[PM to Join] Checking Balances

[Titus Greycastle]

The Customs House, The Embankment. | Loshis 34 3720 | Early Morning

The early morning mist still clings to the streets and warfs along the river. Workers and clark's bustle to work along Commerce Row.

Amongst them a tall galdori dressed in a cheap but simple brown suit and bowler hat, in one hand a battered but serviceable case, in the other a plain wooden cane.

The Inspector has taken care to not only change his appearance but also his manner, his walk is less sure, his shoulders hunched and his face has a slightly haggard air as he make his hurried progress down the street.

Every bit the harassed clerk worried about being late. However from from behind small round spectacles his shrew dark eyes obaerve everything.

At the imposing facade of the Customs House Titus joins a crowd of clerks and minor burocrates and follows them in through a side door. No one bats an eye, for he is just another drone in this busy hive of commerce.

He follows signs to the department he is after and sits himself down at an empty desk. The desk is not vacant by chance, the man who normally occupies it has taken the day off, richly compensated for his loss of hours.

Titus takes out ledgers from his case and, like all the other clarks, makes himself busy for a time.

He is in place, the easy part is done. Now his real work begins. Somewhere in this building is his quarry, the hunt has begun.

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - In Chancery

The Evening of the 34th of Loshis, 2720

H

is authority is thin as paper. Paper is all that he requires. Still, it is a tenuous thing, an authority pieced together from committee authorizations, obscure memoranda, requests fulfilled, and documents that no one remembers signing. Perhaps they have never been signed. Perhaps he has imagined them. He holds no position. He has held many. Former chief of staff, former legislative councilor, former deputy chief for policy analysis. Former. Former. Former. And now? For the moment, he is nothing. A man without title, without official purpose. He exists in the spaces between departments, in the lacunae of the laws. Whole departments have been constructed in such spaces. It is too early for such ambitions. He is but one man, after all.

The lacunae swallow him up. He has let them do so. It is better to sink into the gaps than to be pried loose and discarded with no more than a thanks and a vague sense that he should cease to be. The Symvoul change is done, the matter is resolved. So ended his time as the Incumbent’s de-facto chief of staff. Still, there are lingering matters, loose ends that need tying up. Nothing ends neatly. Nothing ends at all. Cause and effect all chained together, all flowing one into the other in an unbroken and unbreakable stream. Today is another effect, and the effect will birth a new cause.

The old matters still linger. The matter of Dorhaven, the men behind it, their still unknown motives. Such are the things that need sorting. Conspiracies of men who bend their wealth and their offices to private, to venal ends. Men who have gone so far as to commit nine-hundred and thirty seven murders. That was the number in the papers, the tally of the dead of Dorhaven. Perhaps it will grow. To what end? To what profit? It gnaws at him, drags at his thoughts, and still there are no answers. There are only more questions.

Documents and ledgers spread all out before him, covering the surface of the desk. The old desk behind the indigo door. His desk. The department does not begrudge him the room; does not mind that he carries out old duties by custom alone. Chancery is ruled by custom. There is no profit in denying it. For now, custom is another of the gaps in which he can hide. He is not the only hidden thing in this place. Somewhere amid these documents, in the tax records and bank details, in the official minutes of meetings, there are the patterns of the conspiracy. This he knows. He knows it down to his ink-stained bones.

Between the knowing and the finding there is confusion. Another gap.

A tapping on the door. Light, even delicate. He gives a small smile. “Come.” The door opens on silent hinges. The small neat figure of Daphne appears beyond it, brass tray of coffee things in her hand. Daphne is a luxury, but one he must afford. He has grown too accustomed to fine coffee more or less upon demand. He has grown even more accustomed to fine coffee before ever he demands it. The department does not begrudge Daphne. She makes coffee for them as well.

“Begging your pardon Mr S, but I thought it might be time for another pot.”
“Daphne,” he says, giving what he hopes is a comfortably conspiratorial smile, “I find that it is nearly always time for coffee. Please.” He gestures to a clear space upon the desk. Daphne sets down her tray. Brass tray, brass ibrik of Mugrobi coffee, strong enough to keep an airship afloat, delicate blue and white ceramic cup barely moving when the tray comes to rest. Just so. “I will be here quite late this evening, so I would request one more pot of coffee in perhaps two hours? And then you are free to take your leave.”

The girl nods, and a strand of her honey-colored hair comes loose. It hangs before her face, dangling in her left eye. It has been a long day for her as well, and no amount of careful hair-pinning can keep up with constant whirring about with coffee beans, grinders, small pots, and other accoutrements. The girl looks nearly as worn as he himself. “I hope you have made time for coffee of your own. We can all of us use it.”

“No coffee for me past mid-day, or else I am up all night fretting over nothing. Mr Wiggins, however, has been kind enough to forget a pot of tea on my table several times today. Not that he says nothing when he does.” That is in keeping with the man. Any tired habitue of this office will find themself in possession of a pot of Mr Wiggins’ tea. He makes excellent tea. Still, it will not do to have a galdor waiting upon a mere human serving girl. The careless leaving of teapots about, however, maintains the proper level of decorum. “Anything else, Mr S? Something to eat? Can’t do no lobster and lettuce here, but there might be some bread and cheese.”

“Thank you Daphne, but no. Coffee alone will be sufficient.” He cannot eat, not now. Proper digestion takes away too much energy from his thoughts, renders him tired, contented. Neither have their place this evening. Daphne nods and departs. After her, the indigo door closes with a solid finality. There will be no interruptions for two hours. That at least is enough time to lay things out.

He pours the red-brown liquid into the cup, raises it up. Stream and fragrance rising, he takes a long, slow sip. It is excellent coffee. It is always excellent coffee. He will tolerate nothing less. Not here, and not tonight.

The Inspector’s reports are clear enough, their focus upon clear irregularities. A solid line of reasoning. The shipping ledgers, the customs manifests, and the inspection reports from the fictitious ‘Sebastian Balfour’ form a more circuitous path. And still, those paths cross.

Balfour signs in two distinct hands. The first is narrow, compressed, almost nervous. The second is more refined, more at ease, and yet harder to read. A hand practiced for beauty? Certainly it has its graces. Ophus 19, 2718, First Balfour signs off on the manifests of three airships docked at the Ramshead Spire.

• The Truelove out of Thul Ka. Cargo composed of:
  • cloth 220 bolts
  • 2 tons coffee beans
  • 200 lbs mixed spices in crates - three crates lost to water damage and breakages
  • 16 cases of medical-grade opium
• The Crimson Sufficiency out of Laus Oma,
  • 300 lbs of mixed spices
  • 24 cases of Oman wine - two cases lost to breakages
  • 500 lbs coffee
• Golden Wasp likewise out of Thul Ka
  • Ironwood lumber - 2 tons
  • Hydraulic engine parts (various) 500 lbs
  • 16 cases of Oman wine - three cases lost to breakages

Breakages. Sebastian Balfour heads a very clumsy crew. It is a wonder the man is still employed. Wine breakages, manifest confusions, damaged goods, cargo delayed. A perfect little storm of chaos, and a perfect means to move quantities of untaxed goods. Insurance must be paid out on the spoiled goods, hands must be paid to haul the stuff away.

His eyes scan down the manifest, down the reports. Total cost in losses for the Crimson Sufficiency: forty-five concords, six, and three. Forty-five, six, and three. The number seems familiar. Somewhere in all this labyrinth of paperwork, he has seen that number before. Somewhere it should not be.

He takes up the ibrik, pours another cup of coffee. By some mystery he has never solved, it remains hot, and so he drinks. This time it is a long and languorous drink, something to awaken his thoughts, something to hint at the burning of his throat. It will have to serve to keep him focused, too keep him searching for forty-five, six, and three. The cup clatters sightly as he puts it back upon the bronze tray. His fingers do not leave it. Under his breath he hald-chants the number, his eyes darting over the pages. With each recitation his fingers turn the cup. Once, twice, three times. Clockwise, anti-clockwise, and clockwise again.

[Titus Greycastle]

The Embankment. | Loshis 34 3720 | Early Morning

The time dragged by in a paper and ink scent stupor of numbers, names and lists of manifests.

Titus hated paperwork, and as he finished his fifth cup of the strong tarry coffee that was held in an old brass urn he was about ready to give up his hunt.

However it was then that his tired eyes hit upon something that rang alarm bells in his mind. It was in a ledger of rent payments for warehouse and the like, this particular entry was unremarkable in all aspects, except for the renter's name.

SB, printed in neat capitals, Titus remembered that hand. A new energy suffused his spirit and he scribbled the pier and warehouse number on a scrap of paper and came to his feet and walked out unhurriedly like he was going to lunch or the like.

Once outside his pace picked up and he adopted the manner of a harried senior clerk late with some accounts or other. Again no one batted an eye or even noticed, other than to be thankful that it was not them who had to rush about.

The scribbled address took him to one of the small docks, far to the end of a row. Warehouse C, on dock XVI was small, unassuming and seemingly devoid of people on first glance.

Titus however had a feeling, his instincts honed by years walking a beat in this city. He was being watched. He slowed his hurried progress and looked around as if lost and made a show of taking papers from his case and checking them.

As he made a show of becoming exasperated Titus snatched glances around at the warehouse and dock. There were people present after all, all dressed as stevedores and in various postures of watchful indolence.

Finally with a sigh of frustration he looked up and called to one of the watchers.

""Excuse me, can you tell me if this is the warehouse rented by the Rebeck Shipping company?"

The burly human who Titus had addressed shrugged and slowly took a stubby pipe from between his teeth.

"No sir, 'friad nobody rents this 'ere warehouse, it's empty. Maybe try back up the wharf there." He pointed with the short stem of his pipe.

Titus gave a deflated nod and turned back the way he had come and departed, muttering a string of oaths under his breath. He just caught the chuckles and low voices of the dockers behind him as he left.

However there was a slight grin pulling at his face. Because if that warehouse was not in use, then why were there a pack of stevedores lounging around it and armed stevedores at that. Once he was out of sight of the warehouse he left the dockyard via an alleyway.

He would need to come back and have a look inside Warehouse C, tonight.