[Closed] A Train Of Thought

[Raksha]

7th Vortas, 2719
Pendulum Club | Early Evening, Post Work Day

Tonight, as could be expected perhaps in the rainy season, it was pouring in Vienda. Not your standard run of the mill winter shower, Good Lady no, this was something for the history books. A left over of Loshis itself! As though Hulali Himself had decided to rain His Great Ocean out of the viscous black clouds, a torrential deluge sluiced over the city in vehement waves. Interwoven in the chilling waters were moments of pelting hail, or mushy sleet. The Seventen patrols were pulled back, instead posted on weather duty, sandbagging those houses that lived nearest the aqueducts and the vast Arova river, lest the water that couldn't be contained by the drainage system threatened to destroy thousands of concords of property. It was chilled and wet hard work, and though magic was able to fend off the water, it would take houses to complete the task. Therefore, the soaked officers worked under the duress of drowning in thin air.
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​​Within the Pendulum Club however, the situation was quite a deal better. On the roof, the skyfall cascaded with a deafening roar, though it didn’t leak through to the occupants inside enjoying the orange glow of the fire and the warming touch of brandy. It wasn’t particularly full, most of the regular folks having been caught at home before the storm broke, and unwilling to brave their expensive Bastian felt suits in the weather. Those that were here were looked after, some snoozing over a brandy in a quiet corner, others chuffing cigars and huddled close to speak over the battering on the roof. Occasionally, a man or two would disappear through the doors by the right of the building.
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​​No Admittance ~ Management. Appointments Required.
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​​That's what the delicate brass lettering said on the sign that hung off red velvet roping between two brass stands. As far as anyone who enjoyed the Club was concerned, the doors were off limits. A private function room perhaps, or the office of the gentlemen who operated the facility. Anyone who was a regular would have seen High Judge Azmus and his delegates come and go through it, some of the Brunnholdian magisters, representatives of the Seventen and a few influential men of the country. Some assumed it was for the vrydag, it fit the bill. Warm, hosted, private. Better than spending hours in a stuffy suite in the Consulate.
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​​Brent Locksme considered himself a Reformist, should anyone have asked his view of all things political. His trains, they would be the future of this kingdom, nay of all kingdoms! They’d showcased his train in the gala at Brunnhold, what a monumental moment, and Brent had acted as conductor for his test travellers. A spot of fun, with science behind him. It should have been the catalyst for his railway, prompting the funding and backing of his fellow influencers and those saavy politicians.
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​​It should have been, except those filthy magicless sons-of-chroves had ruined everything.
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​​His sister and niece, lovely girl with an eye for needlework and quite aware of a woman’s place in the world, she’d been in Dorhaven when that bloody Serro and his band of miscreants had bombed the place. Oh, she'd lived, but she'd never marry with a face like that. Burned beyond what even good magic could fix, caught in the volitile explosion. And poor Hyicenth, she’d not the stomach to look upon the young woman after that. The girl had come to live with himself, a spinster in her uncles care till death should grant her a kindness. A distraction on his plans, settling her and organising house staff.
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​​And then of course, as if that wasn’t bad enough, the ripples of Dorhaven ran abundant through Vienda. The work of the Resistance, that's what the papers shouted, and the High Judge had repeated as such to the public. Rat them out, rat all of them out. Brent was an avid public supporter of this action, because once that clocking collection of erseholes was gone, Vienda would then turn their eyes back to more important things. Like his railway. He’d approached Captain Damen D’Arthe, a contemporary from his collage days, and implored the gentleman to offer his services. As an influencer of Vienda, he had resources and he had sway.
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​​That was how Brent Locksme had managed to get a peek behind the red velvet rope, and how he now had a task to do. It was now, the how he had to unpack.
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​​Seated in roguish fashion at the bar, Brent sipped his drink, mind a thousand ideas away. He stroked his still black, well oiled pointed beard slowly as his eyes narrowed staring into the amber liquid.

And the storm continued, roaring on the eves.
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[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - The Pendulum Club

The 7th of Vortas, Nine minutes past the 24th Hour

T

he members bar at the Pendulum Club, quiet, dignified, even somnolent. The members, scattered about, doze in chairs or speak together in low voices. Glasses clink and papers rustle. Perhaps there is a snore. Their words are vague, muffled by lethargy and distorted by brandy. Brandy. The whole space smells of brandy and pipe-smoke. Strong, heady aromas. They are almost enough to mask the reek of putrefaction. How has he never smelled it before? It is obvious now. It soaks into walls and seeps into elegant Hessian carpets. A rich and foetid continuo, and all just a hair’d breadth from spilling over to cloud the room. No, this has never been his preferred haut. Now, however, it is a necessity.

A comfortable enough space, he supposes, if too open, too seeming-genteel. Too many significant men lounge about in this place, distorting the place with the gravity of their persons. They give it an air of a boardroom or of a diplomatic reception room. Staid customs and displays of status that are little more than puffery. Customs with no antiquity, no ritual. This is not his place. The unstaffed niche on the third floor, just outside the billiard room, has always been his preference. It still is, when events allow it. They forbid it now.

He is not here to relax, to unwind, or to enjoy the company of his fellows. His fellows are not here tonight. Taphlowe is on call in his surgery tonight. Wainscoting is at the theater with Charlotte. Some legal thriller. They must be tearing the play to pieces, laughing behind their playbills. No. He is here alone. He is here to work. To wait. To watch. To count the members as they go by, listen to their conversation, discover all their names and connections. At least as well as he can, ensconced in a wingback chair. trying to look vague. Indifferent success. He watches too closely, can feel the rotation of his eyes within his head, too strong, too directed. Still, no one has remarked.

This is not the company to remark. The conspirators think themselves secure. They have no need to speak here. The rest lounge in their ignorance. How many are they? He once belonged to their numbers. Now he is not quite a member of the former. Unsettling, but sound. The conspirators must be understood, their measure taken, their weaknesses assessed. And then they must be unmade.

It will take more than one civil servant and an unwell and repentant Incumbent to accomplish what needs to be done. It must start somewhere. Better here at a locus of the mater. One locus among many.

The Dorehaven Incident was hatched here. Here and in other places. Still, the Club, his Club has been tainted by this. Tainted, or revealed? Has it always been this way, among the members? Has he simply refused to see it? There is every reason to think so. He had not played at political games, not properly, not before Intas. That had never been his function. The naive mind that policy analysis requires cannot tolerate the luxury of private politics. He has had no views. He has had all possible views.

The only constant is the service to the order of things, the proper maintenance of the machinery of governance. The latter now precludes the former. And so he now has policies, views. A strange, uncomfortable thing, a worm writhing in his mind.

The snifter has gone empty. The brandy that he needs as cover, that he needs as tonic to his nerves, has been consumed. It will need replenishing. Replenishing requires that he rise and go to the bar. Nothing for it. He rises, even and slow. The chair is too deep, its leather too soft to release him without protest. His back and ribs protest in kind. The bruises are begging to heal, beginning to ache more now than when they had been given. The leather straps of the pugilists have left their marks upon him. He has left marks of his own. He is used to this pain, can hide it from most. A private matter to dwell upon and in which to delight. Another means of focus, of calm.

To the bar then, by slow degrees. A great monumental thing, all carved oak and burnished brass. A few members decorated its expanse. Some huddled quiet over their drinks, as if they were still out in the unseasonable rain. Others, more relaxed, more at home in this place. He nods to no one in particular, and catches the barman’s eye.

“Another?” says the man, voice flat and official.

“Brandy, yes, but darker I think. Something old and thoughtful.”

“Heated snifter?” The barman points to the small candling rack behind him.

He shakes his head. The candles will overwarm the spirit, rendering it acrid. This much he knows. “My hands will do the job well enough.” The barman nods again and pours from a heavy curved-necked bottle. Deep amber liquid in the snifter, the aroma arising even now. Another nod, and he takes the snifter in hand.

For a while he remains at the bar, the heat of his hands warming the brandy, eyes ranging about the space. Making lists. Recording faces. Now, two men by the fire rise up and cross the room. Gentlemen of status and rank by the look of them. By the pinched and mincing motions of their gait, they are fashionable men, giving in to the fad for over-tight shoes. That is a discomfiture he will not indulge. Better to have bruised ribs that blistered feet.

The two gentlemen leave the barroom, passing into the corridor beyond. Then, they make their turn. Of course the make it. Out and out and at last toward the velvet rope that marks the space wherein even most members may not pass. An inner sanctum. And by the names and faces of the others he has seen, an abode of conspirators.

How many here are among them? He still has no answer. Perhaps he can take a measure, draw them out, or draw out the ignorant. Either way, the data may prove useful.

To the man lounging next to him, an elegant man with an elegant beard, he poses his seeming-idle question. “I wonder,” he says, swirling the brandy about in the snifter, “what it is they find so congenial behind that rope. I find I am abstractly insulted by their departure.”

[Raksha]

7th Vortas, 2719
Pendulum Club | Early Evening, Post Work Day

The storm raged on outside, wild and freezing in the Vortas night, bidding those who huddled in the Pendulum to stay a mite sight longer. A little more brandy, another cigar, a snooze on the armchair.

And yet, for Brent, it felt like it was storming in his own mind.

He felt the other move beside him, field laced with bubbling eclectic Quantative particles that seemed to assess and question everything around them. Brent ignored the other, staring into his drink and pondering his task. It was only when words came to his ears, words about that velvet barrier, that the entrepreneur looked up.

“Hrm?” Glancing at the man beside him, Brent looked him over, considering his words. Was this some sort of code, for those who were in the know? A prod to say ‘here we are, of the same exclusive club’? The galdor couldn’t be sure, and so, he chuckled a little, raising his glass to take a sip of his drink.

“Bold to assume sir, that there is anything of note behind that rope at all. Imagine if, in fact, it was nothing more than a gilded lavatory for those who would rather not sully their erses with the common folk? Would you still feel that sense of insult then?” The black bearded man lowered his glass, looking over the other carefully, taking in his tone and his face for signs that this was some sort of clever code or trick. It was a non descript face, not someone he would see parading garish fanfare on the world stage. Familiar? Not in any sense of knowing him. Familiar though in his lack of being known. One face, like any other, in a sea of bureaucrats and book-keeps.

The distraction regardless of its intent, was welcomed in this moment. Nothing of note had come to him so far on his proposed task, perhaps small talk would whet his whistle. Perhaps if this man was from behind the rope, he had assistance to offer.

Either way, Brent sat straighter.

“How’s this wretched weather then? Like Loshis decided that it would remind us of it’s presence, even if winter is upon us.” He nodded to the snifter that the other held, brow slightly raised.

"At least the brandy is warm here, and the fire is hot." Looking back at his own drink, the man sucked his teeth and sighed a little.

"It's not as good as my own drop, but it's enough. You'd think they'd be prepared for such a storm, and have the decent stuff broken out, keep us paying folk happy and all."

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - The Pendulum Club

The 7th of Vortas, Thirteen minutes past the 24th Hour

H

e will take the measure of this man. That is the first requirement. Assess his person, his expressions, the carriage of his head, the tone of his voice. He does not know what he is looking for. It will be apparent when it arises. Or not. This may be nothing at all, just one man among the members. A man of no consequence. The world is carried on the back of men of no consequence; anonymous beings who drive changes in nations, the thrust of events, the course of history, all by meaningless action. There is nothing so meaningful as the actions of inconsequential men.

And this man? Of no particular age, of no particular height. Of a most particular beard. Fine, black, and well styled. Not elaborately so. A man who values his appearance. A man who does not over value it. A sensible man then. At least as far as presentation goes. The fine beard is comfortable with the face behind it. They go together. There is something like faint recognition, as though he should know this man, or at least know his name. It escapes him. The context is all wrong. Whatever name the man has, whatever name he himself might recall, it is not the name of a man drinking too-warm brandy at the Pendulum’s bar.

“If it is a gilded lavatory, then it must be either popular or perilous. I have seen any number of men pass beyond that rope. I do not recall seeing them return.” He knows enough of the layout of the Pendulum to at least guess at what lies behind that velvet rope. He knows all too much of the men who gather behind it. “The private suite. A club within a club. There may be a gilded dining room next to your gilded toilet. A place for gilded men to eat gilded food and consider themselves fine. I wonder how much of my dues go toward furnishing it.” How much of his dues have financed the conspiracy? The Pendulum’s ledgers might contain a sliver of the truth. He will never be able to pry them out of old Seppings’ office. He doubts even Bailey can winkle them out. He will not have the Thief try. He needs his services for other matters, for other burglaries.

The though no longer bothers him, if ever it truly did. He knows the boy’s profession, makes use of its mysteries often enough. Still, he has at least pretendent that he does not condone the thievery. One may employ a thief and still not require those services. Such distinctions are behind him now. When the time is right, when the house, the house with the nut trees and the yellow trim, can be found, he will send his shadow within. The ledgers there will be of inestimable value. Of incomparable leverage.

Will the man with the fine beared feature among the clients of the Red Madame? Her web seems to stretch far enough into the members here. His own web is smaller, a handful, no more. It requires expanding. He needs men in his debt, men of reason, of talent, and of connections. He needs men whose string he can pull. Whose puppet is this man? Does anyone call his tune, pull his strings? Or is he a man all to himself? A man content to sip his brandy in relative comfort and fail to see what goes on around him.

A man much like he himself once had been.

“Perhaps insult is too strong a word. Perhaps I merely find it irksome.” He swirls the brandy in his snifter, takes in the aroma, but does not drink. The scent is enough for the moment. He needs his wits about him. “I tell myself I come here for the society of my fellows, and then those same fellows slink off to some hypothetical golden bordello of a suite.” He gives the bearded man a friendly waggle of the snifter, then turns it. It is the usual pattern. Clockwise, anticlockwise, and clockwise again. “Then again, I’ve never been much of a man for gilding. All in all, perhaps it is better to stay here in less august company.”He cocks a wry smile. “Certainly more congenial. Last time I saw the fine fellows go beyond the velvet they were in full evening dress. Starched to the gills and looking dispeptic.I can’t say I would enjoy such a thing. Can’t play billiards in a damned dinner suit.”

He avoids such formal affectations. A modern thing, a thing of gentlemen. Nothing of the gentleman about him. A gentleman does not work for his living, does not scrape and scrounge, does not know the joy of a proper policy report, or the ecstasy of ink stains that can never be washed out. The man beside him seems more likely to know such joys. There is something of the clerk about him, of the professional. A keen man. A man who works with his mind. The kind of man the Pendulum should welcome.

The kind of man who might lurk in the third floor billiard room.

He swirls the brandy again, this time taking a long, slow drink. It is decent enough stuff. Nothing to complain about. Nothing about which to sing praises either. A thoroughly competent brandy. “I don’t much mind the rain. The sound at least is conducive to thinking, and I have an excellent umbrella.” Another sip. “Confidentially, if you want a better brandy, I can recommend the drinks cabinet on the third floor. A bit out of the way. Less gilt that whatever the fine gents are enjoying behind their rope. Taphlowe and Wainscotting have scoped it out and somehow managed to get the staff to supply a quite excellent little selection.” The two men he might best call friends are masters of negotiating such niceties. Comfort, cheer, conversation, and superior libations. Fine fellows. He wishes they were here tonight.

“So, you don’t warrant admittance to the private suite either? No lofty connections, or not of the right kind?” He raises his glass to the man with a sardonic smile. “Your health sir. Your very good health.”

[Raksha]

7th Vortas, 2719
Pendulum Club | Early Evening, Post Work Day

Brent hummed a sound of acknowledgement at the other mans words, sipping his drink and nodding.

“Yes, one does have to wonder.” He said quietly, taking the words spoken as a possible indication that this was indeed one outside of that exclusive of clubs. That club within a club, as it was worded.

As the gentleman continued, his commentary lightened the sour mood the entrepreneur found himself in. He even chuckled at the thought of billiards in the room beyond the Red Rope, those staunch upper-class fellows in their starched suits and stern frowns. Brent was, for most part, expected to play the role. But for his worth, the man was eccentric and sometimes a little too excitable, and it was exhausting being proper.

“Ah, I tend to agree with you there, sir.” The galdor said quietly, raising his glass to take another sip, stroking the black sharp beard he wore so proudly in absent thought.

“Clock the umbrella, you’ll need a boat at this rate!” Brent said with brows raised, glancing down at the drink and sucking his teeth in thought.

“Third floor you say? I don’t mind a quieter set up, and a better drop is always appreciated.” He was curious now, of this other fellow, and warming to him. It wasn’t often the conversation was quite as tongue in cheek at this one, and frankly Brent could use the humor. He sipped his drink, watching the other as he spoke, eyes narrowing a little.

“And to yours, sir.” He said thoughtfully with a raise of his glass. Turning to face the other man a little more, the inventor of Anaxas’ first ever train smirked a little.

“No, my connections are sound, good sir. Perhaps admittance is not as illustrious as it seems.” Thinking for a moment longer, the galdor stuck out a hand, as though making a decision.

“May I introduce myself? I am Brent Locksme. You may, or may not, know my name.” If their introduction was successful, Brent would lean a little closer, speaking quietly.

“Tell me, what do you think of all this bother with Dorhaven? Did you have family there at all? If you don’t mind me asking. It’s troubling times, and word on the street is that people are worried. Worried about their safety, about their loved ones safety.”

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - The Pendulum Club

The 7th of Vortas, Seventeen minutes past the 24th Hour

T

hey probe about each other, taking measure. For himself, he looks for danger, for another member of that conspiracy that meets behind the velvet rope. Yet this is still the Pendulum, and there are others here, men who come only for a pleasant haven from the world outside, to slip away from obligations and from family. Before, he had come to play at billiards and vent his spleen about the idiocy of politicians, and to listen to other men vent their own bitterness. The vagaries of finance, the trying nature of medical patients, the depredations of the courts; the perpetual and cherished grievances of professional men.

There is no going back to that, no matter how dearly he wishes it. The times change. He will change with the times. The Pendulum swings now in a more sinister direction. He will swing with it. The world will hardly notice one more sinister man. Perhaps the others will not notice that his particular wickedness is indulged to bring them down. The taste of that anticipation is finer than the brandy he swirls in his glass.

And the other man? His place in the Pendulum remains unknown. He has seen the man of course, seen him in various companies. Still, he knows nothing of that pointed beard or those lively eyes. This is a place for the cultivation of society. Perhaps this is a man that may be cultivated.

“The rain is excessive tonight, to be sure, but I prefer it to the heat of summer. A man may dry off and warm himself by a fire more easily than he can cool himself.” A boat would do him no good. The hill of Smike’s End it too steep, and it is not likely that locks will be cut upon Halliwell Street to see him home. Boats require a city of a more level character. Florne perhaps. A city as flat as glass, a city where boats are a necessity. “A covered arcade might serve better, my own way home is by steep and winding streets. I’d have to carry the boat.”

Curse the rain. He will need a cab to get home without drowning or being a sodden mess. A necessity, and a damned uncomfortable one. Beasts, be they moa or horse or kenser sit will with him. A beast has no place in a city beyond the stockyards or the zoological gardens. They are altogether too rural a thing, too much a taste of the countryside and its misery.

The thought, it seems, is perhaps a shared one. He knows little of the bearded man, but his name is another matter. “Locksme? The engineer and mind behind the railway project? A pleasure sir, and may I say with perfect candor that I wish you and your company all the success it may have.” Rail travel, now that echoes of civilization, of reason. One might travel from one city to another without having to so much as set foot in the country soil or breath the bucolic air. The man rises in his estimation. A man of skill, of thought, perhaps even of vision.

“A name for a name,” he says, swirling his brandy again. “Shrikeweed, Basil Ambrose. I very much doubt you will know it. I am not a man of such parts as yourself. Certainly I appear in no papers nor am I invited to address learned ladies and gentlemen.” This well. Anonymity is a useful thing. What is one more dull grey clerk among an army of others? “A civil servant, and nothing more. What connections I have are equally papery. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Pleased yes, but for only a moment. Dorhaven and all its implications weigh upon him, as though the sky itself might rest upon his shoulders. Death, fire, loss, and conspiracy all wrapped up in a single name. The name is a burden. The name is an opportunity. Let it be the latter, the former is heavy enough.

“Dorhaven.” He says the name slowly, as though it merits perfect diction, as though it is a sacred incantation, a prayer. Perhaps it has become so. He speaks it often enough before the shrine by his door. Candles he has lighted to the memory of the dead, prayers and libations he has offered, and rage, and grief. “I lost a man there, one I might count as dear as family. No ties of blood, but ties all the same.” He raises his glass to the memory of the man, of the man he might count nearly as a second father. He counts himself fortunate to have both a father of the blood and a father of ink. Anton Montegue Levesque, hail, and farewell. May the earth lay lightly upon him. “Did you lose anyone in that place? It seems many have, and even those who have not they have lost their comfort. As you say, worry and fear are abroad.” He raises his glass again, a solemn, almost ritual gesture. “To the dead of Dorhaven, and to those they left behind.”

[Raksha]

7th Vortas, 2719
Pendulum Club | Early Evening, Post Work Day

At the quip, Brent let out a sharp laugh, delighted by the gentleman’s dry humor. His smile warmed further as the other galdor made it known that he did infact pay heed to the progress of society.

“Mister Shrikeweed. A fine job though sir, perhaps more important than that of an eccentric engineer. Our world would not move forward, were it not for your paper pushing and such.” He says with a tip of his drink and a nod, watching the shadow across Shrikeweeds face at the mention of Dorhaven. The word is heavy on his lips, and carries with it the weight of loss and memory. Brent’s smile has faded now, a frown of empathy. Of shared understanding.

“My sympathies sir, to your loss. I did not loose anyone, but I may have well as. My niece, Beth, a darling of Anaxas if ever there was one. She was injured in the blast, terribly burned. Even the healers at Brunnhold couldn’t save her features. Her mother can hardly look upon her, the disfiguration is so great, and I see she hides a great deal of pain. I am her guardian now, quite possibly till the end of her days whenever Alioe see’s fit for that to be.” He raised his own glass with solemn and somber ritual.

“To the dead, and those left behind.” The man echoed, taking a deep sip of the amber drink before lowering the glass with a slow suck on his teeth.

“Those bastard Resistance folk, that’s the problem. It’s one thing to protest and rob galdori and such, its quite another to kill or injure innocent people. It’s beyond me that people are actually still standing by them, after their own people were in Dorhaven. Humans, wicks, galdori—everyone an innocent victim. People need to see them for what they are. The truth of it.” He smacked his fist into his hand, brow drawn angrily.

“The public—all of the public—need to see these erseholes for what they really are. Terrorists. Killers. Zealots.” Picking up his drink again, Brent shook his head, taking another sip.

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - The Pendulum Club

The 7th of Vortas, Twenty three minutes past the 24th Hour

T

he Engineer’s tale is short. It requires no elaboration. It is full of sorrow. Sorrow for the state of his niece, sorrow for what she might have become. A different kind of death, and one that lingers. How many other stories are there like this? How many others like his own. Five-hundred seventy three. That is the accounting of the dead. He has read all the names, collected them away in his own files. There, at least, they will have some company. How many others have tales of the living, the maimed, the broken? The tales, each of them, is another piece of evidence. Evidence to describe the details of the attack. This disposition of bodies, the nature of the injuries of the survivors, all of it is relevant. All of it is data. And the stories themselves give shape to those figures and calculations. The stories are what has made Dorhaven an atrocity.

“My condolences in return for the condition of your niece.” What burns he knows have been minor. A hand too close to a candle, a kettle just off the fire, a cup too hot in his hands. Even the smallest of these bring outsized pain. To be burned to the point of disfigurement, it would be a world of agony. The pain would be nigh unbearable. The pain would need to be taken away, mitigated. An attentive uncle will not wish to see his niece in pain. He will seek out remedies, palliatives. Strong palliatives. “It is good of you to act as your niece’s guardian. It is sound. And not every man is sound. The living of Dorhaven deserve their justice as well.” It has been too long since he has called upon either Kate or Arabella. Levesque’s granddaughters, he might count them as adoptive nieces of his own. Or cousins perhaps. The precise nature of the fictive kinship makes no matter. That they exist is enough, and more than enough. Perhaps he will call upon them later in the month. Kate at least will come to lunch. Not at the Pendulum. He cannot bear to have her in this place where her grandfather’s death was plotted. Someplace more pleasant, someplace more cheering will be required.

The Engineer makes his conventional curses at conventional foes. He knows those curses well enough. He has made them himself. Reasonable curses. Heartfelt. Wrong. Does the Engineer know the follow of his words? Does he know the truth? The man’s demeanor militates against it. Demeanor can be faked. Men may seem other than they are. Caution is required in the probing. A very little probing too. A cursory action and nothing more. Perhaps it will be enough. Perhaps not at all. “Confusion to the Resistance. May they choke upon their own vented spleen.” He raises his glass again, swirls it in long, slow circles. Clockwise, anticlockwise, and clockwise again. “Their hands may be bloody, but I cannot shake it from me that we are, in a larger sense, responsible. The Resistance exists in the context we have created for them. Is it any great wonder that they resent us? Should we be the least bit shocked at it all?” A bitter smile crosses his face; bitter and sad. “Appalled, yes, but perhaps not surprised.”

He is on dangerous ground here. Dangerous and necessary. Were it in his power to remake the world, it would be a different, more ordered existence. A place for everyone and everyone in their place. Content enough to show no contempt for the system itself. Contempt has been fostered all too well. A sigh. He raises his glass again and takes a long, slow, sip. “Those responsible for Dorhaven must indeed be paraded before the public, their crimes enumerated. Then, if you will forgive my coarseness, they should be hanged one and all for all the nation to see.” And who does the Engineer imagine will dance at the ends of those ropes?