Whiskey, You're the Devil

A potentially sobering conversation.

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A large forest in Central Anaxas, the once-thriving mostly human town of Dorhaven is recovering from a bombing in 2719 at its edge.

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Adam Spencer
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Sun Apr 28, 2019 12:17 am


Heading Uptown • Anaxas/Vienda

On the 5th of Intas, 2719 • Evening
Got channels? "I know you got channels" had been the precisely imprecise wording. Between that and the slang working its way into the Incumbent's words, there was something very strange about the way he was speaking. Why would a galdor revert to slang that sounded like Tek when he was drunk? It wasn't the first bizarre thing about Anatole Vauquelin, but it didn't need to be addressed right now. Adam watched the weary movements the other man made in silence, digesting what he had said now instead of how he had said it.

Still, the words were filed away. He'd figure them out sometime when he needed to antagonize the other fellow -- which was certainly not right now.

His impassivity ebbed slightly; he gave a smile to his carriage companion. But it was a tight one, no humor lacing the expression whatsoever. "My resources are those of any other journalist in my position, Mr. Vauquelin," he said, and it wasn't a lie at all. "And I recognize the value of discretion, especially when it comes to what sounds very much like emergency information."

Already, though, he was working over what this could be. If it was important and it concered humankind, and it needed to get out before the Vyrdag, then what in clocking hell was it? His stomach tightened a little as a pageant of ideas started to take shape in his head of what the galdor might tell him. None of the scenarios that danced through his brain were ones he remotely wanted to see happen. "You know," he added, "I could have used a real drink back there, not that damned brandy." Maybe he could get as drunk as Vauquelin had, and drown his sorrows away -- but wait. What sorrows did Vauquelin have? His tearaway daughter was safely ensconced at Brunnhold. The second one was perhaps a trifle slow, but that happened sometimes. Hardly a cause for drink. Whatever had driven Vauquelin to the bottle, even knowing Adam would show up...

Man, woman, wick, and golly. A strange arrangement of priorities. But no, he'd know for sure if Vauquelin was Resistance. He would have been warned off cultivating the relationship, at the very least. So why hadn't the galdor put himself first? It nagged at him as much as the speech had. He'd have to find out. But later, he reminded himself. It wasn't important right now.

"Please, Anatole." A risky move, that, assuming some level of familiarity. But he kept his tone somber, rather than airy. He wasn't taking liberties at all, his voice suggested. "Expediently but at your leisure, as they say."

His hands rested on his knees before himself. The carriage rolled on, moving further away from the Lantern. The roads widened some; the buildings grew further apart. They were entering enemy territory for Adam -- and now he couldn't even be sure what Vauquelin thought of the geography either.

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Tom Cooke
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Fri May 03, 2019 4:18 pm

the toy lantern 🙫 the dives
during the evening of the 5th of intas, 2719
Anatole, eh? That’d been a hell of a move, he had to admit. It’d confused him at first, drunk as he was – who the fuck’re you talkin’ to? – and when he caught up, his face twitched in a little spasm of distaste and pain.

Still, putting aside the way that being called by his host’s name always made him feel, he admired the man’s determination. You didn’t take a risk like that for nothing. This kov was trickier than most – any other journalist in your position, my erse, he’d thought, but he’d smiled faintly, taking what little Adam was at liberty to give him – and a tricky kov was exactly what Tom needed.

He shifted uncomfortably. “Expediently. All right. Uh—” He hesitated.

Clairvoyance was a funny conversation. He’d known for most of his life, like most humans, that the gollies had ways of spying; until the past few months, he’d never known how or why. That, he reckoned, was part of the power play, part of why they didn’t let plowfeet like him in the real important libraries; if you didn’t know anything about the mechanics of magic, you’d think it was capable of anything, and you’d be so damned scared that you’d give up before you started.

But scrying had its limitations, as he knew now. You had to – or he was fairly sure you had to – have a (consenting?) witness for your ley channel, and even then, you had to be fair fucking good at voo to eavesdrop coherently. That was what Delacore’d told him, anyway. Seemingly alone in the cab with Adam Spencer, Tom felt as safe as he ever did. Nevertheless, he couldn’t shake his old paranoia. He knew what Hawke did to dobbers; he’d put enough of them in the Tincta himself, and not before slicing off his fair share of digits. Tom Cooke wasn’t a gods-damned dobber.

This was different from the Drain, he kept telling himself. This was nine different kinds of clocked. Would he have had problems with this in life, before he’d known what death was like – before he’d learned the weight of it? Everything was different now.

Finally, he cleared his throat. His hand was balled into a fist on his knee, white-knuckled, and he tried unsuccessfully to relax it. “I can’t tell you how I know or who else is involved, so don’t ask. I was already risking my neck just meeting with you, understand? Eyes everywhere, Circle damn it. This place is a den of wolves,” he said with a subtle twitch of his head toward the window beside him, toward the broad, well-paved streets and the manicured hedges and cheery-painted townhouses, cold and oddly threatening in the gloaming. Was he referring to Vienda as a whole, or Uptown?

“Listen. Say you wanted to turn the people against the Resistance, confirm what moderates already think about them. What better than engineering a meaningless, sensational attack where everybody will suffer – not just galdori – and then pinning it on the Resistance? Saying, ‘Oh, look what the humans’ve done this time.’ Like I said, the gollies love a good hanging, eh?” His throat felt dry, so he cleared it again. His head was spinning. With a grunt, he waved a hand. “Never mind. But – with the rainy season coming up, it’s as good a time as any. And if you had to pick a target—”

Now he shifted to lean closer, as if the walls themselves were listening. In an even lower voice, he told Spencer the what and the how of what he’d been privy to earlier that month, if not the who or the why. His tone was quick and clipped.

When he’d finished, he sat back, drumming his fingertips on his knee. He tried to keep his expression casual, but when he smiled, it was strained and looked a little sickly. “Somehow, I don’t think any amount of whisky’ll wash that one down. Believe me, I’ve tried,” he added.

The wheels of the cab hissed through a puddle from that morning’s rain; a horse whickered and snorted.
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Adam Spencer
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Sat May 04, 2019 6:19 pm


Heading Uptown • Anaxas/Vienda

On the 5th of Intas, 2719 • Evening
When Vauquelin seemed to have little reaction beyond a flinch to Adam using his given name, the latter man tilted his head, a bit puzzled. It had been a risk, but nothing much came of it. So either Vauquelin was more drunk than he'd previously suspected, or things were much worse than he'd previously suspected.

Perhaps both, he realized. As the galdor cautioned him of the risks, he fought the urge to roll his eyes. The other man seemed to be reassuring himself that it was all right to tell the rest of it, and so Adam signaled his understanding with a quick, casual gesture. He kept his mouth shut, watching the twitch and uncertainty, dropping his gaze down to the tensely clutched hand.

And he listened. It wasn't a surprise -- not really; the Resistance had false charges invoked on them as easily as gollies, wicks, or humans managed to breathe -- but it was unsettling news. Especially as Vauquelin continued. He stared, shaking his head. Common sense didn't make him drop his voice, but picking up on the other man's clear paranoia about his surroundings did. "You're joking. I mean, I know you're not; of course you're not, but you -- what the hell? How the clocking hell did you learn this? Was it -- no, you said you couldn't say, so I won't ask, but gods damn it, this needs to be dealt with. When's it scheduled for?"

How had Anatole Vaquelin found out, anyway? As the man himself said, he was just one of many incumbents who would be in the city for the Vyrdag. He was just a man who had a district, not a fellow of any great pull as far as Adam knew. And how did he know this was good? He knew Vauquelin believed it and wasn't lying to him, but he needed to fact-check the information somehow. If he brought it up on half-baked theory, it wouldn't go very far at all. He might not be taken seriously. Then they'd be in the very hell that Vauquelin had just described, and that was something Adam didn't want for a single second on his conscience.

He swallowed, his voice turning sympathetic. "I'm not questioning your information either, Anatole, but I... need to know how you got it. If I act on it, people will want to know who I got it from and whether it's valid. I gather you'd rather not have me use your name, so I need evidence or proof of some sort. I know it's not a rumor, but I need something to show that it isn't." He grimaced a little at his own words, sucking in a breath. "Please, understand my position there, and the difficult time I'll have of it otherwise. You can't move all the sevens to one side of the Kingdoms board without having a damned good reason for doing so."

The noise of the horse and the puddle made him blink, but he kept his gaze on Vauquelin, hoping the man would understand the reason behind his final question.
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Tom Cooke
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Sat May 04, 2019 7:53 pm

the toy lantern 🙫 the dives
during the evening of the 5th of intas, 2719
The surprise he’d managed to elicit from Spencer took him aback; he didn’t think he’d ever seen the man without a face fit for Rooks, much less stumbling and swearing. It didn’t take long, though, for the reporter to master himself, and then he was off like a falcon again. Tom listened, rapt, still and silent. A bump from the carriage nearly made him jump, but he forced himself to remain focused, stony-faced.

He was grateful for Adam’s quick thinking, but he cursed himself for not having thought of all this, such having been his hurry to get in touch. He wasn’t just in over his head; he was at the bottom of the bay.

He grunted with frustration, voice strained. “I don’t know when it’s scheduled for – they would’ve ironed all that out later. I understand your position, Spencer, but—” He hissed between his teeth, swearing softly. “I wasn’t there for that part, and I couldn’t’ve put myself in the position to be.”

At this point, Tom was nobody’s favorite man. The events of Dentis and Vortas were hazy; newly-embodied and eking out a half-life in the Dives, he hadn’t remembered much of his real life, and he’d seized what little memory he had – his loyalty to the Bad Brothers – with the grip of a drowning man. Hawke had let him slide back into service, if only for the sake of curiosity and for a freak of nature’s potential usefulness. In life, he’d been a rock in both his professional and personal lives, solid and real and human; his worth had been in the weight of his presence and the efficiency of his hand, and in the fact that everyone knew who he was. Now, nobody was quite sure what to make of him.

He shut his eyes and drew in a breath, thinking for a moment. There had to be something he could do without unraveling his position entirely; he couldn’t put Adam in the position of watching this unfold without being able to do anything about it. He couldn’t bear the thought of having risked this meeting for chroveshit nothing.

“The information I’ve given you in the past,” he said slowly. “Say I have connections to the – gods damn it – to the Drain. How else would I have gotten those tidbits? Your source is an operative in Vienda. There are reasons why certain parties connected to the Drain would be interested in stamping out the Resistance. Important parties. Movers and shakers. The Rose might be his – Tom didn’t have to clarify – “but Vienda…”

He hoped his grit-toothed reluctance, along with the disdain in his voice when he’d referred to Hawke, was convincing.

He crossed his legs, folding his hands in his lap. He stared keenly at Adam’s face through the gloom. “Will that suffice? I don’t know what more proof I can offer you. I have no physical proof, and I’m a man alone. I met with you on nobody’s business but my own conscience, damn the thing.”
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Adam Spencer
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Sun May 05, 2019 4:42 pm


Heading Uptown • Anaxas/Vienda

On the 5th of Intas, 2719 • Evening
Understand where my loyalty lies if it comes down to it, and we're good, Mr. Vauquelin," Adam replied a little heavily, but solemnly, to Vauquelin's concluding words. He had no immediate inclination to betray the galdor for helping him out, but if it did come down to a choice -- Resistance or otherwise -- he didn't even have the luxury of that choice.

Staring hard at the smaller man, he nodded once. "I'll take this up the chain. If you're fucking with me, I can't be responsible for the consequences. You've heard the rumors, I'm sure. It won't be at my hands, but it will definitely be out of my hands." He afforded a slight twitch of an apologetic moue at the galdor, but he didn't renege on the threat. Vauquelin had to understand just how precarious this was for him as well, as he'd claimed to do so. If the Incumbent were playing him, that would merit a result neither of them wanted. At the very least, he was definite that Vauquelin didn't want it, and almost as sure that he would have preferred not having the fellow's death end their acquaintanceship.

He let the words sit there for another long moment, before starting to work his way through the connections the galdor laid out for him. So if there was organized crime involvement, someone seeking to peel away Vienda and have it be a separate force to rival Silas Hawke's, the Resistance would have to be dissolved. Obviously. It was the very definition of an acceptable target for the galdori. And civilians, people who had nothing to do with any side of the equation, were going to be sacrificed in the crossfire, their families left with a grudge against the Resistance, more ammunition after Serro's recent uptick in violent tactics.

He ran a hand over his mouth, considering. "I don't suppose you can tell me who else was at this meeting at which you so very conveniently found yourself? The Seventen are the ones who would have the manpower to carry something like this out and the ability to do so without being noticed. Was it Morde?" He knew the police had to be involved somehow. So many How breakups, and the Oculus in play now -- there was no way they weren't.

He'd have to do some background research on Vauquelin at some point too. The man had an average enough reputation; the news of his illicit connctions wasn't a shock, but he'd have to track down what he could to see how far the thread ran. He wasn't about to simply take the man's assurance for the gods' honest truth. He didn't take anyone's assuranes for immediate truth, certainly not those of a man very recently rumored to have been too crazy to function.
Last edited by Adam Spencer on Sun May 05, 2019 7:48 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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Tom Cooke
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Sun May 05, 2019 6:18 pm

the toy lantern 🙫 the dives
during the evening of the 5th of intas, 2719
He snorted. It wasn’t a derisive snort, though: it was the sad, oddly frayed laugh that might come spluttering out of someone who’d just heard a joke that was a little too morbid to laugh at in polite company. It was something about the way the reporter had said fucking, something about the way that everything just kept getting worse and worse. “I’m sorry,” he said, lip twitching. He held up a thin hand, offered Adam a weary smile. “Of course. I understand. It’s just – you’ve got competition, hey? I’ve been a dead man for awhile.”

The smile drained from his face; it fell slack, ashen-tired. As Adam went on, he ran a hand through his hair and knotted his fingers there.

“I can’t tell you about Morde,” he replied, looking up and raising his brows. “I don’t know how much of a hand he has in this, or even if he has a hand in it; he wasn’t showing his face then, though I reckon that doesn’t mean he’s not involved. The Seventen, though – you’ve already put two and two together, Mr. Spencer. I’ll say that a certain Co-Captain of the Patrol Division – one you might be acquainted with from the recent trial – was involved, but other than that…”

At this point, dry-mouthed, his head feeling stuffed full of cotton, the effort it was taking to push the Rose out of his accent was immense. He could usually wrap his tongue around the toffin dialect well enough, but in the confined space of the cab, feeling like he had a hundred targets on his back and one shot at doing the first decent thing he’d ever done in his life, the mask felt as flimsy and alien as it ever had. And the drink – gods damn it, it was always the drink, wasn’t it? He could never keep his hands away from the liquor cabinet, and when he wasn’t drunk, he was itching to be. In life, he’d bragged about how he was more efficient sloshed than sober, but he wasn’t so sure about that now. He wasn’t so sure about anything in this arena.

Would Spencer even believe him if he started spilling names? Aye, he thought, sucking at a tooth, the High Judge was there, and so was his fucking dagka. And don’t forget the Queen’s Shothan wick mistress. Again, he felt like a moony old man. This must be how Kilapu Ainu feels all the time.

His eye twitched, and his frown deepened. “I’m risking my Circle-damned neck for this, and if it’s of any use to anybody who can do anything to prevent it, then it’s worth it to me. But if what I’m saying checks out, damn it, if you come to the conclusion that you can trust my word—” He broke off, hissing between his teeth. “I know where your loyalties lie, and I’ve heard the rumors, aye. I think you may know what I think about the political situation in Anaxas, too, regardless of what my opinions’ve been – historically.”

Outside the window, the streets were looking familiar: the carriage couldn’t be far from its destination.

“All I’m saying is – I’m not the most popular man in Vienda right now, and still less if word of our conversation gets out. Your informant in the Vyrdag’ll be bobbing sooner than later. I reckon that doesn’t mean much to you, but I came here on good faith, expecting nothing in return. I still don’t expect anything.” Again, he broke off. He looked at Adam steadily. “Whatever you do with that is up to you, ye chen?”
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Adam Spencer
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Sun May 05, 2019 8:21 pm


Heading Uptown • Anaxas/Vienda

On the 5th of Intas, 2719 • Evening
Adam tilted his head at the half-laugh and the odd response that followed, but he said nothing. Whateer Vauquelin was going through wasn't his concern. His concern was getting as much information out of the man as he could -- in the galdor's own time, but expediently.

The carriage turned a corner, heading up streets where the houses started to space further and further apart. And Vauquelin started to talk. Adam made mental notes -- Morde, possibly, but definitely that bastard Seventen whose reputation preceded him, D'Arthe. Adam had never met the man, and he was perfectly content with that situation remaining unchanged for the foreseeable future.

"But the Seventen would have to be directed by someone. If not Morde, then whom? Someone would have to give them their marching orders at this get-together." He glanced up at Vauquelin pointedly, hoping he could winch more names out of the man, but he didn't press.

When Vauquelin assured him that he knew where Adam's loyalties lie, that made him hold his breath for a second or two, his gaze very carefully setting above the galdor's right shoulder, schooling his face into impassivity for a second or two so the galdor couldn't read his reaction -- something feeling like a sudden, acute panic -- without a bit of effort. But then it ebbed, disappeared. So then the Incumbent wasn't out to backstab him, at least thus far. He nodded once, digesting the man's words, listening as he continued further.

"If you think I'm going to write this in the paper -- " papers, he thought, " -- then you're doing yourself a disservice by the errant assumption, Mr. Vauquelin, because I already know I'm not nearly stupid enough to do that. I'd taken you for a man who wasn't stupid enough to think that." He smiled slightly, softening the words a little, but didn't glance away from Vauquelin.

He didn't think Vauquelin was stupid enough to think that for a second. Nerves, or the weight of his conscience about the meeting, had clearly been working a number on the galdor since before Adam had arrived at the Toy Lantern. Clearly the Drain had more of a hold on Anatole Vauquelin than anyone knew, to make the man react with such panic to the thought of being exposed. Either that, or there was something rippling through galdori society that even he, in all his perspicacity about the cultures that inhabited Vienda, was unaware of. The thought was intriguing, but he set it aside for the time being. It would have to be investigated later, like a growing litany of factors in this conversation.

The carriage was starting to slow. He had only one more question to ask, so at least the timing was working out. It was potentially the only thing that was entirely working out in this equation. He studied the galdor across from him, taking in the wearied, harried expression the other man wore. The conversation was tiring him out, and Adam didn't want to push very much further. Except (his voice became quiet and pensive, rather than investigatory) --

"A final question, Mr. Vauquelin. Historically, what made you decide to tell me all this? Pardon me saying so, but I hadn't taken you for a man of such deep sentiment. You said that taking it where I'm going to take it would be doing you a favor. Why?"
Last edited by Adam Spencer on Mon May 06, 2019 9:59 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Tom Cooke
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Mon May 06, 2019 9:48 pm

a street 🙫 uptown vienda
during the evening of the 5th of intas, 2719
If you took me for a man who wasn’t stupid enough to do anything I’ve done tonight, he thought, lifting an eyebrow at Spencer’s words, you’re wrong. He shifted in his seat, but he didn’t say a word. He weighed Adam’s earlier question, too, weighed his options and found them all wanting.

“I’d be looking a little further up than Morde, if I were you,” he said, “and—” A pause. “I wasn’t talking about your paper. If my word’s good, you’ve got every reason to want to keep me breathing and not at the bottom of the Tincta, hey? If push comes to shove and things turn foul, you might want to put in a good word for me. If you see fit,” he added drily.

Adam’s next question caught him off guard, as much because of its contents as because of the way he’d said it. He grit his teeth, and a muscle jumped in his jaw. Why? That was one question he didn’t want to answer, and for a time, he thought about pretending Adam hadn’t said anything.

When the carriage finally stopped moving, Tom jolted, blinking and sitting up in the sudden stillness. He squinted through the darkness ahead, then turned to glance out the window at his right. Familiar street. He expected to feel relief, but felt only a tightening in his stomach. After he’d paid through the hatch and the driver had released the doors, he turned to Adam.

He reckoned he owed the man something, especially if they were to have more dealings.

He stared at him levelly before he spoke, voice low. “Maybe I’m getting sentimental in my age, but I don’t think so. Of course, we both know you’ve got to take risks if you want to get anything done. But I’ve got a bad feeling about pulling a stunt like this, Mr. Spencer, so close to the end of the Symvouli cycle, with the Queen in such a state. It’s all well and good to take a risk in Rooks and lose your shirt, but if Anaxas comes down” – he raised his brows – “it’ll come down on all of our heads.”

He started to get up, wincing; his hip gave a twinge as he uncrossed his legs, and his left leg had fallen asleep. He took his hat from the space between them, but hesitated.

“Things can’t continue the way they are. Something’s wrong. So much death. Not just Dorhaven. The Dives, the Harbor. It’s just that the Cycle’s important,” he slurred, “and there’s got to be balance.” The cycle to which he referred was unclear. “Bah. I’m talking nonsense. Good night to you, Mr. Spencer, and good luck. I’ll be in touch.”

Fumbling in the dark, he exited the cab. The wind was still as strong as ever, tearing through the shuddering trees and stealing their leaves. The dark street seemed to shift like the deck of a ship in a storm, lamplight smeared; he nearly lost his footing on the pavement, but caught himself against the side of the carriage, cursing. He steadied himself, though, and then was off.
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Adam Spencer
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Mon May 06, 2019 10:24 pm


Uptown • Anaxas/Vienda

On the 5th of Intas, 2719 • Evening
ANow Vauquelin was asking for Resistance protection? Adam bit back a laugh, nodding. He'd give the man protection, but as far as he could tell, the man was worrying over an eventuality that was hardly likely to happen. Still, best to humor him. He'd help when and where he could -- and put in a good word when he could. He couldn't promise any certainty, though, so the simple nod would have to do.

Taking in Vauquelin's street, he made a note to watch which house the an went in -- an easy enough tactic to finding out his home address. It paid to know things like that, even if they never came in handy, much the same as the galdor's precaution against getting murdered by some anonymous Hessean crime boss.

Maybe a blatant lie would lighten the mood. "Would you believe I've never lost in Rooks?" he wondered of the other man, grinning broadly and daring the galdor to disagree. He'd lost every now and again, but only through his own overthinking, for all he could remember. Never from anyone else outplaying him. He fell silent, listening, letting out a breath as the galdor rose. "Maybe it'll fall down on my head, but I doubt on yours. Your lot are good at using my lot as umbrellas against the proverbial storm." He meant the Resistance, specifically, but he was unconcerned if the other man took it as a statement on behalf of all of humanity. As far as Adam was concerned, there was very little difference.

Vauquelin really was drunk, rambling on about death and -- cycles? Circlist claptrap, likely, although Adam didn't particularly care about the metaphysics. His job was to stay alive and keep others alive and give as many people a chance to strive for the life that they deserved as he could. What happened beyond that, when he might be hanged as a revolutionary like those three poor bastards in Dentis, was none of his concern.

"Thank you for your information, Mr. Vauquelin." Adam couldn't very well offer a deferential bow in the confines of the cab, but he half-sketched the motions of it as best he could. "Pray you don't see me again before the Vyrdag. If you do, things will have gone very wrong indeed." His voice still too low for the driver to hear, Adam moved to shut the carriage door, watching that unsteady attempt at departure.

I need to speak to Jon Serro, the journalist thought as the galdor faded into the blustery distance. Whatever changes we can effect without endangering his putative informant's position for the far greater benefit, we need to make them now, or it'll cost us morale. And The Gadfly certainly couldn't afford that.
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