[Closed] The Tools to Hand (Rhys)

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - In Chancery

The Ninth of Ophus, three minutes past the 25th hour

E

verything he has written is factual. It is not the truth. Elisions in the sequence of events, in the directionality of cause and effect, those he has not mentioned in any official papers. Without those, he presents bare facts and transmutes them into the required form. It is principle. It is protocol. It is sound. All actions that can be carried out with the facts in view should be so carried out. Secrecy is noticeable. Dull grey paperwork is ignored. Tedious committees are soon disregarded.

The truth he has committed to another memory, one which will not become part of the official record. At least not what the man who carries the name Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed remains relevant. On his irrelevancy, his removal, when he no longer matters, the papers will be released. It is the imemorial custom of the Service. Others will follow. There are always others.

For now, against reason, against sense, he matters. A prickle along the back of his neck. Cold, nameless things slither inside his thoughts. Frozen things now, hard and sharp and brittle. Chill like the season. The cold does not faze him. Perhaps it should.

Cracked hands over cracked papers now, dry on dry. Minutes all carefully composed and ordered. The words of the Consular Select Committee on Oversight and Legal Reform. It putters along, a thrusting irrelevancy, and place for proposals for good governance, good governance as imagined by useless Incumbents, go to age, and rot, and so die. It is as good a Committee as any. A place to hide his work all in plain view.

The Committee does meet, they are concerned with review of the application of laws within its remit. The Incumbent, Tom, he will hold that name close, keep it among his secrets. Tom is on that Committee. What does it matter that it is his own maneuvering that put the man there? It had been no difficult thing. A backwater assignment. Perfect for a man still out of his wits. Perfect for a man who is not himself. Perfect as a place where he himself can pry into the dark places of the law.

Files, reports, dossiers, transcripts. All of it marshalled in neat stacks, categorized, sorted, and sorted again. In it all, nowhere is the name Thomas Cooke. A cypher for another day. There are other names, great names, significant names. The names of personages who believe they matter. Their roles matter, their place in the patterns of events, but remove any one of them and another will take their place. It will be instructive to see who is next in line.

The first to be checked, to be targeted is at some remove. D’Arthe. The Captain. The Bastian. The name appears here and there, around the edges of things, in the company of more significant names. More well known names. Notoriety is neither necessary nor sufficient to real significance. The Seventen. Enough unsavory connections there to the Dorehaven lot. To the Red Madame. Such a man cannot be approached from the front. Better to go by a longer route. He can pick the flowers of rumor along the way.

He is fond of flowers.

It is good to be home. In Chancery. Again behind the indigo door with its bright, no longer new locks. Good to be back among his old papers and behind his old desk. The smells of sealing wax and cedar oil, of ink and old papers. His own private archives. His own sanctum. Safe enough here, down quiet corridors and among colleagues he trusts. Not so far as to bring them into his confidences. No virtue there, not yet. Wiggins, Glazebrooke, and Thurlowe he can trust more than most, wishes them at his side in this. More minds and more eyes. He will not condemn them to his own inevitable ruin.

Tonight will be danger enough.

A knock at the door. Unlocked for the moment. “Enter.” A flat tone, neutral and dry. Like the papers. Like his cracked hands. Glazebrooke materializes. Silent, unobtrusive. Silent like the Thief.

“Wiggins is making tea, sir, several pots by the look of it. And humming to himself.” Glazebrooke gives a knowing smile. He returns it. Good fortune smiles upon them.

“Operettas?”

“Sounds like it. The tea will be good.” Wiggins, when set to his humming, always makes excellent tea. “Care for a pot sir?”

“Yes, thank you. A large one if it can be managed. It promises to be a long night.” The late meeting. The discussion with the Sergeant who prosecuted D’Arthe. Perhaps not the best of sources, but one makes due with the tools to hand.

Glazebrooke and Thurlowe and Wiggins. Like him, they have their work before them. Like him they have little to keep them from the Chancery. The winter drives everyone home. They are all home now. Quiet, companionable, careful work drones on. Papers shuffle and drawers open and shut. Away down the corridor, a whistling and the sound of water being poured. Wiggins and his tea. Four pots brought out of the little narrow kitchen they’ve known for years. The cerulean blue pot for Thurlowe, two cast iron pots for Wiggins and Glazebrooke, and finally the large blue and white pot for himself.

“Thank you Wiggins.”

“No trouble at all Mr Shrikeweed. I was already about it.” He puts the pot down, and two matching cups, one slightly chipped at the rim. “How soon are you expecting your visitor?”

“Soon enough I believe. When he arrives, if you would be so good as to show him in?”

Wiggins nods. “Good luck sir.” He turns and goes, closing the indigo door behind him. Stillness in the room, and only the rising smell of tea. A breath. Then another. A hand reaching out to select a particular file. A personnel file. Pages upon pages. Sergeant Rhys Valentin reduced to paper and to ink. The facts of a man. The reality a life. Is any of it true?

A knock, and the indigo door swings open. He does not rise. This is his place. To remain seated is his prerogative. And there is no call to rise. The shape of a man in the door, ten years his junior and taller by the span of a hand. Just so.

“Sergeant Valentin, I presume?”

[Rhys Valentin]

in chancery

around the 25th hour on the 9th of ophus

While there were a few things in life Investigator-Liaison Sergeant Rhys Valentin could claim to be more than halfway decent at, punctuality was just not one of them. He'd spent more than a few days of his Brunnhold student life in detention for tardiness, and he'd run more than a few miles around the Seventen training yard in Numbrey because he'd not made it to drills at the expected dark hour of the morning. He'd nearly been too late that night in Roalis, running into Charity d'Arthe, but he already knew he'd been too damn late for most of their lives, having made all the wrong choices instead of stepping up to keep her safe from the beginning.

Here he was, once again, clocking late, and he wasn't even quite sure what in all the possible hells he was even walking into.

It'd been a rare pleasure indeed to put in the request to slip away from Seventen Headquarters early, to wrest free of his green uniform and dress in more comfortable, still very well-tailored and far more fashionable than necessary suit. Even if he'd been forced to linger longer than he should've, dealing with paperwork for an arrest, it was worthwhile to step out into the cold Ophus chill with a few other files of paperwork that probably wouldn't be noticed as missing right away.

It wasn't a long walk to the Chauncery, all the official buildings that kept Vienda running like Alioe's blessed clockwork nestled together all in the same general vicinity. The tall blond watched the cloud of his breath more than the faces he passed by, off duty and off the record, not interested in taking in the daily scene and analyzing its various details as was required by the nature of his employment enforcing the law.

Enforcing the law while hiding corruption, really, and frankly, he was clocking tired of it. Unsure as to whether this meeting with one Mister Shrikeweed would at all prove helpful—especially considering the long list of failed attempts at finding any purchase at all on the dark cliff face he'd been trying to climb, the insurmountable rise he was attempting to go up against when it came to exposing the levels of depravity he knew existed not only within the Seventen but also in the Anaxi government itself.

He wasn't nervous, but he was admittedly very restless, unsure.

Rhys made his way up the steps of the Chauncery, something about the shift between the chilly wind and the warm interior making his ears ring, tinnitus leading to vertigo that washed over the not-galdor so hard that he'd leaned a bit unsteadily against the receptionist desk, hiding the after effects of living a magical life he'd unwittingly not been properly bred for behind his typical charming grin. Cheeks flushed from the Ophus air outside just enough to hide any visible hint of nausea.

Given directions once he confirmed his appointment, the Sergeant made his way through the halls, no longer quite lit by the last of the sun so much as by the glow of electricity, the seat of the government in Vienda home to all the glorious technological advancement Anaxas could hope to offer, even if most of it was just to show off.

He possessed more manners than he was usually known for, pausing to knock, waiting to be invited in like a proper officer of the law. Unsure of what to expect, his well-honed senses took in all of his surroundings with the kind of observational skills cultivated through almost a decade of Investigative Division grunt work, Rhys well-aware of how he was one of the youngest Sergeants on record for more than just his good looks as merit,

"Hello, yes. Deputy Chief Shrikeweed. Thank you." The tall blond gave a deep, polite bow, fingers already digging for the spectacles tucked into the inner pocket of his dark mauve coat. Maybe the other man wasn't as old as he'd been expecting, and for whatever reason, that was more of a comfort than less—someone younger, someone ambitious, someone in the system just long enough to want to rattle the cage bars was just the kind of someone Rhys longed to see what he saw, but he had no guarantee that Mister Shrikeweed was interested in anything more than burying everyone in his path beneath more red tape instead of cutting through it to find what'd been buried.

"It's a pleasure to meet you in person, then." Instinct led him to close the door as he balanced his thin-framed glasses on his nose, years of Perceptive magic slowly wearing away at his half-bred health. He made his way toward the other man's desk, noting he didn't rise to greet him, and set fresh files between them as if they were some sacrificial offering that had once been bloodily given as celebration on Clock's Eve instead of the drunken partying that often marked the new year now,

"You summoned me for an interview regarding my case, Valentin vs d'Arthe? May I sit?"

He didn't wait, not entirely, pouring his lanky, listless self into the closest chair and folding one leg over the other, huffing at a few strands of strawberry blond hair that slipped from the tie that held the rest against the base of his skull to tickle his face,

"I'm interested in these irregularities you claimed to have noticed and what you think I can be of use in it all."

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - In Chancery

The Ninth of Ophus, thirteen minutes past the 25th hour

V

alentin does not look like a policeman. He is put in mind, rather, of a sailor of the last century. The mauve coat, the long hair gathered at the nape of neck, even the loose-limbed swagger has more in common with the rolling of decks and the creak of cordage than that of a man of the city. What do you know about the sea, he asks himself. Dismissive. Harsh. All he knows he read in books, but he can smell salt in the words, hear the cries of gulls in the air. The words are enough. He can conjure an infinity of worlds from ink upon a page.

The conjuring here will be far more prosaic. No dashing adventures or high romance. No wrack of storm or crack of cannon fire. Only paperwork. That does not make the matter any less dangerous. A stroke of a pen can end a man’s life, and the fate of nations held in a few injudicious letters. The papers on the desk are not so deadly. Not yet.

All in due course.

Deputy Chief. Strange to hear the old title. Strange, and a comfort. It remains factual. He had not been stripped of his titles, his seniority, or stuck off the Ledgers. His seals were still valid. They carried the vermillion weight of official ink. It is still not the truth, but then this is not a night for truths.

The sergeant asks to sit, he waves him to a chair. A meaningless gesture, the man is already seated. A mere formality. It is inevitable that he will sit. “Thank you, Sergeant, for agreeing to this meeting. I am sure you have more interesting matters to attend to in your evenings. The comforts of home.” The company of your wife. How is it, sergeant, to live with the daughter of a man you have tried to destroy? For all the charges, for all the documented abuse, surely there remains some shred of filial ties in the form Miss d’Arthe. Is it a strain? Or perhaps they both see it is required. The father has failed in his own duties, filial bonds can be severed without guilt. Is that it?

He has nothing with which to compare it. His own family is reasonably assiduous in their duties. Respect is cultivated and renewed. Arguments occur. Then they are adjudicated in the legal realm of the household. Ancient customs. And current policy.

There are other customs that must be followed. Courtesies observed. He must show the Sergeant what sort of man he is dealing with. He will perform the rituals regardless. The pot of tea is still steaming, perfectly steeped now and fragrant. Wiggins has a way with tea. Two cups now, blue and white, one smooth, the other other chipped. Pale green liquid from the pot fills each cup. Steam rises and curls. “Tea, Sergeant? I find it conducive to an interview, especially an informal one. And rest assured, this is an informal interview.” About as informal as can be imaged. He has little authority to do this, less direction. Still, the needs of the Committee cannot be denied. The needs of the city less so.

He places the intact cup before Sergeant Valentin, takes the chipped cup for himself.

“As to the matter of your case, of Valentin vs d’Arthe, I would welcome your insights into some of its peculiarities. The most obvious of these are the assignment of the Low Judge himself to the matter. It did not make its usual way through the circuit. No previous decisions made. No appeals appear to have been filed. That is very curious.” Curious, and telling. Someone is pulling strings, or else the strings were pulled long ago and this is merely the result. “I understand d’Arthe is a significant individual, a man of some standing. That is all the more reason the proper forms should have been followed. They were not followed, Sergeant. I wish to know why.” The law should be applied with disinterest and dispassion. It should protect the great and the small in equal measure. It should fell it’s violators without consideration of station. And while we are at it, the law should be carved upon emerald tablets and carried about sacred lawyers of perfect rectitude. And the clouds will be made of candy floss and the rivers shall flow with wine. It is all about as likely.

“That course, or rather the lack thereof, speaks to undue influence. The Committee does not intend to tolerate such things.” He does not intend to tolerate such things. “But that is not the only matter at which I, or rather we, raise our eyebrows. The unpardonable speed of the court’s decision, and the paltry restitution are offensive in the extreme. A man should not abuse his daughter, sir, and it is clear from what records I can find that the abuse was of a significant and on-going nature. To entrust such a man with the execution of the laws of the city is imprudent. It is unsound Sergeant.” It is the worst insult he can muster. Ten times ten thousand vulgarities would do no better.

He looks at the Sergeant, studies his young face and too-old eyes. He knows those eyes. Shares them himself. Not in color but in kind. Little sleep, less solace. Long-festering rage? Perhaps. Perhaps he is seeing only what he wishes in the face before him. The Sergeant has pursued corruption, been reprimanded for it, and still he tries. It is all there in the files. That speaks well for him. The rest of man is less clear.

His fingers curl about the chipped cup and he raises it, still steaming and too hot for comfort to his lips. A slow sip of the tea, a few degrees from scalding. “And there is another matter that I find even more interesting. Even more curious. The punishment you sought, it seems rather outsized for the crime alleged. Before you grow angry Sergeant, I do not condone in any way what was done to your wife, nor am I making light of it. I am merely observing the state of the law. The desired punishment seems a better fit to a more serious crime. Official, rather than personal, misconduct.” He takes another sip, savoring the too-hot liquid. “And yet, I can find no filings to that effect. Or else they have been destroyed.” He put the cup down now, grips it tight. This the heart of the matter. The reason he has asked the Sergeant here. It is a gamble to approach it so. It is one he is willing to take. “Was there anything else, Sergeant? Anything you wished to press but were counseled, or indeed barred, from pursuing?”

[Rhys Valentin]

in chancery

around the 25th hour on the 9th of ophus

It was only a matter of seconds, really, once Rhys had settled into his chair, for the tall blond to find a hangnail to chew on, for one knee to bounce at some rapid pace as if he had too much nervous energy that needed expelling, that couldn't be contained by his lanky frame.

Comforts of home—oh for clockssake.

The well-trained once-Inspector didn't wince, but some metaphorical nerves deeper than those physical ones connected to the skin on his face hurt with the warm, fake smile he put on instead, "I will be forgiven in time, I'm sure, for such a late appointment. Mrs. Valentin is unfortunately used to my demanding schedule, even if sometimes we'd rather it both be otherwise." It was ambiguous, a brush-off like his expression, for as much as Rhys deeply loved Charity, coming home to a opium-wasted version of the woman who stole his heart when he wore a smaller, Brunnhold-spun uniform was not at all a comfort.

Blue eyes blinked at the mention of tea, and his attention shifted to watch the swirl of steam instead of stare at Mister Shrikeweed's face, "Yes, please." and a little after, the younger not-galdor added, "Thank you." He did dart back, though, at the mention of informal, accepting the cup with long, calloused fingers, letting the heat of the well-steeped liquid seep into the toughened skin of his palms, "Could you please elaborate on what you mean by informal, sir? This feels somewhat more, uh, personal than I expected."

A fair eyebrow arched and Rhys paused to exhale gently over the surface of his still too hot tea, studying the other man across from him with all the attention one would expect an Investigative Division Seventen officer of four snap status should be known for. Nothing stood out other than the other man's well-cared for muttonchops—Rhys wasn't gifted with impressive facial hair of any kind; if he stopped shaving, he'd just end up with a patchy blond mess on his face. He didn't find the civil employee across from him an easy read, however, nor was he expecting such a thing from someone who'd taken the time to actually notice how fucked up the trial of Valentin vs D'Arthe had really been, from someone who was most likely more than aware of how the churning machinations of politics were often greased more with sweat and blood instead of mere ink and paperwork.

The not-galdor couldn't help it, snorting impolitely at the word peculiarities. Before taking a sip of his tea, he offered a hint of truth, breathing his response in a quiet, even tone with his scarred lower lip hovering close to warm porcelain, "The assignment of the Low Judge was a surprise turn of events, a personal favor considering the friendship Captain D'Arthe and High Judge Azmus share."

There was no waver in Sergeant Valentin's voice, no hesitation, and, as far as could be read by the sharp, crystalline gleam of his gaze, no fear, but his heart did flutter rather wildly against his sternum and it was only by sheer force of will that his hands didn't shake holding so delicately onto his cup. While the world didn't spin now that he was sitting, his ears rang with tinnitus to the rhythm of his elevated pulse, and he did his best to carefully weigh the reaction of Mister Shrikeweed, desperate to understand just how superficial or how deeply involved his motivations were in auditing the case that nearly killed him,

"Is there a reason you chose to contact myself on this matter instead of Captain D'Arthe?"

Undue influence—if he'd snorted at peculiarities, Rhys laughed some short, bitter bark of a sound at that, "That phrase is an understatement, sir. Unsound is another. The abuse of my wife is only scratching the surface of the problem, to be honest, but that was the only straw I had to grasp at, to get a foot in the door of the courthouse. It wasn't enough, obviously—I—"

He hid behind his tea as the other man across from him carried on with his statement-like form of questioning, unsure if being honest was at all safe or prudent, aware of the risks involved in the unraveling of masks to reveal true faces. He remembered just how long he'd laid on the cobblestones in his own mess, broken and helpless, and he remembered even more clearly just how long and difficult the recovery'd been in secret—it wasn't anything he wanted to repeat.

There were so many loose ends, yes.

So many red flags of corruption, of course.

Rhys just wanted to scream—or sob. Maybe both. Instead, he calmly took a sip of tea, nodding.

"Listen—" The tall blond shifted in his chair as if he wanted to stand, as if suddenly he was some bright gold-dipped hart, startled from a quiet moment in the forest, ready to bolt. He felt that tension coil in his shoulders, mixed with fear and doubt, tainted with the metallic tang of mistrust, "—these are all very good and proper questions to be asking, even if they are almost a year too late, sir. These are all questions I can answer for you, also, but the personal danger of doing so—for both of us—is extremely high. My level of trust in legal assistance in all that has happened, in bringing the truth of things to light for proper punishment, as you might say, is—well—"

Rhys' expression tightened, withdrawing, and his shoulders sagged. The scar that split his bottom lip, creased forever into his face by the knuckles of the Captain in question, puckered just so, and as his fair brows drew together in what could only be called carefully-suppressed frustration, there was a sliver of scar tissue that divided side's blond line that made itself more obvious, still pink and young enough to beg for attention instead of a quieter, more faded reminder of some training exercise gone foul. Recent injuries that had either been severe enough that not even magical healing had entirely faded or that had been purposefully kept as reminders, as emblems of something important. More valuable now than all four of his snaps, had he been able to articulate his reasons for refusing their erasure from a face he'd grown confident in the attractiveness of otherwise.

"—it's very low, I'm afraid."

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - In Chancery

The Ninth of Ophus, twenty-three minutes past the 25th hour

Y

ou are nervous, Sergeant. An obvious fact. All the usual and customary ticks are present. The Sergeant has not learned to disguise them, to transmute them into something less clear. He makes no ritual of his discomfort. The gnawing of nails, the bouncing of the leg. Like a boy enduring the reprimand of his teacher. Or concealing a secret. Conceal as you please, Sergeant. It will do you no good. I will peel you like and orange, he thinks. Peel you and divide you into sections. I will understand who you are, and who you wish to be. Measured, accessed, cataloged, quantified.

What good will that do? Other than to assuage his own fears? He has those in abundance. Carefully cultivated flowers, pruned, and trained and tended. Like his orchids. Fear cannot so easily be tamed. It cannot be set in an ornamental vase upon the mantlepiece, a curiosity to be regarded at length over a snifter of brandy or a glass of wine. He has had too little of either these last weeks. Hygeth instead, bitter-sweet and red-staining. Hygeth to drive his mind, to give his thoughts speed, to bar him from the need for sleep. He gains little rest from sleep. His dreams are full of indistinct, faceless men, of fire and screams. Screams that become the grinding of gears and the failing of springs.

He puts down his cup, balances his fingers up the rim, feels the rough spot where the chip is, and shows the Sergeant how he has sublimated his own discomforts. He turns the cup, three times. Clockwise, anticlockwise, and clockwise again. Three times each. Nine turns,

“The informality of this interview is protocol.” His own, and one he has found useful no matter his position. Someone at their ease, or made to feel as though their ease is at least desired, speaks more freely. Less guardedly. Threats have their place, of course. Civility is the sharper knife. “The Committee wishes that its business be handled civilly, with decorum and care.” He turns the cup again, slower, more languid. “Though if you would prefer a witness, I can send for Ms Thurlowe or Mr Wiggins. All the same, Sergeant, I do not think they will be necessary. You are here as an expert in certain matters of concern. That is all. In that spirit, I thought a more collegial atmosphere would be conducive to useful ends.”

Useful ends. And what is it that is being sought? D’Arthe’s unfatherly behavior is abhorrent, yes, but it does not matter. What matters is the course it took. The raw and obvious abuses of power and influence. What has arisen to make such displays easy to make in the open, to flaunt their privilege like the tails of peacocks? Do not be naive, he thinks, the cup turning again and again. The powerful and the influential have always been a law unto themselves. Yes. Yes. Still, they maintained the veneer of process, they trusted the process to deliver them what they already desired. If the process was well designed, it felled them from time to time. Salutary when that occurred. The great and influential have forgotten the utility of sacrifice. Who was the last magistrate to fall willingly upon their sword?

What magistrate even possessed such an artifact?

The Sergeant snorts now, a sound of derision. At his assessment of the situation? At the situation itself? Perhaps both. Either is his prerogative. The whole matter is worth the snort. The whole matter stinks. “A personal favor? And this is known? I will grant that it is obvious, but that it should be widely accepted, that is worrying in the extreme.” Worrying yes. Surprising? No. “And, from the point of legal strategy, rather unwise. A challenge could be made in a lower court, contesting the matter, drawing centuries of precedent, settled law. All one needs is to find a fearless attorney and trust that more than a handful of appellate magistrates wish to take Ogden’s place. Ambition to thwart ambition.” You cannot trust in either, can you, Sergergent. He regards the man in his fine mauve coat and his guarded demeanor. This is a man whom the law has failed. No. Not the law. Not the courts. Its officers and guardians.

The Sergeant offers names, free and easy, as though they should be natural. Perhaps they were. And still the names have other connotations. Darker, beyond mere corruption. Sedition, conspiracy against the state, he can name a dozen crimes those three names orbit around like minor satellites. “You may think it strange, but some naked displays of influence peddling are held as contrary to good order by the Committee.” He has ensured it is so. Generations of position papers, of analyses, of law and custom, support this view.

“And that, Sergeant, is why I have contacted you. In these matters you are both expert and, forgive the crassness, victim.” The tea in his cup has grown too cold for his liking. A refresh from the pot saved it. Barely. “You brought a private prosecution in what seems good faith. You were protecting your wife. Protecting the integrity of the Seventen.” The former seems the act of greater virtue. Of greater risk. “I have read the case files, the evidentiary reports, your own affidavits. Commendable work. Well laid out.” He gives the Sergeant a half smile. “I would expect nothing less of a well-regarded investigator.” All the records indicated that this was the case. Perhaps Sergeant Valentin was not the most tactable of investigators, but he was well regarded as capable and incisive. Of course, all of that came before the case in question. Another abuse. “Commendable work, but all in vain.”

It cannot be rectified. Not in any meaningful way. It might serve as the germ of some other matter. The Sergeant himself says as much, says it in the spaces between his words. “You are right,” he says, pushing his cup away and lacing his fingers together, “that I come later to this matter. A fault of the system Sergeant. We must look for abuses only after they occurred. And, I am not best pleased to state that it took me no small effort to unearth this case.” Too many hours of research, all full of dead ends. A month’s salary in hygeth to speed it all along, and too many dead ends to count. “And it is only one of many such matters that trouble me. That troubles the Committee.” A close save there. Will it be enough? “You say you do not trust legal counsel. I can understand that, given what you have experienced. Understand that I am not legal council, not in the traditional sense. I am one hand of the government seeking to make sure the other hand is not doing some nefarious thing out of sight. And all indicators are that something, perhaps many somethings, are being done out of sight.”

Do you know what matters your little domestic unhappiness touches upon? What conspiracies these men are party to? Perhaps not. Yet the Sergeant holds some of the threads in his hand. Does he know that? Can he draw them all together? There is weariness and sorrow in the Sergeant’s eyes. Behind the bravado. Behind the suspicion. What else are you hiding? What lack of tranquility troubles you? He cannot say. The domestic lives of men so unlike himself are a closed book. A mystery. “What was it that you wished to press against the Captain? What favor was called in to ensure the presence of Ogden?” He pours yet more tea, balances his fingers along the rim. Presses too hard and too deep along the length of the jagged edge of the chip, and turns the cup. Turns it three times. Clockwise, anticlockwise, and clockwise again. Three turns each. Nine turns in total. “You are a source, Sergeant. And a valuable one. A wise man always protects his sources.”

[Rhys Valentin]

in chancery

around the 25th hour on the 9th of ophus

Rhys had sweat and worked his way through training in Numbrey. He'd chased and jostled his way through the ranks in the Investigative Division, interpreting the law, befriending unlikely contacts, and thinking outside of the box, all while delicately attempting to balance legality and respect when it came to dealing with the lower races and galdorkind. He'd found over the swift trajectory of his almost beyond exemplary rise to four snaps that just as many galdori were criminals as the humans and wicks they often sought to blame for their crimes. It wasn't until he and his squad managed to break open one particular Resistance How in Brunnhold while he still wore the high collared uniform the university city's Seventen were known for that he found himself face to face with what corruption looked like.

He'd reached some apex hunter status in the green-clad ranks, and to say he enjoyed the brief taste of near stardom would've been an understatement. What had he climbed for—no, not what, but who?

Had he proven anything at all to the one man who'd dared to tell him what he couldn't have?

Had all the blood and tears mattered?

Co-Captain Damen D'Arthe couldn't have cared less. He'd always been too busy destroying his family and delving deeper into darkness for the promise of more power than upholding the law'd ever promised.

Even the day he ran into Charity after so many years apart, everything that he'd worked so hard for lost all of its meaning in her company, frightened and lonely and high. A broken thing he should've never left to the merciless jaws of her chroveshit father.

His fault.

And now? Whatever predatory status he'd fought for to become Sergeant had been ripped out from his calloused hands. He was prey now—a trapped animal led to believe he had some semblance of space left to run.

Sharp blue eyes continued to study the man across from him while he felt steam caress his face, the heat of it not enough to relax the muscles of his clenched jaw. A methodical creature, this Mister Shrikeweed, calculating and perhaps just aloof enough in his intelligence to actually be genuine in his desire to cut through infected flesh and tear out all that festered and rotted behind the spit-shined Anaxi government facade. Something deep inside Rhys' once-broken, put back together again chest ached with a longing for his gut to be right—he'd trusted it once, that instinct, but now? He hardly trusted the scarred reflection in the mirror. What hope he held onto was dim, growing dimmer.

Rhys Valentin choked on his tea at the word civilly, forced to set the cup down with hands that finally trembled with a hint of adrenaline. A year ago, perhaps he'd have been a better liar, perhaps he'd have still been able to wear that confident mask of cocky assurance and bravado he'd been so known for. Now, the cracks were showing, and he loathed himself for it here under so much so-called informal scrutiny.

"There is no civility down this path, Mister Shrikeweed. I don't want any witnesses—shit, do you want to get your coworkers murdered? Please. The less ears that hear the kind of truth you're attempting to uncover, the better for everyone." The tall blond's tone of voice became a gravelly deadpan and whatever nervous energy he'd blown into the room with drifted away, leaving behind a singular focus.

He placed his hands on his knees, curling fingers into the expensive fabric, and the Sergeant did his best to keep his expression from curling into a sneer, "I would perhaps have pursued an appeal or made a further contestation with whatever legal influence I could've found, but unfortunately I found myself both suspended from duty and then—well."

Rhys stopped then, tongue against the thick scar tissue in his lower lip, and fell quiet. He shook his head, not yet willing to share what little trust he wanted to have, and reached back for his tea, letting the other man continue speaking instead.

Good order. His erse.

Victim. His blink at the word was heavy-lidded—almost a wince because it nicked too close to a vein.

"I'm good at my job, sir. I was an excellent Investigative officer, and I'm still a clocking excellent Inspector-Liaison for the Patrol Division, even under Co-Captian D'Arthe's direction." He smirked then, revealing just a hint of his own ploy. Perhaps the other man would appreciate the revelation or perhaps he would simply see how deeply buried and helplessly desperate Sergeant Valentin had become.

"It's not just legal counsel I don't trust. I—" He inhaled through grit teeth, shoulders tense beneath the very fashionable lines of his coat. There was something in the crystalline sharpness of his gaze when he met the man's eyes across from him that all but exclaimed you have no idea what I've experienced—

Where could he even start?

Could he start with how Captain D'Arthe purposefully orchestrated the addiction of his own daughter on her eighteenth birthday? Could he start with how he hardly bothered to protect her against the untoward advances of one of his underlings? Should he describe in detail how officers wearing the same uniform he did blocked Uptown streets and kept an alley free from witnesses while a galdor and several hired humans beat him, broke his bones, and threatened his wife. Should he describe in detail how Damen himself laid out his warning so carefully just days after being let off in Court with barely a slap in the wrist, and how Rhys defied him with every bloody breath he managed to take between baton blows?

There was so much.

Too much.

And who was this Shrikeweed to bear the burden? Who did he think he was, here under the shade of civil servitude, touting the law like it would at all protect him? Did he have a family? A wife? Children? Friends he cared about? Did he value the truth more than his bones in their correct places?

Rhys wasn't sure. He couldn't tell. He wasn't sure if he'd ever really been able to read people or if he'd just been fucking lucky all this time.

"—you cannot protect me, but I appreciate the sentiment, Mister Shrikeweed. In turn, I must admit, that if you're genuine about this path you're on, if you really want to walk this narrow path, then I—I really can't protect you, either. I'm willing to reopen this wound, sir. I'm willing to rip the stitches and give you a good, hard look at what's festering inside—to share with you how deep the infection in both the Seventen and beyond, but I want you to understand that you take your life in your own hands in the asking."

He leaned just a little, voice lower, sincere, glancing down to watch the galdor drag his finger along the chipped rim of his cup. Maybe, just maybe, this man did understand and was willing to commit himself to this dangerous task. He didn't want to be alone, truth be told. This was heavy, so fucking heavy, and he'd gladly share the burden if it meant he wouldn't take the secrets with him when he finally met the bloody end he expected every morning after he kissed his wife and walked out the door,

"Is the risk worth it to you? If you wish to peer into what lies beyond the surface of the case I so naively brought before an already biased court, are you willing to follow it all the way? What resources do you have to make a tourniquet out of once this vein is opened, Mister Shrikeweed? If you are unprepared, or if you have me here because you're already a part of the corruption, it's best you just let me finish this tea and walk away."

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - In Chancery

The Ninth of Ophus, twenty-nine minutes past the 25th hour

H

is expression remains bland when the Sergeant speaks of murder. He has already factored that into his calculations. It is why he has brought so few people into his confidence. Even the Thief only knows the merest shreds of the matter. All private scandal and blackmail, the machinations of the Red Madame and her ilk. That is connected in all of this, an axel upon which things turn, but it is not the the barrel of the main wheel. The motions of the clock arise from some other spring, turn on some other axis. He still does not see it, but its motions are observable.

Does the Sergeant stand upon another cog in all of this? Possible. Even likely. Whatever the nature of the machine, its movements are sweeping. And to what purpose? It still eludes him. If power is desired, then it is not visible power that is being seized. The laws remain much as they have been. Emergency powers have not been contemplated. Everything is in place, in readiness. Why does it not begin? What are these conspirators, these corrupt and corrupted magistrates and magnates waiting for? Does the Sergeant have any more idea than he? Perhaps. Or ideas from a different angle, along some other vector. Where are you standing, Sergeant? What is the magnitude and direction of your sight? The questions would seem meaningless. Worse, the answers might be equally so.

“Very good Sergeant,” he says, fixing the younger man with his colorless eyes. “We will dispense with witnesses. It was only for your protection that I raised it. And that, Sergeant, is the kind of protection I mean. Surety of fair dealings, confidences. Verification. Discretion.” It is all he can offer. No. It is all he can offer now. In time, if time is granted, perhaps there will be other things that may be done. Foresight and probabilities determined. There is not enough data for such matters now. He is still reasoning from too little data. The Sergeant has a wealth more data. It will need to be acquired. Acquired with the utmost discretion.

“And what it is, Sergeant,” he says, still impassive. More the machine than the man. The analyst, not the political creature. “That you imagine I am attempting to uncover? We have before us a case with clear violations of established law and custom. It is my remit to report upon the same. Report, and provide recommendations for necessary reforms and consequences. And that is the surest protection I have. I am carrying out my function as assigned to me.” A function he has made sure was assigned to him.

“You, however, would appear to have clearer insight as to the origins and purpose of these irregularities. It is in my interest to understand what these are. The completeness of the report demands nothing less.” And to whom will that report be submitted? Some anodyne version will be given to the Committee; its more worrying conclusions carefully redacted, filed separately. A confidential report to be submitted to the proper authorities. Once it could be discovered who that should be.

Picking your audience, Shrikeweed? Bending the procedure to align with you preferred ends? Corruption of a different kind. No. Not quite. A report on official misconduct must go to what powers may provide redress. The Judges will not chastise themselves, not remove themselves from office for violations of law. The proper authorities remain unknown. The report cannot be submitted. It is again Protocol.

“I am not overly concerned with my personal safety Sergeant. Insofar as my work is predicated upon it remaining more or less secure it is useful to me. That said, I would prefer not to find myself murdered.” He gives a sharp smile. “It would be inconvenient. I appreciate your concern.” Appreciates and understands it. Still, the threat is inchoate. The Sergeant himself might be warning him off. It might be a threat.

Improbable. The tone of voice is all wrong. This is a worried man trying to give advice to another. “However, it is difficult to keep oneself away from dangerous courses of action when one has so little idea of where the danger may lie.” He has enough idea to stay away from certain lines of inquiry. Enough sense to hide most of what he knows. The Sergeant too has sense, yet he is wound all too tight. Another smile. You want to tell me, don’t you Sergeant? A correct thought, or only wishful thinking?

What doubts he has, and there are many, will need to be tabled. He can address them at some other time. There are other matters that remain opaque. The words of the Sergeant only make it more so.

“You still serve under the man you attempted to destroy?” An eyebrow raises just a hair. “That must be considerable stain. For the both of you.” Dangerous as well, if the Sergeant’s fears are well founded. “Is this by way of punishing you, or are you perhaps keeping an eye on the Captain?” And if you are keeping your eyes out, then for whom are you watching?

Perhaps he is only watching for himself. There is precedent enough for that in this room.

“I am, as you say, ‘genuine’ in my pursuit of understanding. It is my purpose and function to be so.” How fortunate the man for whom person and profession are so well aligned. He rises, gesturing the Sergeant to retain his seat. The indigo door of the office is heavy and all but sound-proof. Its locks are strong. With a practiced hand he shuts it. A turn of his hands, light pressure of his fingers, and the bolts slide home. A dull mechanical thud as they anchor themselves. “We are quite safe here, Sergeant. This room is meant for the discussion of confidential matters.” He has made sure of that over the years. “You ask what resources I can bring to bear, should this matter require them. I am in good standing with the Service and have the ear of an Incumbent. I can call upon lawyers and upon the press if necessary.” All perfectly true, though perhaps less grand that his wishes to let on. “And I know the workings of the government and of the courts. Gathering information from such places is simple enough. At least, once I discover what it is I am trying to find.”

He returns to his desk, slides into his chair without so much as a creak. “Enlighten me, Sergeant, as to what it is I have really discovered. What it is about the good Captain that you could not bring up in court. I will listen for as long as is necessary.”

[Rhys Valentin]

in chancery

around the 25th hour on the 9th of ophus

Fair—he couldn't remember what that word smelled like, what it tasted like, what it felt like anymore. Fair. It sounded suspicious. Like a word he had to decode to find the true meaning of, only he couldn't wrap his mind around the cypher.

"This case you've read over enough times to dissect into irregularities is just—I don't clocking know—I—" The not-galdor tried to reign in his wild thoughts, to focus on the warmth that radiated from his teacup into his hands, to huff away the mistrust that clouded his vision like it was only so much steam. He couldn't get comfortable in this chair, all restless legs and fluttering pulse. His ears rang—fucking tinnitus—and he eventually gave in and readjusted the spectacles on his nose, eyes tired already.

Or maybe all of him was exhausted and his eyes were just an annoying reminder,

"—I had no other recourse at the time. I still don't—or didn't, since you're bent into the Circle itself on sifting through all this smoke and chroveshit. I just felt—still feel—very strongly that something must be done." The tall blond's voice wavered, but his resolve did not. At the time, he'd not had anyone to lean on. At the time, the only favor he had access to was the hasty, legally-protective motion to make Charity his wife before the trial in order to keep her from Damen's greedy clutches should something had gone wrong.

And wrong it went.

But, if nothing else, they were still together.

He held onto that with what strength he had left, weathering the constant, unpredictable storm of addiction because, honestly, he'd convinced himself there was nothing else left to do.

"I can't clocking say my insight is clearer, Mister Shrikeweed. I have what my Constable partner would call just a secondary angle sort of view—I'm the one on the street, so to speak, while perhaps you're a man on the roof, catching more of the whole scene. All I did was light a match in the dark and watch the rats skitter off into the cupboards. Catching them all is another matter." Rhys scowled, then, thinking about the thicker darkness he'd not yet peered into, thinking about all that truth hidden in the black beyond the little ruddy light that was already burning the tips of his fingers,

"You should be concerned for your personal safety—" Reaching across the space between them, the Sergeant reached for the thickest of files, sliding it toward himself to open it in his lap. It was a collection of rather mundane-looking Patrol reports on various traffic and crowd densities throughout Uptown between Kingsway Market and the Theatre district on the 8th of Achtus, 2718, just handful of days after the embarrassingly failed, questionably handled, totally dubious trial, "—because if you've ever been near Kingsway at noontime, you know very well how crowded the side streets can be with civil servants chasing down a quick lunch. I was beaten on this day."

He pointed to a particular crossway, a little court, where reporting on anything had been conspicuously absent the entire day. No one had bothered to even attempt to cover up how patrols had been deviated from the area while Rhys nearly bled to death in an alley. His knee was bouncing again, uncontainable,

"Your danger could be someone in a Seventen uniform. It could be a galdor you graduated with from Brunnhold. It could be a human walking across the street. It could be all of those things, converging at once, in broad daylight, to warn you by breaking your bones and leaving you alone with the fluid flooding your lungs. Or, it could be the Low Judge in your courtroom, protecting important assets and tossing loyal citizens to hatchers without a care in all of Vita for the truth. The danger is currently a variable I can't keep up with, can't predict, and can't compute. Not yet."

Rhys' expression contorted with his honesty, the obviously still young enough to be pink scars on his face puckering as if emphasizing his rather detailed and telling warning,

"I chose to transfer to the Patrol Division under Captain Damen D'Arthe after the trial—well, after I recovered from the beating I received as an off-the-books warning, yes. I wanted him to see me—fully recovered, working with honor, watching him. I wanted him to see the ring on my finger," He waggled his wedding band for emphasis, "every day as a reminder of who is protecting his daughter from his abuse and—"

The Sergeant's tone became sharper, honed into a fine edge of anger, "—and his lack of concern. Let's leave that as a euphemism, shall we?" How did one talk about a man who left his own child at the will of those who fooled her into thinking them her friends only for them to betray her, only for one of them to try to rape her? More than once. His failures laid out before him like the rabbit trails left to chase in the paperwork he'd smuggled from the Seventen Headquarters, the tall blond heaved a broken sort of sigh.

He didn't want any more tea, stomach churning, and if he tensed like an animal ready to spring from its cage when the other man stood to close the door, it was because he nearly felt that way.

"I suggest you prepare to take notes, if you want me to start at the beginning. I don't have documentation for most of it, nor do I have court-firm proof or voluntary witnesses for everything. Some things are inferred through the words of others," Again, Rhys paused here, thinking of Diaxio standing over him in that alley way, thinking of Ben's bloodied face taunting him even until he died, "and some things are from my wife's own testimony. Other things are from my own experience. I don't know what you're clocking looking for, but this is a long, dark trail to follow."

He refrained from saying he wasn't going to be the lantern he feared Shrikeweed was looking for. He feared he was just more darkness, if not the darkest thing of all for how low he knew he was willing to crawl in order to find a way to put an end to it all.

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - In Chancery

The Ninth of Ophus, thirty-six minutes past the 25th hour

I

t begins in vaugeries, in the subjunctive, in modalities. Specifics will come later. Already he can read that much on the Sergeant’s face. He is working himself up to something, patrolling the avenues of his thoughts to get it all in order. And there is order in this. Order and rage. At times, it is difficult to separate them. And so he waits, he watches, he listens.

The Sergeant’s words careen this way and that, unmoored. There is energy behind them, that righteous sense that ‘something must be done’. Something was done, and with too much haste, not enough planning. No other recourse, he says. That is doubtful. Other paths may have been longer, more difficult, slower, but they would have been present. They are present still. Somewhere in the mountains of paperwork and the webwork of the conspirators. Already there are too many. Someone will break, someone will let word slip. It will take only the right pressure at the right time. The Sergeant has selected his target, he selected the wrong time.

“What was your urgency? The records I have indicate that you were able to secure appropriate matrimonial licenses with your wife, the Captain’s daughter. That itself neatly cut him off from certain legal tools he might employ to continue in his unfatherly conduct. You could have left the city.” Are you a man of the City, Sergeant? No, the accent is wrong. The soft lisping of Ro Hill is absent, so too are the clipped consonants and open vowels of the Clockhouse. Nothing of the sharpness of the Dives nor yet of the outer districts of the City. Further afield. East? Down the river? What does it matter. The Sergeant is not a man of the city. Not quite yet, but in time. The City will see to that.

Or it will destroy you.

The Sergeant, for all his youth, and for his fine features, is not a delicate man, not a man to be crushed.

“Left the Captain to stew in his anger, waited for him to slip up. Bided your time.” It is sound advice, but only to a limit. Act too slowly, trust too much in the ordinary workings of government, and disaster arises. The dead at Dorehaven are a monument to that.

“Or was something about to happen? Did you need to delay the Captain? Prevent him from being at a particular place at an appointed time?” Precipitous action, the laughable trial, the intemperent speed. Yes, it could be that. A time-table that needed disrupting. Is that it? Did the Sergeant’s little ploy accomplish anything?

“You say something must be done. To a degree I am of your opinion, but it is dangerous to mistake activity for progress.” More dangerous still to mistake inactivity for an abundance of caution. The Sergeant remains over-cautious still. His words are oblique, like the angle of his view on matters. Something must be offered, another angle added, a vector resolved.
“I do indeed have an angle on this, the case,” he taps the megre filings with a perpetually ink-stained finger, “was only a landmark, a point of reference. In point of fact, the Captain’s name was already in my sights when I began reviewing your case. Confidential matters, committee business, but the name nevertheless had the specter of a black mark. Murky associations, perhaps unwise comrades. There was whispered conversation that the Captain might be susceptible as a target of blackmail.” Whispers in his own head, the odd word here or there with the Incumbent, with Tom. “That was my initial line of inquiry. It may still be relevant. The Low Judge did your Captain a favor.” He leans back in his chair, fingers pressed together. “I wonder how long it will be before that favor is called in.”

Speculations upon speculations. Too many wheels turning, gear-teeth meshing, and still the purpose of the machine escapes him. The Sergeant says he does not know either. Two men in the dark, looking for gods know what. The few lights that exist are tantalizing. Searching only within their glow will produce nothing of value. They need their own lanterns.

“These skittering rats, I don’t suppose it can be hoped that you know their names, or suspect them? I have all manner of names at my disposal, but little enough to pin them to. What were your rats about Sergeant? What were they gnawing on?” The Sergeant laments his missed opportunities, his inability to capture. How like a policeman. His own questions are different. What were the rats about, how did they get to their nest, and would any more be likely.

He remains half-buried in his chair, listening to the man, asking the odd question, but above all, he absorbs the words. Later, in the quiet of home, in the small hours, he will try and make sense of them.

“I am not so blythe in my concerns as to not consider the danger. I have factored it in. My affairs, such as they are, have been settled. I have my private conclusions and speculations, memoranda and documentary evidence of,” he leans forward now, pessing his elbows onto the surface of the desk. “Of, something. Perhaps several somethings. In the event of my incapacity or removal, matters will be set in motion to disseminate these to what allies I have. What they do then is up to them. Continue where I left off, publish matters in the papers, bring matters before the Inspectors General or some circuit court.” Allies. He nearly laughs at his own words. Allies. Wiggins has the papers under seal, one of three sets of copies. He has no idea what is contained in those sealed parcels of parchment. Another copy to his lawyer. Strict instructions there. The final set he keeps at his lodgings. Among family papers. He trusts Wiggins, he trusts his lawyer. He trusts too that his mother will feel the old journalistic need to either publish or investigate. The matter will carry on.

“Still, your advice is well taken. My habits are regular, my movements largely the same. If I alter them it will seem suspicious. Then again, if they are altered for me, that too will raise some alarm.”

There will be another defense. In a few days time, he will become a part of the unfathomable machine. He will watch its movements, its purpose. Perhaps he can even make it move a little according to his own design. The Sergeant warns of danger. It is well meant. It is too late a warning. He is already in too deep. Well, in for a tally, in for a concord.

Notes.

At the word, he gives a nod, produces a notebook. Indigo leather, the same shade as the door. Already it is full of dense and narrow writing. It is not quite shorthand, not quite a cypher. It is a form of his own devising. A manner of notes that makes sense to him, which he has used for years. A casual observer will think nothing of it. If questions are asked, the answer will always be, that is how Mr Shrikeweed always takes his notes. Very efficient.

“You should know what you are asking. When I take notes, I take them in full. There are protocols, Sergeant, proper means. These are meant to provide the weight of authenticity, the ability to crosscheck. This is now a rather more formal interview. Statements of evidence, collections of raw intelligence.” He slides the teapot and the cups away. They are no longer needed. “I will begin with the usual preliminaries.”

The pen rises, header notes flow onto the page, thin and sharp and minute.

“Your name is Rhys Valentin?” An affirmation, now set in ink. Small neat letters, close and compact. They take up only the merest fraction of the page. He will require the room. “And your occupation is Investigator-Liaison Sergeant?” Another nod.

“And you reside at?” An address at Kingsway Court. A little off from the main streets. Shops and residences above. Rather like his own street on Smike’s End. Perhaps he will take a stroll down that way. He could go and see his clockmaker. The man lives nearby.

“Your race is?” Galdor. He nods and adds it to the notes. It is mere formality. It is sound.

Other questions flow. The framework upon which all the rest will hang. The skeleton of a proper memorandum. “Very good,” he says at last, “and now, Sergeant, I think it is time for you to tell me what it is you know, what it is you suspect. Proofs can wait. First, we require facts.”

[Rhys Valentin]

in chancery

around the 25th hour on the 9th of ophus

What had been his urgency? Rhys blinked, slowly, fair eyelashes fluttering and a slow inhale filling lungs with air. He couldn't forget what it'd felt like to almost drown in his own blood, but had he really even tried?

"I called in an old favor with a City Clerk for that perfect elopement. Charity had been living with me for a few months beforehand—we reconnected in Roalis of 2718 after almost a decade apart. In our Brunnhold years, we were inseparable, or so I thought, but even then Damen D'Arthe didn't approve of my company. I was told to stay away from her, and in my immature love for his daughter, that was the one rule I ever obeyed without question. I've never not had regrets."

He went back to that hangnail for a moment, teeth attempting to tug at a flap of painful skin on his thumb. He had so many regrets. Too many. The sting reminded him of the question he was supposed to answer—urgency, "I did marry her before the trial for specific legal reasons, you're correct in that assumption: for her protection against her own father. I couldn't let her go home again, sir. I couldn't let him continue to lord his authority over her as if she should still be his property when we are both nearly a decade from graduation now. He encouraged her addiction—aware of it—and, he was more than just mentally manipulative—During the riots, while I was risking my life protecting Vienda and Charity was still living at home, Damen realized we'd rekindled our relationship and that was the last time he, uh, physically abused her. She arrived at my flat and I filed my accusations with the court a little over a week later."

The tall blond snorted again, shaking his head at the question about leaving town, about going somewhere else, "I did try to go home to Brayde County for a few weeks, bringing Charity with me, but my relationship with my own father is—" His jaw clenched for a moment. He'd learned of his true heritage during the riot. He'd gone home not to hide from Damen but to confront ol' Theo, "—untenable at best. There is no real relationship between us for various reasons. I genuinely love Vienda, Mister Shrikeweed, and I shouldn't have to transfer to another city when I'm the one upholding the law."

Upholding what part of the law he could, anyway, half-human bastard masquerading as a galdor that he was.

He sighed, tight shoulders slacking a little, blue eyes weary,

"I felt a sense of duty—"

Duty? Really? Is that what he'd come to call vengeance these days? Fucking ersehole,

"—I wanted to do something quickly—it was an irrational mistake that carried a hefty price," Rhys' tongue paused against that scar that split his lip, some mental emphasis, a habit now he used as a reminder of why he hadn't yet just rolled over and given up, "but I know that now."

Gods, did he.

"I've bided my time long enough. I wasted almost a decade trying to forget Charity d'Arthe, thinking I had no place in her life, thinking if I just worked hard enough, then everything would be fine for everyone. When we met again—a year and a half ago—she was high on opiates and almost assaulted by a so-called friend, Benjamin Tolsby. I was off-duty, drunk, and so I wasn't in a state to press charges. But, I've come to see how I've already let too much time pass. I can't waste anymore of it, Mister Shrikeweed—Damen was clearly corrupt before I was in any position to do anything about it, before I had a single snap on my Seventen greens."

The Sergeant shook his head at some of the questions, "Nothing that I knew of was about to happen. I just let my anger lead my choices—" Rhys smirked at the chiding, resisting the urge to roll his eyes while he attempted to find something less fidgety to do with his hands, "—I won't argue—I recognize my mistakes but only because I'm on this bloodied side of them."

It was his turn to quirk a fair eyebrow, to tilt his head just a little in thought when the older galdor spoke of his insight into Captain D'Arthe's corruption from a different angle entirely. He nodded, not surprised, and finally spread his palms out over his thighs, attempting to be still,

"I have a few names, yes. Galdor names—Diaxio Shuini. Benjamin Tolsby. Classmates and peers, supposed friends of Charity since our school days. They actually encouraged her addiction, and are part of an almost entirely galdori-run drug ring pushing King's Crop not to the lower races, but to galdorkind. Benjamin is—" Rhys swallowed, attempting to press through the almost nauseating wave of self-loathing, anger, and fear that welled up at the memories of that bastard, the last of which entailed the not-galdor shoving his once-peer's body into the Arova without batting an eye in regret, "—Mister Tolsby is dead, though his corpse has not been found. Miss Shuini is still very much alive and in operation. They have both threatened my wife on more than one occasion to pick back up her selling habits—the only habits she's fallen back into are using, unfortunately. Our lives have been threatened."

He looked away to his tepid tea, falling quiet for a long moment,

"It's good to hear you have some machinations in place should anything happen to your person. I never thought I'd ever—I don't have any contingencies because I never thought I'd need them, Mister Shrikeweed. Now, I fear it's too late, or I've just always lived my life too loose and fast to know how to fix it."

He exhaled slowly through grit teeth, the tall blond sitting back again, crossing one ankle over the knee that seemed uncontainable in its bouncing to still it. He fidgeted with his wedding band instead of gnawing at skin, rolling his shoulders and attempting to find some semblance of composure so that perhaps they could sift through the tangles to find that first thread with even just a little calm.

The galdor began with questions Rhys was used to, with questions he was now comfortable with because he knew which ones to lie about. He'd considered them all truth until last Yaris, and so the level of confidence in his falsehoods carried in his voice despite the way it rang in his ears with that tinnitus that haunted him. He didn't even hesitate at the question of his race—he couldn't. The truth was fatal there, and now was not the time to unravel himself in front of someone already quite eager to snuff out corruption in such a thorough manner. Lying so soon made him feel a nauseous wave of guilt, but he swallowed that bile and cleared his throat, pushing through.

Just keep going, he told himself. It's what he had to tell himself every morning.

"I'm of the belief that Co-Captain Damen D'Arthe of the Patrol Division is involved in a large-scale ring of corruption that reaches throughout the Anaxi government. I believe that his co-conspirators are either unaware or at least disapproving of D'Arthe's side project—galdor-run and galdor-targeted opiates. I cannot fathom a connection, so that's my Inspector instinct talking. I have no proof, but I'm making attempts to find myself a way into the Oculus, if only because I believe that to be a part of the web, orchestrated perhaps by High Judge William Azmus himself. I do not have a clue where this begins or ends, Mister Shrikeweed, for I'm stuck somewhere in the middle and my concerns are very, very personal. It's damn difficult for me to separate myself because of Charity, but it's fucking impossible for me to walk away."

There were the basics, the premise, the barebones skeleton of all the young Valentin knew. This was the thesis, but he now needed to research and write the body of work, to put on the flesh and give it all a face to be seen.

"It's no small accusation, sir, the depths of this rot."