[Closed] Laws and Customs (Titus)

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - Rainsford & Sons Coffeehouse, the Embankment

The Thirty-Second of Loshis, Nineteen Minutes Past the Seventeenth Hour

T

he hiss of lifting gas and the tolling of bells. Shouts and the rhythmic cries of deckhands loading cargo, stevedores roaring their commands, and too-taxed drigibile masters looking on with solemn expressions. A chorus of sounds. A cacophony of commerce. The airship towers along the Arova. Great spires rising like gesturing fingers, like arrogant needles, high into the grey and rain-heavy sky. Above, half-obscured airships and dirigibles are lashed with cables that seem more than spider’s silk to a thicket of spires. Cargo descends upon long metal cables, passengers in lifts that are made to look less precarious. It has been years since he traveled in one of these. Perhaps they are less frail than in his youth. Perhaps the rattle and shake less. He has no interest in discovering such things. He is here for other matters. Matters closer to the ground.

The manifests have brought him here. Customs inspections, duties charges, accountings of goods and passenger logs. The jargon still escapes him, but the numbers at least line up. Or, rather, they fail to do so. Not by much and not from any one vessel, but in the aggregate more tonnage is moving up and down the spires than has been declared. A certain amount of smuggling is to be expected, even tolerated. No discrepancies would tend to indicate a massive and useless government overspend on customs inspectors, trade representatives, and the inevitable clerks that did the real work. He cannot fault them for their blindness to the discrepancies. They deal with matters as they arise, matters that must be resolved in fleeting moments. They do not have the luxury of cross-checking years of records against each other, against tonnage and capacity. This is a luxury he has afforded himself. A luxury he indulges in behind his indigo door in Chancery.

He is not the only one who has realized something is amiss.

The Inspector’s name has appeared in several reports. Some, heavily redacted. Most are still under seal, but it is only a matter of time before those seals are broken and the full records are in his hands. It is a wonder what the Consular Select Committee on Oversight and Legal Reform can accomplish. Never mind that the committee is mostly staffed by daft old Incumbents who wish for a few final laurels to decorate their career. It gives him leave to carry out his work, to follow up on disparate matters, to trace seemingly unrelated oddities to a common source.

At Gaithwine Street, just before it turns along the riverbank, he pauses and checks his watch. Nineteen minutes past the seventeenth hour; more than enough time to make it to the little coffee house just abaft the bridge over to the Rookery. It is inferior to the Elephant, the coffee is Bastian, good, but not to his preferred taste. Still, Bastian pressure coffee is ubiquitous and more than pleasant enough. It will serve to lubricate the conversation he must have.

How many Seventen must he treat with? They seem to hold something near a monopoly on useful information, potentially useful information. Then again, they too keep records. That at least speaks in their favor. The investigative division is not so crass and thick headed as patrol. Less prone to kicking down doors, more prone to lurking in alleyways or else slowly grilling a malefactor with burning questions. That is also respectable. That is also sound.

Rainsford & Sons Coffee House, a little way away from the river. Dirigible masters, shipping insurers, merchant traders: these are the usual clientele. A noisy lot. Convivial and all looking for the main chance. All looking for a means to make their fortune. It is Rainsford that makes the fortune. Aeronautical commerce is a thirsty business, afterall.

He has arranged his table beforehand, small and marble-topped, a little ways away toward the back, but with command of the Haslet Street door. The Inspector will be along in due course. He has only to wait. Coffee will make the waiting all the easier.

[Titus Greycastle]

Thirty-Second of Loshis. | Nineteen Minutes Past the Seventeenth Hour.

Inspector Titus Greycastle scowled out from under the brim of his hat as walked, the damp had gotten into his ruined right knee and it ached more than normal.

This on top of being assigned to meet with some civil servant, though an important one according to the chief. Had caused the Inspector to fall into a darker mood than normal.

Titus had been too busy inwardly seething, he was sure he was close to breakthrough in his latest hunt of high-level Resistance members, to argue. So now he had to go and humour a bureaucrat, though at least the meeting place did decent coffee.

By the time he reached Haslet Street and entered the coffee house his heavy black brows were drawn down in a scowl of almost savage intensity. He raked the crowd, looking for the man he was to meet.

Few dared meet the gaze dressed in the dark green uniform of an Inspector in the Seventen, long black greatcoat and his grim face shadowed by the wide brim of his hat, he cut a somewhat forbidden figure.

Finally Titus saw a man sitting at a table near the back that matched the mental picture he had of the civil servant.

As he walked through the coffee house his ebony cane clicked loudly on the boards. When the other customers realised he was not here for them, they went back to their drinks and conversations.

Once Titus reached the table, he took off his hat and placed it crown down on the marble top, he forced his scowl to ease as he said.

"Mr Shrikeweed I presume." His deep voice still had a Bad Alsing drawl, even after all his years in the capital.

"I'm Inspector Titus Greycastle, I've been assigned your case."

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - Rainsford & Sons Coffeehouse, the Embankment

The Thirty-Second of Loshis, Forty-Seven Minutes Past the Seventeenth Hour

T

he man is unmistakable. Usual Seventen swagger. Usual Seventen disdain. The green uniform is unnecessary. A mere brutal formality. The coffee arrives, too hot to drink, steaming in the demitasse. No time to waste and nothing to lose, he picks up the cup, and swallows his contempt along with the burning, bitter brew. It had been a hope, a hope in vain, that the Inspector would turn up on plainclothes, looking more like what he should be than what he is. And what he is an enforcer. That is how the greencoats started, the bodyguards and heavies of the royals. More akin to the ancient urban cohorts than to proper investigators. Still, the keepers of order, however froward and crass, always find themselves having to sort things out.

Someone has to do it.

Best that it be regulated, official. Better than the old thief-taker system of centuries ago. Too much corruption in that. Too much risk. The Investigative Branch, for all its flaws, keeps good records. Records. The satchel occupies the chair beside him. It too is party to this meeting. Its contents speak volumes. He nearly laughs. Its contents come in volumes. Eleven to be accurate. He has brought more than he needs for this meeting, more suspicious records and false-seeming manifests. More reports with the Inspector’s name that are strictly necessary for an initial meeting on neutral ground. He has no leverage over this man, he cannot treat him like the Sergeant. Cannot trust him either. He shares common enemies with Valentin, named enemies. And with the Inspector? Only nominal foes. Violators of the law in the abstract. The man is a cypher.

He will proceed with caution. He will proceed like a civilized man.

A gesture to a passing waiter, a raising of two fingers. The waiter knows his business. Rainsford’s is no Elephant, but it has an efficient staff. That is a virtue, one he will remember. No words are spoken. No words are needed. Just so.

The Inspector carries a cane. It would have been meaningless a month ago. Now he cannot help but espy such things. The Lame Man from the botanical gardens is still a puzzle. A puzzle for another day. Today’s puzzle is making his approach. Today’s puzzle has addressed him.

“You presume correctly Inspector Greycastle. Please” He gestures to an empty chair, “take a seat.” He regards the man with colorless eyes. Assessing him, measuring the shape of his face, cataloging expressions. Hard features, thick brows, a more than imposing expression. A threat of a man in a threat of a suit. “Coffee will be along shortly.” When it arrives it is steaming, hot and hot, strong and red-black in the bright white demitasses. He wraps his fingers about his cup, lets the heat travel up. He feels the pain. He does not mind the pain. There are too many thoughts in his head, too many lines of approach. The heat melts them all away. He will give the Inspector the truth. Just not all the facts.

“I shall begin at the beginning. I represent the Consular Select Committee on Oversight and Legal Reform. It is on matters of oversight that I request and require your expertise.” He opens the satchel and draws out a slim volume of documents. All public records, all easily obtained. Nothing secret. Nothing sensitive. “Reports. Reports with your name attached. The look routine, and indeed they are. They are also well composed. My compliments. And it is that composition that has brought me here.” Fingers still on the cup, he turns it in the old pattern. Clockwise, anticlockwise, and clockwise again. Thoughts set, he continues. “If I read between the lines, if I tabulate the figures, I can infer the existence of at least one other report, written or not. Inspector, how close are you to untangling the smuggling of particularly valuable, particularly dangerous, contraband?” Another pass over the man’s dark face, his sour expression. “It appears you were close, or drawing closer. What information you can provide in clarification would be most appreciated. And, in turn, I may have some information of my own that may be of service. A few names, some loose time tables, and a few snatches of news regarding customs fiddles.”

He will say little enough here in public. The measure of the man is what he needs. Dangle a few leads and see what he snaps up, assess what side he may be on. If he is on any side at all. These are dangerous times, and Inspector Greycastle seems a dangerous man. He can use a dangerous man.

“Can we arrive at an understanding?”

[Titus Greycastle]

Thirty-Second of Loshis. | Nineteen Minutes Past the Seventeenth Hour.

At the man's invitation Titus sat down gratefully, he let out a sound that was half sigh half grunt of pain as he stretched out his leg and rubbed at the massive knot of scar tissue and pain that was his right knee.

He smiled a little embarrassedly at Shrikeweed, which softened the hard lines of his face.
Thank you Mr Shrikeweed, and I apologise for any surliness in my demeanour. This damp weather plays hell with my knee." As the coffee was delivered his smile broadened and he thanked the waiter.

He nodded at his right leg as he carefully bent it and tucked it under the table out of the way.
A little momento from the Riots, keeps me focused." His chuckle held more than a little bitterness.

Titus took a notebook and a stub of pencil from his greatcoat as he shrugged it off, he set the book and pencil down with one hand and undid the top couple of buttons of his uniform jacket before taking a sip of the hot rich coffee. He feels this man's appraising eyes on his face, feels his measure being taken, he doesn't mind, for he had nothing to hide.

Titus listened closely to Shrikeweed speak, watched his face and hands, this was a careful man, with an eye for details, a man who missed very little, if Titus was any kind of judge.

When he saw copies of his reports Titus sat forward, that case! The snuggling case he had been ordered off of, 'unimportant' he had been told. 'Funny how things work out' he said softly to himself.

This was indeed a case of mine Mr Shrikeweed." He scanned the man's neat and meticulous notes and said thoughtfully.
You've filled in some of the details I missed at the time."

The Inspector sat back and studied the civil servant in a new light and nodded slightly.

Yes Mr Shrikeweed, I do believe we can." Titus nodded and stuck out a hand to shake before looking around the bustling coffee house. In a quieter voice he said.
Though I think we should perhaps finish these fine beverages and find somewhere more private to continue this particular discourse."
He took another sip of his coffee.
"There's a tavern not far from here, I know the Landlord, he's discreet. If you've no objections to ale house Mr Shrikeweed."

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - Rainsford & Sons Coffeehouse, the Embankment

The Thirty-Second of Loshis, Fifty-six Minutes Past the Seventeeth Hour

A

nother cane. Another lame man. A curious collection he is putting together. Its purpose he still cannot name, its final shape he can only imagine. For now it is best to imitate the magpie, gather what shiny bits he can, and make use of the later. If later ever comes.

The Inspector settles into his chair, extinguishing it with his coat and his solid frame. Only a little taller than himself, two inches perhaps, and the man seems to take up much more space than seems correct. It is not an affectation. If ever it began as such, those days are long passed. The Inspector is not a man who can fade into the background. Perhaps a failing in an investigator. Or perhaps a kind of double bluff. The man is so obviously Seventen, even without the green uniform, that he may be paid no mind at all. Just one more greencoat filling in the scenery.

The Inspector provides another answer. The pieces fall into place. “The Riots, yes.” He shakes his head, once, twice, three times. Clockwise, anticlockwise, and clockwise again. It does no good. He cannot shake off the memory of those nights. He bears no visible wounds. Still, it has altered him. How many nights has he slept undisturbed since the night of the 25h of Yaris two years ago? The nights can be counted on one hand, perhaps two. For five nights he was awake, working on nothing by coffee, hygeth, and seething rage. Chancery is a fortress, the doors are heavy and well barred, the walls thick and strong. It has weathered worse. And still the smoke, the light from the fires, and above all the smoke, had reached him even there. Broken windows, scorched stone, the shrieks and cries of a city tearing itself to pieces, these do not leave him. He will not let them. The bright new locks on the indigo door to his old office owe their being to those five nights. His reliance upon his little rituals and customs came into greater flower afterward. Small pieces of control, miniscule efforts to keep the chaos at bay. No, he bears no visible wounds. None at all.

“Unpleasant times, for all of us.” These are still unpleasant times.

The Inspector seems to be a man well suited to listening, to nodding along in an intelligent way, and then, presumably, acting with considerable alacrity. Action now, the man leans forward, drinking in his old reports with a calculating eye. Something in his expression too. Not shock, not precisely. Something more resigned, more calculating. The next words the man speaks will be all important. Of that he is sure.

The Inspector does not disappoint. “Was one your cases? I assume it is no longer? What records I have to hand indicate no resolution. What I believe is called a ‘cold case’?” He knows the language well enough. He served a number of years before the bar, the language of legal cases, of investigations is not alien to him. Best to leave that little detail unspoken. He is still unsure of the man before him. The appraising look, however, is promising.

It was the Inspector’s case. Curious. Did it indeed grow cold, or was the man removed to draw his attentions elsewhere? Misdirection, the stage magician’s trick. He has seen enough of that of late. How tenacious is the Inspector? How much does he want this case back in his hands? Unknown. Best to find out, and soon.

“I was only able to fill in the gaps, as you put it, because I had the luxury of time, of reading excellent reports, and not having the pressures of immediate results hounding me.” The Inspector is an intelligent man, or at the very least a professional and competent man. Give me a competent man, he thinks, and I can work more wonders than with half a dozen geniuses. The latter may be good for a symposium, for spinning ideas out of nothing, the former is better for working out the kinks. There are too many kinks now. “The virtues of time, Inspector. Time, and some sources of my own. All manner of documents pass though my hands in service of the Committee, and rest assured, I read every one of them.”

He takes another sip of the coffee. It really is not bad. He will have to remember this place the next time he is required to haunt these streets. These are streets that will need haunting.

“A more private meeting place?” That is proper. That is sound. The public of the coffeehouse is advantageous in providing neutral ground and the protection of the crowd. The protection of the voices of too many ladies and gentlemen on their own business. Safety within the cacophony. Still, for more detailed work a quiet room and a glass of something would not go amiss. He is not averse to ales, at least of the darker sort. He cannot quite rise to the level of the citrusy, floral, and bitty stuff that Bailey prefers. Still, at least the Thief has good taste, even if it is not his own.

A tavern is still a risk. The Inspector is a risk. The fact that the inspector knows the landlord of this nameless watering hole is a greater danger still. It is not neutral ground. In such a place he will be at a disadvantage. Still, weighing this and that, counting one thing with another, the risk is tolerable. He has left word with the Thief and with Wiggins, of his whereabouts, of the man he has gone to meet. His papers are in order, all important documents sealed and filed in triplicate. These are unpleasant times, after all.

“A quiet place, and private, would be most acceptable.” Best to show a little of his hand, to show the inspector that the anonymous bureaucrat is no stranger to proper society. “I hope this haunt of yours has a decent selection of ales on tap. Unraveling reports, well, it is a thirsty business.”

[Titus Greycastle]

The Standard Tavern | Thirty-Second of Loshis. |

Titus observed the other man over the rim of his coffee cup, so this unassuming bureaucrat had been in the city for the Riots. There was a look in the eye, a lingering after effect of the deeds they had done or the horrors they had seen.

He put his cup down and regarded Shrikeweed shrewdly.

"Indeed Mr Shrikeweed, time is a fine virtue and great commodity, which is often in short supply. Or at least amongst the Seventen it seems.”

Titus nodded again slightly, a man with an eye for detail, quick mind and access to a good deal of official documents, yes this man would be a useful ally. As he finished the rest of his coffee he nodded.

"It’s called The Standard. It’s not far from here." Titus gave a gravely laugh and nodded. “And yes Sargent Mkall keeps a well stocked bar.”

As Titus had said the tavern was close, it was a narrow old building, the tavern sign was a painting of an Anaxian Armed Forces battle standard.

The interior was dim yet inviting, with heavy black beams and a scattering of tables. Behind the long dark wood bar a big galodor stood, his dark tan skin and height showed him to be Hessean.

Though more noticeable was the fact his right arm was missing from below the elbow and his thickly bearded face and bald head were heavily scarred from war.

As Titus and Shrikweed walked in the big bartender nodded in greeting.

“Afternoon Inspector, your usual?” Titus smiled and returned the nod as he took off his hat. "Afternoon Sarg, aye thank you kindly, and whatever this gentelman wants, on my tab."

Mkall took a pewter tankard from the shelf behind the bar, placed it under one of the row of ale taps, labeled ‘Cleaver Fellow’ before looking to Shrikeweed.

"What can I get ya sir?”

Once the drinks had been provided Titus led the way to a secluded nook at the back of the barroom which held a single table with two chairs.

"Here we are Mr Shrikeweed, my unofficial office." Titus took off his greatcoat and hung it along with his hat on a nearby peg, after he sat down he unbuttoned his uniform jacket showing a grey collarless shirt, he took a sip from his tankard and let out a sigh.

"Now tell me about this case?"

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - The Standard

The Thirty-Second of Loshis, twenty-one Minutes Past the Eighteenth Hour

T

he Standard. The word conjures up visions of weights and measures, of customs, of qualities. Did the tavern once set some standard of quality? Was it constructed to some standard plan once enforced? The meaning of the Standard is all too clear when the Inspector says they have arrived. A mistake had been made. That will need correcting. The frame of reference had been far too narrow. A soldier’s tavern. Martial connotations had never entered his mind. Then again, he is no soldier. On neither side of his family can he recall even a single soldier being mentioned. Foreign service is common enough, the diplomatic secretariat, but nothing closer to a soldier than a minor functionary at the War Office a few generations back. He had no reason to think of battle flags, the sound of drums, or the din of cannon fire. What sort of place will the Standard be? There are only expectations, and no certainties about what lies beyond the door. He will not make the mistake of reasoning without data again.

Not today.

The place is neat and trim. It smells of beer and old wood, of tobacco smoke, and antique leather. Everything squared away and organized. Not a rigid organization of rank upon dull rank of tables; more of a natural order. Nothing he can see is new. Old chairs worn shiny by long use, brass alternatively tarnished and buffed by patrons leaning upon, or the barmann pulling pints. A place both well loved and well used. There is a comfort in that.

There is comfort too in the big, competent-seeming man behind the bar. From behind taps and bottles he can survey the establishment with an easy eye. This is a man who wants no trouble. Given the state of the place, it seems the clientele understand and abide by it. That bodes well for his own skin. The Standard seems an unlikely place in which to dispatch a man. If nothing else, the blood would stain the polished wood. It would ruin the atmosphere. The big man, the publican himself, the Sergeant, will not tolerate that either.

This is not reasoning without data. He can see it in the man’s face. He hopes he can see it.

At the bar, he looks at the taps, each labeled. Some he recognizes. There is a Crake & Marlowe ale, the kind that Bailey drinks. The kind that smells of bitter pines and jagged flowers. Not to his taste, but it is good sign. Crake & Marlowe is a decent brew by what he knows. “I see you have the Scrivener . Unless one of these that I don’t recognize is an even darker and thicker stout, I’ll have a pint of that.”

The publican nods, gives a wide grin, and pulls a pint from a tap marked ‘The Squid and Cachalot’. The beer flows out slow and dense, black as any ink, and settles in the glass with a dense, red-brown head. “Aged,” says the publican. “In barrels of Oma wine. Dark, like you wanted.”

He smiles at the publican and takes a thoughtful sniff. Old wood, vanilla, nuts, even hints of coffee. The publican knows his stuff. “My compliments.”

The nook the Inspector has chosen as his ‘private office’ has a familiar echo. His personal table at the Elephant is much the same. Set back from the main body of the establishment. A quiet, private space. The Inspector is a man of sound practice. That is another comfort.

He nods and he slides into his seat and takes a long, considering drink of the beer. It is everything its aroma promises. Even with only that done draught, he can feel the tension in his shoulders relax just a little. “The matter to hand, Inspector, is a curious one. It grows more so with every report I read, with every manifest I examine.” The glass turns between his fingers, slow this time, clockwise, anticlockwise, and clockwise again. A gesture of thought, of contemplation. “Certain information has come into my possession, though I admit it is second-hand, about the importation of a particularly potent form of refined opium.” From the satchel he draws out more papers. Shipping manifests, customs records, tax records. “The customs reports are particularly interesting. It appears that several customs officials signed off on cargo declarations that nearly match the records of cargo received. Nearly, Inspector.” He is still turning the glass as he slides the reports over. “The discrepancies are small, well within the usual margins of error. A double-counted crate here, a missed carboy there. Individually they might be chalked up to sloppy bookkeeping or good faith mistakes. Such things happen all the time.” Such things should not be tolerated. Such things are tolerated every day. “However, what I find curious is that the same name keeps coming up in these customs documents. Sebastian Balfour.” The name means nothing to him. It is just a name. Does it mean anything to the Inspector? He cannot tell. Not yet.

“That Balfour has managed to hide his continual errors in the general mountain of paperwork. And so, a crate here, and a carboy there, slip into the city without inspection, without tax, and all under the official eye.” A clever means of smuggling. The danger of going through unsavory contacts is minimized. The goods can be stored in perfectly legal and secure warehouses. Ownership of these places remains murky. That is nothing new in such places. Fronts and shell companies, pass-throughs and fictitious owners are an old tradition in shipping and commodities trading. It keeps rivals from knowing how large any given operation is. It has a veneer of legality. A corruption that is smiled at, nodded to politely, and ignored.

“Inspector, I have tried to track down this customs inspector. I can find records of his employment, of other official detritus, but I cannot find the man. No records of birth, education, taxation. Nothing. Sebastian Balfour is a fiction. Sebastian Balfour does not exist.”

[Titus Greycastle]

The Standard Tavern | Thirty-Second of Loshis. |

Titus listened to Shrikeweed speak, occasionally sipping from his pint, his dark eyes alight as he processed the information. He’d come across scams like that in his original investigation, the name though. Titus dapped beer foam from his moustache and nodded slightly.

"That name, Balfour I don’t recall it for my original investigation, before I was pulled off of it.” He trailed off and then took out his notebook and flipped back to the early pages and scanned them and then said thoughtfully. “Although, there were a number of entries that I did manage to see, signed off with rhe initials SB.”

He took a pipe from his pocket and a leather pouch of tobacco.
"Do you mind if I smoke?” He paused for an answer before continuing. "As for the nature of the contraband, a colleague of mine from Patrol Division did mention there seems to be a manner poison coming out of the Dives recently.”

Titus took another drink from his tankard.
"Which, of course it could just be a coincidence, but if I was bringing in a large amount of opium and needed to hide it and make it ready to distribute, I would take it to the Dives.”

The inspector scowled slightly as he mulled over the theory that had just formed in his mind. However he was not about to cry wolf to a man he hardly knew, but he suspected that somehow the Resistance was involved.

"Unfortunately there isn't a shortage of criminals in this city, although those with the organisation, capacity and means to pull something on this scale.” He sat back and tapped the table thoughtfully as he pondered.

"I’d be interested to hear any thoughts you might have on the subject Mr Shrikeweed.”

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - The Standard

The Thirty-Second of Loshis, twenty-seven Minutes Past the Eighteenth Hour

T

he ale in the glass is dark and thick as drafting ink. A thinking draught, a drink to be nursed slow and slow. Just as well. It takes no master brewer to note its strength. And so he waits, and sips, and listens. The Inspector has his courses of thought. Well worn perhaps, but well worn from productive use. In the ordinary course of investigations, the Dives and its denizens will make themselves known. If not by evidence, then by weight of custom and tradition. Tradition has its uses. Tradition has its value. Tradition can easily produce blindness. Gods knows he has suffered enough for just such a blindness.

“Smoke if you please, this is your office, not mine.” Tobacco has never been his vice. He has enough on his own without indulging in the pipe. And the Inspector is a pipe man. All to the good. Pipesmoke is the least acrid, the most fragrant. A man can think amid pipesmoke. “The Dives,” he says, taking another measured sip of the ink-black ale, “may have its share of forgers and paper runners, but this seems rather a different matter. That there may be connections, I have few doubts.” He has no doubts. Bailey has earned his keep six times over, rooting through his contacts north of the river, noting addresses that have no proper instantiation, of streets which exist only upon maps. The ghost of Balfour claimed to have lived, at one time, in just such an imaginary street on Saddlery Hill. There were communications, letters, bills, and the like, all picked up for the local post office. The old man behind the counter could not describe who picked them up. For now, that trail runs cold. It is likely it will remain so. “Balfour, or whoever created him, smells of paperwork and officialdom to me.”

A nudge, a hint, nothing more. It is reasonable that an official would see an official hand in these matters. Just as it is reasonable that an inspector of the Seventen would see the hand of the Dives gangs in such a matter. The Inspector has been trained not to suspect his own colleagues, not to suspect Captain D’Arthe and his cadre, not to suspect the gentlemen of the customs houses. It is just as well. He may be wrong in all aspects of this matter, seeing connections where none exist. It may all be a coincidence. Coincidences happen all the time. He does not trust coincidences.

“Perhaps we should look closer to home. Balfour’s reports come from the Embankment, not the Dives. For the airship towers here.” And now he leans in, raising his glass of ale along with his eyebrows. “And I am led to understand that the opium in question is circulating in more fashionable circles.”

[Titus Greycastle]

The Standard Tavern. The Thirty-Second of Loshis

Titus smiled his thanks as he took his pipe from a pouch on his belt, along with a silver match case and a leather pouch of tobacco. The ritual of packing the large bowl of the pipe with the rich dark tobacco and making sure it was properly lit was almost like meditation for the investigator, it calmed his mind, allowed thoughts to surface and form of their own accord, like smoke rings.

Shrikeweed’s words made a lot of sense, expensive opium, highly skilled forgeries and official connections.

Blue grey smoke curled lazily from Titus’ nose, like a storybook dragon taking its ease. However when the shrewd eyed bureaucrat spoke of seeking the criminals closer to home he became motionless, his dark eyes flat as they regarded Shrikeweed through the pipe smoke. After a pause, Titus slowly and deliberately took his pipe from between his teeth and rested it on the scarred table top and lent forward towards him. All the while his gaze remained locked on the civil servants eyes, then after a time he nodded slightly and said softly.

"Now, Mr Shrikeweed, let us say, hypothetically I accepted the possibility of your suspicions and furthermore shared them. What would be your thoughts on how to proceed. Hypothetically of course.”."

The hint of grin twitched at the ends of Titus’ heavy black moustache and his eyes took on an almost bird of prey like cunning. He had always despised corruption and loved this country as well as it’s laws, The Seventen were supposed to uphold and protect those laws. He had had his suspicions for some time, but had mostly been alone and unable to pursue his hunt, perhaps until now.

"Well then Mr Shirkeweed, I believe our next port of call should be the Embankment." He paused and glanced down at his uniform. "However I think we should go via a brief stop at my lodgings, so I can make myself less… official."