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Derossi Vargo was the best dressed man in Nadezra, and he intended to keep it that way. Where he got his clothes and who made them was a much sought after secret, one that he had yet to divulge.
It was harder now that he was so busy. He had to carve out time to scour his warehouses full of newly imported goods for the best materials and set aside things for himself, to assess the newest styles coming down on boats from Seteris, to figure out what his own twist on them would be.
It had been easier before.
He had a few select yards of silk and velvet cut, wrapped, and sent off while he browsed through an assortment of trims and accessories. Embroidered panels from Ganllech were starting to come in, he had them put aside to be released later after he had worn them. Most clothing had self-fabric buttons, but a few sets of dorset buttons had come in that he rather liked the look of. He had a handful of carefully carved and painted buttons put aside already for something he was planning, so those would have to wait.
Then he had other business to attend to. The complicated, tedious, but necessary work of smoothing over fights between the knots and working with the new Setterat.
Finally, he was free of it.
He laid his fabrics out over the drafting table and got to work. He debated over a few frock patterns, an older style of coat was becoming more popular, adding fullness and drama to his movements. He would combine that with a collar shape he was fond of, and maybe the shimmering prismatium buttons he had fashioned.
He’d been useless at it at first. Alsius would perch on his shoulder and chatter at him as he pinned and cut and stabbed himself while taking apart a second or third hand coat. It was difficult, even with Alsius explaining. Once he sewed through his finger. Many times he threatened Alsius with shears when he made him redo a seam again and again until it lay smooth. But it paid off over time. Dressing like a cuff allowed him into more places, and he could get higher paying work. Afford something almost decent over his head.
He breathed out slowly, rolling a button around in his palm, watching the light move over it. It was quiet, all by himself. Alsius had been able to help mark things in chalk, or bring him pins. He kept him company over long hours of sewing, lecturing him about numinatria while his hands were busy.
It was difficult now, to find time for all of this. He had begun to buy clothing and simply tailor it to fit him best. But the cutting and stitching was meditative, and he had something especially flashy in mind.
Shot silk, shimmering in blue or fuchsia depending on how you looked at it, for the frock coat and his breeches. A simpler dark waistcoat that oozed luxury in it’s quiet fineness, in the decorative worked buttonholes and the way it fit him perfectly. Finely woven Ganllechan linen for his shirt, with a narrow trim of knotted lace at the wrists and throat. He planned on bringing a heeled shoe back into style, if only because he liked the way his legs looked in them.
It had felt a little ridiculous at first, dressing like a peacock, but it changed the way that people looked at you. He had grown to like it, Alsius becoming smug as the things he told Vargo did indeed become true.
It took time, putting together everything with patient hands, in the free hours he could steal for himself. The last thing he always did, or he had anyway since Alsius had gone into the Lumen, was mark out the legs and body of a spider on the inside of his coat, over his heart, using careful stitches that wouldn’t show through on the other side. This part wasn’t meant to be seen by anyone else, just a private comfort he allowed himself.
Maybe he could teach Arkady what he had learned. The girl certainly had plenty of her own ideas of what she liked, even if it tended to be even gaudier than Vargo himself preferred. Would she have the patience for it?
Perhaps that would come in time. He had resented it at first, the way his hands ached, his needle roughened fingers. It wasn’t for the faint of heart. But it had grown into something he loved, something he took pride in. Even after he could afford any tailor or seamstress of his choice, he liked doing it himself, keeping people wondering and asking where his clothes came from, so he could smile infuriatingly at them and give them the vaguest of answers.
He gathered up his things and laid them away for the night. Alsius was gone, though he’d left his mark on Vargo in more ways than one. This was one of many threads that stretched between them, tying them together even across a distance as great as this one was. They were woven into the same cloth, embroidered on a kosenjy or inked on a register.
Vargo was the best dressed man in Nadezra, and well, he had learned from the best.