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“Mayor? You're next in a chain of Pass the Cat.”
The Jovial Contrarian wheels up to a table that's covered in seven wriggling parcels. He and the aide exchange a bemused look.
“Uh, several anonymous chains," the aide amends.
“How coincidental. Someone must expect me to engage with the Duchess,” muses the Contrarian. “Well, take them outside - ”
One of the packages rustles like a fiery bush caught in a merciless gale. Its meow sounds like a rusty nail being forcibly driven through a chalkboard and impaling another rusty nail at the other end. Spurred by the noise, the other packages follow suit. Gnarled claws slash through final layers of paper.
The doorbell rings.
Oh, b_gg_r.
Ex-Mayor Feducci has claimed the desolate area formerly known as Blythenhale Manor. Once the proudest building in Spite, the old mayoral residence is now a brutal training ground, perpetual construction zone, and outdoor office. A single shoddily reupholstered chair has been left at the centre of what used to be a drawing room. Feducci perches there, restless, even as he watches a group of Black Ribboners sparring.
He doesn't stand to receive his guest, though he nearly topples out of his seat in surprise.
“Hello, Feducci.” The Jovial Contrarian's smile is as brittle as Feducci's expression is inscrutable. “How is the Captivating Princess?”
“She's...well.” Ambiguity hangs in the air until Feducci bolts upright; he grips the armrests of his chair, subconsciously countering the Contrarian's casual position. “What brings you here, Mayor? Has Hallowmas stirred your nostalgia?”
“I doubt it. Unless you're determined to prove otherwise. Or care to share anything else about Arbor.” A pause yawns between them, darker and lengthier than a morning shadow on the Surface. “But enough of that! It's my understanding that you've stockpiled replicas of your lance since last year, yet you don't use them with the Black Ribbon.”
“All perfectly legal,” says Feducci. “I do not plan a coup, if that's what you're worried about. Or are woefully unprepared.”
“Legality was never in question, my friend. I'm only interested in acquiring a few lances within the next week. I'll pay in Echoes upon delivery.” The Contrarian glances around the manor's ruins, which have somehow continued smoking since early July. “Though I know that compensation may be a foreign concept to you.”
“Well, ordinarily, I wouldn't consider selling, but anything for our illustrious leader. I believe that would be...” Feducci grabs a pen and a notepad off a nearby pile of rubble and randomly scribbles onto it. “800 Echoes per lance, not including handling fees, taxes, and licensing.”
“Capital! I'll take...” The Contrarian scrunches his forehead in exaggerated contemplation. “A hundred lances.”
“Certainly! Although,” Feducci says, an edge to his voice, “I had thought you would find it frivolous to spend your wealth on large quantities of an item you cannot even use.”
“I won't spend my wealth, exactly.”
Feducci steeples his fingers, his grin evident despite the bandages. “Interesting. You intend to pay from your mayoral fund, then?”
“Actually, I've been earning a lot of cash, separate from my political activities or personal ventures. We're holding something like a fire sale.” The Contrarian tilts his head. “As one does, when one unexpectedly receives seven thousand angry cats.”
If abstract concepts could be solidified, the subsequent silence would be thick enough to penetrate with a replica lance.
“And sells them to Londoners for 12.80 Echoes each,” the Contrarian adds.
“Ah.”
“I prepared a devastating pun about me and cats and excess, but I'll spare you.”
“Ah.”
Coughing, Feducci kicks aside a large bundle of wrapping paper at his feet. He motions for an assistant and hands them his notepad, oblivious to their utter confusion.
“I expected there would be interest,” says the Contrarian, “but I hadn't anticipated how many people would purchase cats in bulk. I don't recognise the breed, either. A foreign variant? Yet they don't seem exotic. Mutton Island, perhaps?”
“I wouldn't know,” says Feducci, through gritted teeth. “I've...never...been...to Mutton Island.”
“Oh, that's right! It's just that Sinning Jenny and I visited during our terms. I forget that it's not a standard mayoral duty.”
Feducci glowers as best as he can. Then he beckons for more bedraggled assistants and hastily gives orders in a low hiss. They depart whispering among themselves - there are many things to discuss, such as the logistics of transporting the lances to a Ladybones townhouse, or why Feducci is fidgeting more than usual while the Contrarian smiles, eerily calm.
“Do drop by sometime,” he tells Feducci. “I love hearing from my constituents. You are, after all, my constituent now. My door is always open, and the chair is always vacant.” He pats his armrests with a little laugh. “Not this chair, of course, but the empty chair symbolising your presence at the past two Fruits of the Zee Festivals, although if you have your heart set on this chair, I suppose you could sit on my lap - ”
Feducci reflects for a fraction of a second then wearily says, “Please leave.”
“Is that all? You aren't going to scrawl me a certificate of enmity?”
“I will deliver three hundred lances to your face or somewhere more uncomfortable.”
“I take back what I said about compensation. You clearly understand it much better than I do.”
“Out,” says Feducci.
“This isn't a building anymore!” the Contrarian calls over his shoulder as he wheels away.
“Out!”
“Give my regards to the Princess!”
Once the Contrarian is no longer in sight, Feducci sinks into his seat, a hand to his forehead. He barely rouses when his assistants march past, huffing under the weight of the first batch of lances. They should be grateful. At least there aren't any doors for them to contend with.