Gratia Actualis
Fandom: Original: quayverse
Genre: Fiction//Fantasy/Drama
Notes: More Niam and his Issues. Features Kelsey as an absent character, oh boy! Takes place some time after Life and Death Lessons. Written and revised for Creative Writing last April. Let me know if this viewing formal is all right for you guys or not--it's literally a cut-and-paste of a double-spaced Word document, and I can't tell if it's horrible on the eyes or just different. I'll be happy to change it if necessary.
Gratia Actualis
Niam is a murderer-this is his profession. He has no last name. If anyone knew of him, they would say he is a terrible and disgusting man, a symbol of the city’s filth. Instead, nobody says much of anything about him, except for Kelsey Marcilei, who prefers to talk more about himself. Legally, Niam does not exist, and great pains have been taken on all sides to keep it this way.
Niam is a government employee, and occasionally he wonders whether he is being paid with his victims’ tax money. He considers that in most cases they weren’t paying their taxes anyway. He doubts he’s eligible for a pension. Quay, being the corrupt city that it is, doesn’t really do pensions anyway, since anybody eligible for one has more than enough money already.
More than enough, certainly, to keep him living comfortably though only veritably employed about one night out of every ten. Which works quite well for Niam, as he has plenty enough to do on his own time-namely, tracking down the people on the List, which is a sight more difficult than one might expect in a city of only eighty thousand people. He’s only found eight of the people on the list; five of them, he’d been ordered to kill. There are at least twenty others, but their existence eludes him, and he fears that the Parliament may have gotten to them first. For all he knows, the same list may have been sitting in Mr. Orius’ study when it was raided that night. He doesn’t even know for certain what the list is for: he’d found it tucked into the back cover of one of the books Mr. Orius had gifted to him, that he’d smuggled up to his room in the Net several weeks before the ordeal. The list is now the only aid he has to go by. He has memorized and burned it.
Tonight the man he has been told to kill lives on Mid-level, and he is not on the list. Very few of those he’s told to kill are not on the list, and it makes him nervous; he is not sure what to expect. He takes a service elevator behind the Marcilei Opera House, used normally for transfer of props and scenery from the workshops on Mid-level. Kelsey brought him here to see a show once, and it was the most uncomfortable night of his life. From the box seat he could see the excessive stage-makeup nearly melting off the actors under the lighting, and he thought he might be sick at all the opulence.
At Mid-level, things are less ridiculously showy. The artisans and merchants live here, and though they live much better than those in the Net, they don’t have the same kind of money to burn as those on the Floor. The man Niam has been sent to kill is probably an artisan, or the son of an artisan who was perhaps less attentive to his child’s upbringing than he ought to have been. Most of the targets he’s given are from the Net-even there not safe from the Parliament’s watch-but he has been surprised at the number of times he’s been sent Mid-level, and even to the Floor. He feels a small sense of victory every time he is sent to the houses of his employers’ contemporaries.
There is no sense of victory this time. Up until now, the Parliament had wanted quiet disappearances. They didn’t need the public to know that the dissenters were being picked off. “There are no murders in Quay,” Kelsey had told him the day he was hired, and he was required to uphold this façade. But they want to make an example out of this one. This middle-class rebel, he’s been too vocal, too active, too good at what he does. His support base is still small; he’s been rallying them but he hasn’t become their leader quite yet. This one must be taken care of now, before he becomes a martyr instead of a warning-it wouldn’t do to let that happen again. Parliament said it has to be clear that it’s murder. Niam is just grateful that they didn’t tell him there has to be blood.
He has not been trained in breaking and entering, nor indeed in stealth or many of the other talents that his job description would seem to imply he possesses. He’s spent the past few months making it up as he goes along, and it’s really only luck and the fact that the government has employed him for this that he hasn’t been caught and killed yet. Not that the government would vouch for him if he did screw up, but he’s been given skeleton keys and access to government elevators and through-ways, and from time to time Kelsey arranges for certain areas to be conveniently void of guards and citizens alike. Niam doesn’t know why Kelsey helps him like this, and he doesn’t ask.
One thing that Niam is not granted is floorplans, and so although he has no trouble locating the house, finding a way inside is another matter. The windows are all firmly latched and bolted-as windows in Quay always are-and Mid-level houses mean scaling walls are absolutely out of the question. But he finds a back-alley bridge between this house and another at two floors up, and from there he can break the lock on the back door and get in through the pantry. He’s quiet, but it’s still luck that no one is around when he sneaks in, and he has to hunt a bit to find the study.
It’s a smallish room, with a side table by the door and a desk under the window, and most of the rest of it filled with bookcases except for a small locked cedar chest in the corner. There are reams of paper all over the desk; one of Mr. Orius’ speeches is on top. Niam smiles when he picks it up, and settles down cross-legged on the cedar chest to read it. He remembers this one: one of the best, though there were about eight different versions before Mr. Orius was satisfied with it. Kelsey uses it for tinder, and Niam has to force himself not to say anything. It’s a powerful piece; he’s still perched like this, reading, when Deniel Felsynth walks in.
Deniel Felsynth is painfully young-maybe only a few years older than Niam himself. Niam’s heart sinks when he sees this, sees the papers under Deniel’s arm and knows this has to be the one he was sent for, not some son or nephew or witless apprentice whom Niam could allow to leave unharmed. He’s never been sent after one this young, and he wonders how he could be such a threat.
Deniel freezes in the doorway, and for a minute is clearly assessing the situation. Then he smiles thinly at Niam and sets his books on the side table. “Isn’t this a little unorthodox?”
Niam shrugs. They always get suspicious when he tries to talk to them, as though they’d prefer it if he’d just stab them in their sleep and have done with it. He’s getting used to being detested on sight.
“You are Deniel Felsynth?” he asks. It never hurts to make sure.
Deniel’s shoulders are very tense beneath his green waistcoat. “I am. Do you always greet people before you kill them, or did they send a complete greenhorn to do the job?”
“I wanted to talk to you first.”
“You are sick.” Deniel’s sneer is perhaps not as brave as he would have liked.
Niam doesn’t flinch, but Deniel is testier than he’s used to. Then again, this time is different-perhaps Deniel senses his own tension. “I’m not as sick as you might think.”
“I’m sure Ella Friberg disagreed when you killed her.”
“I didn’t-”
“Then Claude Harrison or Garrik Noyl or whichever of them that you killed, not that it makes a difference.”
“But I haven’t actually killed anyone yet.”
“You are a greenhorn,” Deniel says incredulously.
“No, none of them are dead. I’m a mole.” Niam pulls a letter out the breastpocket of his coat and holds it out to Deniel. “Ella Friberg isn’t dead. I got her on a ship to Arigauld. Here, she wrote this before she left.”
Deniel doesn’t move, and finally Niam lowers his arm and sets the paper next to him on the cedar chest.
“Why aren’t you on Mr. Orius’ list?” Niam asks him.
“List? What list?”
“His list of revolutionaries and sympathizers. Allies.”
Deniel glares. “Mr. Orius would never have kept a list like that. Putting everyone in danger if the Parliament got hold of it-he’d never have been so careless.”
“Careless like you leaving his speeches all over your desk? It’s like you want them to have a reason to get you!”
“And you’re saying that he left this list lying around and that’s how Parliament’s been picking us off,” intones Deniel dryly.
“That is not how Parliament’s been finding you. He gave the list to me; and like I said, you’re not even on it. They’ve been finding you because you’re all too bloody loud.”
“Somebody has to be.”
Niam bites his lip and looks away. He sees now why Parliament finds this man so dangerous. Deniel Felsynth is outspoken, as outspoken as Mr. Orius ever was, and he’s not surprised they chose to make an example out of this one. He’s young and vivacious; he could be an even worse threat that Mr. Orius if given another couple of years.
“Mr. Orius didn’t know about you,” Niam muses, almost to himself.
Deniel looks slightly taken aback. “No,” he says, “I never met him, but I was inspired by his work, and by his courage. I endeavored to take up his mantle after his passing.”
Niam looks at him. “Even though you know what happened to him?”
“That was you?”
“No,” says Niam, “That was all him.”
Deniel’s expression suddenly contorts with rage. “How dare you,” he says, “How dare you suggest-”
“Have you not seen how the people rallied after his death? How many dissenters have now spoken in his name? You yourself have taken up his cause. Do you think he did not know the extent of his own influence?”
Deniel regards him coldly. “You practiced that, didn’t you.”
“Um. I have to explain this a lot.”
“I’ll bet you do.”
“Really,” Niam says, “Think about it. Mr. Orius’ death incited the biggest uprising Quay’s ever seen. He knew that would happen.”
“They hanged a man for it.”
“Of course they did; they had to save face! But do you really believe the Parliament would have hanged someone that useful to them?”
“Someone who would take out their opponents, you mean?”
Niam doesn’t nod; he only looks at him pointedly.
“Oh, for-!” Deniel makes an exasperated noise and strides to his desk, sweeping the mess of papers up reshuffling them again and again as though they will somehow arrange themselves. “You suggest that Mr. Orius killed himself to further his cause? Killed himself and framed an ally for it to get him into the Parliament?”
Well, when put that way…. Niam nods.
Deniel groans and drops his head in his hands. “He always was brilliantly crazy,” he mumbles. To Niam he says, “Why don’t you just take out the Parliament members yourself, if you’re so deep on the inside.”
“I could never get to them all. They’ve all got their Guard, and most of them still don’t trust me.” Niam tries to imagine killing Kelsey. It is harder than he would have expected.
Deniel is silent. “And where would you have me hide?” he says at last. “I’m not leaving Quay. I have work to do here.”
Niam does not respond, but Deniel can read it in his face.
In a moment he’s pulled open the desk drawer and has a pistol trained on Niam’s face. “I could kill you first,” he says.
“Please don’t,” is all Niam says, and he means it exactly like that. Too much has been sacrificed to get him here, and Mr. Orius’ death would mean nothing if Niam were to fail now.
Deniel stares down the pistol at him for a long time. At last he lowers it, slowly, and places it on the desk. There is another long moment, and suddenly he sits heavily in the chair, as though gravity has only just asserted itself. He looks at the pistol, and then at Niam, waiting.
“I don’t have a choice,” Niam says, and hates himself.
“No one’s going to rally for my death. I don’t have the name recognition yet. I’m not Mr. Orius yet.”
“That’s why it has to be now.”
Deniel looks at the pistol again, almost wistfully. “How are you-?”
Niam cuts him off so he does not have to say it. “I have some poison,” he says, then adds hurriedly, “If you want. It’s quick, and as painless as anything.”
Deniel nods. There is a decanter of dark red liquid on the sideboard, and Niam rises to pour a glass.
“Wait,” Deniel says, and points to the cabinet beneath it. “There’s a Taurinian brandy in there that I’ve been saving. Use that.”
Niam complies, then sets the glass on the desk in front of Deniel and removes a small pouch from his pocket. He upends it in the glass, and the white powder falls like snow in the liquid, swirls, and dissolves.
“This is what Mr. Orius used. He said it was called Kingsbane.”
Deniel picks up the glass and holds it in front of his face. The poison is no longer visible, but he seems to see it anyway. “Kingsbane,” he repeats distantly. “Then I suppose… I am honored to follow, as always, in his path.”
“He would have loved to meet you,” is all Niam can say.
He’s been sitting on the cedar chest staring at Deniel in the chair for a half hour before he remembers it was supposed to be an obvious murder. He has to cut the body, but he’s waited too long and the heart has stopped, so there isn’t as much blood as there should be. They’ll be able to tell that-Kelsey, for one, is disturbingly meticulous this way-so he slumps the body over the desk and delivers a heavy blow to the back of the head with a third edition Imperial Dictionary. He’s not sure it will be obvious, but he hears an unpleasant ‘crack’ and decides that will have to be good enough. It’s only then that he notices he’s gotten blood all over Mr. Orius’ speeches.
He takes Deniel’s pistol when he goes. It turns out it wasn’t even loaded.
Niam is a murderer. This is his profession, but it is not who he is. He’s watched someone die once before, and he finds now that it doesn’t get any easier.
Genre: Fiction//Fantasy/Drama
Notes: More Niam and his Issues. Features Kelsey as an absent character, oh boy! Takes place some time after Life and Death Lessons. Written and revised for Creative Writing last April. Let me know if this viewing formal is all right for you guys or not--it's literally a cut-and-paste of a double-spaced Word document, and I can't tell if it's horrible on the eyes or just different. I'll be happy to change it if necessary.
Gratia Actualis
Niam is a murderer-this is his profession. He has no last name. If anyone knew of him, they would say he is a terrible and disgusting man, a symbol of the city’s filth. Instead, nobody says much of anything about him, except for Kelsey Marcilei, who prefers to talk more about himself. Legally, Niam does not exist, and great pains have been taken on all sides to keep it this way.
Niam is a government employee, and occasionally he wonders whether he is being paid with his victims’ tax money. He considers that in most cases they weren’t paying their taxes anyway. He doubts he’s eligible for a pension. Quay, being the corrupt city that it is, doesn’t really do pensions anyway, since anybody eligible for one has more than enough money already.
More than enough, certainly, to keep him living comfortably though only veritably employed about one night out of every ten. Which works quite well for Niam, as he has plenty enough to do on his own time-namely, tracking down the people on the List, which is a sight more difficult than one might expect in a city of only eighty thousand people. He’s only found eight of the people on the list; five of them, he’d been ordered to kill. There are at least twenty others, but their existence eludes him, and he fears that the Parliament may have gotten to them first. For all he knows, the same list may have been sitting in Mr. Orius’ study when it was raided that night. He doesn’t even know for certain what the list is for: he’d found it tucked into the back cover of one of the books Mr. Orius had gifted to him, that he’d smuggled up to his room in the Net several weeks before the ordeal. The list is now the only aid he has to go by. He has memorized and burned it.
Tonight the man he has been told to kill lives on Mid-level, and he is not on the list. Very few of those he’s told to kill are not on the list, and it makes him nervous; he is not sure what to expect. He takes a service elevator behind the Marcilei Opera House, used normally for transfer of props and scenery from the workshops on Mid-level. Kelsey brought him here to see a show once, and it was the most uncomfortable night of his life. From the box seat he could see the excessive stage-makeup nearly melting off the actors under the lighting, and he thought he might be sick at all the opulence.
At Mid-level, things are less ridiculously showy. The artisans and merchants live here, and though they live much better than those in the Net, they don’t have the same kind of money to burn as those on the Floor. The man Niam has been sent to kill is probably an artisan, or the son of an artisan who was perhaps less attentive to his child’s upbringing than he ought to have been. Most of the targets he’s given are from the Net-even there not safe from the Parliament’s watch-but he has been surprised at the number of times he’s been sent Mid-level, and even to the Floor. He feels a small sense of victory every time he is sent to the houses of his employers’ contemporaries.
There is no sense of victory this time. Up until now, the Parliament had wanted quiet disappearances. They didn’t need the public to know that the dissenters were being picked off. “There are no murders in Quay,” Kelsey had told him the day he was hired, and he was required to uphold this façade. But they want to make an example out of this one. This middle-class rebel, he’s been too vocal, too active, too good at what he does. His support base is still small; he’s been rallying them but he hasn’t become their leader quite yet. This one must be taken care of now, before he becomes a martyr instead of a warning-it wouldn’t do to let that happen again. Parliament said it has to be clear that it’s murder. Niam is just grateful that they didn’t tell him there has to be blood.
He has not been trained in breaking and entering, nor indeed in stealth or many of the other talents that his job description would seem to imply he possesses. He’s spent the past few months making it up as he goes along, and it’s really only luck and the fact that the government has employed him for this that he hasn’t been caught and killed yet. Not that the government would vouch for him if he did screw up, but he’s been given skeleton keys and access to government elevators and through-ways, and from time to time Kelsey arranges for certain areas to be conveniently void of guards and citizens alike. Niam doesn’t know why Kelsey helps him like this, and he doesn’t ask.
One thing that Niam is not granted is floorplans, and so although he has no trouble locating the house, finding a way inside is another matter. The windows are all firmly latched and bolted-as windows in Quay always are-and Mid-level houses mean scaling walls are absolutely out of the question. But he finds a back-alley bridge between this house and another at two floors up, and from there he can break the lock on the back door and get in through the pantry. He’s quiet, but it’s still luck that no one is around when he sneaks in, and he has to hunt a bit to find the study.
It’s a smallish room, with a side table by the door and a desk under the window, and most of the rest of it filled with bookcases except for a small locked cedar chest in the corner. There are reams of paper all over the desk; one of Mr. Orius’ speeches is on top. Niam smiles when he picks it up, and settles down cross-legged on the cedar chest to read it. He remembers this one: one of the best, though there were about eight different versions before Mr. Orius was satisfied with it. Kelsey uses it for tinder, and Niam has to force himself not to say anything. It’s a powerful piece; he’s still perched like this, reading, when Deniel Felsynth walks in.
Deniel Felsynth is painfully young-maybe only a few years older than Niam himself. Niam’s heart sinks when he sees this, sees the papers under Deniel’s arm and knows this has to be the one he was sent for, not some son or nephew or witless apprentice whom Niam could allow to leave unharmed. He’s never been sent after one this young, and he wonders how he could be such a threat.
Deniel freezes in the doorway, and for a minute is clearly assessing the situation. Then he smiles thinly at Niam and sets his books on the side table. “Isn’t this a little unorthodox?”
Niam shrugs. They always get suspicious when he tries to talk to them, as though they’d prefer it if he’d just stab them in their sleep and have done with it. He’s getting used to being detested on sight.
“You are Deniel Felsynth?” he asks. It never hurts to make sure.
Deniel’s shoulders are very tense beneath his green waistcoat. “I am. Do you always greet people before you kill them, or did they send a complete greenhorn to do the job?”
“I wanted to talk to you first.”
“You are sick.” Deniel’s sneer is perhaps not as brave as he would have liked.
Niam doesn’t flinch, but Deniel is testier than he’s used to. Then again, this time is different-perhaps Deniel senses his own tension. “I’m not as sick as you might think.”
“I’m sure Ella Friberg disagreed when you killed her.”
“I didn’t-”
“Then Claude Harrison or Garrik Noyl or whichever of them that you killed, not that it makes a difference.”
“But I haven’t actually killed anyone yet.”
“You are a greenhorn,” Deniel says incredulously.
“No, none of them are dead. I’m a mole.” Niam pulls a letter out the breastpocket of his coat and holds it out to Deniel. “Ella Friberg isn’t dead. I got her on a ship to Arigauld. Here, she wrote this before she left.”
Deniel doesn’t move, and finally Niam lowers his arm and sets the paper next to him on the cedar chest.
“Why aren’t you on Mr. Orius’ list?” Niam asks him.
“List? What list?”
“His list of revolutionaries and sympathizers. Allies.”
Deniel glares. “Mr. Orius would never have kept a list like that. Putting everyone in danger if the Parliament got hold of it-he’d never have been so careless.”
“Careless like you leaving his speeches all over your desk? It’s like you want them to have a reason to get you!”
“And you’re saying that he left this list lying around and that’s how Parliament’s been picking us off,” intones Deniel dryly.
“That is not how Parliament’s been finding you. He gave the list to me; and like I said, you’re not even on it. They’ve been finding you because you’re all too bloody loud.”
“Somebody has to be.”
Niam bites his lip and looks away. He sees now why Parliament finds this man so dangerous. Deniel Felsynth is outspoken, as outspoken as Mr. Orius ever was, and he’s not surprised they chose to make an example out of this one. He’s young and vivacious; he could be an even worse threat that Mr. Orius if given another couple of years.
“Mr. Orius didn’t know about you,” Niam muses, almost to himself.
Deniel looks slightly taken aback. “No,” he says, “I never met him, but I was inspired by his work, and by his courage. I endeavored to take up his mantle after his passing.”
Niam looks at him. “Even though you know what happened to him?”
“That was you?”
“No,” says Niam, “That was all him.”
Deniel’s expression suddenly contorts with rage. “How dare you,” he says, “How dare you suggest-”
“Have you not seen how the people rallied after his death? How many dissenters have now spoken in his name? You yourself have taken up his cause. Do you think he did not know the extent of his own influence?”
Deniel regards him coldly. “You practiced that, didn’t you.”
“Um. I have to explain this a lot.”
“I’ll bet you do.”
“Really,” Niam says, “Think about it. Mr. Orius’ death incited the biggest uprising Quay’s ever seen. He knew that would happen.”
“They hanged a man for it.”
“Of course they did; they had to save face! But do you really believe the Parliament would have hanged someone that useful to them?”
“Someone who would take out their opponents, you mean?”
Niam doesn’t nod; he only looks at him pointedly.
“Oh, for-!” Deniel makes an exasperated noise and strides to his desk, sweeping the mess of papers up reshuffling them again and again as though they will somehow arrange themselves. “You suggest that Mr. Orius killed himself to further his cause? Killed himself and framed an ally for it to get him into the Parliament?”
Well, when put that way…. Niam nods.
Deniel groans and drops his head in his hands. “He always was brilliantly crazy,” he mumbles. To Niam he says, “Why don’t you just take out the Parliament members yourself, if you’re so deep on the inside.”
“I could never get to them all. They’ve all got their Guard, and most of them still don’t trust me.” Niam tries to imagine killing Kelsey. It is harder than he would have expected.
Deniel is silent. “And where would you have me hide?” he says at last. “I’m not leaving Quay. I have work to do here.”
Niam does not respond, but Deniel can read it in his face.
In a moment he’s pulled open the desk drawer and has a pistol trained on Niam’s face. “I could kill you first,” he says.
“Please don’t,” is all Niam says, and he means it exactly like that. Too much has been sacrificed to get him here, and Mr. Orius’ death would mean nothing if Niam were to fail now.
Deniel stares down the pistol at him for a long time. At last he lowers it, slowly, and places it on the desk. There is another long moment, and suddenly he sits heavily in the chair, as though gravity has only just asserted itself. He looks at the pistol, and then at Niam, waiting.
“I don’t have a choice,” Niam says, and hates himself.
“No one’s going to rally for my death. I don’t have the name recognition yet. I’m not Mr. Orius yet.”
“That’s why it has to be now.”
Deniel looks at the pistol again, almost wistfully. “How are you-?”
Niam cuts him off so he does not have to say it. “I have some poison,” he says, then adds hurriedly, “If you want. It’s quick, and as painless as anything.”
Deniel nods. There is a decanter of dark red liquid on the sideboard, and Niam rises to pour a glass.
“Wait,” Deniel says, and points to the cabinet beneath it. “There’s a Taurinian brandy in there that I’ve been saving. Use that.”
Niam complies, then sets the glass on the desk in front of Deniel and removes a small pouch from his pocket. He upends it in the glass, and the white powder falls like snow in the liquid, swirls, and dissolves.
“This is what Mr. Orius used. He said it was called Kingsbane.”
Deniel picks up the glass and holds it in front of his face. The poison is no longer visible, but he seems to see it anyway. “Kingsbane,” he repeats distantly. “Then I suppose… I am honored to follow, as always, in his path.”
“He would have loved to meet you,” is all Niam can say.
He’s been sitting on the cedar chest staring at Deniel in the chair for a half hour before he remembers it was supposed to be an obvious murder. He has to cut the body, but he’s waited too long and the heart has stopped, so there isn’t as much blood as there should be. They’ll be able to tell that-Kelsey, for one, is disturbingly meticulous this way-so he slumps the body over the desk and delivers a heavy blow to the back of the head with a third edition Imperial Dictionary. He’s not sure it will be obvious, but he hears an unpleasant ‘crack’ and decides that will have to be good enough. It’s only then that he notices he’s gotten blood all over Mr. Orius’ speeches.
He takes Deniel’s pistol when he goes. It turns out it wasn’t even loaded.
Niam is a murderer. This is his profession, but it is not who he is. He’s watched someone die once before, and he finds now that it doesn’t get any easier.