One cannot sit passively by as the risk to one’s position increases. Doctor David Hume is aware, and thus arrived on time for his appointment with Jakob. On bank business, Jakob welcomes those with whom he has a personal acquaintance to his private office, part of his living quarters, which are situated on the back side of Fugger Trust. Or the front side, depending on one’s perspective.

While the main entrance to the bank can also be used to access these quarters, David is among the rare few that know of, and are welcome to the nondescript door leading to this inner sanctuary, from a back lane, not a stone’s throw from the town square. Some others of close, though dubious relationship, yet still trusted, may enter from within the bank itself to the private office, through a short labyrinth of office hallways. David is a privileged client and friend. He enters through the ass of the bank, or the face of the home, as one may choose to see it.

David is horrorstruck to find Bill Blud in this private office. The walls pulse to the steady drone of his relation of irrelevant events, told sequentially, like linked sausages, and needing no sign of encouragement to continue on indefinitely.

A nod of acknowledgement was offered to the doctor by the inexhaustible orator, but breath could not be spared for a word of greeting, a tricky exposition of events having been encountered in the telling. A silver lining for David, as he will not be drawn in. He sits comfortable in the leather highback stuffed in the corner, and intends to meditate like a Himalayan monk, in perfect inaction for the entirety of Bill.

In due time Red, Lucy, his two girls, their lives, their relationships, their doings in recent days have been recounted to Bill’s satisfaction, leading naturally into a one way conversation on town affairs, of which there is much to cover. The council and their noble pursuits, decisions of high intellect, the leading of men are expounded upon with a touch of whimsical philosophy, before transitioning into the details of bills tabled and passed, exclamations on financial mismanagement, and, of course, his own role in both the council and as the council relates to his business, Blud Brothers.

Bill takes pride in the workmanship of the Brothers, and directs attention to the work been done. There are more than a few of these to relate, much of which the doctor and banker could not have known of otherwise. Most of the work these days is directed by the Wounds, and Bill is not shy to express his thoughts. Bill has his own opinions on Alban, the Wounds, and Lye Hooke. He enjoys sharing, shedding his light of appreciation where he can, and he is not shy in his praise for what he deems praiseworthy. What Bill moved onto from here is unknown, for even the omniscient had lost interest by this point.

Jakob has a subtle rhythmic nod, propelled and sustained by bouncing his back against his swiveler chair from the hips. He has been working on his technique for several minutes already and is perfectly well entertained timing his rhythm to Bill’s monotony. He smiles, his hands quite comfortable on the arms of his chair.

David sits across the room, his face decorated with the blank expression of a costume mask, his eyeballs nicely centred, as if the eyes are not being used at all, and certainly not the ears. One of the other senses is focused on, some feeling, perhaps the tongue inside his mouth and they way it sits there. Observation has limitations, so understanding this blankness is quite impossible, and while conjecture may prove worthless, might still offer some joy.

Somewhere in the stillness the two men become aware that the door has closed and no one is speaking. Bill Blud has left. The air in the room remains charged with tension from his visit. The sound of Bill’s voice still lingers, as if the walls continue to moan with complaint. The silence is broken as Jakob wakes first from his trance. “Bill has a mouth, I’m afraid.”

David shakes free from his own hypnosis. “I’ll find a muzzle to fix him.” “He has his good points.” “He needs an asylum.” “He’s best avoided, not condemned.” “I’ll sneak laudanum into his prescriptions.” “He’s gone now.” “He never shuts up!” “We’re all well aware, David. Let me pour you a finger to wash away the displeasure. One for each of us. We do suffer.”

David rises and moves forward to sit in one of the business chairs across the desk from Jakob. Talk turns to the recent actions of Jakob’s wife. She has committed the Wounds to a loan from Bebbington Bank, a loan at present beyond the means of the movement to repay.

“This is reckless, Jakob. I’m an amateur in the world of finance, but even I can see the problem here. The interest on this Lakes loan will gobble up all profits from the Wounds. And what of the expenses?”

Jakob twitches. Just when the oppression of Bill abates and he breathes a free air, poison is again released. “I’m aware, David. That’s why I denied the loan. Just sign here.”

“Here?” David arms himself with the fountain pen, lying on the sturdy desk, beside only an odd tape measure. “Yes.”

“I hate these fountain pens. I’m afraid I’ll rip the paper. Or a blotch will spill out and ruin the page.” The doctor shakes the fine pen, and a fleck of ink ejects, sails across the desk and hits Jakob in the cheek. “Sorry.”

“It happens from time to time.”

Jakob pushes back his chair, opens a drawer and removes a tissue. He pulls his cheek taut by opening his mouth wide and dabs at his face. Without a mirror on hand, he can’t verify the effectiveness of his work. He was not successful, by any measure. The blotch smears, dying a coin of his cheek blue. Jakob pretends this hasn’t happened, so David follows suit.

“Careful not to smear the paper. One appointment is enough of an inconvenience.”

David eyes the pen before placing it gently to the paper. “Why do you still use these?”

Jakob stays focused on the other poison. “The Bebbington’s can stomach the risk. Did you hear they accepted the Wounds as collateral?” Hume signs where indicated by Jakob’s index finger. The contract survives the doctor’s clumsy signatures.

“I assumed as much. You wouldn’t leverage over your own assets against the Wounds? Anywhere else?” Jakob swivels, papers in hand, around to a filing cabinet behind to his left. “No. So far, this movement is a flash in the pan.” Open and closed, the papers are filed, entering the second trimester of their development, to the general satisfaction of both men.

“We’re in the third season, Jakob.”

“Yes. It’s a good start. What would I do with the Wounds were I to have it? I couldn’t accept it as a base for a deal.”

David doesn’t quite see the Wounds as an asset himself. “Why is it worth anything to the Bebbingtons?”

Jakob sees value, but also a great deal of risk. “All of Skepeta is up for grabs. Still, I’m surprised by their offer. Intimate management of this sort is not usual for a bank above. Maybe he has the aspirations of a king.”

David replaces the pen on the desk beside the tape measure, leans back and pats his lap with satisfaction. “So I’m done? You’ll move the funds up to my other account in the Lakes?”

“Yes.” Jakob strokes his jaw, and pats his pants as well. Now blue ink has stained him in three places. Jakob harrumphs, pushes back again the chair, opens the drawer and withdraws a fist full of tissue, which he employs with a careful vigour.

David suppresses his reaction, but can’t restrain a silent bout of hysterical joy. “Great. Bee, Lye, the Bebbington’s, maybe they’re all right. The projections point up. Another three months on the present trajectory and this loan will look manageable.”

Jakob has dabbed the ink dry, but his pants are stained, as is his left cheek and his right hand. “Town commerce has tripled and at an accelerating pace, no less.”

“Is there room to grow?”

Jakob maintains a martyred good humour, and appreciates that nothing need be said of his coloured disfigurement. “Yes. We lack labour, not something productive to do with it. The mines are still viable assets. Half the value was left in the ground. With an initial investment, we can get a choice mine going again. It only takes one to get the ball rolling, and prove to those above that we’re worth the risk.”

David grapples with the ideas. A large debt can lead to an even larger economic boom. “By improving Falls infrastructure.” The musings are of enough interest for Jakob to forget his predicament. “That’s right. This might work. I’m just not a gambler.”

The tape measure, an unmentioned elephant until this point, is fingered by the doctor like he would in examination of a curious cyst. “What’s this doing here?”

“Bill forgot his tape measure. It was hooked to his belt, but he removed it before he bent over to sign his papers.”

“Does he know how to use it?”

“You’ve never had Bill do work for you, David?”

“No. I’d rather throttle myself.”

“He’ll surprise you. He’s a capable man, despite his unwelcome verbal harassment. Hello, Gregor, come in.” Jakob has awaited this polite wooden knock and opening of the door at the appointed hour. “Have a seat here, Gregor. This will only take a moment.”

Gregor dutifully takes the vacant seat beside David. There are always two, as clients often bring a witness, a confidante, a guarantor. The useless often bring a family member, or even a friend. Gregor has none of these. “Thank you, Jakob. So the documents were fine?”

Gregor twitches with an initial shock, but declines to address the obvious blue stains on Jakob’s face and hands. Maybe when the greeting period is over, he can make a polite observation. Maybe even after the business itself is concluded. Is there a need to mention this, Gregor wonders.

“Yes, yes. It’s all filled out and ready for you to sign.” Jakob swivels back round to the filing cabinet. His fat fingers flutter through a series of files, deftly remove the desired papers, close the cabinet, and flit back to present themselves to Gregor. “Here.”

The papers are placed on the desk facing Gregor, next to the measuring tape. Gregor removes the cap to the pen. Ink runs in a puddle onto the document and the table. Gregor turns the pen against gravity and replaces the cap. “Sorry.”

“Nevermind. Come back again tomorrow. I’ll ready a new set.” Jakob, frantically filling his mitts with tissue from the rapidly opened drawer, begins dabbing intently at the blotches of ink covering the papers, and desk.

“Sorry, Jakob.” A blue hand hides as the papers disappear below the desk with it. “No matter. Tomorrow.”

“Nice to see you, doctor.”

“And you Gregor. Be well.” Gregor shuffles off, not too slowly, closing the door behind him. Jakob’s dabbing is less frantic now, more methodical, requiring minute attention, first this square area, then that, ad infinitum. Jakob removes a second box of tissue, and tosses the empty box, with a clank, into a hidden bin beneath his feet, presumably joining Gregor’s papers in one grave.

David tries to continue a normal conversation, hoping Jakob is still capable. “Our hope for the Wounds relies on one man, Jakob. Lye is the Martyr.”

There’s hope of removing the puddle. “Lye? Not anymore. He’s integral as a front man, and a good manager. But it’s grown.” The ink expands before their very eyes. “The Wounds has taken over so much of life in the Falls. Garbage removal. Transportation.” A stream surges from under the pile of tissue. Intent on causing trouble, the ink streaks across the wood in a delta of stain. Tissue issues forth like leaves to the yard on a windy autumn day. “Bill is so busy with Wounds projects that the council can’t get him to accept contracts for Road Works anymore. Or at least not in a timely manner. A lot of people are involved now. It would continue were Lye to disappear.” Jakob is quite capable of handling conversation and catastrophe at the same time.

David would like to release some of the pressure from the conversational cooker. “What if he pulled down his pants and waggled his penis at the crowd?”

“Haha!” Jakob enjoys the relief. “That might be worse. I think Beatrice could take his spot in a pinch.”

“Would you want that for your wife?”

“Not after he’s done that, no. No. Have you seen some of the devotees in the last month?” Disposing of spent tissue and emptying the second box, Jakob changes tactics. From guerrilla warfare on the flanks, he now attacks with volume, tamping a small hill of tissue into the body of the enemy ink. The white hill shrivels as it absorbs, mutating into a grotesque light blue blob. The blob is finally disposed of below the desk, and all is again right in the world of high finance. Now both hands are blue. But dry. The hands are dry.

David smiles. “I’ve seen some nuts chanting and singing, swaying in a self-induced trance, praying, crying, screaming and talking in tongues. I wouldn’t want to be their messiah. Is that the end of the fountain pen? Have we seen the last of it?”

Jakob doesn’t even consider the option. “No. I like it. Lye shrugs them off. He accepts the donations, and recruits them for some commercial venture back in their home town.” Jakob opens a fresh desk drawer, removes a half full bottle of ink and places it on the table before wielding the offending pen for a final operation.

“Lye is clever. When they come, they bring the Wounds back with them. The documents in the recruiting package include all sorts of advertisement for Falls business.” The pen is expertly disassembled. “The acolytes are aggressive advertisers. When they return, they’ve collated just such a business inventory of their own town, and pass the information to the Wounds. Impressive.” The pen is carefully refilled by sipping from the jar at Jakob’s behest. “Lye is important, but I don’t think we’re entirely in his hands. Not yet. And doesn’t he get more done than the council ever did?” The pen is reassembled, capped, and resumes its rightful position on the desk, next to the alien measuring tape, now stained blue on one side. But dry. Jakob tried his best.

David sees the truth in this. “Fair. But you’re not gambling on it, are you.”

Jakob looks toward a corner of the ceiling, reentering a realm of calculation for a moment. “The reservoir project is an immense undertaking. A lot of labour. A lot of cement. Custom engineering.” That’s enough calculation. Jakob’s gaze returns to the doctor’s still smiling face. “You know, I think Bill’s kid once bit the tip of this pen. He’d said he’d just put it in his mouth, but it’s never been the same since. Another drink, David?”

“Yes. When I get home. Not now.” David is stuck in a box. He doesn’t like kings. Yet Lye, in a few seasons, has indeed made improvements that the town council likely never would have achieved. Something is not right, though. Enough to furrow the brow. “It sounds like you’re championing autocracy over democracy?”

Jakob rejects the accusation. “Praise for Lye is not a helping hand for a tyrant, David. Democracy has obvious flaws. The majority voice drowns out others. It hasn’t the ability to act quickly and decisively. All decisions are a compromise. Undoing damaging policy is difficult. Selfishness corrupts governance from the inside. Lye, as he’s been thus far, is preferable. Superior. Effective. We need the autocracy of the Martyr to get us on the path.”

David thinks, once established, a king is hard to remove. He won’t say so now, as the time has come to depart. David stands. “Let Lye lead the way.”

Swivel swivel. Jakob joins the stand from the opposite side of the desk. “I couldn’t have marshalled this. I couldn’t have rallied the people to a cause.”

“Neither am I the man. The Martyr is a testament to the power of effective marketing.”

“That’s his strength. He can persuade. I’ll walk you to the door, David.”

David Hume puts on his long coat and collects his umbrella, which finds more work as a handy cane than it does preventing the ill effects of sudden rain. “The insurance industry is built on a kind of negative advertising. Insurance appeals to fear.” Through the private halls of Jakob’s home the men walk, with David in front.

Jakob offers from the rear, “Maybe Lye has decided to use his powers for good.”, and David replies, “Is that it? He’s looking quite dapper lately, isn’t he.” The door opens onto the quiet lane and David steps out, while Jakob remains in. Though overcast, the sun is clearly low. Skepeta is covered in a dark shadow. “I don’t begrudge him a percentage, David. Doesn’t he deserve it?”

“Not if he wants to claim the Martyr is a force for good.”

“Well, nothing is truly pure, is it?”

“What if it was? What if just one man in Lye’s position was truly good?”

“Perhaps peace and prosperity are possible. But we’ll never know.”

“You’re a pessimist, David.” David is not sure if it’s true.