Under the Poppy by Kathe Koja Page B

clerk smells strongly of raw chicory, he is apparently having trouble focusing his eyes on Mr. Arrowsmith, who shakes his head: “Have someone bring tea,” to the rooms upstairs, not his, not Jürgen Vidor’s but another, dimmer, emptier suite, drawn curtains, one table, three men, four chairs and “It is barely noon,” says the colonel in a disapproving mumble, as the serving maid departs, “and that yokel at the desk is already bottled.”
    “Perhaps he drinks to lubricate his wits,” suggests Mr. Arrowsmith. “Or quiet his fears. Tea, General?” to the third man present, who sits at his ease, a raptor’s gathered calm: black uniform fastened in gold, long silver hair, silver ring on his left thumb, black tea for General Georges who nods with the politesse of long acquaintance, waits with the same until Mr. Arrowsmith has poured for himself and then “The weather is against us,” the General says. He has an unexpectedly musical voice, a poet’s voice, an orator’s. “But things will go very quickly, even in the snow. We will not have the passes, we haven’t yet the troops for that, but I am not persuaded that we need them, the railway should suffice. And Essenhigh has the town fully secured, yes, Colonel?”
    The colonel is not a small man, but next to the seated General he seems diminished. “Yes, sir. The men have settled in well.”
    Mr. Arrowsmith sips his tea. “But there was some unpleasantness…? The staff downstairs was all a-buzz.”
    The general leans forward; the colonel scowls: “What unpleasantness?”
    “Apparently a few of your more feral forces amused themselves poorly at a tavern, and were shot dead for their trouble, but not before—”
    “No, it was a commotion at that whorehouse, Under the Poppy: some ill-minded bastard brought in a horse to fuck the girls. First dolls, now a horse! We ought to close that place down.”
    The General blows softly on his tea. “A horse?”
    “From whom have you that intelligence?” asks Mr. Arrowsmith of the colonel, who returns him a level stare and “My men,” he says. “They advise me of everything that passes in town.”
    “A cavalry unit, perhaps?”
    The colonel flushes. “You’re forever defending that cesspool, Arrowsmith, who are you shielding really? The puppet-maker? Or that queer, Bok? I know that you’re friendly with Vidor—”
    “We are all comrades here,” says Mr. Arrowsmith, unsmiling, “all in hopes of a successful outcome, Jürgen Vidor as much as—”
    “Javier,” says the General, with immense courtesy; Mr. Arrowsmith falls silent. The General turns his gaze to the colonel, whose martial stance softens substantially. The room is so quiet one can hear the mantel clock tick, hear the maids passing by in the hall. The silence continues. Finally General Georges asks, “How many of your men were shot, Colonel?”
    “Two.”
    “How many dead?”
    “One.”
    “Any civilians?”
    “No. But they were not my men, sir, they were hill-men, they—”
    “The mercenaries are yours to control as well. Do so. And remember that both Mr. Vidor and Mr. Arrowsmith are essential partners in our efforts, and merit all your courtesy and respect.” There is a knock at the door. “That would be Mr. Vidor now. Admit him, Colonel,” but instead it is the mayor, Redgrave, his attaché quivering in the background, asking for “General Georges, I must see the General. Is he in?” but it is Mr. Arrowsmith who steps into the hallway, the door closing prudently behind as “You motherless idiot,” the General says without emotion to the colonel. “If this was Ghent I’d shoot you myself.”
    “I am sorry, sir.”
    “I have twenty ready and eager to replace you. I have only one Arrowsmith, one Vidor. Do you understand?”
    “Yes, sir. I am sorry, sir.”
    The General looks him up and down as if he were faulty ordnance. “Go to the telegraph, see if my wire’s been returned. Then wait for me in my rooms.”
    The colonel’s