A book...is one of the few havens remaining where a man's mind can get both provocation and privacy.

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

[Late morning of Thursday, June 17 (day 382)]
[Sagert's Books]

It is rather a pleasant day; blustery but not cool. My legs feels rather better today, and I spend the morning on light errands. A stop by the library (really, I must suggest that they see about shimming up some of the shelves; I find that I am rather tired of the occasional volume dropping on me), and then the General Store and the bakery, and a pleasant stop at the Miskatonic before returning home.

I actually do manage an hour or so in the basement. Just planning, really, but I have a few ideas I would like to note down...

I am feeling quite refreshed when I come back up. Not exactly enough to go out again, but I set the sign out to indicate I am open, and brew up a cup of tea. Perhaps someone shall stop in; if not, well, I can certainly look forward to sitting and reading for a moment.

[Open to Samuel, and possibly others]

Comments

[samuel-durand.livejournal.com]

When I step out of the Whitechapel, I roll my shoulders and work my lower back, driving the last kinks out of muscles that ache. Too long since I'd slept on anything more substantial than a cot or a bedroll. In the end I decided it was simply less trouble to move onto the floor, where I slept the sleep of the just.

Today I have business to attend to. The accumulated work of weeks, but not yet completed.

The passersby are more than happy to direct a polite but harried monk to the local bookstore, and I send them on their way with profuse thanks that leaves them smiling. When I reach the place, Sagert's Books, I adjust the cylindrical leather case under my arm and step inside, closing the door behind me.

"Good morning," I say pleasantly. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust. And then-- "Your pardon, sir, but have we met before?"

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

I glance up as the door opens; the light from the windows is enough that it takes me a moment to make out the gentleman who has arrived.
"Good morning. Your pardon, sir, but have we met before?"

"Good morning," I echo, setting aside my cook. I do not believe anyone has almost-recognized me yet in this town. Perhaps I have reason to hope for some pleasant conversation. "It's possible," I add, levering myself to my feet and keeping one hand on the back of the chair. I shall be quite relieved when this cast comes off, and I offer my free hand. "Westin Sagert, and a good morning to you. What brings you here today--" and it comes together then, although I find myself unwilling to speak of the particulars. Still.

"I do believe we have met, yes," I say, considering him. "Do you happen to recall the circumstances?"

[samuel-durand.livejournal.com]

He gets to his feet with some difficulty, apparently as the result of some mishap resulting in serious injury. I take his hand and give it a firm shake, though not overly familiar. "Samuel Durand, sir, Friar Observant. Please," I add, gesturing toward his chair.

"I do believe we have met, yes. Do you happen to recall the circumstances?"

I do have a sense of it, as it happens. But what prevents me from answering immediately is not how we met, but that I cannot remember just what part of me he happened to see. Does he? Tread lightly.

"It was quite some time ago," I say slowly, as though teasing details from a muddled and indistinct memory. "Far from here. I hope you'll pardon my forgetfulness, but I've spent most of my life traveling and after a while a lot of the smaller towns start to blur together." It is a lie, of course, that I don't remember the name. It's even on one of my bloody maps.

"There was a carnival, and they made a great spectacle of the--how does one put it?-- uniquely and singularly afflicted." I smile. "I came after the show was done, to see if there was aught a man like myself could do to be of use."

"I'm almost sure that was when we met. I feel that perhaps you were a great and generous patron to the poor unfortunate souls."

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

"It was quite some time ago. Far from here," and I murmur agreement. That does cover quite a lot of the country, but Excolo is pleasanter than I have had any right to expect. He apologizes for his forgetfulness and I wave my hand negligently. "There was a carnival, and they made a great spectacle of the--how does one put it?-- uniquely and singularly afflicted." His smile is quite sudden. "I came after the show was done, to see if there was aught a man like myself could do to be of use... I feel that perhaps you were a great and generous patron to the poor unfortunate souls."

I find myself wanting to raise an eyebrow. Generous, certainly, but I think great may be stretching a point. Still, I suppose it could be simple effusiveness. "I do believe I recall that, yes," I say. "Monstrosities and deformation have always held great fascination for people." The afflicted. Exquisite monstrosities, save that I could not claim that all those in the sideshow merited such a term. There were two, though...

"I do believe that may be where we would have met." If I recall correctly, there was a fascinating case of anchylosis on exhibit, joints frozen with interlocking spurs and a jaw that would have been positively bristling beneath the skin. Yes, I am quite certain... I remember because it drew Linnea to mind, knowing I would have had to peel away the flesh to see the proper wonder of things, But of course there were entirely predictable constraints. "Simon, was it? No, that's the local butcher, I do beg your pardon." Although there is a certain humour in drawing that association. Perhaps it was Saul?

I raise my eyebrows. "In any case, you do have the advantage of me. Would you care for some tea?"

[samuel-durand.livejournal.com]

"Monstrosities and deformation have always held great fascination for people."

"Very true. Though their reasons are often most banal." My lips twist in disgust. I've always hated the gawking crowds at such places. They're full of a smugness almost obscene, the leering anticipation of witnessing the public humiliation of others. A peculiar ritual, the group's affirmation of its own disposable mediocrity. "The truly singular cannot help but be beautiful." To be the single instance, the lone iteration of a form, overrides all other aesthetic concerns.

"In any case, you do have the advantage of me. Would you care for some tea?"

"Only if it's no great hardship," I say, eyeing his cast. "Many thanks for your hospitality, regardless." Taking in his shop with a sweep of my hand, I add, "Quite an impressive selection, particularly for a town this size. Do the locals actually give you much business?" My eyes roam across spines, picking out names. Checking them against the long, long list I memorized so many years ago.

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

I murmur agreement. "Which is not to say that most sideshows contain anything approaching the unique," I offer. Proteus syndrome, hyperkeratosis, syndactyly, the constellation of dysmelia... Lovely, certainly, but to be truly unique some personal assistance is required. "I did once see a Harlequin child (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harlequin-type_ichthyosis) in New London who had lived to the age of seven, but that was a medical exhibit," I add. "And even then, the affliction was a common example of its state."

"Only if it's no great hardship. Many thanks for your hospitality, regardless," and-- well, perhaps he does not believe in exchanging names. Certainly it would not be the oddest belief I have encountered. I pick up the crutch leaning against the chair and move towards the doorway to the kitchen.

"Quite an impressive selection, particularly for a town this size. Do the locals actually give you much business?"

"Definitely not," I say, slightly rueful. "There is the library, after all--which I have to say far exceeds my reasonable expectations of what one could hope to find. I was pleased to leave some of my volumes with them. And I open by chance or by appointment, so there is not much in the way of custom." The kettle should boil rather quickly, I think, and I go about finding a cup and fittings, glancing back through the doorway. "Were you looking for anything in particular?"

[samuel-durand.livejournal.com]

"Have you some medical training, then? It would seem that your own experiences in that area have been a bit more exotic than my own." The man speaks with the jaded ease of long experience. To say nothing of the fact that I haven't the foggiest notion what a 'harlequin child' is, though that fact didn't keep me from nodding appreciatively. I suspect that he and I have somewhat different standards of singularity.

"Were you looking for anything in particular?"

"Not at present, though I do intend to browse your selections most thoroughly. Actually," I say, taking the case from beneath my arm, "it was a rather different sort of work I came here for. I had hopes that I could contract your services in binding a number of important loose pages into a book for safekeeping. Do you ever do that sort of thing?"

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

"Have you some medical training, then?" he says. "It would seem that your own experiences in that area have been a bit more exotic than my own," and I smile a little.

"I was a surgeon," I say, glancing reflexively at my hands. "I spent most of my time in a rather small town, but I did have the chance to visit New London on occasion... I suppose I could still manage some of the simpler aspects of the work, but there is little call for that here. There is quite a skilled physician in town, you know." For the moment; I really should see if I can do something about that this year.

I balance the cup on a saucer in one hand and start back out with a measured pace. The cup is not as full as one might like, but it does not spill, and I set it down on the counter as I make my way back into the store proper. "Not at present, though I do intend to browse your selections most thoroughly. Actually, it was a rather different sort of work I came here for," and he lifts the case he was carrying. "I had hopes that I could contract your services in binding a number of important loose pages into a book for safekeeping. Do you ever do that sort of thing?"

"Well," and I realize I am blinking a little. It is a reasonable question, certainly, only... "I have certainly done repairs, and have rebound books on occasion," I say, exploring the possibility. "I imagine I certainly could... is there a uniformity to the pages?" It is easier to address the particulars. "I am sure it could be done if not, but if it's a matter of binding sheets of different sizes and substances together, it's best to know at the beginning."

I have worked with my hands, and I certainly imagine I could do the work. I have just... I really must say I have never thought of myself as a tradesman.

[samuel-durand.livejournal.com]

"I spent most of my time in a rather small town, but I did have the chance to visit New London on occasion... I suppose I could still manage some of the simpler aspects of the work, but there is little call for that here. There is quite a skilled physician in town, you know."

"A surgeon," I say, impressed, as I pick up the tea cup with murmured thanks. "And one of two in town? This place is... unusual." I settle on the word with a bemused shake of the head, sipping the tea in silent reflection for a few moments afterward. Unusual doesn't quite cover it. Plenty of potable water, food, renewable electricity, law enforcement, a bookstore and library-- and both a working professional physician and a superfluous one.

To say nothing of the utterly strange experiences I've had with some of the townspeople. Now that I think about it, Mr. Laclos may have been the only citizen I've interacted with for any length of time since I got here that didn't make the hair on the back of my neck stand up at least once a conversation.

Perhaps Mr. Sagert will be the second. He's been impeccably polite, is clearly very well educated, and comports himself as one born into money or title, or both. Then again, five minutes into tea he may start prophesying, or decide he wants to see the inside of my chest cavity.

"I have certainly done repairs, and have rebound books on occasion. I imagine I certainly could... is there a uniformity to the pages? I am sure it could be done if not, but if it's a matter of binding sheets of different sizes and substances together, it's best to know at the beginning."

His speech does not change, remains polite and professional, but something on his face suggests he's been caught off guard. At first, I am at a loss as to why. It's not a typical request, certainly, but not outlandish. As he speaks of details, it becomes clear that it is not a matter of being beyond his capabilities. Perhaps he objects to the work itself?

"They are uniform. Sorted and numbered, as well. Here, have a look," I say, setting down my cup. I work the lid off the well-worn case and remove the first two sheets from the thick, rolled bundle inside. Putting the lid back on the case, I set it aside before spreading the pages out on the counter. They are maps, precisely and intricately inked by my own hand, and in a sense are some of my most valuable possessions. These two date back almost three years, detailing an area quite far to the southeast.

The first is topographic, meticulously detailed through the center where my route passed, with details fading to mere generalities of land features near the outer edge of the map. The second is of the same area, but has almost none of the first's contour lines, instead showing water sources, mineral deposits, forested areas, shelters, roads and trails, and so forth. For information I wish to hide from the casual observer, I use a system of Greek symbols. Both pages are numbered in two different ways: once with the order in which they should fall in the book, and then again, on their edges, with letters and numbers that let me know with which other maps they are associated, and where they fit together.

"I've been something of an explorer and cartographer for many years. You might say this is a portion of my life's work, and it's very important to me that it be adequately protected. Hence the need to have it well and securely bound." In the Order I had studied every old map I could get my hands on, maps of places dead and gone, some for two thousand years, some for a hundred. Looking at a map of a dead civilization really impressed upon you how tenuous everything was; mapping an emerging civilization made you feel like you were part of the birth of something entirely new.

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

"A surgeon," he says, and I dip my head in acknowledgment. "And one of two in town? This place is... unusual."

"It is," I say, "although I must say that it was rumours of Doctor Constantine which drew me here," a lie, but one I have told before and am quite comfortable with, "so the two are not quite unrelated. His skills extend beyond surgery, a fact for which I count myself grateful, even if his medicine could not fully alleviate the damage done to my hands."

I shake my head and turn to the matter of the papers Durand wishes to have bound. "They are uniform. Sorted and numbered, as well," and it is a pleasure to deal with this in an organized fashion. I do not place the area, though that means little. I set down my tea where I can be quite sure it will not spill, and lean over them. They are quite elegantly done, and the material should weather well...

"I've been something of an explorer and cartographer for many years," he says, drawing my attention. "You might say this is a portion of my life's work, and it's very important to me that it be adequately protected. Hence the need to have it well and securely bound."

"I can certainly appreciate that," I say, and for a moment I wish... ah, well, I suppose I can content myself with notes and memories while waiting to begin again. "May I congratulate you on the quality of your work? I assume--" and I catch myself. "I beg your pardon. Will you be having them bound along the edges?" I gesture towards them, "May they be handled?" I am sure they are sturdy enough, but the courtesy of asking is still in order.

[samuel-durand.livejournal.com]

"His skills extend beyond surgery, a fact for which I count myself grateful, even if his medicine could not fully alleviate the damage done to my hands."

I glance at his hands, but I do not ask the obvious question. Instead I merely offer quietly, "A terrible trial, for a man of an elite profession." Having many scars of my own that I do not tolerate others to come pawing at, I tend not to paw at others unless doing so gets me something I want. I do offer brief silent thanks to the cold, mechanical workings of the universe that it has not yet been my fate to suffer an injury that made my work impossible.

He compliments the quality of my work, and I nod my thanks. I'm long past any point in my life of needing my ego validated by others, but professional respect is valuable in its own right. It greases the skids of the kinds of informal networking on which I thrive.

When he asks if I want them bound along the edges, I nod. "In addition to the numbering, each one is oriented to north and marked with a compass. I've had to have this done quite a few times before, so I've developed something of a system." That much is true enough. Professional competency is a rare thing, so a system tends to make things run much more smoothly.

"May they be handled?"

"Of course. A man who spends his days among old books can be trusted to know how to handle things with the proper care." And a fastidious type, such as Mr. Sagert appears to be, isn't likely to be leaving greasy fingerprints on the paper. Over time, skin oils can do enormous damage to paper. When I was growing up, there were books and documents we were not allowed to handle without gloves, papers that could only be read in rooms so dimly lit that it seemed you read by starlight.

A lifetime ago. But still, I wish to see some things built to last.

"I trust you have access to materials of suitable quality? My apologies for even having to mention it, but I once had a man bind these for me with a leather cover that turned out not to be properly tanned. It twisted and cracked as it dried, and did considerable damage to my work."

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

I murmur appreciation as he outlines the classification of his papers. There are a pair of cotton gloves behind the counter, and I pull them on. It is not pulp, which is a relief if not a surprise given the care he takes. Rag paper, I believe. "A man who spends his days among old books can be trusted to know how to handle things with the proper care," and I murmur acknowledgement. Sections are out of the question, of course, but there are other means of binding...

"I trust you have access to materials of suitable quality? My apologies for even having to mention it, but I once had a man bind these for me with a leather cover that turned out not to be properly tanned," and really, even the thought is enough to make me cringe. "It twisted and cracked as it dried, and did considerable damage to my work."

"I can only imagine," I say in a slightly strangled voice. "Were you able to effect repairs? But yes; the tanner in town does rather sound work, and I will inspect anything I might use." I step back from the pages.

"What brings you to Excolo?" I say, curious. "Certainly you would not be the first individual I met again here, but I have not heard enough to say if there's anything of particular interest here." Particularly, perhaps, not since Constantine lost his gift...

[samuel-durand.livejournal.com]

When I mention the damage the inept binding had done to my work, he seems genuinely distressed. I can't tell if it's a matter of pride in his work, a horror at damage done to books, or both. If it's the latter, better that he never finds out what some of the rest of my 'work' consists of. Well. Not that I don't still have a love of the written word. I just recognize that it is better for all if some things from the old world slip quietly and permanently into oblivion.

One can love a thing, and still commit oneself to its destruction. Love even lends beauty to the act itself.

"Were you able to effect repairs? But yes; the tanner in town does rather sound work, and I will inspect anything I might use."

"I had to recopy a dozen of the maps and have it bound all over again, but ultimately there was no permanent loss." I had given serious consideration to having it bound with the hide of the man who had bungled it in the first place, but really, what do I know about proper tanning? It would have been the same problem all over again.

Not that the rest of the world would thank me for prolonging his miserable existence. It nags at me, to have tacitly rewarded incompetence. Perhaps someone else will excise him, where I failed. It is the way of things.

"What brings you to Excolo? Certainly you would not be the first individual I met again here, but I have not heard enough to say if there's anything of particular interest here."

"It's... complicated. I hadn't actually heard of this place until a few weeks ago." Finishing my tea gives me time to settle on an answer, and I set the cup down on the saucer. "I don't just make maps of the wilderness, I make records of human activity. Settlements, organizations, institutions. Technology. You might say I'm engaged in compiling the first real history since the bombs dropped."

It might be more accurate to say that I'm pruning humankind's passage through this new history, but I can't exactly say that. "I hadn't planned on staying long, but since I arrived I've had some unusual experiences and encounters. They suggest to me that there is a story here worth recording."

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

"I had to recopy a dozen of the maps and have it bound all over again, but ultimately there was no permanent loss," and that is a relief.

"It's... complicated. I hadn't actually heard of this place until a few weeks ago." I nod as he finishes his tea. "I don't just make maps of the wilderness, I make records of human activity. Settlements, organizations, institutions. Technology. You might say I'm engaged in compiling the first real history since the bombs dropped."

"Have you been to Bethlehem? The medical libraries there are--" I realize I am becoming effusive and catch myself-- "quite remarkable, both for scope and preservation." I understand that many of the advantages of the place are due to the construction that was there which predated the need to move underground, but the maintenance at least is impressive. Sadly not as well known as they could be, which I suppose can be attributed to the belowground establishment and the frankly unprepossessing landscape to be found above it. I would rather think it is that than that people are indifferent to the presence of such knowledge, or unwilling to make the effort to gain admittance. "Not that all of it is currently of use, but it does give people something to aim for. Although I suppose that there might be a greater need for compiling history in places that are not quite so established."

"I hadn't planned on staying long, but since I arrived I've had some unusual experiences and encounters. They suggest to me that there is a story here worth recording," and dear me, that sounds very nearly like the start of a seasonal ghost story. I must say I would not mind another unseasonal snow; the last was quite pleasant.

"I suppose you would have to investigate, as well as record," I say thoughtfully. "I do confess to some curiousity as to the nature of these encounters. There are certain local beliefs I have heard, you understand, and while I would not speak to their authenticity..." I trail off questioningly. "Would you care for some more tea?"

[samuel-durand.livejournal.com]

"Have you been to Bethlehem? The medical libraries there are quite remarkable, both for scope and preservation."

The enthusiasm in his voice catches me off guard, but I do my best to smile encouragingly. Apparently it's a subject on which he is quite impassioned. And though our opinions of the... meaning, of such a place might be diametrically opposed, I am all ears. Whatever I wind up paying for the work he does, it has been repaid a hundredfold already.

"Not that all of it is currently of use, but it does give people something to aim for.

Precisely the problem, of course. Instead of using their own faculties and powers to decide what they should aim for, they will substitute the ideas of a dead civilization. It isn't knowledge as such that concerns me, of course. I could care less whether they know about blood-borne pathogens, or the fetal development cycle. It is the philosophy implicit in forms and structures of knowledge with which I am concerned. Often, tragically, one cannot separate one from the other.

But I cannot speak of this, at least, not fully. Instead, I say "I've never been, but now that I know, I hope one day to go. It sounds like quite a sight."

"Although I suppose that there might be a greater need for compiling history in places that are not quite so established."

"It's more than that. They have an opportunity to make something new, to break completely with what came before. They might not be footnotes to some larger history. Somewhere out there might be the makings of a different history entirely." I've said more than I intend, so I trail off with an equivocal gesture.

He inquires after my strange encounters, and offers more tea. "No, but thank you. I don't allow myself too many comforts. Vows of the Order." In truth I've no desire to set him hobbling about again, much as I might like a moment to better gauge how much I should tell him. "I don't know precisely how to describe what I've experienced. Broken down and listed as mere phenomena they sound quite banal. But intuitively..." I shake my head.

"Both encounters were with people who were polite, genial, even warm." Warm scarcely covered young Alice's enthusiasm, but then, few words could adequately describe that contradictory child. A mystery I intend to unravel. "But at various points during the conversation, I caught glimpses of something, well, off about them. Eyes that hid an interior life scarcely human. Or speaking of things they should have no rightful way of knowing."

"I know it sounds strange. But if there is one thing I am not, it is being prone to flights of fancy. And in my travels I have learned to trust my instincts." I shrug. "What are these beliefs you mentioned?"

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

"It's more than that," and he sounds... well, I have heard a similar undertone to my own voice, before, and I suppose we cannot all be lovers of medicine, and history is no lesser a calling. "They have an opportunity to make something new, to break completely with what came before. They might not be footnotes to some larger history. Somewhere out there might be the makings of a different history entirely."

I murmur agreement, again. "I imagine," I say, "it must be difficult to study such things and not know which sort of community one is recording. Have you always been drawn to history?"

Turning to more local matters, his description of eyes does briefly lead me to wonder if either of them could have been Glass Beddau, but Durand did say warm, and I can't quite say that seems a reasonable description... On the other hand, being aware of things that one has no rightful way of knowing calls up a memory, and a twinge in my bones. "I can imagine meeting such people in town, certainly," I say. "I don't suppose one of them was a young girl?"

He apologizes for what sounds like fanciful descriptions, but at least he is standing by it. "And in my travels I have learned to trust my instincts. What are these beliefs you mentioned?"

"Oh," and I mull it over a moment, "what I suppose one would call local folklore. An unnaturally intelligent hound that cannot be killed roaming the outskirts of town, a being that can grant wishes if you visit the water tower--you may have seen it, it lies to the north of town? That sort of thing." Really no more nor less than one could find in a dozen towns within three days travel.

"And certain things occur which lack an evident explanation... Doctor Constantine began looking quite shockingly younger in early March, and there was a young man viciously attacked and left in his former fiancée's establishment the same week. A horribly unfortunate coincidence, I am sure, but it is the sort of thing that lends itself to gossip." Quite beautifully so.

[samuel-durand.livejournal.com]

"I imagine it must be difficult to study such things and not know which sort of community one is recording."

I consider this, nodding slowly. Knowing which sort is which is the largest part of who I am, ultimately. It's what makes me not simply a historian. I make judgments, and I intervene. It's easier in some places than others, of course. Both the judgment and the intervention. Sometimes it's a surgery. Sometimes a nudge, a shift of the rudder. Sometimes a culling.

"Have you always been drawn to history?"

I can't help but smile at that. "You might say I was raised to it. I was born in Styria, in Austria-that-was. After my parents died, I was raised by a monastic order in the shelter of a great library. They see their mission as being keepers of the past, and gateways to the future." I almost said saw. A stupid slip. "I was studying languages and history by four or five years old." I don't know which age it was, truth be told. My parents died when I was so young that I have only an approximate idea of my age.

After I've given him my rather generalized account of strange encounters I've had in town, he seems to respond to something in my words. He asks if one of them was a young girl, and I evaluate my response. I had not intended to reveal identities, particularly given that I expect to make good use of the girl in time. But he strikes me as discreet, and unlikely to step in the middle of my plans, so I say, "Yes. A vibrant girl, but prone to saying some rather unexpected things. And I'm quite sure she and I never crossed paths before."

He goes on to describe the town's 'folklore,' and I give him my full and direct attention. All the tales are committed to memory, my eyes blinking like the shutters of an antique camera. "Coincidence." I repeat quietly. "Gossip." There is much to unpack. "You've mentioned Doctor Constantine before. Perhaps I should speak with him myself. I find often the best way to investigate is to simply follow a thread until it unravels and I find three more. Invariably, in a community so small, mysteries overlap."

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

"You might say I was raised to it. I was born in Styria, in Austria-that-was. After my parents died, I was raised by a monastic order in the shelter of a great library. They see their mission as being keepers of the past, and gateways to the future. I was studying languages and history by four or five years old."

"An education to be envied," I say sincerely. "All too often, such matters are left until much later in life, and fall by the wayside entirely." I sigh and glance around the room at the shelves. Oh, I do understand that most people don't appreciate them, and I don't require company to enjoy a book, but I rather wish there was a little more interest in them in town. "I met one newcomer to town who didn't actually believe that any of my books were not Bibles, and expected a lady of her acquaintance to be whipped for reading. It was frankly--" well, it was disgusting, really-- "shocking."

We turn back to the matter of Esther. "I may have encountered her," I say, remembering that day at the Carnival. "She seemed friendly enough, although I found her to be... surprisingly candid." Which is probably the best way to summarize it, all things told. I shake my head a little, setting it aside. "Perhaps a little lonely, all told. I couldn't say."

I must say, Durand's focus on local beliefs is a touch unsettling, although certainly admirable. "Coincidence. Gossip."

"One would hope," I say softly, picking up my tea.

"You've mentioned Doctor Constantine before. Perhaps I should speak with him myself. I find often the best way to investigate is to simply follow a thread until it unravels and I find three more. Invariably, in a community so small, mysteries overlap."

"It is rather insular," I say, and hesitate a moment before going on. "The young man in question was... left in a very upsetting state. But I am sure that you have experience with asking people about delicate matters." It would suit me quite well to have Constantine's standing in Excolo shaken a little, but... well, the man is a physician, and he could not save his patient. It is a circumstance which I cannot help but feel for.

[samuel-durand.livejournal.com]

"An education to be envied."

He gives every indication of meaning it. And of course he's right, in many ways. I'm grateful for what I know. Grateful for the languages I speak, the skills I've acquired. But I came to see far too early that it was not charity, no matter how they meant it, nor a gift without cost. Knowledge was intended to remake me, to unmake me, to winnow my innate possibilities and set me on a particular path.

Oh how they worried, when I was young.

" "I met one newcomer to town who didn't actually believe that any of my books were not Bibles, and expected a lady of her acquaintance to be whipped for reading. It was frankly shocking."

"I can imagine," I say with distaste. "I trust she didn't linger long in town?" I would gladly have whipped them both. Not for reading, or for not reading. For surrendering the movements of their soul to the movements of another. No better than beasts. Saddled and mounted by words. Dried bones and phantoms.

My head hurts. I must be unused to tea.

"The young man in question was... left in a very upsetting state. But I am sure that you have experience with asking people about delicate matters."

"That's probably fair." I rub my temple for a moment, then force my hand to stillness. "I've seen far too much to be easily shocked, but some still secretly like to try," I say wryly. "Others are more tight-lipped, but they tend to open up when they realize that my interest is in the big picture, not in judging them for whatever tawdriness they engage in. Trifles."

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

"I trust she didn't linger long in town?"

"Actually she's quite settled in," I say, which is something of a relief, especially as I can add "and she seems to be getting over such peculiar ideas. Glass--" I catch myself-- "your pardon, the town mortician--even gave her a gift of a book." I sigh a little and set my tea back down. "I do wish that there were not places still promoting such ideas, but I suppose there will always be those who presume to deny knowledge to others."

"I've seen far too much to be easily shocked, but some still secretly like to try," Durand adds, rubbing his head. "Others are more tight-lipped, but they tend to open up when they realize that my interest is in the big picture, not in judging them for whatever tawdriness they engage in. Trifles."

"Well," I say, "there is something to the truism that confession is good for the soul; at the very least, people do like talk about themselves. I imagine that is a great help in your work." I wonder if as many people open up to him as he thinks. I myself would not, but then I have grown quite bitterly used to people not appreciating my work, and there is hardly any benefit to be had from explaining it again. People are so tiresome sometimes... "There was an alienist in town for a time, but I believe he has moved on. Are you sure you wouldn't care for more tea?" I always find it helps with a headache, myself.

[samuel-durand.livejournal.com]

"Actually she's quite settled in, and she seems to be getting over such peculiar ideas. Glass--your pardon, the town mortician--even gave her a gift of a book."

"Oh? You have a most welcoming and inclusive community indeed. I must wonder, is it a result of your settlement's rather unusual success? Or was it the cause?" I muse silently for a moment, ignoring the throbbing in my head. "There are certainly many benefits to heterogeneity, but... one might wonder if such a policy is always wise. Many seeds grow in fertile and untended ground, and not all of them are benign."

"I do wish that there were not places still promoting such ideas, but I suppose there will always be those who presume to deny knowledge to others."

Now that would smart, if my life wasn't already one continuous succession of lies. And truths that might as well be lies. "Oh yes." I shake my head. "I've known the sort."

Something nags at me from what he said before, and I sift back through it to pick out the name. Glass. It's an unusual name, one I've only encountered once before. Could it be the same person? How far am I willing to stretch the bounds of coincidence? "Your mortician, this... Glass." I furrow my brow, sorting through all I can remember of the person I shared the road with for a time. "A woman? With an extensive folk knowledge of herbs?"

"Well, there is something to the truism that confession is good for the soul; at the very least, people do like talk about themselves. I imagine that is a great help in your work."

"Wherever any group of people comes together, there is an economy of confidences. Investment. Transaction. Exchange. Depreciation. Dividends." I close my eyes for the briefest of moments, to relieve the pressure behind them. "Maybe even as a species, we aren't so much defined by having secrets as by the need to tell them. Some--even most-- people want to stand revealed, sometime." Often not to me, but to someone I can reach.

Even I'm not immune to this urge. Without someone else to see you, sometimes you feel like you're nothing but smoke. A play of light across a reflective surface. Of course, it isn't as though I can have people who know my secrets just out roaming free. You have to take steps.

"The ones that don't, well..." I make a dismissive gesture with one hand. "They often have a way, unconscious or not, of alerting me to the very people they'd rather I didn't speak to. A perversity of human nature. Everyone has someone's secrets to barter."

I've left the hapless monk persona in bed, it would seem. It's all right. I expect he would have bored Mr. Sagert to tears. He's no small study himself.

I give a friendly smile. "In the end, though, it boils down to this: for the purposes of my work, I'm not interested in 'who' people are, only in 'what' they are. What they represent in the greater order of things. I'm discreet, I don't share what I've learned, and I'm never around long enough to threaten anybody's reputation."

Technically true, though hardly the whole picture. Occasionally reputations are the least of their worries.

"There was an alienist in town for a time, but I believe he has moved on. Are you sure you wouldn't care for more tea?"

"You've gone to more than enough trouble." The timing makes me wonder if he's recognized that I'm in pain. I would be irritated at showing weakness of any sort, but I keep my tone casual. "I don't drink tea very often, and sometimes it affects me adversely."

"Anyway. An alienist? Very quaint." The psychiatric profession is not one I'm particularly friendly toward. If ever there was a field where knowledge was inextricable from the modes of being that produced it. "If he hadn't moved on, no doubt I could have learned something. Though mostly the wrong sort of thing. Not exactly a big-picture profession."

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

"Oh? You have a most welcoming and inclusive community indeed," and-- really, I hadn't thought of it as my community. I don't suppose I have much of a reason to stay--beyond Morningstar, of course. Perhaps I should--well, I certainly shan't pester the man. Nonetheless, a polite gift might open up the way to asking if there was anything in particular he wanted done. I should think on it. "I must wonder, is it a result of your settlement's rather unusual success? Or was it the cause?"

"I couldn't in all fairness speak to that," I say thoughtfully. "I suspect there are mercantile considerations as well; I understand the town has grown quite well since the weekly market was instituted. The one feeds into the other, perhaps." Of course, there has always been some disdain for the carnival, but I would not count that as uninclusive. Simply a distinction of propriety.

"Your mortician, this... Glass." He frowns a little. "A woman? With an extensive folk knowledge of herbs?"

"Ah." I am rather blinking. "That could be her, yes. Tall for a woman, quite dark with black eyes?" I always rather suspected some form of aniridia, although that wouldn't address all the characteristics... In any case. "Glass Beddau. I understand she's been here three years now." Really, that would make him the third person she's known from her travels to have come to Excolo. Peculiar, but I have certainly seen stranger things.

"Wherever any group of people comes together, there is an economy of confidences. Investment. Transaction. Exchange. Depreciation. Dividends." He closes his eyes, and I imagine he is seeing... perhaps an interwoven network, the growth and change of history. "Maybe even as a species, we aren't so much defined by having secrets as by the need to tell them..." Durand grows positively eloquent for a moment, and I think of Constantine, and what I have said of him.

Everyone has someone's secrets to barter."

"Do you find," I say thoughtfully, "that moving so quickly through communities limits your position for such barter?"

"In the end, though, it boils down to this: for the purposes of my work, I'm not interested in 'who' people are, only in 'what' they are. What they represent in the greater order of things. I'm discreet, I don't share what I've learned, and I'm never around long enough to threaten anybody's reputation."

Reputations, I suspect, might be more delicate than a man who is used to moving on truly understands, but I simply nod. Durand politely declines the offer of tea, and I murmur an of course as he continues. "An alienist? Very quaint. If he hadn't moved on, no doubt I could have learned something. Though mostly the wrong sort of thing. Not exactly a big-picture profession."

"It always rather struck me as wool-gathering done in tandem," I say. Empty pontification, people who can't command interest buying it instead... I shake my head. "I mention it more a comment on people's desire to speak of themselves, really." I brush the matter away.

"In all honesty, I would not want to begin today," I say, gesturing towards his maps. "I have most of what is required, but I would want to gather everything necessary first--" I think linen will be in order, an anchor in the place of signatures-- "and plan out the work. I'd be quite happy to hold them, of course, but given the work involved in their creation I of course understand if you would rather they be out of your possession as little as possible."

[samuel-durand.livejournal.com]

"That could be her, yes. Tall for a woman, quite dark with black eyes? Glass Beddau. I understand she's been here three years now."

"That sounds about right." It could be that I'm mistaken, that the disconnected images of that tall woman streaked with road dust were not spurred by his words, but planted by them. Memory is a tricky thing. It's why I write everything down. "How fortuitous, to see so many familiar faces in a place like this. Perhaps the charms of Excolo naturally draw travelers of a certain stripe into its orbit."

In truth, I'm not all that pleased. I need to consult my notebooks and see what I wrote down about her. I don't think there was any bad blood between us, but that's not my primary concern: my concern is whether my different cover personas are about to collide in a spectacularly ugly fashion. This may require delicate handling.

"Do you find that moving so quickly through communities limits your position for such barter?"

"Oh yes." It's the simplest answer, though the truth is slightly more complicated. "I could never completely overcome outsider status in just a few days or weeks. Quite often I have to operate through local intermediaries." And they come in all shapes and sizes. "A community is a broad and interconnected web. With as many points of access as there are members." Or even trusted non-members, for that matter.

He then turns back to business, and I lean forward attentively. When he comes to the subject of whether I should keep them until he is ready to begin the work, I consider for a moment. It's true that I dislike leaving them with others, but ultimately I settle on the gesture of trust. The horror with which he reacted to the tale of the inept binding told me enough. "Keep them. A man who takes himself and his profession seriously can be trusted to keep them safe. I can be reached at the Whitechapel, if we do not see each other again until you are done. And I understand, better than most, that quality work takes time."

I do not mention payment. Men of a certain sort often find such talk gauche and beneath them, as though their concerns were purely mercantile. It is unspoken: he may name his compensation, and I will make it.

I rise, and offer my hand. "It's been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Sagert. Many thanks for the tea, and for a most enlightening conversation."