The Doktor's Spyglass

Chapter 4.2

He woke the next morning in his bed, half-clothed, twisted in clinging sheets damp with sweat. He dimly remembered coming down from the roof and pouring another drink, then sitting at his desk and opening a file folder. Running his hands through his hair, which was brushing his shoulders and in need of a wash, Thijis was contemplating making coffee with equal parts enthusiasm and trepidation when he heard a knock on the door.

The sound came again just as he got to the door, three sharp raps. He heard a man clear his throat politely behind the door.

He must have presented quite the picture, opening the door as he did: he was shirtless, barefoot, his trousers wrinkled near the hem from where he'd stuffed them into his boots in Helg's cellar, and he was fairly sure he smelled of booze and rot. The pinch-nosed man who stood before him wore formal morning dress, and Thijis was fairly sure he'd be able to see his reflection in his gleaming, perfectly parted hair. Not that he wanted to at the moment.

"Yes?"

The man was obviously a lord's servant of some sort. His clothing was fine but subdued, the deep grey of the suit at sharp odds with the bright, fussy attire currently in vogue among the nobility. Too young to be a head butler, but a senior underbutler, perhaps...yes, more likely. What any lord wanted with Irik Thijis, Irik Thijis could not, at that moment, begin to imagine.

"Good morning, sir," said the slicked-up poof, producing an expensive looking envelope from inside his coat. "From the Margravine Hevrany. Good day, sir." He took it. The man gave him a slight bow, clicked his boot heels, and without another word promptly returned down the hallway, where Thijis heard him descending the staircase at a pace that seemed to perfectly encapsulate the ideal of respectable, business-like promptness.

He slammed the door shut, slapped the letter down on his kitchen table, and went about the much more important business of arranging himself a cup of decent coffee.

Some time later, having fed himself on the steam from his siphon before even taking the first sip, Thijis sat down at his modest kitchen table to examine his first noble communication.

It was impressively heavy, a creamy square, his name written in perfect copperplate on the front, the pointed edge of the back flap left rough. Only one or two stationers in the city made paper so fine. At its point a seal was affixed in black wax: a stylized H in the old Elimannen script. Henravy. A very old house, if he remembered his history, though one fallen on hard times. Ancestral lands in the south, long absorbed by the tribal satraps who controlled Westalen south of the Great Wash. Tradition and a large amount of inherited wealth, invested conservatively, kept them afloat, while a sizable vote in the Derukammer—the old house of lords—and the still impressive title of margrave, or margravine in this case, kept them relevant politically. But in Oridos, old money was only relevant as long as it was in the room. Which wasn't very often, in a city increasingly driven by the needs and whims of a growing industrial elite.

He broke the seal and removed the folded parchment within.

Mr. Thijis:

I would be honored if you would join me for dinner this evening.

My coachman will be pleased to collect you at your residence at seven o'clock.

Yours,

Lady Mariel Hevrany