While waiting for the lift, Largo saw something he’d missed on his way up. Set into the wall was a large fish tank holding a colorful variety of chimeras—custom-made mutant creatures favored as work animals by the municipal services and pets by the well-heeled of Lower Proszawa.
Speckled black-and-white eels covered with long spines wriggled among a school of transparent bat-like fish. A pink lizard thing pulled itself across the bottom of the tank with bright red tentacles. Largo tapped the glass lightly with a fingernail. Ever since childhood, when a pack of wild hound-like chimeras had terrorized Haxan Green, he’d been fascinated by the strange creatures.
A gray starfish lifted from the bottom of the tank and affixed itself to the glass directly in front of him. As he leaned in close to get a better look, the starfish twisted its limbs and torso into a startlingly accurate imitation of Largo’s face. As he watched, the pink lizard crept up from behind and attacked it, dragging the twitching starfish to the bottom with its red tentacles and devouring it. Largo pulled back in shock. He shook his head—that was the one thing he could never understand about so many chimeras. If people could make them in any shape and with any temperament, why were they so often ugly and savage?
I would make only beautiful ones.
Pieces of the dead starfish floated to the top of the tank.
On his way out of the building, the doorman wanted to check Largo’s pockets to see if he’d stolen anything. Despite being afraid for his job, this was too much. When the doorman reached for him, Largo shoved him back against the building and jumped onto his bicycle. As he pedaled away, he was sure he could hear the doorman cursing him all the way out of Empyrean. He couldn’t help but smile.
From A Popular History of the Proszawan Underworld by Stefan Kreuz
Der Grandiose Kanzler had been an elegant establishment before the war, serving some of the finest food and wine in Lower Proszawa. However, it had fallen on hard times and closed for good after the owner embezzled the remaining funds and eloped with one of the serving girls. A series of lawsuits kept the place shuttered since then.
But not out of business.
Now dubbed Der Fliegende Schwanz, it was a thriving speakeasy on the edge of the Pappen district, where it served the best bootleg whiskey, cocaine, and morphia in the city. Der Fliegende Schwanz was mainly a working-class establishment, but members of the gentry would sometimes visit when they were in the mood to slum for an evening. They were always welcomed with open arms because they had better pockets to pick than the usual rabble.
The bar was a merry place most nights, fueled by drugs and the ubiquitous postwar delirium. It was a gathering spot for war veterans, workers from the armaments factory, laborers from the docks, and prostitutes to drink, tell stories, and make love in the bar’s immense but empty wine cellar. Musicians played for coins all day and night. There was dancing and laughter, but seldom any fights, which was unusual for an underground saloon, with its heady mix of alcohol, drugs, and sex. Perhaps the reason the bar sidestepped so much random violence was a special sort of entertainment it offered its patrons.
A makeshift ring stood at the center of Der Fliegende Schwanz. At the top of each hour two or more Maras—freshly stolen, their functionality modified—fought gladiatorial battles to the death. Most of the purloined Maras came from bluenose families in the city’s most expensive districts, so watching them beat each other with clubs was doubly entertaining. Bookies took bets on the battles and liquor sales always went up because the winners bought the losers a round and the losers bought even more rounds to soothe their aching egos. And the music never stopped. Neither did the laughter, the lovemaking, or the drip of morphia under happy tongues.
Around midnight each night, everything in the bar stopped and the patrons sang obscene, drunken versions of patriotic songs. Many of the men were veterans and had fought in High Proszawa, so after the singing they played a game in which they spat streams of alcohol at photochromes of the Chancellor and the Minister of War nailed to the wall. The players stood behind a line on the floor and the one who came closest or hit the chromes the longest drank free for the rest of the night.
Der Fliegende Schwanz never closed. The party never stopped. The delight never ebbed. Every night was a holiday and every morning a feast. And if, on some nights, the crowds got a bit out of control during the Mara fights and started breaking bottles and glasses, who cared? Like the Maras, they were stolen. Everything was fun and nothing mattered because everyone knew that sooner or later the cannons would boom again and nothing would be fun and everything would matter.
Until then, there was always time for one more drink or one more kiss or one more drop under the tongue.
When Largo returned to work, Herr Branca showed some compassion by not bringing up the call from the doorman immediately. His only acknowledgment came when Largo turned in his receipt book. Branca said, “We’re going to have to do something about your appearance.”
Largo touched his rain-soaked suit and looked at Branca. “Sir?”
“Your clothes. We can’t have the chief courier roaming the streets looking as if he’s just escaped the penitentiary, can we?”
“No. I suppose not.”
“Good. I’m delighted that you approve.”
“But I didn’t think my clothes were that bad.”
Branca filled in some figures on a form. “What you think about these matters doesn’t concern the company.”
“Of course,” said Largo, feeling like a prize pig on the auction block. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”
“Never mind. I’ve arranged that you will soon receive a certain sum of money with which you will purchase clothes and shoes that look a bit less like you stole them from a … what was the word the caller used?”
“Scarecrow?”
“Yes, that’s it. As you saw today, some districts don’t appreciate the working classes begriming their streets. Arrogant bastards. When you’ve acquired your new wardrobe, I’ll want to see it. Under no circumstances will you wear the clothes except on company business. Is that understood?”
“Completely.” Though both knew full well that he was lying.
“Good. Now to the important part. Seeing as how you’re an adult apparently capable of feeding and bathing yourself, please tell me that there is no need for me to accompany you on this excursion.”
Quickly, Largo said, “No, sir. Not necessary at all.” The thought of Herr Branca hovering around him as he tried on pants was horrifying. He remembered what Frau Heller had said. “I even know where to go.”
“Thank heavens. It’s the little mercies that help us sleep at night, don’t you agree?”
“Entirely,” said Largo, not quite certain what he was agreeing with.
“That will be all today. I’ll see you tomorrow promptly at six, yes?”
“On the dot, sir.”
“Very good. And you’re still saying ‘sir’ too much. Work on that.”
“I will,” he said, once more having to choke back the word sir and happy that he managed it.
When