#mr queue

Peaceful guard duty has given me back some vigour. I’ve headed down to what probably used to be Marylebone again. Last time, the Constables asked me to track someone down there. Spy or something. Never did finish that up, the informant was some urchin that hopped off into the Flit. This time, I found out that they’re paying for information concerning a “Clathermont” and his customers. I found out fast that it’s a tattoo shop, and slightly less fast that it’s a haunt of spies. So I sat myself down in a public house opposite the shop for a day and eavesdropped on people. You’d be surprised how loudly they boast about their secret tattoos. And for another day, I sat with a view on their rear entrance and sketched the customers I saw entering and leaving there. I’m lucky to have some artistic ability. But I’m out of practise, and my hands shake so lately that i keep smudging the lines. Still, the Constables were pleased enough and paid me a pretty penny for it. I’ll buy food.

My feet took me past the Shuttered Palace, for some reason. Never been in this part of town before, I don’t know why I walked along there. Too poor to be here, anyways. There were gardeners there, built like brick houses, hacking at a plant that climbed the walls and railings surrounding the palace. Blood ivy, they called it. I don’t know what overcame me. I fell upon the cuttings, snatched them up, they reeked of wine, of blood, of things red and good, like they’d quench my hunger! I hunger so! How dare they drag me away, like some lunatic, I just need to eat, just needed to eat... I fell on the spikes, bled like a pig, limped away. They were more than me. But it tasted so good, so good. 

I woke up in the gutter, soaked to the bone. My clothes are ruined. Half my hair is gone. So is a lot of my skin. I’m in so much pain. Kept passing out. Dragged myself back home. The guy with the brass buttons was there. Watched me. Maybe the Constables were looking for me, too. What did I do? What happened? There was fire, and candles. And hunger. I hope I didn’t hurt anyone. I’m hurt. Can barely focus from the pain. This would take bed-rest, at least a week. But I’m poor, and so hungry, so hungry. And in agony. I’ll sleep, sleep it off. What I wouldn’t give for some bromide.

As it turns out, the courier isn’t giving this information to agents of foreign powers. Well, at least not per the urchin that I tracked, who knows what else she does. This particular one has been feeding information from the surface to a woman they call Madame Shoshana. Styles herself a fortune-teller and all that jazz. I might never have found out about her if I didn’t get paid for this, I’m not a carnival kind of person. Anyways, I told the constabulary. They seemed disappointed, to say the least. At least we could hang an anarchist, one of them said. Seems like Shoshana has more influence than a carnie fraud should have. But what’s it to me? I got my payment. First stop, food. And then an apothecary.

Of all the wretched places in this city, I think the observatory in the marshes is my favourite. Now and then, a guard will fall ill or get injured. Then, the blind astronomers will hire someone to keep the safe in the night, safe from the shambling fungus-things that crawl up the walls. Usually it’s nasty work, keeping an eye out all around and contending with the mushroom monsters that explode with spore-clouds when you kill them. But sometimes, sometimes I just get to sit there in the cool dark, with the false-stars shining above. Almost feels like the Surface on an autumn night, after the rain. I slept through the night for the first time in weeks. Maybe I should move here. There are some huts in the marshes being sold for a cheap price. If I manage to stop eating through my funds, it might do me some good to spend time out here. And I do get paid for the guard-work. In moon-pearls, of course. As good a currency as any, down here.

I’m hungry, so hungry. I haven’t heard from the Monk in days and the menial day-labour jobs I find grow harder with every passing hour. I eat bread and meat and mushrooms, whatever I can afford, but it doesn’t quench my hunger, barely appeases it. The cat watches me with those eyes, like it knows. What does it know? Is the darn cat the thing that makes me hunger so? Why do I dream of the deep waters?

I sure am hungry.

The mysterious person who gifted me my bowler hat has made contact. By showing up on my doorstep unexpectedly. He was lucky I was in. The fellow is a nervous-looking monk in red robes. He asked me to track down his disciple. Now, I don’t just do anything for anyone, but I figured it’d be a good change of pace after the rat-infestation stress. I snooped around a bit near where the disciple was last seen and found out that he’d been chatting to some tattooed-up fancy lady. The monk seemed pleased enough with that information and paid me in candles. I’d rather have had money, but candles are useful down here, so I didn’t complain. Curious, though. Maybe he’ll stop by again.