Serpents and Stairways

Chapter II - Part 4

Pasha led him through several doorways, took an elevator up somewhere, only to come down again, and soon they found themselves in the now-abandoned realm of linen—the laundry workers didn't have night shifts.

Georg tailed his morning stalker, chuckling at how the day had turned. Was he surprised? Not at all. He'd been a Chevalier of Fate long enough to get used to such coincidences. Sure, he was expecting someone older—by his looks, the boy should've been Tamara's pal, rather than Arman's trusted friend. But his connection to the morning events Georg accepted as a given.

"I stood through so much of your coffin-talk, that I'd made up an epitaph for you, good sir! Why did it take so long?" The boy grumbled, walking past the huge cast-iron boxes stuffed with dirty laundry, his morning courtesy gone without a trace.

"I'm sorry. In my excuse, I had to wait for a long time as well."

"Did you? Did you really? And can you guess where I was?"

"In search of food for a guest with allergies?"

"She doesn't have allergies!"

They walked past a rack with washing pads, which laundrymen used to whack the sheets as if those were guilty of something; past the clothes stirrers, forlorn in tin mortars; past the flasks of vinegar and alkali...

"And no, you guessed wrong! I was at the literature salon! At the poetry evening, where I hoped to see you as well! Would've been rather convenient, wouldn't it? Would've spared you this masquerade! Do you even know who's uniform you're wearing?"

"A concierge?"

"Precisely! And you did his job wrong!"

Pasha collapsed onto a bale of fabric, and lifted one of the floor tiles. Out of the discovered stash he pulled out a smoking pipe, a silver plate—like the ones used for shaving—and two vials: one with soap, the other, seemingly, with water. Mixing it all in dubious proportions, he dipped the pipe into the potion, and with delight released into the air a large soap bubble.

"Feeling better?" Georg asked. He thought of an old Pears soap advertisement poster, on which a pretty five-year-old lord with a scattering of curly golden hair was doing about the same. Instead of answering, the boy handed him the ceremonial peace pipe, and for a while they blew bubbles in silence. Pasha was the first to break it.

"You've managed to make friends. And an impression."

"I was just trying to be polite."

"Polite? Do you know what would've been polite? Accepting my invitation!"

"I don't write poems," answered Georg, deciding against pointing out that Pasha's friend intended to knife-stab him.

But the young man seemed to have thought the same thing. They remained quiet for a bit longer. Spheres arose and disappeared.

"In that case, what do you want?" Pasha finally asked, "I thought you came looking for me because of the way we met."

"Arman recommended you. Said that you rent out airships"

"An airship, to be precise. But yes—I do. I got it from my father; people are usually damn curious about that."

Sure thing. It sounded like an aftermath of a grim story—a story that Georg, faint-heartedly, didn't wish to know. Sons of airship owners didn't usually have to work shifts carrying heavy luggage while wearing a funny hat.

"I've already rented it out for an occasion once. So don't worry—it won't crash."

"A cruise ship?"

"Correct."