Distraction and Observation (Manifesto)

[Nesrin Aziz]

The Archivist was curiously old-fashioned, exactly as one might predict from the name. Her gaze lingered on the gloves for a beat, vaguely curious. She knew of him, of course, but had never had the opportunity to meet him in the flesh before. But it was the Jackal’s representative she calculated as she took her seat. He didn’t offer a name, and Nesrin only tipped up her shoulder in a dismissive shrug, consenting to the same shroud of anonymity when Lucien paused for it. He gave an acknowledging incline of his head, and continued unperturbed.

When the rep finally spoke the cadence of his accent was unexpectedly familiar, and it was thick enough Nesrin could assume it likely he’d travelled in for the appointment. Cairo was a fractious place, or it had certainly been the last time she was there. If he had any opinions on a woman conducting the meet – especially one dressed as decadently as she was – he did not show it, but it still chilled her a little. Growing up she’d seen more than any young girl should ever be subjected to, and she had a visceral awareness for certain types of danger. The memory slipped in like a ghost, filling her with a brittle caution. None of it showed of course. She couldn’t afford it to.

She was surprised he had no questions. In fact he seemed impatient, like he believed he was on a fool’s errand he would rather be done with. Unnerved by an unwelcome stirring of the past, one she had no inclination to find herself beholden to, Nesrin was glad to hurry it along. But under her fear was the seed of something else. She resented how it made her feel. Not the man himself, who was a stranger, but that his voice sparked something that stripped her bare. A child again.

She agreed to the terms with a nod.

“Very well,” Lucien said when she interjected nothing further, moving his full attention to her in ready expectation.

Nesrin obediently produced the puzzlebox, watching the rep for a reaction as she did so. Paranoia itched her skin but vulnerability was always a difficult wrench. Her gaze moved to Lucien as she held the slender box out to him, her expression still, though inside her heart had begun to speed. She hadn’t had time to figure out the puzzle, after all – didn’t even know what was inside, for all her confident assertion on the auction page that it was a god’s stolen power.

The Archivist removed his gloves with a pleased flourish, each fingertip precise. He folded them neatly beside his wineglass before allowing her to deposit the Key in his open palm.

He was quiet for a moment, running his fingers delicately across its edges. A small smile pursed his lips, and he glanced briefly up at her before he twisted the mechanism. It was a knowing look, but whatever he had discerned was distracted by a silver tube sliding out of the puzzle’s casing. This captured his attention almost immediately, and he deliberated over it with a small furrow between his brow. For a moment he curled it inside his fist, his fingers hovering over sensors, contemplating but not touching. Then his palm flattened out again. “Ah,” he said, apparently to himself.

“There is… organic matter inside. An essence I could not quite describe. How very curious. A receptacle of knowledge, I would call it.

“It is opened like thus –” he demonstrated the gesture he’d made before, not touching his fingertips to the sensor  “– however I would caution this to be performed only by the item’s owner. Save such delights for the eventual purchaser, hmm? A “piece of m’Antinomian” is quite accurate.”

He turned to the Jackal’s man. “Is this explanation sufficient for your needs?”