
Such a shame, he thought, and idly wondered what her services felt like. Not that he could afford such luxury, even with the flush of contracts he received in the run up to the electoral formalities. Politicians liked to clean the slate before presenting themselves to the judgement of their peers, so loose ends were trimmed wherever they stuck out from the fine weave of their lives.
She must know something, he decided, and while knowledge is often power, that is only truly the case when in the hands of the already powerful.
So, instead, he waited patiently for the moment when contact could be initiated and whiled away the time by listening to the hum of conversation fore and aft of his position, as the bus sped through the suburbs of the city, its great columns flashing by in a whirl of marbled excess.
“I’m going to vote Grey,” said a voice, thick with ginstrap and bennyweed. The man was thick-necked and snub-nosed, with the eyes of a pig.
“Nah, you gorrit all wrong. Them Greys are too high and mighty for my liking. What you really needs in the Synodus, is a good dose of Concilium. That’d sort them buggers out,” a slow speaking man retorted. In appearance he was so similar to pig-eyes, they could have been cousins. Only the head bristle of the former, and the curling locks, punctuated by a laurel that was at least thirty years old judging by its colour sequence, of the latter. A former gladiator then, Brunestadt thought with appreciation. Few of them retired with all their limbs.
“Have you seen the price of ollwire,” said another, more feminine tone from behind Brunestadt. He remembered the woman from when he boarded; round faced, and darting eyes, but striking in a well-fed way, and a flickering smile that spoke of constant amusement.
“I know. It’s a disgrace. I don’t know how I’m gonna feed my kids,” her compatriot agreed as she gulped at a bottle of flax-brandy.
Brunestadt could feel the city roads give way to rural tracks as the bus bounced and jolted over the rutted path and he relaxed his hands, feeling the patches as slightly warmer areas on his palms, ready to burst their microcapsules with the correct amount of pressure.
Glancing at his pocket watch, he determined the trench he’d painstakingly dug and covered earlier that evening, must be approaching. Getting the balance between sufficient depth to cause a bounce to the bus’s suspension, without disabling it completely, was something of an art-form, he adjudged. Perhaps he should introduce himself as a labourer in the future. He had the physique for it, but his hands were too callow for such a pretence, so he dismissed the notion.
He stole a glance at his companion. Her face, wrists, and the rise of her breasts were the only areas of bare skin. The rest was encased in the fine silks expected of her profession, and he imagined his movements when the moment came: grasp her wrist, then cradle her face from colliding with the window, apologise for his temerity, then wait fifteen seconds for the first cough before alighting.
Sometimes, he would leave a “You have received the services of…” card before leaving, but that was usually only the case when dealing with gang members. Politicians preferred discretion, and a yelling woman screaming she’d been murdered “because…” just would not do.
The moment approached rapidly, and despite himself, he felt his body tense, ready to spring into action. Some assassins said mantras, lulling themselves into a soft state. They said it heightened awareness, but Brunestadt liked to be present in the moment.
He felt a sharp pain in the right side of his belly. Turning his head, he saw the upward turn of her mouth as she rose from her seat. He’d been made.
She stepped around him, looked down, smiled again, mouthed the word “Vale”, which has many meanings, not least “farewell” but also, “be strong”, and walked to the back of the bus, ringing the stop bell as she passed it, her drifting scent one of the last sensory inputs he would experience.
Brunestadt tried to move, but the toxins were already stealing the strength from his muscles. He knew how it went. The world would fade, and he would descend into blackness. Sighing a last sigh, he thought to himself, “It’s only business.”