Disturbing times upon the Floating Rialto; a riot erupted at the Reeve’s Tower and many were vouged until the mob was quelled. A swaggering roister hoisted the Tattered Banner at the Lower Barbican and a great tumult ensued. I was near set upon but evaded pursuit in the Ballustrades and will take more care in the future. Names have been carved for less and none the wiser.

I awoke this morning to find a guisarme buried in my door; my first thought was that it was a mere bill, albeit of a recurved and hooked sort. A secondary glance revealed the essential guisarme-ness of the polearm. Questions are arisen. Surely I am not worthy of such blatant assassinery? I shall throw a silver groat to the Bravo on the bridge this forenoon and ask his views upon my near vouging.

Whither aardvarkery?

What news from the North, they cry? None good and such is the rub - a tercio of bravos has returned, decimated save for a few tatterdemalions who sit swaggering at the gates, irate in their shabby finery and expectorating upon passerby, noble and gutterpicker alike. What to steps to curb this gagglesome crew? None or less I fear and even more the danger since the Aardvark crowed, ravenlike, as prophesied. 

A Diatribe

The long hours of the nether watch are drawing heavily upon the city and many alarums have disturbed the beetle market. The Scrivener’s Guild has ruptured with the Guild of Scribers and frequent brawls have occurred over unclaimed frescoes. I have taken to my attic to avoid any such misery and have annotated three floorboards with a polemical diatribe. I intend to - but wait, is that the Call of The Aardvark? I must hie from hence to question my postillion. 

And so, as the silk bat of dusk flits to its uncertainly suspended watering hole, as the evening timpani of the scuttle collector's chariot rattles it's way along the emptying regal avenues, a shambling figure ambles, crablike, amongst the scattered bollards and the abandoned demi-johns. Who may this be? Is it perchance the famed Yarmak, famed silk bat hunter and wordsmith? Or merely a device, a literary hook? But that, as they say in the beetle market, is another hat entirely.....

I fear that dank footsteps are trailing me across the Beetle Market and am somewhat concerned. Hiring a bravo is beyond my finances and so, for the price of scribing letters to his kin, a Hoornisher agreed to show me the use of the scribing knife as an impromptu weapon. As I write this my mind is full of news of drained dykes, revetted sluices and strong mustard. Such is the price for safety in Barbizon in the Year of the Goat.

With the recent inclement weather I have not been able to venture forth. There are reports of flooding in parts but of eel storms in others; my silk bats have flown in food for me, a biscuit here or a pie crust there, scavenged as they can and based on what they think I eat. One has just arrived with a small piece of garlic infused mushroom and a slice of sausage. A meal is a slow and somewhat random affair.

Recent times have seen much perturbation and disquiet; the beetle market has often closed early and a spate of groyning has left even the most hardy nervous of the avenues. I have recorded events daily upon a fresh balustrade I discovered by the Grand Fresco and I believe my observations have met with a degree of approval amongst the cognoscenti. My silk bats continue to scavenge but one seems convinced that I live off buttons. Fortunately my landlord is an inveterate button collector and is willing to accept them in lieu of rent.