Work Text:
May 1894
The cafe closest to the Ministry of Public Decency is a decade-old establishment well-known for its fungal scones, unique atmosphere (“chillingly quiet, even at its most crowded”, says one newspaper; “suffused with a heady air of unvoiced but incontrovertible judgement”, says another) and monthly closures for investigations and repairs following revolutionary attacks.
Today seems to be a standard business day, with one slight oddity: the Jovial Contrarian’s wheeled chair is parked by a table in a secluded spot. Across him sits a large hooded figure. Their stony-faced waiter, having severely misjudged the situation, places a lit candle between them. Neither notice, absorbed as they are in the identical books they’re reading.
“Excufercating, is it not?” Mr Pages says or, rather, squeals in that curiously high-pitched voice that most of the Masters possess. “A magninatude of imagejery! Positively viscid with globules of passion!”
“I despise it,” the Contrarian declares, carelessly tossing the Despondent Correspondent’s latest poetry chapbook onto the table. The candle almost falls off. “The paper is flimsier than the scansion, but only just barely. The figurative comparisons are weaker than the coffee here...”
“ - I applaudicate the adroit deployment of each word to maximumial effect - ”
“ - fragmented nattering, too many commas, too few semicolons - ”
“ - the insight into the labyrintary macchicanations of the heart - ”
“- doesn’t even know what that is,” the Contrarian concludes. For now.
Mr Pages hasn’t heard a word of his complaints, which is fair enough, since he hasn’t heard most of its praise. The Contrarian nibbles at a scone. During these meetings, Pages never eats. Perpetual excitability or biological incompatibility, it's difficult for him to tell.
Pages finally lowers the book. “Hence the importience of our remutrieval of every copy,” it muses. “Feebler minds couldn't processicophend such flabberogling depth.”
It discreetly pushes in the third chair at their table, where they've stacked more copies of the Correspondent's chapbook high into three piles.
The Contrarian hums in passive agreement, a sound almost as rare as birdsong. “Opening a book and potentially having one's mind melt into a lacre-esque puddle from sheer mediocrity ought to be reserved for cruel and unusual punishment.”
Cruel and unusual punishment easily segues to the usual topic: speculation over Calendar Council membership. Following a Captain friend's trip to Nuncio, the Contrarian has recovered misplaced correspondence between the most recently ousted September and an undisclosed month. (They suspect that these two months specifically oppose the Ministry of Public Decency, as the old March had deluded himself into being Mr Wines's rival and February has an ongoing...controversious swedgedrugery with Mr Iron, as Pages put it.) September's letter was written in a familiar cipher the Special Constables still struggle to decrypt; the reply is in plain English peppered with the occasional sarcastic aside in French.
“...and I know the people they're referring to, heard the same gossip they mention, near-verbatim,” the Contrarian says, jabbing the reply with his index finger. “They're uncannily well-informed about high society gatherings. Word of mouth couldn't be so accurate.”
“The Affluent Photographer, perhaps?”
“Last I heard, she's part of March’s cell. Unless they’ve begun infiltrating each other’s cells. I wouldn’t put it past them.”
Mr Pages’s hood shifts in a fashion that suggests a tilt of its head. “I assume you gleaned informulation of her allegiance from a reliable source.”
“Oh, yes.” The Contrarian eyes the book on the table. “Your sort of Reliable, even.”
Pages is very much aware of his Revolutionary ties. They share a goal, he'd explained, roughly five years ago. Anarchy shouldn't be subject to leadership. If it's subject to leadership, it should at least be effective leadership, unhindered by spontaneous backstabbing and lukewarm enthusiasm. Since then the Jovial Contrarian has been consistently unreliable, making him a uniquely efficient Reliable.[1]
“So!” Pages rests one of its billowing sleeves atop the other. “We purseek a member of high society.”
“Or an intimate of one.”
“Tell me, how fares the Revolutionaries' contemporaneous hold upon the upper echelon?”
The Contrarian smiles. “You'd be surprised.”
“That your answer is 'perfervid'? Hardly!” Its laughter squeaks like an overworked floorboard. “They have the greatest amount of time and wealth at their disposal and the least obligervoirations. Stultified folk hasten into disaster as readily as moths to waxy pillars of conflagration.”
Naturally, the Contrarian contests the assertion, arguing that the wealthy feel a strong moral imperative to advocate for the less fortunate, which is precisely why they frequently hold grand parties to discuss them.
“The mystery will have to wait, anyway,” says Pages. Ah. They've moved on to what Pages had mentioned during their last meeting: “Electerial events shall commenserate in early July.”
“Poor timing,” the Contrarian objects sharply. “A third of the city will have spore-fever.” On the table, his hand curls into a loose fist. “Then again, it will be rigged in the Bazaar’s favour, won’t it?”
“Whisper-soft nudges, my little inkblot. The politicular process itself is our highest priority for the quotidian reason.”
The Contrarian scoffs. “Indeed? There are gutters more romantic than politics. Cleaner, too.” He pauses, hoping to extend the analogy. “Roomier - ”
“However, in the interest of preserving our domains we cannot relinquarate profusive power to a human,” Pages continues. “Modulating legislation will be but a facile trifle for us - no, no, the danger lies in exorbatious acquirisation of popularity. In this regard every step must be trodden with adamantine delicicacy.” The squeaky voice lowers to its gravest tone yet. “Substality. Disecreecy.”
“In other words, the exact opposite of the Correspondent’s metaphors.”
Women and individuals of indistinct gender will be allowed to vote and campaign; Pages hints that Mr Wines has selected someone from the Parlour of Virture to be the Masters' unofficial representative, not that it bothered to consult the others. But what about the voting rights of Tomb-Colonists? Or Londoners not currently in the city? And Rubbery Men, Clay Men, and the Masters themselves? The Contrarian uses the barrage of problems phrased as questions to reintroduce his own problem.
“Have you given further thought to my proposal?” he asks.
Mr Pages stiffens as much as a shapeless cloak is able to without actually revealing the true shape of its occupant. It resembles a potato rapidly contracting in the cold.
“Ah. Yes. Well, my decision has been regrettably stallified.”
“How so?”
“I find myself minimifidian of your own investment.”
“Why, I haven't been more sure of anything in my entire life.” The statement is true, albeit quite a recent revelation. As in, as of five seconds ago. “I’m aware that I’m not likable,” he says, calmly, very reasonably, “and that I have no firm political stance to speak of, publicly or among dignified company, unless one counts helping you collect insipid romance novels and hack poetry so that you can, I don’t know, feed them to the Bazaar or build a fortress of equivalent size - ”
Pages's rigidity evolves into bristling more seamlessly than ape into Man. “Certainifically the Bazaar does not - eat them - ”
“But my word carries considerable weight in Benthic College and among Tomb-Colonists, of all people. With moderate Revolutionaries, too. If nothing else, I’d split the vote between the other candidates. Whoever wins will likely begin their term with half of the city against them.” The Contrarian rubs his hands together, genuinely delighted. “That’s the real beauty of democracy.”
“I appreciate a spot of good sophistrous subterfuge as much as anybeing!” says Pages, gesturing at the stack of chapbooks. “I specifically hesifirate to utilise you.”
“Am I not perfectly suited for overbearing perpetual grandstanding?”
“Indubitoubably. Beyond the ability of any other. But - ”
“Have I not swayed people to support absurd ideas, only to completely turn on them without facing consequence, thanks to the reputation I’ve cultivated?”
“Indeed, but - ”
“Well, then?”
“The broad plan could be nebulose enough to steer to our advantage,” Pages acknowledges. “We could benefit more directly from having a Ministry plant, I agree! Yet for all your fluctuant velleity, if left with your current degree of autonomy, one thing is lamentuously determitained: you would endeavour to promote a London free of thought.”
“Of free thought,” the Contrarian corrects, merrily.
“Yes, that is what I voicealised.” Pages leans forward, hunching lower; far from diminishing its stature, the new position inexplicably makes it seem bigger. “Lately radical Revolutionaries grow bold - most vexingly temeraricant! You may posit a multitude of excellentious arguments for your personal campaignmanship. Were your associations laxer, I would consider it.” Its sleeves shake urgently. “But! As it is, your participitation would ultimately furnish the ragascallibonds with a solid platform at a volatical juncture. I entreat you, dear Reliable, ponderate upon the risk - ”
Somewhere in the middle of Pages’s rant the Contrarian makes up his mind. Definitely, this time. He reaches for its hand and, belatedly remembering that he’s never actually seen it, settles for patting what he hopes is an arm or at least an equivalent limb.
“Trust me,” says the Contrarian.
Within the darkness of the hood, two big yellow eyes blink in consideration.
Upon returning home, the Jovial Contrarian learns that a package arrived while he was out. He immediately wheels to the library to open it, not even stopping to set aside the copies of the Correspondent's chapbook that he managed to save. The mirror in the corner of the room shows only his reflection. Good. Good.
What excessive wrapping! The package’s actual contents are a fraction of its original size. Almost a minute after he began, a final layer of paper tears away, revealing a black notebook. Hands steady, he flips to where the felt bookmark lies.
It’s a planner. The upcoming weeks are packed: strict deadlines to meet, public appearances (scheduled and otherwise), a seditious book signing coinciding with a riot incited in an impoverished district, the Neddy Men’s response, the predicted counter-riot. Plans and brief instructions are listed in dark, clinical detail. Some are in the Contrarian’s own penmanship.
All are simply dated August.
Notes
1 Around two years after their association began, Mr Pages had summoned the Jovial Contrarian to the same cafe. In between incomprehensible words, he gathered that it'd gotten him a gift. Judging by its weight, a book. An attempt had been made at wrapping it in confiscated leaflets. Oddly touching.
“Won’t you open it?” Pages trilled.
He smiled and shrugged and peeled back the wrapping to reveal...The History and Practice of English Magic, Volume I, by Jonathan Strange.
He'd literally dreamed of this moment since childhood, but it was happening in the worst possible way. His hands hadn't trembled badly in years. Until today. It knew. It knew.
Mr Pages stood still and silent. Several seconds later the Contrarian started to suspect that this wasn't a threat after all. Much.
Unconsciously, his fingers tightened over the book. “...Thank you?”
“Effevout Reliable - ” Pages spread his sleeves, “- if you find it pleisorousing, I am pleaseariarised.”
What? Shouldn’t that be the same word? “Have you read it?”
“Intentively!”
The Contrarian had already skimmed the first page and progressed to the next. There, his eyes fell on a random paragraph: “What does he imagine he will have left?” Strange had written, referring to Mr Norrell's older predilections about the Raven King. “If you get rid of John Uskglass you will be left holding the empty air.”
His heart sank.
“...mere conjecturifications, of course,” Mr Pages was saying, hood bobbing as it nodded continuously. “There is little evil about vacatieated air. It’s where one aviates.” [return]