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"This meeting had better be worth it," Anton grumbled as Petr dragged him down the busy street. "Monica is busy enough with the baby — she doesn't need me running off for a drink in the middle of a Saturday afternoon."
"I'm telling you, Anton, this guy is the new up-and-coming hotshot in the USP!" Petr checked the business card in his hand again — the address where they were supposed to meet was written on the back in a looping, graceful script. "After you, of course."
"I don't feel like an up-and-coming anything right now," Anton said with a yawn. "I just feel like a nap."
"Hey, don't you dare try to sleep on me," Petr warned. "I've been running my ass off trying to set up meetings for you while you've been lazing around at home. Trust me, this is the man we need."
"Lazing around?" Anton stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to express his outrage, ignoring the irritated pedestrians that had to detour around them. It was a gorgeous late spring day and the streets of the Maroon District were absolutely packed with Holsordians of all ages. "Ha! You have no idea what it's like to have a newborn screaming down the whole building every two hours."
"Sure, sure, whatever you say, keep moving," Petr said, rolling his eyes and tugging on Anton's arm. "This is not the kind of meeting we want to be late for."
"When you finally stop screwing around and give Evelyn the baby I know she wants, you'll understand," Anton continued, allowing Petr to pull him along by the elbow.
Petr was suddenly very glad that he was leading the way and Anton couldn't see his face. Evelyn's monthlies had come two days ago — he only knew because her sanitary belt had reappeared in the bathroom. Six months ago, she would have come to him and they might have cried together, another month's hopes and dreams brought to a stark end. After a year and a half of trying, they barely spoke of it anymore.
"You know me," Petr said, forcing an airy laugh. "Having too much fun to settle down. Besides, Evelyn is doing so well at the Post. She's quite the career girl now."
"She must be! Monica says she hasn't even been by to see Franc yet." Anton yawned again. "God, I'm sorry. I really am beat." He rubbed his eyes. "Monica did tell me to thank you both again for the gift — I've never seen such a giant stuffed rabbit!"
"Of course — only the best for my little nephew!" Petr looked up at the street sign, happy for the distraction. "Oh, I think this is the right street. We need to cross here." As they waited for the light, he changed the subject back to their upcoming meeting. "So he's a Trident League-educated lawyer, been doing mostly PR work in Lachaven until he moved to Holsord last year. I know he's current legal counsel to Ionas Crona and Julian Fischer, among others — there's talk Fischer is going to be picked for Interior, you know."
"Lachaven." Anton made a dismissive gesture. "Not exactly the center of the universe." The light changed, and they started making their way across the street.
"Maybe not to you, Holsord boy, but Lachaven is definitely the center of the business world these days. Not to mention the arts." Petr checked the number on the first shop they passed, a bakery. "342…we must be almost there — ah, there he is!"
"All right, let's get this over with," Anton muttered and Petr elbowed him in the ribs.
"Oh." He leaned toward Anton to whisper in his ear. "I forgot to tell you, he has this scar —"
"Mr. Vectern." The man who had been waiting on the bench in front of the bar folded his newspaper and stood, holding out his hand. "Very nice to see you again."
"You as well, sir." They shook hands briefly, and Petr gestured at Anton. "Mr. Galade, please allow me to introduce Anton Rayne. Anton, this is Lucian Galade."
"Mr. Galade, a pleasure," Anton said with a warm, practiced smile as he clasped Galade's hand firmly. "I've heard so much about you — you've certainly created quite a stir in the USP."
"Likewise, Mr. Rayne." Lucian Galade was a small, bearded man whose well-tailored charcoal suit still read more Lachaven corporate lawyer than Holsord bureaucrat. "And I understand congratulations are in order?"
"Thank you, yes." Anton's smile became more genuine. "My boy Franc was born a month ago."
"My best wishes to Mrs. Rayne — I hope the she and the child are doing well," Galade said, pushing open the door to the pub and holding it for them both. "Please, after you, gentlemen."
Once they were inside and taking their hats off, Petr saw Anton register the scar. Galade was about forty, sharp-featured and serious, and the left side of his face was dominated by a deep, jagged scar that ran from the corner of his eye down his cheek. Petr wondered if he had grown the beard in an attempt to draw attention away from it.
The lounge was fairly busy but Galade indicated a small table in the back corner and headed for it, moving through the crowd like a shark. Petr noticed that he went straight for the chair against the wall, where he had a clear view of the entrance. Anton slid into the seat across from him.
"I'll just run up to the bar and get our drinks now," Petr said, leaning on the back of the other chair. "Anton, beer?" Anton nodded. "Mr. Galade?"
"Just water, please," he said. "Thank you, Mr. Vectern." Petr weaved through the crowd making his way over to the bar, and then had to wait for what seemed like half of Holsord State's track and field team to finish ordering. By the time he got back to their table, a beer in each hand and a glass of water tucked in the crook of his elbow, the other men were deep in discussion.
Well, Anton was.
" — the book that Monica — sorry, that's my wife — took out from the library says that the earliest babies will roll over is around three months, and that's at the very earliest, you know, most are around four to six months, but you wouldn't believe how strong this little fellow is, he's been holding up his head already so well, I think it's going to happen any day now —"
Galade was listening to this onslaught with a faint smile, his chin propped on his hand, making small conversational noises at appropriate intervals.
For fuck's sake. Petr hurried to set the drinks down, splashing a little of one of the beers on the table in his haste.
"— unfortunately we only have the one picture from the hospital right now, but I just sent off more to be developed —" To Petr's horror, Anton was digging in his jacket pocket for his wallet, ready to pull out Franc's picture.
"Anton, I'm sure Mr. Galade doesn't —"
"A very handsome child indeed," Galade proclaimed solemnly, nodding his head at the photo of the sleeping newborn who looked exactly like every other sleeping newborn Petr had ever seen. He handed it back to Anton after a respectful interval. "I'm sure he has a bright future ahead of him. Just like his father."
Petr was about to grab that lifeline for what it was, a subtle opening to get their conversation back on track, but Anton barreled forward.
"Do you have children, Mr. Galade?" he asked. Galade shook his head.
"No, unfortunately," he replied, very smoothly, and Petr got the feeling he didn't think it was unfortunate at all. "I'm not married."
That was interesting information, and Petr filed it away for later. Galade wasn't a good-looking guy by any means, but he was a clearly well-to-do lawyer with posh manners, nice taste in clothes, and a speaking voice that even Petr had to admit was compelling. If he had wanted a wife, he could have had one.
"Here are your drinks, gentlemen," Petr announced, pushing the water glass toward Mr. Galade. "Anton, drink up, my friend." While Anton was occupied with taking the first careful gulp from his full pint glass, Petr charged forward. "We'd like to thank you again for meeting with us, Mr. Galade," he said with a nod. "I'm sure you're very busy — we've been watching the work you're doing in the party with interest. I've been hearing talk that you're slated to be the next spokesman for the USNC?" The current spokesman of the United Sordland National Committee, who had served in that position throughout Colonel Soll's second term, was currently being investigated for a scandal involving kickbacks from various MPs. Everything was being handled very quietly, but there was no doubt that the position was going to need filling soon.
Galade inclined his head modestly. "It's too soon to say for sure. It would certainly be an honor to be chosen."
Anton set down his beer, looking at Galade curiously. "It seems to me, sir, that you've already acquired an impressive array of contacts here in the capital. What's your interest in a couple of junior MPs like us?"
"Anton!"
"It's a fair question, Mr. Vectern," Galade said, shaking his head. "What I see in you, Mr. Rayne, is potential. Untapped, boundless potential. I think, with the guidance of someone with my skills, you can go further in the USP than you might have ever imagined."
Petr couldn't help but notice that he hadn't been included in that glowing assessment. He glanced over at Anton, who looked spellbound by Galade's words.
"And what are your skills, exactly?" Petr asked.
"To spare us all from running through my entire CV right now, I'm essentially a high-level strategist." Galade leaned back in his chair, steepling his hands under his chin. "Policy analysis, crisis management, developing behind-the-scenes connections, handling the press, crafting a message that resonates with the public…" He shrugged. "Really, I'm very adaptable."
Anton and Petr exchanged a quick glance, and then Anton began to speak, his voice low and serious.
"As you probably know, this is my second term in the Assembly, and Petr's first. I know we're young, but I'm very interested in building our support and someday breaking into that inner circle."
"You're an ambitious man," Galade observed, and Petr saw Anton's face flush. "Please, I don't mean it as an insult. Ambition is a tool to be used, like any other."
"Mr. Galade, I truly want to be able to do what's best for our country," Anton explained earnestly. "The only way I can see to do that is to rise through the ranks of the USP."
Galade nodded. "I understand you perfectly, Mr. Rayne. I'm also looking ahead to the future. The future of the USP…no, the future of Sordland." He spoke very softly, and Petr and Anton both leaned in to hear him. "One day, inevitably, the colonel and all the old men surrounding him will be gone — maybe due simply to the passage of time, maybe due to the vagaries of politics." Petr felt a frisson of anxiety from just listening to such talk in public, and fought the urge to look behind him. "Then it will be our time. We just need to ensure we're in the right position when that happens." Galade gave a sharp little smile, and then raised his voice to a more normal conversational tone. "But for that we will need a long-term strategy. That's where I come in." They sat quietly for a moment, taking in everything that had just been said. Then Anton suddenly broke the silence.
"All this talk of strategy has me curious — are you a chess player, Mr. Galade?" Galade's face lit up at the question.
"I am indeed, sir. Do you play?"
"I do, but I'm still very much a beginner," Anton hedged. Galade looked utterly delighted by the response, more animated than Petr had seen him thus far.
"He's being modest," Petr put in loyally. "He beats me soundly every time."
Galade's gaze flickered from Anton to Petr briefly. "Quite a feat, no doubt." His tone was so dry that Petr couldn't be sure he was being insulted.
"Maybe we could play some time," Anton offered, and Galade smiled.
"I look forward to it."
Petr drained the rest of his pint and considered going for another, but thought better of it. He instead patted his pockets, searching for his cigarettes. "Hey, Anton…"
Anton turned away from Galade and saw what he was doing, rolling his eyes fondly. "Hold on." He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a pack. "I haven't been smoking as much lately — Monica doesn't like it inside around the baby." He knocked out a cigarette for Petr, and proffered the pack to Galade.
"Thank you, but no," he replied politely.
"You don't mind, though?" Poised to pull out his own cigarette, Anton hesitated, and Galade waved the question off.
"Not at all."
Anton put the cigarette between his lips, and began digging in his pocket before giving up with a sigh. "Petr, do you have your lighter?"
"No, I think I left it on my desk —"
Galade, his face absolutely impassive, caught the eye of the cigarette girl working the other side of the room and beckoned her over. She smiled broadly when she saw the three of them, and sashayed up to the table with her tray.
"Good evening, gentlemen," she said, looking around the table speculatively. "What can I do for you?" Petr straightened up in his seat a little — she was a tall redhead with an absolutely knockout figure. Even Anton, lost in his haze of domestic bliss, was sneaking some appreciative looks.
"Well," Petr began, leaning forward with his most winsome smile, "I can think of a few things, but what did you have in—"
"Do you have any matches?" Galade cut in brusquely. The girl's cheerful expression didn't waver, and she pulled a matchbook emblazoned with the name of the bar from her tray.
"Sure do!" she said brightly, handing it to him. "These are on the house. Can I also interest you in one of these fine Lespian cigars, sir? You fellows look like you're celebrating something." She'd clearly decided that Galade, despite his obvious lack of interest, was the best bet of their trio to have any actual money to spend.
"We are, actually!" Petr threw an arm around Anton, clapping him on the shoulder. "Our friend Anton here, he —"
"We won't be needing anything else, thank you." Galade plucked a crisp banknote from his wallet and folded it over before handing it to the girl. She glanced down at it quickly, taking note of the denomination, and suddenly her smile became even brighter.
"Absolutely, sir, happy to help." She tucked the tip in her pocket and hurried away on those lovely long legs, an extra spring in her step. Forlorn, Petr watched her go. Galade, he noticed, hadn't actually looked at her once.
"Mr. Rayne," he said, pulling a match from the book and striking it. "Here you are." He cupped his hand around the little flame, watching as Anton leaned forward to light his cigarette, and then shook the match out.
"Thank you," Anton said, after he exhaled, and Galade inclined his head.
"Hey, can I get —" Without bothering to take his eyes off Anton, Galade pushed the matchbook across the table in Petr's direction. "Uh, thanks." So that's how it was going to be.
Petr lit his own cigarette and took a deep drag, regarding Galade thoughtfully as he blew out the smoke. Definitely not interested in women, seemingly captivated by Anton — most likely homosexual. That didn't matter at all to Petr — to his mind, it just meant less competition. But it did tend to leave one susceptible to blackmail, which perhaps offered an explanation for Galade's guarded manner and shadowy past.
"Your wife, Mr. Vectern," Galade said suddenly, putting a delicate emphasis on the word 'wife,' and Petr jumped a bit in his seat, irrationally afraid that the man had been reading his thoughts. "She's a reporter for the Post, yes?"
"Uh, yes, she is," Petr replied, wondering where his sudden feeling of unease had come from. He tried to exchange another glance with Anton, but his friend was busy taking a gulp of his own beer with no apparent concern. "How did you know —"
One corner of Galade's mouth quirked up. "I keep my ear to the ground, that's all. I like to be informed about people I'm considering working with." He took a small sip of water and placed the glass carefully on the table. "It could be advantageous to have someone on our side at the capital's most prominent daily paper."
"Hey, sorry, but no," Petr said firmly. "Evelyn takes her journalistic ethics very seriously. Besides, she's pretty much only on the ladies' beat — fashion, recipes, tips for housewives, that sort of thing."
"I'm certainly not suggesting anything unethical." Galade waved a dismissive hand. "Nothing untruthful, nothing unfair. But when our news outlets are so firmly in the control of the establishment, we may have to take every opportunity that presents itself." He gave a wry shrug. "And she may not always be on the ladies' beat, you know. Times seem to be changing. Look at the progress women have been making in the political arena. There's Miss Graf, who is likely to be the next mayor of Arvory, and that new lady MP from Vesord — Mrs. Tory? Mr. Fischer, whom I've been working with for a while, is most impressed by her. He may well tap her as an advisor."
"So Fischer is getting picked for Interior?" Petr asked, and Galade lifted his eyebrows.
"I'm afraid that's not something I'm at liberty to discuss," he replied, in a tone that clearly said yes.
"Of course, we understand." Anton's tone was smooth and professional, but Petr could see the way his leg bounced excitedly under the table.
Galade took another sip from his water glass and checked his watch with a slight grimace.
"Unfortunately, gentlemen, I have another engagement in a half-hour so I do have to be going." He looked at Anton directly. "So what do you say, Mr. Rayne? Are you interested in finding future opportunities to collaborate?"
"Yes," Anton said without hesitation. "Yes, most definitely."
Galade smiled again, a bright, fleeting thing. "Excellent. I'm pleased to hear it." He pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to Anton. "I'm not in my office all that often, but my secretary typically knows where to find me if anything urgent comes up. Please, feel free to call at any time."
He stood, buttoning his jacket, and Petr and Anton hastily followed suit.
"Thanks so much for taking the time to talk with us," Petr said, sticking his hand out again. Galade shook it, somehow managing to give the impression that he was looking down his nose at Petr even though he was at least half a head shorter.
"Thank you for setting it up, Mr. Vectern," he said. "A fruitful meeting for all parties, I think." He turned to Anton, giving him another firm handshake. "Mr. Rayne, truly a pleasure. Again, my best wishes to your family. I'll be in touch." He put his hat on, bowed slightly, and headed for the door. Petr and Anton watched him go.
"Well," Anton said finally, sitting back down and lighting another cigarette. "I guess that went pretty well. You think we'll hear from him again?"
"Yeah," Petr said, still feeling vaguely unsettled. "I have a feeling we will."
"Impressive guy." Anton took a deep drag. "Even a bit intimidating, maybe."
Petr laughed a little, shaking his head. "I don't think you have anything to worry about."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing." Petr grabbed Anton's cigarettes and fished out another for himself. Anton chuckled, gesturing for Petr to help himself as he drained the last dregs of his beer. "So," Petr said, "shall we move over to the bar and have a real drink now?"
"Sorry, I can't." Anton looked truly apologetic. "I promised Monica I'd be home as soon as possible — and I don't want to go back to the baby smelling like liquor." He paused, and then spoke in a softer tone. "Maybe you should leave too, Petr. I'm sure Evelyn would love to have you home early on a Saturday night."
"Yeah…yeah, you're probably right." Petr smiled at his best friend. "Let's get out of here."
As they made their way through the crowd back to entrance, Petr caught sight of the redhead again, handing her tray off to another girl and heading to the bar. It looked like she was going on a break.
"You know what?" Petr stopped, putting his hand to his stomach. "That beer went right through me. I'm going to use the washroom before I head home. You go on ahead, I know you want to get back to Monica and Franc."
"You sure?" Anton asked, looking from Petr to the door with a wistful expression.
"Completely," Petr assured him with a warm smile. "I'll call you tomorrow — we can go over all of this in detail."
"Sounds good, Petr, I'll talk to you tomorrow." Anton clapped him on the back, drawing him into a quick half embrace. "Thank you for this, seriously. I really have a good feeling about all of this. Like it's the start of something important."
Petr watched as Anton walked out the door, disappearing back on to the busy streets of Holsord, and then turned his attention back to the bar. Miraculously, the stool next to the redhead had just opened up. Putting everything else out of mind, he hurried over and sat next to her, signaling the bartender for a whiskey.
"Well, hello again!" he said, turning to her with a smile. "Do you come here often?"
—end—