Christopher - Thierry's Big Score
Jun 22, 2013 17:10:39 GMT -8
Post by Thy Dungyeon Maestyr on Jun 22, 2013 17:10:39 GMT -8
I'm writing something at a leisurely pace that may someday end up on the Kingfisher website. Enjoy.
Over the last few centuries, Harlan had grown out and up to where it was now like multiple cities glued together. It had two separate financial districts, seven red light districts, a dozen international districts, eight industrial neighborhoods, and much more. Of its two dozen slums, Betanheim had developed a bit of cachet among the stylish and decadent for the exotic entertainers in its night clubs. Those catering to such villains had become exclusive - off limits to the poor folk of Betanheim, unless they were able to get a job there.
Betanheim's exotic entertainers were the descendants of West Soari and other immigrant populations, victims of industrialization who formed a new culture combining the old ways with the lower class despair of Harlan's poor. People who had learned music for church ceremony corrupted that soul to express dark humor and wild abandon. In a few years, they'd be called jazz players.
Thierry Chartrain was becoming an expert too quickly, as he always did, and it was ruining his fun.
“This,” Inka Lepponen said, “is nice and peppy!”
“This,” he replied, “is frommage! A dance number with no soul, no darkness at all.”
“I suppose we should return to that dismal club on Reuben Street, and listen to the gravel-gargling frog men sing.”
“As ever, you can do what you want, maman.”
“Tch. I cannot if what I want is for both of us to be happy.”
He leaned back, slouching in his chair, and let the ambient cigarette smoke fill his indifferent lungs. Through the haze of heat, he saw a few shadows near the door - man-sized beings lacking the internal light of a living metabolism. Bredes. They ought to move back to Weston, before Dragomir gets serious.
He let his eyes roll across the ceiling. Ugly wood and iron, like a Sinksian longhouse. The narcotic fumes were too heavy to reach it, and it had a halo effect above him, like looking at the night sky through a fog. The emcee's affected high voice nagged at his ears like a flock of starlings.
“Thank you, thank you. That was The Mockingmen, and I assure you we won't be mocking them! Next to the stage tonight we have Fleming Mbeke and his Flamers, men and women of unusual talent. You won't have to bend your ears to these players. You could run uptown and hear them playin' straight to your bones!”
That is, word for word, what he said about The Mockingmen two weeks ago. Inka acts like it's perfectly delightful. Is this how it's always been? Does no one in this world but me long for originality? Oh, and good, Fleming's players include three - no, four - of The Mockingmen. It's like they went for a glass of water and came back with a different name.
A young man offered them drinks again. Thierry grunted, “Put them on the table.” Two new glasses joined a crowd on the cheap brocade tablecloth, clinking. A totally standard dance number began, with that low-tempo fake out that stopped being funny last year. Then, unexpectedly, a new voice cut through the smoke.
A tall young woman waved her coffee-colored arms sinuously as she sang, creating little whorls in the heat wisping around her. Thierry sat up again. Inka looked at him with satisfaction.
“Aha! Not so boring now, is it?”
“I'm trying to find out for myself, if you don't mind.” She pouted, but they both turned back to the stage and trained their ears on the singer. Her voice was strong and remarkably clean. She moved up and down scales like she was dancing on them, moving her notes like she moved her arms. It didn't matter what the words were, the insipid ode transformed into an instrument - the best one on the stage. The vampires sat raptly, Inka bobbing her feet and lolling her head slightly to the gentle swing of the music. Thierry sank his chin into a clutching hand and considered the experience deeply.
The song ended and Fleming came on the microphone to do his little rap about the players. Inka looked at Thierry. “Admit it! It was very good!”
“I liked Cherry Swan better.”
“You damned rascal! Heeheeheeheehee!”
Fleming's little cousin Florence Whitney was a smash! Anybody in the family doing well was good for everybody. She perched on a leather chair backstage trying to collect her wits, while people rushed around her trying to undo that effort. Shrill ladies passing by stopped to shriek out some words of praise and excitement. She nodded and smiled. Danny and some skinny Hanian guitarist stopped by to give some praise and left her feeling creeped out. She smiled and nodded.
Fleming, M.C. Twill, and the Dunce came by, all white collars and black jackets, sweat beading at their necks and temples. She managed to shake the paralysis out of her right arm and wiped a bit of sweat from her own forehead.
Fleming said, “You've made the scene, cuz. It's about time!”
“I still think da is gonna kill me.”
“Not when he sees the money!”
“When is that, exact-”
The Dunce chimed in. “It's bad luck to talk money in the club, baby!”
Twill said, “He's right. But I hope it'll assuage your concerns to hear that you will see it. Word of mouth on tonight's show will bring up the take on the next, and so on. It's how it works.”
“That's what I heard, bu-”
“Hush now, cuz. You need to freshen up now for the party. We have to make sure that word of mouth happens.”
The party. The part she was warned about. Oh boy.
Ten minutes later, the upstairs of the club was brilliantly lit with chandeliers and gas lamps. People stood or lounged on high quality furniture from a few decades ago, all upholstered in the same cheap brocade that the club used for everything but the curtains. Smoke filled the air, glasses clinked, women laughed falsely, and rich people felt daring. The first sound Florence heard that cut through the babble was the snorting of cocaine. A man pushed himself off the silver tray theatrically, his red moustache now sporting a white stripe. People laughed around him and he felt good.
She nodded and smiled and nodded as people moved around her. Fortunately, she wasn't the only thing people came to see, but she definitely caught more attention than she preferred, and Fleming just left her to flounder on her own. A brown-haired man with green eyes excitedly walked straight to her.
“Florence Whitney? From the Flamers?”
Nod and smile.
“Brilliant! Smashing! I'm Winston Sapmore, of the Jameson Court Sapmores. I've taken it upon myself to know everything there is to know about the Betanheim style, and you are a star, let me assure you. May I?” He kissed her hand. She was glad she wore gloves. “Tell me, are you from Soari yourself?”
“Does Whitney sound Soarian to you?”
“HAHAHA! Yes, of course, hm, quite. Is your father Glennish then?”
“Yes. He's a minister at Betanheim Repentant.”
“Of course he is! A voice honed in schismatic choirs!”
“Mm.”
“And you've rejected all that to enjoy the racy lifestyle of true freedom, eh?”
“Er, I was in church four days ago. What do you think we're like here?”
The man's eyes were twitchy. He was a little confused, and apparently the thing to do when confused is laugh like a creepy animal. Suddenly, he jerked back and to the side, and a new arrival stepped in front of his pants. It was a tiny woman in a hat that was twenty years older than she was. An auburn-haired kid stepped in, improbably forcing the larger man out of view completely.
“Salutations, Ms. Whitley!,” the little woman said.
“H-hello, um, Whitney.”
“Florence,” the boy said, “May we call you Florence?”
“Mm, and you are?”
“Thierry, and this is Inka. We've lived in Harlan a few years now and are interested in the music of Betanheim, on an intellectual level these aristocrats couldn't understand.”
“A few years? You've been listening to Betanheim players since you were in baby dresses?”
He stiffened and widened his eyes. Little Inka laughed like a pixie.
“Thierry is older than he looks. We just wanted to say, well, it's true we have a deeper understanding of music than is typical here, and even by our refined standards, you are a gem. Get out of this smoke when you can!”
Florence smiled and nodded, and Thierry looked away, obviously rather angry. What a snot. Florence was swept away from the pair in a tide of tuxedos. Thierry was glaring at the tall woman's back when Inka tugged at his coat.
“What?!”
“You can go free tonight. I feel like it's time to hunt. Perhaps you can calm yourself with opiated blood?”
“Perhaps. Very well. You can probably guess where I'll be.”
***
THIERRY'S BIG SCORE
-a Kingfisher Tale,
by Christopher Shelton
THIERRY'S BIG SCORE
-a Kingfisher Tale,
by Christopher Shelton
Over the last few centuries, Harlan had grown out and up to where it was now like multiple cities glued together. It had two separate financial districts, seven red light districts, a dozen international districts, eight industrial neighborhoods, and much more. Of its two dozen slums, Betanheim had developed a bit of cachet among the stylish and decadent for the exotic entertainers in its night clubs. Those catering to such villains had become exclusive - off limits to the poor folk of Betanheim, unless they were able to get a job there.
Betanheim's exotic entertainers were the descendants of West Soari and other immigrant populations, victims of industrialization who formed a new culture combining the old ways with the lower class despair of Harlan's poor. People who had learned music for church ceremony corrupted that soul to express dark humor and wild abandon. In a few years, they'd be called jazz players.
Thierry Chartrain was becoming an expert too quickly, as he always did, and it was ruining his fun.
“This,” Inka Lepponen said, “is nice and peppy!”
“This,” he replied, “is frommage! A dance number with no soul, no darkness at all.”
“I suppose we should return to that dismal club on Reuben Street, and listen to the gravel-gargling frog men sing.”
“As ever, you can do what you want, maman.”
“Tch. I cannot if what I want is for both of us to be happy.”
He leaned back, slouching in his chair, and let the ambient cigarette smoke fill his indifferent lungs. Through the haze of heat, he saw a few shadows near the door - man-sized beings lacking the internal light of a living metabolism. Bredes. They ought to move back to Weston, before Dragomir gets serious.
He let his eyes roll across the ceiling. Ugly wood and iron, like a Sinksian longhouse. The narcotic fumes were too heavy to reach it, and it had a halo effect above him, like looking at the night sky through a fog. The emcee's affected high voice nagged at his ears like a flock of starlings.
“Thank you, thank you. That was The Mockingmen, and I assure you we won't be mocking them! Next to the stage tonight we have Fleming Mbeke and his Flamers, men and women of unusual talent. You won't have to bend your ears to these players. You could run uptown and hear them playin' straight to your bones!”
That is, word for word, what he said about The Mockingmen two weeks ago. Inka acts like it's perfectly delightful. Is this how it's always been? Does no one in this world but me long for originality? Oh, and good, Fleming's players include three - no, four - of The Mockingmen. It's like they went for a glass of water and came back with a different name.
A young man offered them drinks again. Thierry grunted, “Put them on the table.” Two new glasses joined a crowd on the cheap brocade tablecloth, clinking. A totally standard dance number began, with that low-tempo fake out that stopped being funny last year. Then, unexpectedly, a new voice cut through the smoke.
A tall young woman waved her coffee-colored arms sinuously as she sang, creating little whorls in the heat wisping around her. Thierry sat up again. Inka looked at him with satisfaction.
“Aha! Not so boring now, is it?”
“I'm trying to find out for myself, if you don't mind.” She pouted, but they both turned back to the stage and trained their ears on the singer. Her voice was strong and remarkably clean. She moved up and down scales like she was dancing on them, moving her notes like she moved her arms. It didn't matter what the words were, the insipid ode transformed into an instrument - the best one on the stage. The vampires sat raptly, Inka bobbing her feet and lolling her head slightly to the gentle swing of the music. Thierry sank his chin into a clutching hand and considered the experience deeply.
The song ended and Fleming came on the microphone to do his little rap about the players. Inka looked at Thierry. “Admit it! It was very good!”
“I liked Cherry Swan better.”
“You damned rascal! Heeheeheeheehee!”
***
Fleming's little cousin Florence Whitney was a smash! Anybody in the family doing well was good for everybody. She perched on a leather chair backstage trying to collect her wits, while people rushed around her trying to undo that effort. Shrill ladies passing by stopped to shriek out some words of praise and excitement. She nodded and smiled. Danny and some skinny Hanian guitarist stopped by to give some praise and left her feeling creeped out. She smiled and nodded.
Fleming, M.C. Twill, and the Dunce came by, all white collars and black jackets, sweat beading at their necks and temples. She managed to shake the paralysis out of her right arm and wiped a bit of sweat from her own forehead.
Fleming said, “You've made the scene, cuz. It's about time!”
“I still think da is gonna kill me.”
“Not when he sees the money!”
“When is that, exact-”
The Dunce chimed in. “It's bad luck to talk money in the club, baby!”
Twill said, “He's right. But I hope it'll assuage your concerns to hear that you will see it. Word of mouth on tonight's show will bring up the take on the next, and so on. It's how it works.”
“That's what I heard, bu-”
“Hush now, cuz. You need to freshen up now for the party. We have to make sure that word of mouth happens.”
The party. The part she was warned about. Oh boy.
Ten minutes later, the upstairs of the club was brilliantly lit with chandeliers and gas lamps. People stood or lounged on high quality furniture from a few decades ago, all upholstered in the same cheap brocade that the club used for everything but the curtains. Smoke filled the air, glasses clinked, women laughed falsely, and rich people felt daring. The first sound Florence heard that cut through the babble was the snorting of cocaine. A man pushed himself off the silver tray theatrically, his red moustache now sporting a white stripe. People laughed around him and he felt good.
She nodded and smiled and nodded as people moved around her. Fortunately, she wasn't the only thing people came to see, but she definitely caught more attention than she preferred, and Fleming just left her to flounder on her own. A brown-haired man with green eyes excitedly walked straight to her.
“Florence Whitney? From the Flamers?”
Nod and smile.
“Brilliant! Smashing! I'm Winston Sapmore, of the Jameson Court Sapmores. I've taken it upon myself to know everything there is to know about the Betanheim style, and you are a star, let me assure you. May I?” He kissed her hand. She was glad she wore gloves. “Tell me, are you from Soari yourself?”
“Does Whitney sound Soarian to you?”
“HAHAHA! Yes, of course, hm, quite. Is your father Glennish then?”
“Yes. He's a minister at Betanheim Repentant.”
“Of course he is! A voice honed in schismatic choirs!”
“Mm.”
“And you've rejected all that to enjoy the racy lifestyle of true freedom, eh?”
“Er, I was in church four days ago. What do you think we're like here?”
The man's eyes were twitchy. He was a little confused, and apparently the thing to do when confused is laugh like a creepy animal. Suddenly, he jerked back and to the side, and a new arrival stepped in front of his pants. It was a tiny woman in a hat that was twenty years older than she was. An auburn-haired kid stepped in, improbably forcing the larger man out of view completely.
“Salutations, Ms. Whitley!,” the little woman said.
“H-hello, um, Whitney.”
“Florence,” the boy said, “May we call you Florence?”
“Mm, and you are?”
“Thierry, and this is Inka. We've lived in Harlan a few years now and are interested in the music of Betanheim, on an intellectual level these aristocrats couldn't understand.”
“A few years? You've been listening to Betanheim players since you were in baby dresses?”
He stiffened and widened his eyes. Little Inka laughed like a pixie.
“Thierry is older than he looks. We just wanted to say, well, it's true we have a deeper understanding of music than is typical here, and even by our refined standards, you are a gem. Get out of this smoke when you can!”
Florence smiled and nodded, and Thierry looked away, obviously rather angry. What a snot. Florence was swept away from the pair in a tide of tuxedos. Thierry was glaring at the tall woman's back when Inka tugged at his coat.
“What?!”
“You can go free tonight. I feel like it's time to hunt. Perhaps you can calm yourself with opiated blood?”
“Perhaps. Very well. You can probably guess where I'll be.”