Chapter Text
The chair made a small sound when Pantalone sat down, though no more than the tired creak of old timber settling in the cold, far quieter than the click of his assistant’s pen, or the whisper of wool as six representatives of a particular Mercantile Exchange – the name of which the Regrator would much prefer to forget, if ever fortunate enough to do so – arranged themselves on the other side of the desk. A remarkable set of thorns in his side these past few months that he was rather eager to pull one by one.
Only the leader of the group, Kazimir, looked at the chair, his attention touching it only briefly before moving on – so fleetingly that it might have been courtesy to ensure one’s host was comfortably seated before taking the liberty oneself, yet long enough that Pantalone could easily take it as a gesture he was supposed to notice.
What a charming little performance of consideration.
Kazimir then lowered himself into the central visitor’s chair with all the grace and dignity of a man who believed the art of refinement was simply moving slowly enough. A performance from someone who was not used to being a step down from the highest podium. Nauseating, really.
“Lord Harbinger,” he finally said with a sickening grin that showed far too many teeth. “Thank you kindly for receiving us on such short notice.”
Pantalone smiled. “Think nothing of it. I would never deny such valued associates the opportunity to explain themselves.”
By his side, his personal assistant, Siniša, began to write. There were four hundred and twelve million reasons for this meeting, and none of them pleasant, counted in Mora and dispersed across nineteen loan agreements. On paper, the borrowers had nothing at all to do with each other. A timber consortium in the west, two freight companies operating from opposite coasts, a glassworks which had never purchased enough sand to account for its production, and between them all, several more ventures substantial enough to reassure a careless auditor and hollow enough that the same stock had been pledged as security three times without ever leaving its original warehouse.
Carelessness did not survive long at Northland Bank. And neither did internal malfeasance. Yet, regardless of which category this particular failing happened to fall under, every warning attached to those accounts had been closed under the same senior authorisation code, the name behind which was decidedly absent from every copy Pantalone had requested.
Kazimir had brought a restructuring agreement designed to turn said nineteen separate liabilities into one manageable inconvenience, sweet-talked just enough to pass for good sense – or at least drafted with the optimistic and thoroughly misplaced expectation that Pantalone might regard it as such. Truly, he didn’t know what was more offensive: the attempt to defraud his Bank, or the expectation that he would be fooled by it.
“Consolidation would spare the Bank the considerable trouble of pursuing nineteen defaults independently,” Kazimir went on to explain. Yes, of course, he was unfortunately required to listen to these people. Such a waste of air. To think he could have been standing before three full-length mirrors, the smoothest and finest imported silk slipping cool across his skin like water. But alas, that appointment had been postponed to accommodate this laughable excuse of a meeting: an hour, at least, of Kazimir dressing up fraud as though Pantalone were some street urchin expected to admire the gleam of a counterfeit coin.
And it was always the same old drivel. Same old excuses. Same old script. He supposed centuries of listening to excuse after excuse would eventually have run surprise dry. There were only so many financial fantasies that could be cobbled together, he was bound to discover the limit eventually.
“The nineteen obligations would be restructured under a single agreement, with one repayment schedule, one guarantor, and one consolidated pool of collateral.”
A reasonable proposal, had much of that pool not consisted of the same goods pledged repeatedly under different names. How gullible did they think he was? Truly, men of limited understanding were so often blessed with limitless confidence.
“How considerate of you to spare me the trouble of discovering which of you has pledged me property he does not own,” Pantalone finally said.
The youngest man in the delegation drew a sharp breath. Kazimir, however, didn't waste even a glance on him, merely retaining that sickeningly pleasant smile, one rarely belonging to the face of someone expecting a significant dressing down.
“I had hoped you would appreciate the efficiency.”
“‘Appreciate’ is a rather… generous word.” Pantalone opened the copy placed before him. “I admit to finding any well-executed crime exciting, but fraud directed at myself rather puts a damper on things.”
Kazimir’s smile did not falter. “Fraud is a rather grave accusation, Lord Harbinger. I’m sure even you can understand that pragmatism is hardly a crime.”
At Pantalone’s side, Siniša’s pen paused for the smallest of moments. He lowered his eyes to the page, though not quickly enough to conceal the small, treacherous curve at the corner of his mouth.
“If that is the stance you insist on taking, then by all means, convince me I’m wrong.”
Across the desk, Kazimir continued, progressing from liquidity to recovery schedules, and recovery schedules to the supposed virtues of avoiding a public scandal – as if Pantalone wouldn’t enjoy the theatre of one. One point after the next after the next, almost as if he was afraid pausing for breath would give his cronies time to interject. Of course, the words were smooth. Nobody could ascend to his level without learning how to sand his more abrasive meanings.
Still, Pantalone had no intention of interrupting him. The more the man was allowed to speak, the more confidence he’d gain that he was winning, and the more satisfying it would be to tear it away from him. His grating voice had settled into the rhythm of something memorised, each point delivered with precisely enough variation to preserve the illusion that he had not practised it before a mirror.
What a dreadful misuse of a mirror.
And a remarkable waste, as Pantalone had no intention to listen closely.
He glanced towards the window, white with frost, and sighed just a little, wondering to himself just how much he would have to give to attend that fitting after all.
A mild heat began to gather at the top of his right thigh. Perfect. This was just not his day. He deserved a reward after tolerating this, and there was nothing Dottore could do to convince him otherwise.
Still, he was sure it was just an awkwardly caught nerve, the consequence of too many hours at his desk. Irritating, but barely remarkable – though if it persisted, Dottore would no doubt seize upon it as grounds to lecture him about the merits of good posture and even better rest. That Doctor truly was a tyrant.
To think that too could have been escaped had he been standing for a fitting instead. Truly, this Kazimir’s impertinence knew no bounds.
The warmth pressing against his thigh sharpened briefly when he shifted to turn the page. But Pantalone steeled his expression. Whatever minor inconvenience his body had chosen to develop, it could wait.
He turned another page, and the movement dragged the fabric of his trousers across the heated patch at his thigh. The warmth had acquired an edge – perhaps the most interesting thing to happen during this meeting. He almost welcomed the novelty of it at first. It was not quite pain, just a concentrated sting pressed beneath the cloth, though his muscles still tightened instinctively around it, and it took a considerable amount of effort to release them.
Wonderful, apparently his body had elected to become as tedious as his guests. Was there no escape?
“The proposed guarantor possesses more than sufficient assets to satisfy the consolidated obligation.”
“How reassuring,” Pantalone said, his voice feeling a little lighter than he was used to. “Though I cannot help but notice your proposal provides a magnificent inventory of assets while remaining curiously reticent about the person claiming to own them. Not that I would suggest the omission was intentional, of course. I am sure the identity of whoever is controlling several hundred million Mora simply escaped you.”
Kazimir’s hands remained folded on the desk in front of him. “The guarantor’s identity is commercially sensitive.”
“Naturally. However, I’m sure you can appreciate the Bank is equally sensitive about four hundred and twelve million Mora.”
A faint movement passed through the delegation. The youngest lowered his attention to an unremarkable spot on the table, another adjusted his cuff and succeeded only in drawing Pantalone’s attention to the slightly shaking hand he attempted to conceal beneath the desk.
Kazimir, however, retained his composure. “The disclosure can be appended before execution. For now, we ask only for your… provisional approval.”
It was truly remarkable how this man could shift his own requirements into Pantalone’s obligations.
He smiled down at the document. “And you believe your requests are reasonable, all things considered?”
The pressure at his thigh sharpened, heat biting through the uppermost layer of sensation, fierce and startling enough that his right leg attempted to pull away before he even realised. He dug his heel into the carpet, and stilled himself.
A trapped nerve could certainly be spiteful, he’d had the misfortune of dealing with a decent amount over the centuries, but not like this. No, that theory was becoming increasingly difficult to defend. A fault in the chair’s lining, perhaps. A forgotten needle.
“It is not my intention to conceal anything from you,” Kazimir continued. “Naturally, the declarations will be supplied once the consolidation has received your authorisation.”
“No, I think not. The declarations will be supplied first, together with signatures acknowledging the common ownership of these companies, the repeated use of collateral, and your delegation’s knowledge of both.”
For the first time in the longest five minutes Pantalone could recall, something altered behind Kazimir’s smile. His eyes touched the mantel clock, then returned. What an odd moment to concern oneself with time. Kazimir had been allocated at least an hour of Pantalone’s morning, as offensive as that felt. There was no conceivable reason for him to become so distracted after mere minutes – this being a man that would happily spend half an hour debating whether or not the placement of a comma would change the meaning in a contract, regardless of how incorrect he always was.
Concerning, too, was how little objection Kazimir had made to the demand for signed declarations. A man expecting to leave this office with an agreement should have resisted far more fiercely. No, something was wrong here.
Something damp shifted against his skin. Cold air touched the wetness for less than a second before his weight pressed the layers together again, the relief so brief that it served only to define the returning, deeper heat, no longer resting upon his thigh, but needling steadily into it. The fabric felt unnaturally close, as if he could distinctly feel every single clinging thread. His pulse quickened, and a fine chill collected beneath his hairline, despite the roaring flames in the fireplace.
He kept his gaze upon the page, Kazimir’s words nothing more than an annoying buzz in his ear, as he reviewed the morning so far. He was sure he’d done everything right. His tea was brewed and prepared by himself, he had received the documents with gloved hands, nobody had approached his side of the desk save for his assistant – who, had he abruptly developed traitorous ambitions, would at least have chosen a far more elegant approach, and had the decency to inform Pantalone first, possibly even in writing – and the fire carried nothing except the resinous scent of clean woodsmoke.
The pain remained confined to a narrow strip from hip to upper thigh, burning at the centre and stinging at the edges. His clothing had become damp without anything being spilled upon it.
Blood perhaps? Or some sort of corrosive liquid. He couldn’t tell by feel alone, and he certainly couldn’t risk a glance.
His hands were steady, there was no dizziness or nausea or constriction in his throat or chest. His pulse had regrettably begun to quicken, but that still could be attributed to irritation.
Kazimir’s voice reached him from slightly further away than the width of the desk could explain, and that was quite unacceptable. Pain was one thing, but the presumption that it might decide which information reached him was quite another. How dare it?
Pantalone placed one hand flat beside the agreement and returned his attention to Kazimir with all the courtesy he could muster.
“Your two freight companies share no directors, no declared investors, and no registered premises. Nevertheless, each paid warehouse fees to the same intermediary on the same six dates. How do you account for that?”
“A coincidence, nothing more.”
“Ah, yes, a coincidence, of course. Then, what would you call the warehouses being physically incapable of receiving, processing and dispatching half the inventory recorded on those six dates? A creative oversight? A fantasy?”
Kazimir’s smile strained ever so faintly. “The warehouses are merely transit points. The goods were never intended to remain there. Any calculation based upon simultaneous storage would naturally provide a misleading impression.”
The same old rehearsed spiel, of course, yet this time, Kazimir’s attention dipped slightly towards Pantalone’s lap, before he quickly corrected himself. It was his doing, then. He was clearly expecting something, and Pantalone had no intention of giving it to him.
As the sting sharpened, he sucked in a quick breath, only for the movement to pull his coat taut, fabric pressing into the wet heat beneath it. The pain lashed across his thigh so strongly then that it stripped his next sentence of its opening word. White flickered at the edge of his vision, and it took a considerable amount of effort not to let his fingers scrape against the desk.
“How… did collateral valued at thirty-eight million Mora come to secure loans worth almost three times that amount?”
By his side, Siniša’s pen continued scraping along paper. Pantalone found himself overly conscious and sensitive of every familiar sound in the office: the scratch of his assistant’s fountain pen, the low crackling of fire, snow tapping against the windows.
“With respect, I had hoped the agreement might spare us the need to relitigate every temporary fluctuation in the Exchange’s assets. The figures are already accounted for in the proposed schedule.”
It would have been so much easier had the burn worsened at once. If it had hit him full force, and then stabilised. But instead it dragged his breaths, and the muscles around his hip were drawn so tightly, he could feel them beginning to tremble. Somewhere deep in the back of his mind was the memory of the last time he’d experienced a caustic substance on flesh, but he tried to ignore that niggling feeling. It wasn’t that, because how could it be? It made no sense without accepting that somebody must have broken into his office prior. But the damp fabric shifted with every minor movement – such a frustrating side effect of the human body was its absolute refusal to be still – and each time it lifted from his skin, all he wanted to do was tear at his flesh until nothing else remained.
And so what if he did? Dottore was rather accomplished at skin grafts.
“Perhaps you would prefer a brief recess,” Kazimir said, and Siniša’s pen stopped.
Pantalone’s eyes snapped towards him. “What makes you think I require one?”
Kazimir hesitated for a fraction of a second. “We have covered a considerable amount.”
“Do you mean that with regard to time or currency? If the former, then we have occupied no more than ten minutes.”
“Still, you seem…”
“I seem what?”
“Preoccupied.”
“Do I? I can’t imagine why.” He sighed. At his side, Siniša’s pen returned to the paper. Kazimir continued with rather less satisfaction than before. Only seconds later did the muscle at Pantalone’s hip seize, breath locking somewhere behind his teeth.
“Please, do continue.”
It was remarkable how much breath three simple words could demand.
Time went on, yet Pantalone no longer cared how many interpretations Kazimir had prepared for the discrepancies. The man had already exhausted far more of Pantalone’s morning than either his proposal or his continued existence warranted.
Eventually, he felt he had no choice but to interrupt. “We will not spend the remainder of this meeting debating valuations you know to be false. The declarations will identify the beneficial ownership behind every company named in this agreement. You will provide the officer responsible for closing the warnings attached to those accounts, and all six members of your delegation will acknowledge the repeated use of collateral and their knowledge of the arrangement.”
He pressed his heel harder into the carpet, as though the additional tension might force the muscle into obedience. It did not. The shaking remained hidden beneath the desk, but each small contraction stirred the saturated cloth and drew another filament of pain across his hip. Pantalone was no stranger to pain, and he considered his tolerance rather high – he recalled Dottore once calling him a pathological objection to the very principle of self-preservation. That, and a personal insult to the very concept of pain as a signaling mechanism. But this? This was becoming difficult even for him to disregard.
Kazimir inclined his head. “Those demands considerably exceed the purpose of our discussion.”
It did not feel like heat resting upon his skin, but heat poured into the structure of his flesh, as though a strip of metal had been heated white and driven beneath the surface, surrounded by a widening border of needle-fine stings. Even his pulse was exaggerated within it.
“Your purpose, perhaps. Mine is to determine why nineteen failing companies require the protection of a guarantor nobody at this table has the courage to name.”
Kazimir narrowed his eyes ever so slightly. “I understand that uncertainty can be uncomfortable, but confidentiality is not equal to deception. I would expect a man of your experience to appreciate that.”
“Hm, just as one would hope a man requesting four hundred and twelve million Mora might appreciate the distinction between confidentiality and withholding material information. Yet, here we both are.”
At his side, Siniša’s pen faltered, the minute tightening at the corner of his mouth suggesting another hard-won victory for professionalism.
“The identity of the officer responsible is a matter for the Bank’s internal review, not for this delegation.” Kazimir bristled. “I would caution against allowing one administrative omission to eclipse the commercial merits of the proposal.”
“And I would caution against entering my office with nineteen concealed defaults, and speaking to me with such condescension as if I am the one failing to understand how this works.”
Kazimir’s smile thinned. “There is no need to make this personal. If the Bank refuses the arrangement, nineteen companies will default. Their creditors, their employees, their dependants, all will bear the consequences of that decision.”
How conscientious this unbearable man had become.
“Then nineteen defaults will become nineteen entirely deserved investigations.”
“I fear that distinction will offer little comfort to those whose livelihoods are affected.”
“No, I imagine it will offer very little comfort indeed.” Pantalone turned another page, the movement sending one more concentrated throb through his thigh. It felt just as though something had bitten down and refused to release him. “Particularly once the Bank freezes every connected account, seals every warehouse, and invites each man at this table to explain precisely which ‘administrative omission’ required him to lie to me.”
Kazimir’s fingers shifted against his cuff.
“Name the officer.”
The cold perspiration at his hairline felt like it was travelling, one drop slipping behind his ear and beneath the high collar of his coat, absurdly distinct against the heat occupying the rest of him. Kazimir’s face remained clear across his desk, but everything around it had acquired the slight unreality of an image viewed through cracked glasses. The fire cracked too loud. Siniša’s pen sounded close enough to be scratching directly against his skull. And beneath his clothing, the deepest part of the injury no longer burned with that same piercing clarity. A good few centuries ago, he might have been relieved. That would have been his mistake. Unfortunately for him, Dottore had spent many a night discussing the subject of disappearing pain – improvement, of course, would always be one possible explanation, but damage deep enough to silence what ought to be screaming was another.
How tiresome of the man to be useful, even in absentia.
“Are you certain you do not require a break?” Kazimir asked, his voice softening into something almost sympathetic, if one was sufficiently gullible to believe it. “There is no shame in it.”
“How convenient for you if I did.”
“I assure you, I am not trying to escape anything. The details can be settled once you have had the opportunity to–”
“The authorising officer. If you intend for any of us to exit this meeting, you will provide a name. Do not make the mistake of believing you can outlast me.”
He leaned back. It was an appalling decision. The damp fabric sealed more tightly against his thigh, crushing its hundreds of needle-fine edges together into one solid blade of pain. His leg tried to recoil from it, but Pantalone instead took possession of the movement, carrying it smoothly into the slow crossing of his right leg over his left. The change in angle dragged the soaked cloth across the injury and stopped his next breath, but he allowed that resulting silence to masquerade as deliberation, all the while his toes curled, and a fingernail dug into the palm of his hand. Then, he settled one arm along the chair, as though he’d merely arranged himself more comfortably, and continued.
“Time, as I am certain you are aware, is not something I find myself lacking.”
Kazimir’s lips thinned into a line, as he glanced towards the other delegates. The youngest refused to meet his eyes, another had gone completely pale, and the hand previously hidden beneath the table had emerged only to worry ceaselessly at one cuff. Pantalone permitted the silence to lengthen, with much amusement, until he felt he had no choice but to throw them a metaphorical bone.
“Very well. Siniša. Record that the first member of this delegation to identify the authorising officer volunteered the information before formal questioning began.”
The tip of the assistant’s pen touched the page, and six men, all sitting in a line, shoulders touching, became suddenly, acutely more aware of one another. The youngest drew a breath–
“Sashenka Gorchakov,” Kazimir said before he could release it, the words clipped and stripped of all former pretence at courtesy. “He authorised the exemptions.”
“There. Was that so difficult? Siniša, the declarations.”
Six prepared statements were placed before the delegation.
“Sign here, and the Bank will record your cooperation. Refuse, and it will record your obstruction.”
The youngest reached for his pen first. Then, it moved swiftly from hand to hand, reaching Kazimir last. Siniša counted all six signatures before gathering the pages and returning them to his file.
Whether Sashenka was the culprit or merely the sacrifice Kazimir had judged most affordable was a distinction for later. Both men could easily be investigated. Neither required his attention now. The burn had spread far beyond any border he could identify, and his right leg had begun to shake in earnest now, the movement travelling up through his side and stopping only where the muscles of his abdomen clenched hard enough to contain it. Yet his expression betrayed none of it.
“Siniša, please escort our guests through the eastern gallery.”
The eastern gallery possessed reinforced doors, no windows, and a guard stationed at either end. His assistant, naturally, understood.
“Of course.” He stood. “Gentlemen, if you would accompany me.”
Kazimir did not stand. “What? Wait just a moment. We have yet to settle the collateral valuations, the repayment schedule, the–”
“It is truly concerning how you have managed to secure your position while understanding so little. This meeting is over, I have acquired everything I set out to obtain. Your failure to do the same is not my concern. Now kindly vacate my office while you are still able to do so on your own two feet.”
Reluctantly, yet amusingly swiftly, the delegation followed Siniša from the office, the youngest looking back once before the doors closed behind him. And Pantalone, of course, remained exactly as they had left him. For several seconds, he continued wearing the same expression. Then, his first ungoverned breath broke. His shoulders tightened, his right hand closing over the edge of the armrest, and the tremor he had confined beneath the desk travelled freely into his fingers. The office blurred at its edges. He lowered his head by a fraction, and waited for the violent beating of his heart to control itself.
He did not attempt to stand.
The correct response was immediate decontamination, he knew that. Remove the contaminated clothing, irrigate the skin, and stop the substance from continuing its work. Dottore had made that lesson insufferably memorable. But unfortunately, Pantalone could no longer determine where clothing ended and injury began. Every movement produced the same slow, clinging resistance, as though fabric had acquired roots beneath his skin. It may very well have adhered to him, and pulling himself free blindly could spread the chemical across untouched flesh, strip away tissue, or deposit him unconscious upon the carpet.
If only Dottore could retain half as much of Pantalone’s financial explanations as Pantalone had apparently retained of his medical ramblings.
Pantalone could wait for competent hands.
He was fine.
He could endure another minute.
It was fine.
The first distant lock engaged. Then the second. The office doors opened again shortly afterwards, Siniša slipping inside alone and closing them behind him.
“They are secure, and rather cross about it.” He crossed the room swiftly. “What are we looking at? Are you hurt?”
“I’m–”
A broken breath struck the pain between his ribs and broke apart, and he closed his eyes, swallowed once, and tried to gather enough air.
“Chemical, I think. Right side.”
Siniša’s attention dropped to the damp, darkened fabric, and his face emptied of everything except pure concentration. “Is it still active?”
Pantalone gave the smallest inclination of his head.
“Can you stand if I support you?”
“Not without… pulling it. Fabric… has adhered… I believe.” His fingers tightened around the armrest as another tremor travelled through them. There was no composure left to reconstruct, or useful dignity remaining between one breath and the next. Only the knowledge that something was continuing to consume him, and that he had finally exhausted every reasonable excuse for tolerating it.
“Get Dottore.”