The Marquis de Carabas considered himself a man of his word.
His many successful dealings in favours had made him an impenetrable force, just short of a king in London Below, and undoubtedly the one and true master of trades and shiny bits left lying about all willy-nilly. Such a man should not, would not ever need to perform a service for another just as sure as his coat had pockets and provided his many insurances of varying solidity held out.
Up until recently, such partnerships had in fact proved just sturdy enough for the Marquis to tiptoe gingerly about the Underside, avoiding the larger spats between baronies and keeping well away from any responsibility that might be unwittingly thrust upon him.
This was, until a certain character from his past decided to cash in their favour.
As previously stated, it was not common for the Marquis to be the one performing the favours. In his agreements, he made sure to keep the upper hand at all times, unless of course it was advantageous to briefly slide his neck under the knife (which, most unsurprisingly, this was often not advantageous at all). Only a select few would ever be lucky enough to have a favour owed to them by the Marquis, and even fewer would ever hear from him again after the fact.
So, one can imagine the Marquis de Carabas' surprise at encountering a slightly grimy looking pigeon carrying an equally grimy letter about its leg as he made his way back from Raven's Court. The Marquis paused in his picking the dark feathers from his lapel and stood before the bird.
"Why, a letter for me?"
The pigeon cooed apathetically and twitched its leg in a silent plea for him to hurry things along. The Marquis obliged and bent down in the crowded station to unfasten the paper. It cooed again as he stood, its feathers already ruffling in preparation for flight. The Marquis observed the spiralling penmanship across the front of the filthy envelope with a mixture of curiosity and revulsion, and upon turning it over, almost fell into the tracks.
"Pardon me, but this must be a mistake"
The bird shimmied slightly in what the Marquis guessed was a shrug. It took off into the station and disappeared over the heads of the commuters from the Above, leaving him to gape after its meandering path.
As the Marquis fingers tightened about the thick paper, there came a thought into his head, which went as follows; there comes a point in one's life when one is presented with several choices and a heaping pile of difficult decisions. Some may seem much more dreadful and difficult than the others, but there always presents itself a saving grace, a certain 'easy way out' of which the Marquis was quite fond. However, there may also come a time when such luck is impossible to detect, and we find ourselves stuck contemplating our measly choices with teary eyes and clenched fists.
This was one such occasion for the Marquis de Carabas, as he knew even before opening the detestable correspondence that his choices were limited and that none were sure to be agreeable. However, he would not be one to cry or become enraged. In fact, he knew exactly what needed to be done.
The Marquis closed his gaping mouth, tore off the gleaming silver seal and read.
Dearest Marquis,
As you well know by now, there is nothing I hate more than delays in the delegation of orders and any inexactitude in general. Therefore, due to this fact as well as a significant lack of time and patience on my part, I will skip the pleasantries and get down to the point of why I am writing to you.
As you must remember (for you seldom forget your failures) you owe me quite the large favour. I must ask that you not attempt to evade this fact, for as you surely know, I have eyes and ears throughout London Below and Above.
The Marquis sniffed contemptuously at this. It was true, the writer did have certain connections that even he himself could not boast, although it was surely an exaggeration to say that such connections were in London Above. None of them, not even the writer of the god-forsaken letter, could maintain such extraneous liaisons. Still, he pressed on.
I will spare you the recollection of your missteps, although it would please me to no end to recount them. If you would be so kind as to meet me in the next floating market, I would be much obliged (of course, as you well know, this is not an invitation but an order. Meet me in the market or you will find yourself in quite the sticky situation)
I hope this letter finds you in good health (or poor. It makes no difference to me)
Most insincerely,
Iago de Montparlant
The Marquis read the letter. He read it a second time, just to be sure that his eyes did not deceive. Then, he crumpled the paper, shoved it in his pocket, took a breath, and began to walk towards the Earl's Court.
...
Iago de Montparlant was not a man of his word. In fact, he was not quite a man at all, what with his plumed physique, golden eyes and set of rather sharp-looking talons at the ends of scaly feet. The webbed fingers and gills didn't help either; nor did his garbled speech and spiny tail. Yes, to call Iago de Montparlant a man would be a gross inaccuracy; something the creature himself would not tolerate on any front.
"Has the Marquis received our letter?"
The pigeon cooed emphatically. Iago nodded, seemingly in understanding.
"Yes… Good, I must make preparations then. The floating market is in two days' time, I'll need my wits about me when we meet"
He rose from the makeshift writing desk and peered over the edge of the grimy window, down to the streets below.
The residence of the barony Montparlant was quite the unusual one. While most citizens of the Below preferred to keep to the sewers and abandoned areas, Iago's predecessors had favoured the skies, and had long since set up their many encampments on the tops of buildings spanning the city. Structures such as the Tower of London, Big Ben, The Shard and many others held several settlements and hidey-holes maintained and protected by the Montparlant family. Each bore the family crest proudly on the entrance doors; a silver gilded bird perched on a reed, its slanted beak dipped gracefully over a rushing stream.
Iago recalled this family history as he looked down on the city from his tiny sanctuary and felt an assurance and pride in his lineage as well as the astute pangs of vertigo.
It was said the floating market would be held in the Royal Opera House. Of course, to get there Iago would have to descend from his exalted home and enter the sewers with his fellow outcast brethren. The following 24 hours after his descent would be difficult to endure but not impossible, especially considering the reward waiting for him at the market.
"The Marquis will turn up… He can't possibly be that deluded," he mused to himself.
Turning his attention back to the desk, Iago took up the rotary phone and dialled a number. After a beat, the person on the other line picked up. Iago gave a toothy, cold grin.
"I'm on my way. We'll have what we need soon enough, I have just the man for the job…"
