[ Tuesday ]
Tuesday's time is valuable. Realistically, taking care of Arthur does not make sense. He dedicates an entire day, twenty-four hours, to minding the baby, and what does it earn him?
A sense of satisfaction, perhaps; but nothing tangible, nothing material. Arthur serves no purpose, at least not yet. He is too young to communicate; he cannot even move about on his own power.
Tuesday could dedicate his time to manufacturing the endless metalwork that Saturday requires for her ridiculous tower, or any other number of orders that the other Trustees send him.
But the fact that he can charge more for his time, and the sense of satisfaction that he gets from seeing Arthur among the treasures in his Pyramid make up for it.
Surely, Tuesday reflects as he shows Arthur the latest toy that he has made for the boy, none of the other Trustees have made such an elaborate and well-stocked nursery as he has.
Arthur burbles happily as he takes the plastic animal from Tuesday and proceeds to dash it against Elephant.
It is a bit irritating that Arthur seems to prefer the toy that he came to the House with: the things that Tuesday manufactures for him are vastly superior, after all. But Tuesday has found that Arthur seems attached to the things he first had - the relatively plain set of blocks and the floppy bear that emits a squeaky noise when squeezed that Thursday first made for him remain Arthur's favourites, no matter what new and increasingly elaborate toys Tuesday gives him on his weekly visits.
Does he find comfort in the familiar, Tuesday wonders.
He spends the entire twenty four hours at Arthur's side, but when the boy is settled for his naps or for the night, Tuesday sits in a comfortable chair beside his crib and fashions various small items from Nothing. Increasingly, he finds himself making toys during this time - and at least one of his Grotesques is out investigating new and exciting toys in the Secondary Realms for Arthur's entertainment these days.
Arthur whimpers, twitching slightly beneath the blanket. Tuesday has made him several blankets already, all with different designs, of course. The current one depicts a yellow elephant and various other improbably coloured jungle animals; he imagines that it must be Arthur's favourite.
"Shh," Tuesday says, setting aside the small firearm that Thursday had commissioned a few days ago. He smoothes a hand over the blond fuzz atop Arthur's head and nudges Elephant closer. Arthur pulls the toy against his side and gradually the baby's frown dissipates.
A telegram appears before him, fluttering at eyelevel before gravity begins to pull it downward. Tuesday frowns and snatches it out of the air; he squints in the half-light as he reads it. Arthur cannot sleep with the lights on fully, and it is a waste of fuel besides.
NOTHING BREACH STOP LOWER NORTH-WEST DOWN TEN STOP REQUIRE IMMEDIATE ASSISSTANCE STOP TAN END
Tuesday peers out the window; the alarms have not yet begun to sound, no distress rockets have been sent up. But he did order those to only be used in the most urgent of situations, particularly on Tuesdays.
Tuesday glances down at Arthur, who remains blissfully asleep. The alarms are loud, though the room is soundproofed; the rockets are bright enough that they would likely wake Arthur. The longer Tuesday tarries, the more likely it is that the alarm will go up.
He cannot allow anyone else into the Pyramid, much less the Tower itself. Not even his Grotesques - he knows that for all that they adore him they also loathe him in equal for the twisted caricatures that they have become. If he cannot even trust his most trusted servants, who remains to take care of Arthur?
He pulls out a blank telegram, quickly dashes off a reply to Tan - COMING SOON STOP GRIM TUESDAY END - and hurries from Arthur's nursery.
"Captain, to me!" he shouts the moment the door closes behind him.
Tom Shelvocke, known as the Mariner, second son of the Architect and the Old One, is arguably the most valuable treasure in Grim Tuesday's possession. Certainly, the Captain was the most difficult to obtain.
His Immaterial boots ring against the metal rungs of the ladder before the Captain passes into view. He comes to a halt before Tuesday, a neutral expression on his face.
"Grim Tuesday."
"Captain. There is a mortal child beyond this door. I trust you have some experience with them," Tuesday says brusquely, ignoring the surprised look on the Captain's face. "I am needed in the Pit. You will watch this child while I am away; I do not anticipate being absent for more than an hour."
The Captain's eyes narrow. "I will do it if my debt will be forgiven," he says.
Tuesday stiffens, straightening to his full height. The Captain is only a few places below him in precedence - one of the first after the Trustees, actually - but it is enough to give Tuesday a few inches of height on him. "Half of it," he says.
The Captain's upper lip curls back. "That is the same as no change," he says coolly. "Considering my debt increases faster than I can pay it off, even if I work without pause."
Tuesday scowls. "I will erase half of your debt and increase your wage to the charge for your room and board," he snaps.
"Fine," the Captain says, and strides past him without another word.
Tuesday should punish him for that disrespect - but what can he do? The Captain's indenture is already eternal; laying further debt upon him would be futile. Putting those thoughts aside, he summons the emergency elevator.
"To North-West Down Ten," he says impatiently.
"At once, Grim Tuesday," the operator's disembodied voice says.
Tuesday sways, though he does not stagger, when the elevator judders into motion. It is not the smoothest ride, but the Far Reaches lies closer to Nothing than it ever has; the elevator shafts are unstable as a result. He will have to reinforce the elevator again.
He prepares a sunburst, cupping the gauntlets around it so none of its light escapes.
"North-West Down Ten," the operator says when the elevator lurches to a halt. The doors slide silently apart and Tuesday strides out without a word.
The sunburst flies from his hand, exploding when it hits the tunnel's roof without a sound. Tuesday is already looking for the source of leaking Nothing. It is not the worst breach that has ever occurred, and the Overseers and indentured workers are diligently fending off the Nithlings that emerge from the crack in the wall, but actually sealing the breach will require the Second Key.
"Report, Tan," Tuesday says, when the short, hunched Grotesque comes up beside him.
"Miners breached the Void approximately an hour ago, master. Immediate action was taken to stem the breach, but it soon became apparent that further assistance was needed. I arrived to see to it, but my sealing already fails. Twenty miners were obliterated when the Nothing first came from the breach."
Tuesday scowls. While the miners are not especially skilled, it is still irritating to hear that he has lost yet more of them. The only consolation is that replacements arrive at a greater rate from his fellow Trustees who lack the credit to pay for his goods. "Very well. Stand aside!" he calls, and his subordinates part before him, pressing against the walls or moving past him.
The gauntlets warm around his hands, as if in anticipation of their use. Tuesday raises his hands, palms out before him, and the Nithlings that remain are destroyed. How many times has he patched a breach into Nothing? He has lost count; he could do it in his sleep. It is a pity that only the Key has the power to do it, else he could leave the task to his Grotesques.
Envisioning the red brick and yellow mortar that makes up the buttresses of the Far Reaches is a simple matter; the gauntlets glow, humming faintly, and the stone of the mine combines with the leaking Nothing to form his wall when he touches the tips of his fingers to them.
"Thank you, master," Tan says, bowing, when Tuesday steps back from the newly-erected wall.
Tuesday scowls at him. "I am docking you a month's pay, Tan. That breach could have waited. You know I am busy on Tuesdays."
Tan does not raise his head. "Apologies, master."
Tuesday turns away and steps back into the elevator. The doors slide shut again behind him, shutting out the darkness and smog of the Pit and leaving him alone in the small, dimly lit room. Fixing the elevator comes as easily as reinforcing the Pit, and soon it is back to its usual state. "Arthur's nursery," he orders, once finished with the repairs.
The Captain is sitting in Tuesday's armchair, singing to Arthur, when the doors open. The light from the elevator is dim enough that it does not alert the Captain to Tuesday's presence, and the Trustee finds himself surprised at how pleasant the Captain's deep voice is. He would have expected musical talent from the Piper, certainly - but not his older brother.
Arthur gurgles, flapping his free hand at Tuesday; the other is, of course, holding Elephant. Tuesday is slightly mollified to see that the squeaky bear is on the Captain's lap, within Arthur's reach. There is a look on the Captain's face, the likes of which Tuesday has never seen, as he gently rocks Arthur.
"That is all, Captain," Tuesday says, taking Arthur from him.
The Captain's face closes off, that forced neutral expression returning. He stands, the bear tumbling to the floor with a single squeak. "Grim Tuesday. I'll return to my record-keeping." He gives Tuesday a stiff nod and lets himself out.