Samh
10.29.1342 15:00
It was a cold, bright morning when a tall, finely
developed young man moved industriously from one shop to another. Geodor wore a
plain black suit that matched his straight, glossy black hair, which had been pulled
into a neat ponytail and secured with a leather band. His clothing was tidy but
far from expensive. His accent made it known he was a foreigner—perhaps a
Swienzean. He walked with an expression of fresh hope and unshaken courage,
using a list on a slip of paper to guide him.
Geodor had already investigated three other
brokerage houses on his list and found nothing suspicious. This next one would
be a real test of his skills in disguising himself. He was shown into the central
room of the office and told to wait until Lieutenant Gillfillian had the leisure
to attend to him. A peculiar but almost imperceptible smile played about his
mouth, causing his handlebar mustache to twitch. He brushed back a stray black
strand of hair from his noble brow, folded his arms across his ample chest, and
gazed through false, black-rimmed glasses with an air of genuine independence
upon the scene before him.
Lieutenant Gillfillian sat in a side office with a
glass wall that allowed him to observe all his workers and vice versa. He
occupied an immense, old-fashioned armchair. Before him was a table covered
with green baize, upon which were a multitude of papers, some tied in bundles
with red tape, others lying loose and half-open about him.
Shortly, he rose from his upholstered throne and
came out of the office. He engaged with two men in an animated discussion in
front of Geodor. The men both had sharp, lean visages, bent forms, overhanging
brows, and the small, flashing, brilliant eyes of those building up their own
fortunes. For these two, the habit of bargaining was so strong that it was a
part of their existence. Geodor listened and discovered that the lieutenant was
in the process of cutting their wages.
A fine beginning, he thought to
himself, as he closely scrutinized the rigid countenance of the man lopping off
ten thousand-notes from the well-earned but often unimpressive salaries of
those whose daily drudgery had placed the millionaire lieutenant upon his giddy
height.
Is there no justice on Samh? Geodor continued
to himself. How is it that the laborer exists upon a meager pittance, and he who
plans and bids on performing that labor rolls in wealth and luxury, teaching
his family to despise the humble instruments of that wealth?
Geodor looked around the room until his eyes
landed with sympathy upon the pale face and slight half-developed figure of a
young man who occupied a stool and desk in a distant corner. While he watched,
the man never rested from his weary task except to give utterance to a subdued
cough and place his hand for a moment upon his side. He had become a machine whose
purpose was to watch stocks and make quick sales or purchases. His spirits,
health, and life were oozing out with every click of a button. But all these
considerations for him were out of place in a brokerage.
Finally, the sharp eyes of Lieutenant Gillfillian
rested upon him.
“What is your business here? Come on, and be as brief
as possible about it!” he demanded.
“I seek employment as a broker or accountant,”
replied the Geodor. “My name is Mr. De Montfort.”
“Ah! That’s quite fortunate for you, Mr. Diatter,”
Lieutenant Gillfillian said, addressing the distant, sickly broker. “If this
applicant is worthy of the situation, you will be released to care for
yourself.”
Geodor saw that the young broker was deeply
agitated. He turned partly round in his chair, and a troubled, morbid flush
glowed upon his cheek. A large, pearly tear rested in the corner of one eye.
“It will be of no use now,” the broker replied. “I
would rather remain as long as I can.”
As he uttered these words, an expression of
suppressed internal anguish passed over his pale features, but he only pressed his
thin hand upon his side a little longer than usual and patiently waited.
“You grow miserly, Diatter. I must not allow it.
If in Mr. De Montfort we can find another broker as faithful as you have been,
I must discharge you. You really ought to do something for your health.”
There was no reply. The young man bowed as if he
knew the ineffectiveness of arguing. After momentarily closing his eyes with
his hand to hide his emotion, he proceeded with his work.
“So. You look trustworthy,” the lieutenant said after
a long and close scrutiny of Geodor’s countenance. He neither flinched nor cowed
beneath the lieutenant’s searching glance, but he knew this was the moment of
truth for his disguise. “What can you tell me about yourself, and where do you
reside? I’ll need your references, too. We never hire anyone without the best
of those.”
“I’m a comparative stranger in this city, having
been here but a few months,” replied the applicant in his deep, accented voice.
“I reside in a villa on Orton Street. As to references, I’ve only one from Viscount
Elwynalam.” He pulled a sealed envelope from a small, black engraved-leather wallet.
“From Viscount Elwynalam! Have you ever been
employed by him?” the lieutenant asked.
“He knew me in Swienzea, sir,” Geodor replied, avoiding the question. Even in
disguise, he did his best to stick with the truth. It was easier to keep
everything straight that way. “He considers me worthy of the position I desire.”
After they discussed the terms, they agreed that
Lieutenant Gillfillian would hire Geodor on a trial basis for a few days. The
lieutenant sent him to Mr. Diatter ostensibly to learn the duties of his
office.
After a few necessary instructions from Diatter, Geodor
said, “I understand entirely. Now, tell me when and where I may hold a private
conversation with you as soon as possible?”
“I will be off the clock in ten minutes,” replied
the broker, looking at a large silver watch that was a relic of antiquity. “If
you choose to wait, here are a few more papers you may amuse yourself with. I
must not stop my work any longer.”
Geodor took the papers and helped himself to a
chair since no one had offered him one. Instead of reading the work before him,
he watched each motion of the sickly man with a constantly increasing interest,
wondering why the sick man was against being dismissed.
Once Diatter finished his work, he each item in
the old desk: the heavy books with their coarse leather bindings, the messages,
the papers, the viewscreen. It seemed to Geodor that each had some memory of
joy or pain connected with it by the changing expressions on Mr. Diatter’s face.
He was parting with old friends, valued not so much for themselves as for the
remembrances connected with them. He must have been at that desk for decades. Mr.
Diatter sighed as he gazed upon them for the last time.
"Come,” Geodor said, breaking the former
employee’s reverie at last. “It’s time for you to go, and I have much to say to
you.”
The young man curiously stared at him for a moment,
unaccustomed to having anyone speak to him so kindly.
“Diatter,” the lieutenant called from his office, “come
for your salary before you go. It isn’t the regular payday, but I’ll make an
exception for you. You’ve been a faithful brokerage clerk.”
After counting a roll of bills twice, the
lieutenant handed them to him.
“Count them, and see if all is right,” he said
sternly as Diatter was putting them in his pocket.
The broker shakily laid one bill after another on
the table. While he did this, the lieutenant repeatedly opened and shut his wallet
as if tempted to add a gift to the salary. Geodor noted that the old employer’s
lips moved nervously in the struggle between benevolence and avarice, but at
last, he shut his wallet firmly and put it away.
“Nonsense. I have paid his due,” the lieutenant
said under his breath before turning to Diatter. “Take care of yourself and
your money, too, young man. It may be a long time before you earn so much again.”
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