The Deathsniffer’s Assistant (The Faraday Files Book 1) (4 page)

Chris licked his lips, feeling quite exposed under her piercing, ice-blue eyes. “…I’m a wordweaver? I…I responded by mail to an advertisement in the paper a week ago, like the ad said, and was told to come today, at this time. Am I…mistaken?”

“Oh,” the woman said, and then, “
Oh!
Yes, yes, that’s
right
, the wordweaver! I’d completely forgotten that was today.”

“Should I come in, then?”

She laughed merrily. “Hold your unicorns, handsome!”

He took a deep breath, calming his nerves. It wouldn’t do to make a bad impression. This woman was representing his prospective employer. A bad report from her could ruin everything for him.

“Meaning no offense, miss, I’ve been waiting on you. I think I’m owed that much courtesy, at least.”

She stepped to one side and gestured for him. “Fine, fine. Come along.”

“Is Mister Faraday not in?”

She folded her arms, frowning slightly at the question. “No, actually, he’s not. He’s out working on a case. I’m his…assistant, I suppose you could call me. Olivia. I handle interviews and the like, so if you don’t mind, please come inside.”

There was nothing to argue; he did as she requested.

The hallway beyond was lined with doors and was even darker than the main room, lit only by a single lamp hanging on the wall. An impossibly tiny salamander with a sullen red glow crawled along the inside of the glass. It fixed them with a baleful eye as they passed. Rosemary would have opened it up and let the thing play in her hands while she sang it down. He had to admit, the spirits around their home never seemed quite so resentful as this one did.

“I thank you very much for your time, Miss Olivia,” he heard himself saying, going through the practiced motions of courtesy.

“Just Olivia, if you don’t mind!” she chirped. “And what was your name again? Christopher something, I think. Butler? Bennett?”

“Buckley.”

“Yes, that’s right, I remember now! I have a memory like a sieve when it comes to names. And what do you prefer, exactly? Chris? Kit? Chrissy? Oh, that sounds a little girlish, doesn’t it? I’ve heard some use
Topher
, which sounds silly to
me
, but―”

“Buckley is fine,” he interjected. “Mister Buckley.”

She sighed dramatically. When he turned to look at her, she shot him an amused glance. There it was again, that thinly veiled mockery.

“Now,” she said. “I don’t care for that at all. I give you a perfectly good opportunity to put aside the tiresome formalities, and yet you immediately grab them back and wrap them around you like a blanket.”

Chris struggled not to be stung. He searched for a decent reply, and fell back on what he’d been quoting at Rosemary for almost six years. “My father used to say that rules are what separates men from elementals. That we can only bind them because our order can overpower their chaos. And
I
believe that courtesy is just another layer of rules…and that it’s always better to have too many than too few.”

“Hmm,” Olivia mused.

He thought he’d made an impression. Then she barked a harsh laugh. “What a bunch of poppycock.” Before he could react, she brushed past him and pushed another door open.

It revealed a cozy-looking study. Unlike the rest of the building, it was brightly illuminated by light streaming in from grand windows that filled the entire back wall. A large, oaken desk sat in the centre, a rich-looking carpet on the floor, and all the walls were filled top to bottom with books. Everything smelled of leather and paper and ink.

Olivia breezed past him, maneuvering around the desk and plopping herself into the seat behind it. She fumbled with some papers, eyes shrewdly scanning lines of words, and all the while Chris stood just outside the door, waiting helplessly for an invitation to enter.

It seemed as though an hour crawled by before Olivia glanced up, frowned at him, and jabbed a finger at the unoccupied chair in the corner. “Well, don’t just stand there like an idiot.”

He obeyed, his face heating.

She barely looked up from her pages. “Tell me about your past experience.”

Not a good start. “I…don’t have any.”

Her eyebrow climbed her forehead. “You haven’t worked before?”

“No.”

“
Never
?”

“…n-no.”

“Well,
that’s
unfortunate.”

“I’ve only been categorized very recently,” he hurried to explain. “I just moved out of mandatory training three months ago.”

“Yes,
Mister
Buckley, I can tell. You have the face of a particularly pretty baby.”

He felt about a foot tall, and she still wasn’t even looking at him. He made a show of straightening to his full height, puffing out his chest indignantly. “I’m nineteen! That isn’t so young.”

She smirked at her papers. “So say all people too young to know any better.”

He bit his tongue down against his protests. He should attempt to foster a feeling of companionship between them. Build a rapport. “My parents died six years ago,” he said. “In the Floating Castle Incident. Michael Buckley was my father. You may have heard of him. He was tied to the project?”

She gave no indication of having heard. He pushed on.

“I’m from a long line of talented spiritbinders. Very wealthy. Or rather…well, we used to be. Thing weren’t looking so wonderful even before they died, and since then we’ve been living off savings.” He offered a small smile. “It’s…been tight, from time to time.”

“Mister Faraday isn’t interested in your personal history, and neither am I.” She dismissed his words with a wave of her hand.

He felt as competent as a fish flopping about on a dock, and just as stupid looking. None of his other interviewers had told him not to talk about himself. Was that why they hadn’t offered him a fair wage? Had they all been internally reacting like this woman?

In the time he took to try and pull his face back together, she barely paused, merely kept speaking. “What Mister Faraday
is
interested in is someone who can keep records for him. Can you keep records, Mister Buckley?”

He had a moment of confusion through his mortification. “Isn’t that something
you
would do?”

She looked up to flash him a humorless, toothy smile. “I’m not talking about keeping the books, filling out forms, writing official letters―though that will be a part of it. No, what Mister Faraday
really
wants is someone who can transcribe what he’s thinking as quickly as he can voice it. He needs someone who can record what’s happening
as
it happens, as exhaustively as humanly possible. He can sometimes forget details and he wants to be able to check things accurately later. I’m not a wordweaver. I can’t do that.”

Chris turned up his chin. “Well.
I
can.”

“How fast are you?”

“Fast,” he said with some pride. Of all the proficiencies one could be categorized as, wordweaving was one of the basest. The Academy’s official stance was that all were equal, but they hadn’t even tried to conceal their sympathetic looks when they’d printed his categorization card. Authorized for little more than low level clerical work or rubbing shoulders with rough tradesmen in engraving, it was as menial as one could get. Some wordweavers performed well enough as fiction writers, but it was at the bottom of the authorized profession list―and tended to pay abysmally when it paid at all. Not that it mattered. Chris’s creative abilities were nonexistent.

His situation was far from ideal. Michael Buckley would have been ashamed to see his only son categorized as a wordweaver, especially when he’d failed interview after interview for the simplest scribing positions. But if there was nothing else, at least he could say he was
good
at it. He could have one hundred words on a page while others were still on their fifth.

“I’m going to need to see a demonstration.” Olivia picked up a pen from the desk and dipped it in ink. It scratched along the paper as she scribbled something down. He hoped it was something flattering. If it was about him at all. “What about your stomach?”

“My stomach?”

“Are you
queasy
?”

Chris frowned. “Not…at the moment?”

Olivia sighed dramatically, laying the pen aside and fixing him with a long-suffering stare. “Mister Faraday works exclusively with
murders
. Brutal and bloody killings. He sees very unpleasant things in his line of work. A strong stomach is absolutely necessary.” She arched an eyebrow, smiling. “Do you faint at the sight of blood, Mister Buckley?”

“
No
,” Chris insisted, more forcefully than he’d intended. But her voice, that pitch of teasing suggestion…it was like she’d implied he was a swooning lady. He set his jaw. “My stomach is strong enough for whatever Mister Faraday wants me to look at, I assure you.”

She smiled devilishly, leaning back in the chair. “I’ll just have to take your word for it. Those are really the two most important things, I suppose. Can you handle what you see? Can you work very fast? There are other things that help. Patience with long periods of boredom, being constantly on call, having half a brain to bounce ideas off. But…well, Mister Faraday isn’t picky in hiring. He can’t really afford to be. This happens
every
time he needs to replace his secretary. Did you know, Christopher? You’re the only person to reply to his advertisement at all.”

“Mister Buckley, if you please. And, well, that’s―” Chris began, and then quickly silenced himself. He gave her a smile to smooth his error down and apologize for his quick words. It felt shaky on his lips.

Olivia tilted her head to one side, sending her hair sliding off her shoulder like a sheet of ice. “That’s
what
?” she demanded.

“…That’s…well, that’s…because he’s a Deathsniffer,” Chris said hesitantly. “Not just a truthsniffer. He seeks out murders. Only murdrers. Because he wants to, no other reason. And…and if that weren’t bad enough―and it is, there aren’t many who’re going to leap into an arrangement with one of those. Naturally. But…well, but Mister Faraday isn’t even shy about
announcing
it. Printed right on his card, in his advertisement, on his sign. ‘Deathsniffer,’ bold as anything. It makes people
curious
, but”―he shrugged one shoulder awkwardly―“it makes them nervous.”

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “And what about you? Does it make
you
nervous?”

“I’m people, aren’t I?”

She beamed like a little girl given cotton candy. “Oh, now, but here you are, standing in this office! How
fascinating
!”

“I need the work,” he admitted. “I’m living on a limited supply of money, and supporting my sister, as well. It
will
run out. It’s
already
running out. My financial adviser insists I find employment, and fast, or we’ll need to sell our family home.” He paused, searching for the right words. Olivia watched him intently. “I…I can’t say that Mister Faraday’s frankness about all of this doesn’t make me uncomfortable. It does. Very much. I’m sure you can understand that, Miss Olivia. But I can admire…some bluntness, when it’s not just a cloak for being rude. There are plenty of Deathsniffers in Darrington, but they all try to deny it. Pretend they’re just normal truthsniffers who just happen to specialize. Maybe the only one willing to just call himself that is the best.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Maybe.”

Olivia twirled her pen thoughtfully. “Do you hold Mister Faraday in
contempt
?”

“I think it’s an important job that few people really want to do.”

Her smile was thin. “Just like…cleaning latrines!” There was a joyous tune to her words, but they were clearly delivered as a challenge.

His nerves clattered and he tried to collect himself. “Not like that. I don’t look
down
on it, not at all. After all.” He smiled ruefully. “It’s a more noble calling than what
I’m
going to be doing.”

“But you do realize there’s a stigma by association? Every time you’re seen with Mister Faraday, every time you walk into this building, every time someone sees you dogging his heels faithfully, they’ll all say the same thing. Oh, there he goes. The Deathsniffer’s little assistant. You take that stigma onto
yourself
. Don’t think you’re exempt from it just because you aren’t him.”

He laughed weakly. “You would know, wouldn’t you?” He ducked his head, ashamed. “Miss Olivia, I…I
need
the work. As I said. The rest doesn’t really matter, does it? With the state of Tarlish affairs, I can’t afford to be picky.”

She stared for a very long time. A bead of sweat crawled between his shoulder blades. He was certain she was reading him like only his mother ever could, seeing deep and drawing it all out. He shivered.

Abruptly, she stood up from her chair, grabbing a small, black, leather-bound book. She stepped out from behind the desk and crossed the room. Handed him the book. “Show me how fast you go,” she said.

He swallowed the feeling of exposure. “…what do I write?” he asked, flipping open the first page. It was clean and white and empty.

“Anything. Describe the room. Describe me! Or just transcribe your thoughts. To be honest, I absolutely do not care. Just show me you can go as fast as you say you can.”

He licked his lips, staring down at the page, and tried to gather his thoughts into order. That was the difficult part, he’d found. He went
so
fast there was barely time to organize or separate what was pouring onto the page, so in the midst of a list of things he needed to get from the market, there was always a wisp of himself stirred in.
Tomatoes, Eggs, Threadwonderifthegirlwill, Milkbethere
. He decided to describe himself, instead of any of her suggestions. It was least likely to contain traces of
just what in the three hells is her problem
or
Gods, why the fog in front?
He built the image of himself up from his reflection as he’d studied it that morning, and then he sharpened the edge of his thought, took a deep breath, and focused it down on the page.

slender blond fairly attractive at least I’m usually called so I think they’re probably right always wear spectacles can’t see anything far away part my hair down the middle wear it combed down but mother’s curls are always getting loose and