[Closed] The Tools to Hand (Rhys)

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - In Chancery

The Ninth of Ophus, an Unknown Time past the 25th Hour

T

he minutes tick by and he cannot count them. The cadence of his heart, so finely calibrated, has faded. Time is suspended. All that remains is the scratch of his pen over the paper, and the not-quite-Viendan accent of the Sergeant laying out his case. No, not quite a case. A tale. An unpleasant tale. It is like something from a three-volume novel, too much plot compressed into a dense, dark, block. No matter how many pages it crawls over, there will never be enough. This is no novel. This is, and he is sure of this, life as the Sergeant has lived it. Or as he chooses to remember it.

“I am sorry,” he raises an eyebrow as, without preamble, the Sergeant admits to his wife’s dissipation. “Your wife is an opium addict? And was made so by her father?” He cannot fathom it. It defies all paternal duty, it breaks all filial bonds. What should he have expected from a man who would abuse his daughter? Not this. Never this. The world is too full of fathers who delight in doing harm to their children. This, this goes well beyond that. Another monstrosity.

He should expect no less. Not from these men.

Can he keep his face impassive? His tone neutral? I am Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed, Deputy Chief for Policy Analysis. I have no opinions to give, no policies to press. I am a servant. I serve to counsel. Nothing more. In his head he recites the words over and over. A mantra against subjectivity. It half works. His expressions fade, his face is blank, his tone without inflection. It is a mask. It will serve. It will do.

“To what end? Does your wife possess some property under he own right? Property the Captain wishes to acquire? Dissipation and the unfitness of addiction. It would make for a reasonable case.” Reasonable, yes, and still it sits ill with him. “Did he wish to make her docile?” The Sergeant goes on. He enumerates other transgressions, other monstrosities. “Or did he wish to test the potency of his product? Observe the course of the addition, determine if it was sufficient to induce unusually strong addictions?” A captive specimen, one that can be manipulated with law and custom. One that can be observed at all hours. It is all rather neat.

The neatness begins to fall to pieces. The Sergeant has a hand in unraveling it. His expressions, his tone of voice, the cadence of his breathing, all tells. “And, even with this addiction, you still love your wife.” It is not a question. It is a statement of fact. He can measure such things well enough, reason his way into recognizing emotions he cannot feel. This is a man of strong attachments, of strong loathings.

And now there are names. Names he has not heard before. A Hoxian and an Anaxi. One living, the other dead. He does not know the names. They do not appear in his records. An oversight. It will be corrected. In a handful of days he will have them laid out before him. Their lives on paper ready to dissect. It will be only a starting point. Still, they are distinct names. The world cannot be full of Daixio Shuinis as it is full of Thomas Cookes.

His pen still scratches over the page, noting names and events, taking as many of the words down as he can. “May I ask, Sergeant, if you know where one might find the corpse of this Benjamin Tolsby? If that is so, it would perhaps be wise to remove it from your recollections.” He has spent too much time around Bailey. The Thief and his family have a rather more casual sense of execution that is considered proper. Still, they make their cases and carry out their own justice. A hard tradition, but a tradition nonetheless. A tradition of the City.

And you can’t say fairer than that.

“I would suggest, Sergeant, that you too should take some precautions. If you have evidence, I am more than willing to take it into my keeping. Or, if you would prefer, a private consulting attorney may be wiser. I can provide recommendations. I have friends before the bar.” Family too. He will not recommend them. It is too much like the corruption seeping into everything.

“As an offer of good faith, and since you have been so forthcoming, allow me to add just a little of what it is I know about these names.” He has dropped the mask. He is the other man. The man he is becoming. Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed, conspirator, counsel to an Incumbent, protege of a murdered man. “The names of Azmus, d’Arthe, and Ogden, among others, have crossed my desk. They are in some conspiracy together. Perhaps it is this. Perhaps they gather conspiracies about themselves to keep out the cold of irrelevance.” Already he is walking close to the line, to a breach of ethics and privacy of counsel. Of breaking the Incumbent’s trust. Still, the Sergeant has given, and so he must give. “I have other names. I would be much obliged if you would tell me if their mean anything to you.” On another sheet of paper he writes the names of Antonacchi, of Megiro, of Trevisani. He slides them over to the Sergeant. “There is some strange association here, and someone, or some group has a hold on them. All this I discovered quite by accident. Meetings that did not line up. Gaps in schedules.” The Incumbent’s altered self. “The last that I can say in confidence is this. If you wish to take your wife away, for both your sakes, for her convalescence, then may I suggest that you look to Dorehaven? I am led to understand that it is lovely in the spring.”

[Rhys Valentin]

in chancery

around the 25th hour on the 9th of ophus

"Indirectly, yes." Rhys managed a civilized response, even if the well-carved line of his jaw was taut and his clear blue eyes hard and sharp, "It's a convoluted story, really, but from what I've come to understand through various encounters with former classmates—" His fair lashes were heavy, lids fluttering shut for a moment longer than necessary as he remembered Diaxio Shuini's face in the sunlit crossway last Vortas, as he remembered a sputtering, bloodied Benjamin Tolsby taunting him in the warehouse by the Arova in Hamis.

"—I don't know the end. To what end—I don't fucking know the end of anything. I can start at the beginning, but it's tangled—I only have a grasp on a few of the threads, Mister Shrikeweed." The not-galdor shifted in his seat, positioning himself in an attempt to curb the restless, adrenaline-fueled bouncing of his knee. He tried folding his hands in his lap. He tried curling his chewed-on, peeling, scabbed fingers into the well-tailored fabric of his trousers. None of it entirely worked, but he did his best to find some focus with a slow, shaky inhale, "It was perhaps a measure of control, yes. To keep her at home, to keep her under his hand. She possessed nothing he didn't already have, though her mother—Damen's wife—had passed. So had her brother. Perhaps it was all murder—but that's a different trail in the woods. Anyway, her addiction was also a gate, an invitation. Given the company she kept as a pianist for the Viendan theatre scene, you can imagine her ability to influence others."

This sort of storytelling, if nothing Rhys had already said already hadn't been enough, was visibly upsetting to the tall blond. His voice broke and he gave up containing the wild motion of his one knee, leaning heavily on an elbow and curling his fingers together until his knuckles were white,

"He ended the friendship between Charity and I before our sixth form at Brunnhold—abrupt, with threats. I'm a Brayde County boy, sir, and I know I've never had anything to offer anyone in terms of prestige or wealth, but, yes, irregardless of my life choices from that day until even now, I still love my wife. I have loved her for a long time, and I—"

He frowned, chewed his lip, and smudged at the heat that gathered at the edges of his eyes with the calloused heel of one of his palms. He had a few names, it was true, but when the older galdor glanced up at him and asked without hesitation that particular question, Rhys responded in kind, unflinching,

"—I do."

"I cannot—" Well, the Perceptive knew exactly what he could do and how to do it. Or, at least, he knew the mechanics of forgetting and was quite sure he could apply such principles to the mind of someone else, but. No. He didn't want to forget, no matter how incriminating the knowing was.

Wait.

What, exactly, was this Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed, this civil servant, this man suggesting? It was poured so smoothly between them, thick like honey, warm like tea, and made opaque by a heavy cream of experience, of knowing.

What kind of man sat across from him?

No mere paper pusher.

Not anyone Rhys had so shallowly assumed.

The sergeant's eyes widened, then narrowed. If there was a hint of a tear, it went unnoticed when Rhys clenched his jaw and hissed,

"—what? Precautions? I—I have taken some. There is no more evidence that I know of to be traceable. I've been an Inspector for almost a decade, and—clocking hell—who are you again?"

Good faith, he breathed those words like a burnt offering wafted to Naulas.

The younger Valentin did his best not to laugh.

He knew the names Basil shared, nodding at Azmus and Ogden, aware of their connection to Captain D'Arthe but unsure of their actual level of involvement with each other. There was something, some thread he'd not yet grasped or found the frayed end of, tying them together, most likely stained red with blood. His lips were a thin line now, hands finally still, knee bobbing a little slower, steadier, but no less fervently,

"There is at least one group they could be connected by, but I don't know its name or its origins. Not yet. I don't know who is in charge, but I know it exists—where I once thought it was the Oculus, I think there is something far more secretive, far more dangerous. Dorhaven, though? After the bombing? Of course it's peaceful now—"

Blue eyes flicked back down to the names written in weighted silence,

"—you've at least made that connection, haven't you? Like the riots last Yaris—it's so much easier to blame the Resistance to cover up your dirty work. But, I couldn't tell you whose. There is something between what you know—" He raised one hand, palm up, as if suddenly he'd become the scales of Ophur himself, bringing golden balance,

"—and what I know—"

Rhys brought his hands together, "—but I couldn't tell you what the fuck that connection is. I just know Damen D'Arthe is a cog in the machine and I don't want to end up crushed by the gears any more than I already have. Charity and I have nowhere to go—neither of us are willing to cower for that piece of chroveshit any longer. I transferred to the Patrol Division for a reason, and—uh—so—how much of this is going into your corruption report again? What, exactly, are you looking for here, with me? I feel as though ... we've ended up somewhere else entirely but it was on purpose and not by accident, Mister Shrikeweed."

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - In Chancery

The Ninth of Ophus, an Unknown Time past the 25th Hour

I

t is all of a piece, all variations on the same theme. Small corruptions leading to larger ones. Access to power, to influence, all carefully woven together into a net. A net large and heavy enough to drag any it catches down as it falls. Who weaves the net? What was the first knot in the webwork? Unknown. Perhaps unknowable now. He looks now at the Sergeant, fixing him with cold, colorless eyes, studying his actions. The Sergeant remains agitated. There are least three tones to that ring of discomfort. The first, familial discomfort. It is natural, laudable perhaps. It is correct that a man should care for his wife. The second is professional. Crime, corruption, and all too many loose ends. Fellow feeling there. Strange that he should find it in a Seventen. He has never known them to be anything more than thick as day-old porridge. And the third? It is harder to name, but he knows well enough. An unease that coats everything in some unwholesome slick, like a greasy fog out of Soot.

“The specifics of your wife’s addiction are of interest only insofar as they assist in understanding the larger pattern of events. That, in my professional capacity, is all I am permitted to say.” And in his private capacity? He should wish her well, a speedy and full recovery from her addictions. Yet it is her discomfort and misfortune which have delivered this new thread, this faint hope of untangling this snarl. She is but one woman. And one woman does not matter.

The part she plays in another matter.

The man is still pained to speak, and yet he goes on. Is it cathartic, Sergeant, to unburden yourself in this way? He thinks it must be so. He has no time for catharsis, not yet. Cold rage and antipathy for chaos are all that is keeping him functioning. Coffee, hygeth, and sleep only fill the hours, tend to the necessities of his body, they are no longer his fuel. And how long can that last, until he files apart, cogs ground to nothing, springs uncoiled? As long as he can. He is but one man. And one man does not matter.

Only the role he takes matters. If he falls, another will take his place. And another. And another. That is what matters. The chain of unfoldings.

“Influence.” He drums his fingers lightly upon the desks, dividing the moments to his own preferred rhythms. Again. Again. Again. Only after a moment does he recognize the pattern. The Cassano bass. Broken chords, arpeggios. The only thing he ever learned to play upon a keyboard. He had learned it upon the pianoforte in his parents’ house. The one they keep out of obligation rather than any desire to play. He has always been terrible at it. “Is, or perhaps was, your wife known to have wide acquaintance? Influential friends? Potential patrons? Suitors even? Who might try and join her in her addictive habits?” It was possible. Artists attract followers and fellows. Well known artist can set the tone for outre habits. Opium is not outre. Not without some degree of theatricality. “Get them hooked, and then fleece them close? Bring them under his control? Was that the Captain’s game?” Was it your wife’s?

He cannot afford to view the Sergeant’s wife through too rosy a lens. Ill used by family, protected - over protected ? - by her husband, she remains a cypher. That will have to be corrected. The gaps must be filled in. Motives assessed. An interview requires arranging. It is becoming part of his function to interview ladies of strange connections. Ladies who are neither lawyers nor civil servants. With them, lady or no, he is on surer footing. With those of far different stations he is out to sea. Perhaps he should bring Kate? Levesque’s granddaughter is an asset, a lively but sympathetic character. And she too is a civil servant. The most useful trait of all.

“Like you, Sergeant, I have bits and pieces of the matter. Hints and suppositions, but very little that is concrete. How the Captain’s opium peddling factors in, I confess, I do not know. But I can speculate.” The lines of reasoning are sound. Given available data and stated ends, he would suggest a similar policy. It is logical. To the machine it is reasonable, even proper. To the man he is when he is at home, when all the masks but one are shed, it is abhorrent. Tonight, in this place, he cannot be that man. Tonight, that is not his role. “All conspiracies need funding. It is not unreasonable to assume that the Captain’s opium business could provide the same. A captive clientele, and one not disposed to speak out. Effective, if of dubious ethics.”

Hang ethics. He requires results. And so, it seems, does the Sergeant.

Who is he? The Sergeant asks. A fair question and one with no easy answer. No single answer. He is the Civil Servant, the Chief of Staff, The Self-Made Conspirator, The Orchid Keeper, and perhaps a dozen more. None of those will satisfy the Sergeant. None will satisfy himself. “Who am I Sergeant? I could list off titles and meaningless phrases. Let us dispense with all that. I am an interested party, and a man who has scented something rotten in the wind. Your case is rotten. What little I have uncovered is rotten. Rot must be addressed before it spreads too far.” He is already too late. The rot has spread and seeped in deep. All he can do, all either of them can do, is bring it to light. Others may solve it, and cleanse it. He will leave it to them. That is not his department.


And now, more of the rot is revealed. The Sergeant knows more than he lets on, knows more than he himself. A useful source. A useful man. It is to be remembered. “The riots.” A shaking of his head. He had not considered that. The lower orders have enough pressure upon them that they might revolt of their own accord. There has been no need to ascribe any other motive. “Whether predicated or not, the riots are useful to the likes of your Captain. To the likes of those names upon the paper. The foolish revolutionaries themselves are useful. The Dorehave incident is useful. You are right, Sergeant, that we have all been distracted, all been made to look away from where we should. I mislike it.” He could name a litany of reasons, but he will let it hang unanswered in the air. “In a few days time, I may know more.” Or I shall be a corpse floating down the Arova. “I have been invited to dine with many of these names at the Pendulum Club. It is my club, after all. That, for the nonce, shall be my line of reasoning, my path to understanding what I can of the corruption. I leave the Oculus to you. Though I do wonder if we shall find ourselves meeting in the same place.”

There is nothing in his hand, nothing he can turn. It is a pity. It is a discomfort. Discomfort can sharpen the mind. “But on your last point, Sergeant, I must disagree. All of these matters, your case, the names, the opium, the other, darker, matters; they are all of a piece. Fragments of a larger matter. It is in my remit to understand and unmake corruption. What you have provided opens the scope of my inquiries. It is still all very much within my brief.” A lie, in form if not in spirit.

The Incumbent is not sound. That had been the origin of all of this. The first predicate. And is this not the logical chain to follow? To uncover and unwork the causes and the effects of that unsoundness?

“Still, for the sake of convenience, and to keep away from prying eyes, it may be better that subsequent meetings occur in a rather less formal venue.” And there will be other meetings. There will have to be. And a change of venue will allow for a change in himself. “Are you familiar with the Elephant Coffeehouse on Carstone Street? I am in favor with the proprietor.” Hells and death, he pays enough of the bills now that he might as well count himself half-owner of the place. “There is a small suite of private rooms where business can be carried out. And the coffee is second to none.”

He looks again at the younger man. The nervous man. Something else will have to be offered. Something beyond his vague hints and prevarications. This is Chancery. It is the place for prevarication. It is also home. And who is he when he is at home? “I do not understand yet how these threads all bind together. I can say that the conspirators, the Dorehaven conspirators, are waiting for something. Or for someone. The opportunity is ripe for them to make their move. The fact that they have not done so, not beyond a few pro forma matters, bothers me. What are they waiting for? I have no answer to that Sergeant, and that alone keeps me up at night.”

[Rhys Valentin]

in chancery

around the 25th hour on the 9th of ophus

"The larger patterns of events point to Co-Captain Damen D'Arthe being an ersehole of murderous proportions worthy of a real trial and punishment—" Rhys couldn't say fair or just for the chroveshit he called his father-in-law had never been either of those things. A stain on some back alley cobblestone was all he was really worth in the not-galdor's low opinions, but that's only because he was quite aware of where his blood had turned grout the color of rust somewhere in Uptown. He shrugged as Mister Shrikeweed fell into official talk, resisting the urge to roll his eyes,

"Don't pull that professional stuff now—in the middle of this. I will venture to offer my opinion that currently, if there are any weaknesses to be exploited, Damen is the one who is most likely to snap under pressure. His temper is notorious in the Seventen, and I'm convinced he didn't make it to five snaps and Captain without bribery and purposeful positioning. Plus, I've honed my existence to be a thorn in his side."

It was easier to talk of Damen than of the monster's daughter, than of his own wife. Speaking of Charity dug at sore places, reminded him of his own failures, and fanned the smoldering coals of unrequited vengeance that sputtered and burned somewhere behind his knit back together ribs. He nodded at the repetition, attempting to gather himself, desperate to keep his voice from breaking over words,

"She's all he had left—his little light in the darkness of his own making." And Rhys Valentin had taken her to be his wife. He'd told himself he'd clocking rescued her, but, had he really? "And her so-called friends were influential enough; they're all upper tier galdori—of course they have some influence. I don't think Damen was interested in finding her a patron, and she refused all of his potential suito—"

The Sergeant cleared his throat, swallowing a wince. He thought of Tolsby.

"—she refused all of his suggestions for suitors. I don't understand how wealth could be an issue. Power, sure. Influence through addiction, maybe. Unless the money from King's Crop was used for some other purpose? I don't know." He shook his head, looking down at his hands to pick at peeling skin near a nail he'd already gnawed too short. The galdor across from him picked up where he left off, speaking of the funding of conspiracies and Rhys snorted, smirking, "Blackmail, position, profit, or property are rather common crimes for galdorkind."

He didn't say our kind. Our his kind.

He couldn't.

"It's easy to blame the Resistance, though, in my opinion, they're hardly as effective as whoever is calling the shots to abuse the fear of them for their own political or personal gains. Whoever is using their name to cover their tracks is far more conniving and better-equipped than any underdog human." The lanky blond said that with a hint of bitterness, but he arched a fair brow at the mention of the Pendulum Club, vaguely aware of Captain D'Arthe's own connections, "Your club in that you're a member? Interesting. Many of these names are also—"

Rhys reached for the files he'd brought and thumbed through a few, producing notes, mostly documented frequent locations, mostly indicating that the Pendulum Club was a very common shared location,

"I have been working on getting the attention of the Oculus, personal risks to my safety in doing so aside."

He sighed then, even if he was now thoroughly unable to relax, agitated by his inability to act, trapped in some impatient restlessness, fueled by hurt and frustration at both the suffering of someone he loved as well as the corruption of the only service he'd ever put any effort into. He valued his position in the Seventen, and his realization of how much it didn't belong to him anymore, his secret knowledge of his actual heritage, hadn't been able to tarnish his passion for justice—not always the clocking convoluted law so much as protection for all people who actually deserved it in his opinion.

"I haven't a clocking clue what they're waiting for, but I admit I'm not a fan of waiting, either. I've wasted—I've let enough of this go on while wearing my uniform. There's too much that keeps me up at night these days—this is just one part, really. What are your plans for actually forming some kind of case? This is all just hearsay, and if the High and Low Judge are both involved along with law enforcement and Circle only knows what else—"

He could admit he was damn tired of feeling alone—or at least, feeling helplessly without any actually legal ground to stand on. The not-galdor was quite aware of his other connections, but the Sergeant was still attempting to figure out how to tie all the threads together and form a stronger cord. This wasn't the time to speak of the Bad Brothers, of how he knew that Silas Hawke had no love for the kind of mocking competition Kings' Crop presented. There would never be a time to speak on how he was a half-bred bastard, on how galdor society, as a whole, only mattered to him as an extension of the mask he had to keep wearing.

Rhys, of course, had already chosen to take matters into his own hands. He wasn't about to stop now, but it wouldn't hurt him to have a few more reliable allies. Did this Shrikeweed actually want the same thing as he did? Did they stand on the same side?

Gods, he didn't even know how to trust anyone anymore.

His ears rang, tinnitus filling the pause.

"—who is there to bring this all to? Who cuts out the rot?"

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - In Chancery

The Ninth of Ophus, an Unknown Time past the 25th Hour

W

ho indeed. He has no answer. The matter might be laid before Parliament. The Council might deliberate and recommendations made. An Ultimate Advice of the Council might be issued, stripping Azmus of his magistracy and cleaning out the courts. And how many on the Council are part of the the plot? How many others? Incumbents are compromised, the courts are rotten, the Seventen reek of corruption. The law is useless.

Order and method will have to serve in its place.

“We cannot be the only ones, Sergeant, who have followed up on these threads. There will be others, and those we do not know their names, their motives, or their powers, it is incumbent upon us,” he tries to stifle a bitter laugh at the word, “To try and discover who these might be.” Allies, enemies, what does it matter? Either will help define the shape and size of the corruptions. A signal must be made. Nothing overt, nothing that will only hold the public eye for a short time. A smaller scandal must be revealed, or made to reveal itself. That is why the Sergeant is here. His is the first scandal to hand, the smallest and safest.

“If the Captain really is so fragile in his position, and I do not doubt your assessment, then it may be best to focus your attentions upon making him snap.” The case has been a fair starting point, but more is needed. What? He will leave the details to the Sergeant. That is what Sergeants are for. “A man brought low by his own sordid habits, by his private corruptions,” he leans back again, fingers of his left hand still idly failing to maintain the Cassano bass. “He would be an easy scapegoat around whose neck other corruptions might be hung. I assume the Seventen, like any other organization, are fond of offloading scandals upon whoever is on their way out the door?”

It keeps things neat, throwing a sacrificial goat to the masses every now and then. Keeps them distracted.

His fingers stop their motions, the sounds cease. Distractions. Distractions. All this has the air of just such an operation. But distraction from what? Where is the public eye being drawn from? The opium? No, too simple, too common. A different game is being played here, and for higher stakes than the bank balances of poppy traders and soporific socialites. It is a thread. Best to pull upon it and see how it unravels.

“As far as personal wealth goes, I am inclined to agree with you. Records will have to be consulted, of course. Financial claims, tax records, charitable donations, loans, debts, stocks. I assume the Captain has a solid base of funding, or the appearance of one.” Finances. It is not his specialty. The numbers he can handle, but the nuance of behavior they describe still escapes him. He will have to bring Kate into this. A junior official with the Interior Ministry can consult tax records until the end of time and no one will notice. She will do it, and gladly he thinks; for the honor of the Service, for the honor of her grandfather. As if the two can be separated.

“No, I am more interested in what the profits from these operations are being used to fund. Covert actions require covert sources of funding.” And even so, there will be a paper trail. Even the most shadowy financiers will need to keep records. He draws in a breath, holds it for a count of seven, then lets it escape. He will have to lay out his cards more clearly. The Sergeant has a need to know. Is it prudent? Wise? Safe? Perhaps not, but the Sergeant has already offered up truths that can damn him. Then, let us both be damned together. It is almost a comforting thought.

“Explosives do not come cheap, less still those will skill in handling them.” Miners? Navvies from the new rail projects? Military engineers? Whoever the conspirators had hired knew what they were about. “I do not have the requisite data to determine just how much blasting powder, dynamite, or other explosive material would have been needed to lay waste to Dorehaven. Still, arranging such a thing cannot have been something that could be funded out of petty cash. Unofficial funds, substantial unofficial funds, would need to be brought to bear.” Supplies purchased, transport arranged, alibis constructed, evidence manufactured, patsies to take the fall. “They are indeed well organized, Sergeant. They very convincingly made it seem as though it was the Resistance, rather than they, who bombed Dorehaven.”

Unless.

How much would it cost to fund a Resistance cell? It has not occurred to him before. Not quite. An elegant solution to the problem, and one which keeps the thread of the narrative true. True, but not factual. As best he understands, the revolutionaries operate in cells, disconnected, with relatively few coordinating contacts. A proper system. It prevents the whole organization from being unwound after a single misstep. Cells have their weaknesses. Lines of communication co-opted, corrupted, poisoned. False orders and fraudulent plans set into motion. How better to lay an atrocity at the feet of the revolution than to have them as willing participants.

It may have taken only a few well-placed bribes. That is, if the Dorehaven lot were clever enough to purchase their own private Resistance cell. Certainly, it would be his own preferred method. Afterall, the Sergeant is correct that blackmail and corruption are common for galdorkind.

Galdorkind? An odd construction. A distancing. Is the Sergeant setting himself outside that sphere? Thinking himself a Seventen first, and all the rest later? Best to leave idle speculation for the moment. Still, this is not the first man he has met who stands apart from himself. It may be nothing. It bears watching.

For a while he sits, saying nothing, rolling all this over and over again in his mind. And still the Sergeant’s question stings him. ‘Who cuts out the rot?’ Perhaps that is a wrong question. At least for the time being.

“You are an investigator, Sergeant. I am an analyst. We are well suited to gather information, to make connections, and to lay out a case. For the nonce, let us stick to that. That, and your working upon the Captain. Prosecutions will come in due time.” Though they may well be our own. Another cheering thought. “We are dealing with powerful people here. Powerful, influential, and ambitious. They will have equally ambitious enemies. When they show themselves, perhaps we send along a little of what we know. Discreetly, of course. And then we wait and see.”

He leans forward now, fixing the Sergeant in his gaze again. “Other than your good self, I don’t suppose you know of any of the Captain’s enemies?”

Roll

>@Runcible Spoon#6257: `1d6` = (6) = 6 - Seeing if Shrike catches Rhys’ odd construction concerning the use of ‘galdorkind’
@Sidekick#6198

[Rhys Valentin]

in chancery

around the 25th hour on the 9th of ophus

"No. I can't imagine that Co-Captain Damen D'Arthe has any actual allies so much as co-conspirators who are simply afraid of letting him off the leash." The tall blond snickered, lips curling in obvious disdain, the expression creasing into his face as if he'd eaten something sour, "You must understand that it's already my goal to make him stumble, but it's at the risk of my own personal safety. He's attacked me once—"

Fingers raised as if to shove stray hair from his face only to trace the scar that now parted one fair eyebrow and disappeared somewhere along his scalp. Rhys blinked for emphasis,

"—I'm sure he wouldn't hesitate to do so again. He's been complicit in my wife sharing company with those interested in having their way with her without her consent. I purposefully transferred from the relative safety of the Investigative Division where I'm sure I was well on my way toward another promotion to the Patrol Division after my suspension—which was spent recovering from that aforementioned warning of a near-death experience—in order to make myself a thorn in my father-in-law's side. As effective as it's been, the cost is—"

He shrugged, calloused palm lingering on the lower half of his face,

"—exhausting. I'm just as worried that I will trip myself in the process. I don't think I'll get up so easily a second time. Not—not that last winter was easy."

Was it worth it, in the end? The Sergeant wondered idly, not saying such things out loud while he searched the face across from him. He glanced at the motion of Basil's fingers while his own knee continued to bounce, unable to entirely be still. Patrol'd been good for him, in a way, forcing him to stay in motion even more than any Inspector position had. Sitting still was never something he'd been good at, but now he was listless for other reasons—so many things writhing and seething beneath the surface.

"I would venture to say his co-conspirators wouldn't hesitate to lay the blame on someone already known for their personal problems such as Damen is, so long as such an effort would get us a glimpse behind the curtain."

He wasn't a numbers man, either. He was a people person, a friend of informants, charisma on the field. He was an out-of-the-box thinker, one who knew which rules could be bent as well as he knew which ones could be dredged up from obscurity in order to be wielded in unusual situations. His analytical mind wasn't one that worked numerically—considering the odds wasn't his strongpoint and neither were finances.

"I would venture that there's some connection between the Oculus and all of these things, even this clocking drug ring. Why? I don't know, but I've never gotten the feeling that there's personal gain as a motivation." The D'Arthes were Bastian, anyway. Their money was from Anaxas' sister kingdom and surely old and dusty. Rhys was sure that in his youthful ambition and dark need for power and control, Damen had stumbled somewhere he shouldn't have years ago and ended up enjoying it. He'd just never left and eventually became the chrove in the room everyone needed but no one knew how to control.

"I mean, I don't yet have any proof, but I'm quite sure the Resistance had nothing to do with Dorhaven. I'm working on that, but I'm still trying to catch the attention of the Oculus and get myself recruited. Surprisingly, they aren't connected to Co-Captain D'Arthe, and, yet, it's not surprising at all because he's hardly as disciplined as he pretends to be." The not-galdor smirked, aware that if the two shared anything else in common other than Charity, it was that both Rhys and Damen found themselves frequently accused of lacking discipline. For different reasons, different motivations, and with different results, of course, but still. The tall blond had always sought to benefit citizens whenever possible. His father-in-law had only ever sought to benefit himself, as far as he could tell.

Hardly good, however. Anything but.

A half-bred bastard in galdori uniform. A liar hiding behind some semblance of the law. An anathema. A murderer pretending to be above his own crimes. A mediocre husband at best.

Rhys swallowed that compliment of sorts as merely a poetic device, jaw clenching before he continued,

"I don't know how Damen has allies, honestly, but I do believe he's currently not on Azmus' good side. Captain Haines of the Investigative Division and as far as I know Commander Morde himself only tolerate the man. Other than that, I have purposefully kept myself out of the D'Arthe affairs until reconnecting with Charity and giving her my name. There are a few others, in those files there, that could be potential enemies." Rhys thumbed through the stack some more, revealing a couple of politicians and other civil servants he knew had at least passing contact with the Captain as well as connections with the High and Low Judges, leaving them separate for the other galdor to sort through at his leisure,

"I'm not much of an established enemy, just a forgotten annoyance making a loud comeback after a decade of silence. What about yourself? Does his name or the name of his connections mean anything to you or those in your circle?"

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - In Chancery

The Ninth of Ophus, an Unknown Time past the 25th Hour

L

The Sergeant is a man of sense. This bodes well. Dangerous too. He can use a dangerous man. These are not sensible times, and a sensible man may come to grief. Still, sense is all they have. It will have to serve for now.

“If,” he says, voice pitched to speak in hypotheticals, “the Captain has no true allies, then it would be useful to peel a few of his co-conspirators away from him. What can be done, Sergeant, to make them think that the Captain is too great a risk? That he must be discarded like yesterday’s fishwrap?” The Captain has served his purpose. A pause. No, that is not quite correct. A failure of reason and imagination. The Captain has served one purpose, another now opens. Perhaps he should thank the man; thank him after he is dispatched and removed from the game board. Perhaps he will send flowers to the Captain’s funeral.

“Your own safety, well, that cannot be ignored or discounted.” A man with a wife. Possibly more? Offspring with an opium addict cannot be wise. The Sergeant seems wise enough not to risk it. Not now, at any rate. “If you can show the others his weaknesses, then perhaps they will take up the matter. Out of self interest if nothing else.” How ruthless is the course of honors within the Seventen? Do they ascend the ladder by the removing of obstacles? It bears researching. An ally, even one as new, and as tenuous, as the Sergeant is to be protected and maintained. Who, he considers, wishes to fill your boots?

He has no time to ask. Other matters rise, monstrous and unfilial. A man who uses his daughter as a mere tool, who encourages her abuse and degradation cannot be permitted even the barest whiff of power or authority. It is a natural thought, rising from deep in his bones, from the soul he no longer believes he has the luxury to possess. He has no progeny, never will, yet he cannot stomach this. He has others under his aegis. His niece, his siblings, Levesque’s granddaughters. Were any of them to be treated as the Sergeant’s wife has been, he would take it upon himself to enact slow and agonizing revenge. It is proper. It is sound. It is what he has been taught since he was small. One takes care of their own.

The Captain’s indulgences are on quite a different tack, that alone is enough to damn him. May his afterlife be full of woe, his rebirths be an instructive torment.

“Your dedication to your purpose, even at your personal risk, is admirable. It is also dangerous.” Has he insulted the Sergeant? It is not meant to, only a caution. Advice. A warning. Perhaps it is unnecessary. The Sergeant seems a capable man, and who knows his limits. And what about his own? They have not been tested, not to any great extent. It is all paperwork and supposition. The anticipation of threats rather than their reification. That will come soon enough.

A bitter taste in his mouth, metallic and sharp. Fear, anticipation, dread. They are his old friends now, and they cluster around him, offering their own advice. Useless. At least here. Behind the indigo door it is safe, as safe as anywhere in Anaxas, perhaps upon all of Vita. He reaches for the tea cup, now gone cold, and swallows. The metallic taste remains, but lessened.

“I may, and I stress that, may, have a means of getting a little more information on the drug ring.” Bailey is at home down in the dark, slipping shadow-like through the underworld in which he has been raised. The lad accumulates urban lore like a copper pipe-fitting gathers verdigris. If he knows nothing now, that is only a property of time. Time passes. Information accumulates. Sooner or later it will accumulate upon the Thief. Best to speed that along. “I have feelers out, trying to take the measure of this matter. Or this set of matters. It is difficult to tell where one ends and the other begins.” The cup in his hand performs the ritual turnings. The jangling of his nerves, the metallic taste in his mouth abates further. “And speaking of feelers, I can’t get you into the Occulus, that’s not my department, but I can put in a request to have you seconded to the Committee as an expert consultant. Your findings on matters of public corruption will be of interest. That may help get you noticed, and not just as a thorn in the Captain’s side.”

It is little enough. Still, it draws the Sergeant in. It makes him easier to watch, to understand, and at last, to use.

Dorehaven again. He will never be rid of that place. He has never set eyes upon Dorehaven. Maps are another matter. The names of its streets he knows, the pattern of their flow, the layout. He has other reports to fill in the gaps. The bombing was well carried out. Too precise for the ordinary rabble of the revolution. As if he needed further proof. The Sergeant lacks for proof. Understandable. He had wanted it as well, demanded it. At last he has it, or as near as he can acquire.

“One moment, Sergeant. I believe I may have something that will interest you.” And so he rises, crosses to the confidential safe with its heavy, complicated locks. The dial turns, clockwise, anticlockwise, and clockwise again, levers are pulled, dials spun again. At last, the door swings open. Document cases in various colors, folios and packets of paper bound up in black tape and sealed in vermillion wax, all squared and organized in their respective pigeon-holes. He runs his fingers along a stack of papers, counting under his breath. At twenty-nine he stops, pulls out a small folder in an uncomfortable grey, tucks in close to his chest, and closes and relocks the safe.

“These,” he says, laying the papers upon the desk, “are as near to proof as I have regarding the facts of Dorehaven.” Pages upon pages in close script, names and dates, visitors logs, schedules, memoranda, and last of all, minutes. Minutes of meetings that never happened. “Meetings in Intas of this year, and others, stretching back into 2718. Planning meetings, Sergeant. In these pages were the first hints of your Captain being rather more corrupt that you suspected. And other names. Megiro, Prudhomme, Atonacchi, Azmus, Trevisani, Verdier. Gentlemen and one lady of standing, each with more or less information about the matter.” What he has are not the full plans, the specifics of the bombings, but rather the discussions of frightened, ambitious, and cruel men that surrounded such matters. The Incumbent had not been close enough to the inner circle of the conspiracy to have attended those meetings. A pity. No. A catastrophe. Too late now to change such matters.

“The original minutes were either lost or never taken. I have,” he swallows hard and bites the inside of his lower lip, “reconstructed these. From reasonably reliable sources, cross checked when I could. And with the aid of more than a little magic.” The ghosts of headaches and distrubed dreams still hang about him. How many times have the meetings played over and over in his sleeping mind? No, not quite sleep. More like some divinatory trance. Each iteration clearer than before, the measure of words and predictions of utterances made more and more sure with each repetition. The passing of these, of epochs of reasoning, has resulted in the pages he slides toward the Sergeant. “Even if the hands that carried out Dorehaven were revolutionaries, they were not the minds that hatched it. These,” and he points to the names again, “are the creators of the plot. Their purpose remains opaque to me. I am waiting to understand.”

He bites down on his lower lip again, and feels the near breaking of his skin. Stop. Stop. Before the Sergeant is not the time. At last his teeth relent, and he is left only with the memories of discomfort. A poor substitute and weak, but enough to keep his thoughts focused. “Read them if you wish, Sergeant, but they cannot leave this office.” He gives a wan smile. “You were good enough to reveal your complicity in crimes. Here is evidence of mine. I was too blind to see what was happening around me. Too slow to realize what might be afoot. I had nothing to do with Dorehaven. And for that, I will never forgive myself.”

And who would he have told? What good would it have done? A mad seer with a single prophecy to his name. All the usual fire and death. No one would have countenanced it. No one would have believed him. He is not sure he believes himself. Yet the facts are there. The words are set down in ink. “I offer files, that I might take your own. May I copy these down?” He gestures at the Sergeant’s own stack of papers, “I may find something in them, discover a connection to your Captain that I can use.” He gives another smile. Cold, predatory. “If nothing else, I am sure there is something we can use as grounds from a departmental review. Such matters are easy enough to predicate. And believe me when I say, Sergeant, that the reviews of the Service as very thorough.”

[Rhys Valentin]

in chancery

around the 25th hour on the 9th of ophus

"Gods! You know, I really don't clocking understand how anyone can think that man is anything but a risk, Mister Shrikeweed. Whoever is above him, whoever actually leans on that piece of chroveshit as a pillar of their structure, is either blind, stupid, or gets a cheap thrill out of that level of risk. I admit that I've been playing mostly at the long game—keeping my head down, pushing paperwork, going on patrol—but I can be a real pain in the erse, especially for Damen, if necessary to loosen some screws." Rhys knew himself. He knew Charity's father. He knew all that had transpired between them from the time he was a lanky teenager in Brunnhold until he was a bloodied mess on the cobblestones last Vortas and up until now under the man's command on purpose.

Showing up every day in his Seventen greens and scars left behind by Captain D'Arthe's own hand had certainly made the dynamics of the Patrol Division interesting and volatile, but both men had managed to keep their secrets and their sanity. For now.

The tall blond's jaw clenched at the reminder of safety, his own sense of self-preservation warped, broken, disturbed. He loved Charity with all that was left of his selfish heart, slowly bleeding as he was while the pair wrestled through her addiction through the lenses of trauma, paranoia, and danger. The young Valentin said nothing else on the kindness, however, not considering himself worthwhile of any salvation had he been asked so directly, aware of what and who he really was.

Self interest—gods.

Rhys snorted, waving his hand almost dismissively at the compliment about dedication and personal risk. He didn't matter. He really didn't. Well, except to Charity. To anyone else? He couldn't imagine. Dangerous? Of course he was fucking dangerous—he wasn't even thirty and wore his four snaps with the kind of pride only a man who lived for risking himself could really bear.

"I know the names and residences of the most immediate operatives in the opiates ring because they were once my wife's closest friends. While Benjamin is—obviously—no longer an issue on the list—I—anyway, my concern for myself is admittedly minimal. It is, I guess, a shortcoming of mine." His shoulders sagged and the Sergeant paused to bring his thumb up against his scarred lip, teeth hunting for a hangnail. He couldn't seem to still the bouncing of his knee, restless and full of an unharnessed sort of energy it was obvious he didn't entirely understand himself.

The mention of the Oculus drew a noise of surprise from the tall blond (or a hiss of pain at finally succeeding in his terrible quest for a stubborn bit of skin that stung near his nailbed), "I don't know if the Order and the Oculus share any connection, but there is enough overlap with positions of power that I'm suspicious of priorities. I fear that corruption is clocking rampant, either way, and I know that any taste of perceived power that's handed to me really twists the knife in Captain D'Arthe's ribs."

What Rhys would pay to be the one holding the handle of any weapon in that piece of chroveshit's ribs.

His crystalline gaze snapped down to watch the other man sort through files and folios, focusing on the careful motion of his fingers and following them when a file was placed in front of him. His scarred lip curled at the names Mister Shrikeweed mentioned, the scar above his eyebrow puckering when his forehead drew into a disgusted expression,

"Azmus, too, huh? He's such a clocking ersehole." Grunted the Sergeant without thinking, his instinctual distrust of the man bleeding into the deep tones of his voice the way his own blood had soaked cobblestones a year ago. Sliding the files into his lap, he licked a thumb and sifted through all the carefully kept notes and logs, knee finally becoming still while he paused to read here and there, snorting a few times in obvious annoyance,

"It wasn't a Resistance terrorist attack?" Finally, Rhys looked up, a fiery heat in his veins, "Godsdamnit. I knew it—I've—as an Inspector, I was heavily involved in anti-Resistance investigation and prosecution in Brunnhold and when I heard about the bombing, well—I had this feeling. For fuck's sake—oh. Sorry."

He really had very little self control over his language—if the Seventen had disciplined him at all, it had been in the better, more frequent, more creative use of expletives instead of the opposite,

"I have a feeling that the Oculus task force had some kind of hand in stirring this pot, but like you, I have no—" The not-galdor shrugged, narrow shoulders moving slowly up then down, "—I haven't a firm grasp on any of the threads. You can't blame yourself even if it feels right to do so—I—it's not like I don't—well."

Rhys blamed himself for a lot of things, most of them concerning Charity. The burden on his heart was heavy and unwieldy, and the pressures of corruption that seemed to plague the legal system of Anaxas across so many fronts made all of his guilt feel like molten lead, burning from the inside out.

Helplessness was something he usually reacted to with extreme prejudice and a penchant for reckless violence. Here, he felt as though his hands were too tied to throw punches and it appeared as though Basil felt the same.

"I can leave these with you for a short time. Eventually they will be missed, but, honestly, with the Symvoulio changing hands and the Vyrdag moving to Mugroba in the new year—most of this paperwork won't be touched again in clocking ages because you know we'll be busy with the transition ceremonies on patrol."

He closed the files with those words, aware that he'd otherwise get lost in them, and set the folio back on the other man's desk, leaning back in his chair with a hiss of disgust that slowly petered out into a sigh,

"I didn't expect any of this, sir. From you—or—just—from anyone. I'm too godsbedamned paranoid at this point, I think, but something tells me you're not so far off, either. A review, huh? At this point, a subtle injury is more in our favor than a gunshot wound—something that trickles a bit of internal bleeding while we can continue looking into the truth—together? Yes? Is that what you're offering here? Because, I'll take it."

An ally. He'd take that, too.

It was fucking hard to do all of this alone as it was, and even if he'd accepted somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind that none of this would end well for him, for his family, well, that didn't mean he didn't want to end up dead without some sort of justice served in his wake.

"I'm a man of action steps, Mister Shrikeweed. Contrary to what my ersehole of a Captain may say, I take directives very well. What can be done from here, from this point of momentary clarity?"

[Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed]

Vienda - In Chancery

The Ninth of Ophus, an Unknown Time past the 25th Hour

T

he best option, the simplest option, will be for the Sergeant’s wife to call on her old contacts, to extract what information she can from them. Few alarms will be raised. An addict relapsing is no uncommon thing. It will require that she return to taking the more potent opium. It cannot be avoided. Sacrifices must be made in the pursuit of evidence. The evidence will be damning. It may damn her, even kill her. Useful in stoking outrage, useful in drawing out the Bastian. In cold reasoning it is sound. She is but one woman, and one woman does not matter.

The Sergeant will never agree to suggest it to his wife. That is likewise sound.

He has few enough allies that he can afford to treat them as sacrifice pawns. He has begun the game late, in the dark, and with only a bare handful of pieces. The loss of even one is precious. The suggestion that the Sergeant’s wife might be persuaded to this end will lose two pieces. The wife to the drug. The Sergeant to callousness of the request.

Another plan is required.

“If the Captain is as much a liability as you say, I have no reason to doubt you, then he must provide some other use. Cover to the drug runners, Seventen protection when required.” It will need to be under some other guise, some legitimate function. That is dangerous all on its own. Too many hands at the tiller, too many mouths to keep silent. Someone suspects. Someone knows. Someone beyond the Sergeant. “How often does your cohort conduct raids? Ordinary criminals, smugglers, revolutionary rabble? It would be easy enough to ‘raid’ his own storehouses and then quietly let some of the goods go unrecorded as evidence. Protected transport of valuable goods, financed on their Majesties’ coin. Certainly something I would consider. Were I a man to supply a high-grade drug market.” A cold smile crosses his lips. It is not meant for the Sergeant. It is meant for his own discomfort.

“However the drugs are moved about, it will be necessary to disrupt them. Not for any great length of time, but enough to raise suspicions. Or else, some poor pigeon is going to have to be made to discover the drugs at an inconvenient moment.” Poor pigeon. He nearly shakes his head. How much cant is seeping into his conversation? How much of Bailey’s long-practiced criminality is working its way into his bones? Enough. Enough to know he is no master of either the language or the habit of thought. A failing. To show what the Bastian is, he will have to think like him: like a criminal, like a gentleman.

In a few days time, he will have the opportunity to test the latter. Dinner and introductions with the fine gentlemen of the conspiracy. Dinner with the inner workings of the Pendulum. Fine regimented suits and fine regimented conversation. Neither will be good for the digestion.

The tea is gone. He has nothing now by the empty cup to toy with. He turns it again, again, and again. There is no sense in hiding the gesture. Guilt is already laid out upon the table, agitation means nothing now. “At the start of all of this, I was asked ‘Is there corruption at the Royal Opera?’ and I remarked that corruption can be found anywhere, if one looks hard enough.” This corruption is plain as day, nearly out in the open. Brazen. It can hardly be credited. And so a blind eye has been turned. Disbelief has been weaponized. Clever. Cleverer than it at first seemed. Who pulls the strings? Who plays the tune? And what is the dance?

“Azmus is an issue. He has been for years, and not just for these new and private corruptions. I have friends and relations before the bar on the bench, and there is a general consensus that the man is too rigid, too neglectful of precedent, too statutory.” He nearly spits out the last word. The conspirators, the Pendulum men like Azmus love to think of themselves and men of standing, of lofty public morals and as bastions of tradition. They follow only the traditions of power and wealth. They care little enough for the machine that produces both in turn. And himself? He cares perhaps overmuch for the machine.

“Any number of magistrates would love to see him brought low. If only so they can fill his wig and robes. The man holds on to his office like a limpet. Now, at least, I begin to see how.” How many of those rivals are caught up in the same web? A magnificent way to render them toothless or in his debt. Subtle enough as well. Azmus is not a subtle man.

“The Resistance is responsible for Dorehaven. Their existence was the predication for the attack, of that I am tolerably sure. But they did not plan it. It was not their design. Perhaps their agents had nothing to do with it at all. That would be a wasted opportunity.” He has thought all too much on this, on how he might influence a Resistance cell, how they might be manipulated to carry out acts that are contrary to their end. “I remain in the dark as to the true motive of the attack. If it was only to turn public opinion against the Resistance, then, well done. But a smaller target would have served just as well.”

The predatory smile again slides over his face. Another knife-sharp idea slashes his thoughts. “Sergeant, at the time of the Dorehaven bombing where was the Captain? In all the chaos of the aftermath, he could have moved half the opium in Mugroba through Vienda and no one would notice. A magnificent distraction.” A distraction that cut short too many lives. A distraction that ended Levesque. What had the old man died for? Discovering that, committing it to the official record, appending it to Levesque’s last files, that will be the final ritual to send his soul along its path. Gods and good will keep his soul now, and shield him from all nameless things.

“What else was going on at that time, Sergeant? What was it we were not meant to see?” He has no answer. Perhaps there is none. Foolishness. Something else must have been afoot. Or else, someone, or someones, in Dorehaven had to be removed. A damned messy way to go about a hit. There must have been advantageous deaths in all the conflagration. Those will have been bonuses, not the purpose.

“We will have to piece things together, you and I, and each in our own way. A report that does not sit right, an arrest that seems suspect, a trial decided too fast or too slow. We need to see the picture, the whole picture.” He turns the cup again. Clockwise, anticlockwise, and clockwise again. “I am too bloody tired of seeing only snatches of things, of dealing in rumors of rumors and hints of hints. You are correct that something must be done.” Another turn. And another. He fixes the Sergeant with his colorless eyes. “The Captain must be caught out, and publicly, in possession of some of his beloved crop. He must be seen to have failed in his duty to keep the drugs flowing in secret. The first order of business, Sergeant, is to discover when, and how, the shipments are arriving.”

More evidence will be needed. Another sacrifice will be required.

“Among your wife’s old acquaintances, are there any of the medical persuasion?” An idea forms, just a small one, but it takes shape as the dull ache in his ribs and the bruises on his back make their presence known. These are not his usual marks of defeat. He has won three matches in sequence. He had paid in pain and discomfort. Easy enough to request a stronger painkiller. Easy enough to pass himself off as a mark. A man who does not sleep, who has little enough in the way of companions, who lives too much in his head. A perfect candidate for a buyer. A sacrifice is needed. “From time to time, I find myself in need of opiates. Headaches and other pains. Injuries of my own.” He waves away the coming, inevitable, astonishment. “I will not take the King’s Crop. I have a bottle of laudanum for my own use when needed, and I find a long afternoon at the Hessean baths to be a better curative in any event. Still, independent lines of connection may be of use. If nothing else, for corroboration.” He is still thinking too much like a lawyer, like a journalist. Corroboration. Evidence. Neither will serve much good. He cannot trust to the courts, and public opinion is a dangerous weapon.

He will put his trust in himself, in the tools to hand. And if he fails? If he is swallowed up in opium or meets his end bloody and broken on the cobbles? He will not be mourned long. He is but one man, and one man does not matter.

[Rhys Valentin]

in chancery

around the 25th hour on the 9th of ophus

"Iadmit I don't know what the connection is—who else would want this drug ring to be connected to anyone so public and powerful at all." Rhys admitted, nodding when Basil spoke of protection and cover. Perhaps it wasn't so much of a financial investment opportunity as a psychological one or some sort of political or social leverage—he wasn't sure. He unfortunately could only see Damen d'Arthe for who he was—an abusive ersehole and corrupt officer—instead of seeing the larger picture of his place in the corrupted system the blond not-galdor felt that he'd thrust himself unwittingly but not unwillingly into through the suffering vehicle of the petite pianist he he now called his wife.

"I—hmm—I haven't even been clocking paying attention to that sort of thing, I suppose. Maybe I've been too busy chasing my own tail, but that definitely seems like something I could look into." Chagrined, the sergeant frowned, placing a restless hand on his bouncing, energetic knee in order to still himself in thought, mind running through the major operations both his squadron and the rest of the Patrol division under Captain d'Arthe had been involved in under the past month or so.

He probably should've thought more about all this, but godsdamn if Mister Shrikeweed wasn't right on the point of things. Rhys' jaw clenched, listening and interjecting,

"I've only really scratched at the surface of how things are run, but I might have some ideas on who to find information from. They won't be willing."

Smirking at the comment about Azmus, the sergeant had nothing to add to that. He despised the man and was uncomfortable with the High Judge's lack of respect for Commander Morde, though he didn't have much of a better opinion of the High Judge's lap dog, Low Judge Mars Ogden. Inhaling sharply at the accusation about Dorhaven, Rhys shook his head, willing to disagree with a tapping of fingers on the other man's desk,

"There wouldn't be a clocking Resistance if everything was handled better, if you ask me. As many of them as I've interrogated and arrested and even sent to the gallows, I'm still not entirely convinced I've got it any more right than they do. Their name was used to murder a bunch of galdori—" He didn't say like us or even like me, "—but I wouldn't say they were responsible, not after beginning to see all this corruption more clearly."

Frowning deeper at the question about what Captain d'Arthe was up to during the bombing, he had to admit he didn't have an answer. Shaking his head, he revealed he'd have to do more research on that subject, if there was a paper trail to follow at all.

"These are certainly all things to look more closely at, however, and I'll make sure I do so." The former Inspector was determined, sighing in involuntary agreement with how fucking tired he was of feeling like he was just grasping at straws instead of getting a handful of the real, harvested truth—

"Does she whatnow—I—oh—oh, well, unfortunately, I'm not sure. I mean, we're from the same Form in our Brunnhold days. I'm only aware of a handful of her associates—and—uh—her and I stopped talking after her father's warning in Sixth Year. I can ask, I suppose."

Most of the time, his conversations about contacts with Charity led to conflict, arguments, and promises not to get back in touch with people again. He'd tried so often to be adamant about it all, but he couldn't be home all the time—the not-galdor didn't feel it his actual place to control his wife with the iron fist she'd been raised with.

"I suppose should we meet again, it shouldn't always be in the same circumstance—you and I. I don't frequent these offices much now that I'm not part of the Investigative Division, so we may need some less suspect points of contact."