Ash 76, 123
The Valentin Estate
Almost fifty years prior, Alexander Valentin had made history by returning alive from the dark heart of Ecith. The mighty explorer had brought with him many metaphorical treasures; tales of strange magic, descriptions of vast and impossible beasts, fossils which had revolutionized the Imperial College of Natural History. Altogether enough to win himself a place in the journals of a dozen fields of science and history.
He had also, crucially, brought home actual treasure. Precious metals, pried off obscene Orkish totems, gemstones and unknown dragonshards, carefully auctioned off to those who could use them for the Imperium’s betterment, and ancient wonders far predating the present savages who occupied the Commonwealth far to the south. Those treasures had been carefully liquidated over the decades, buying his children and grandchildren education, prized commissions, and the very estate in which Valentin Valentin now resided.
The official in question sat now in his study, surrounded by the rapidly-dwindling remnants of his grandfather’s legacy. In front of him was a desk carved of some strange jungle wood–not mahogany, but a nameless cousin–and the frustratingly unsolvable puzzle-cube which had been the last gift of the dying Alexander. Four tapestries hung on the walls, carefully spaced to cover up the fact that the room had been built with eight in mind, and a handful of statuettes were painstakingly isolated on display stands throughout.
It wasn’t empty, not yet, but Valentin could recall the room as a child, when there were ten times as many strange and wonderful curiosities. They’d been sold off, one by one, at anonymous auctions, for his father was too proud to admit the family’s state of decline. He couldn’t fathom why, really. Anyone with half a mind could look at their lack of income and put the pieces together.
"It’s a bad state of affairs" Valentin confided to the grandfather clock, one of the rare items in the room he had added rather than seen subtracted, "and it’s only getting worse."
Time did not answer him. The pendulum swung unphased, as if he’d never spoken a word. It was a conscious insult, he felt, but certainly he was far from the greatest man which Velar had snubbed in like manner. He tried not to take the slight personally.
Instead, the attorney refocused his attention on another thing he’d added to the room; a small leather-bound ledger. It was technically a crime to take the archive books home to read, though Valentin knew that the practice was common. This one wasn’t the original, anyway- he’d copied that over the course of three nights and reshelved it, on the off-chance that the disappearance would be noted during one of the irregular shelf audits.
As with any book, the contents were much more important than the substance. And the contents inside this one had been enough to set Valentin’s mind abuzz with possibilities for the last week straight.
He pushed it aside. Every task had to be handled in pieces, bit-by-bit, or one risked making terrible mistakes.
Instead, he gestured with one hand, manipulating space above his desk and creating a miniscule portal. From this, he withdrew a roll of parchment, snatching it quickly from the air before pressing it smooth against the table. With his other hand, he withdrew a fountain pen from the silver stand in which it rested.
Dear Sir,
He wrote,
A friend of mine recently provided me with the attached artwork, which I am given to understand you produced in some quantity. Though it is imperfect–and what is not, in this world–I was nevertheless quite taken with the precision of the piece. It speaks, I think, to a critical eye for detail and a certain philosophy viz the zeitgeist.
I am most interested, needless to say, in seeing more examples of such fine work. In fact, other colleagues of mine have been interested enough in your work that they asked me to track you down and introduce them. The first I have done; but I confess a certain weakness of character, for I would rather keep the confidence of such an artist to myself.
Instead, I write today because I would like to discuss the potential for commissioned work. If you have the time and the interest, the return address on this missive is the location of an excellent Mahl. If you would do me the honor of appearing there in three day’s time, at noon, I would be pleased to show you their menu.
Yours cordially,
An Admirer
Valentin began to fold the missive up, then paused, realizing he’d nearly forgotten the most important part of the message. He fished around within his jacket until he found an inner pocket, and produced the rather spiffy bank note he’d been handed two weeks prior by the Financial Crimes Investigation department’s ombudsman. He folded the note up into the message, then sealed it closed with a daub of wax and a featureless stamp.
~~~
Three days later, Valentin sat at a small table outside Willkommen Kaffeehaus, enjoying an exquisite drink of dark black coffee, powdered sugar and whipped cream. He hated the drink, of course, but there was something delightfully perverse about the moment the bitter and sugar both hit the tongue, each individually enough to make one retch.
Sometimes, it seemed, two vile things were better together than either one could be alone.
